by J. Kenner
“You’re totally welcome,” Selma said. “I figure a bartender who takes my bourbon home is a walking, talking advertisement.”
“Pretty much. I rave about it. But I heard a rumor you’re selling. Say it isn’t so.”
She scrunched up her face and shrugged. “It’s so. Time for the next adventure.”
“Well, hell.” Cam waved at a customer a few seats down, signaling that he’d be right there. “I’d love to stock up on a few cases before somebody swoops in and ruins your brand.”
A shot of alarm cut through Selma, but before she could respond, Cam had slid down the bar to pour a couple of martinis.
“Do you think he meant that?” she asked Matthew.
Her brother shrugged. “Once you sell, it’s out of your hands. And you never answered my question. What did Easton say about the sale?”
“Oh. That.” She took a sip of the bourbon that Cam had poured for her. “He turned me down cold.”
“Was it because he’s running for a judge seat? He hasn’t announced officially, but I overhear a lot of conversation at the gym, and everyone expects him to run.”
“I think that’s it.” The words came out sharper than she intended, and Matthew glanced sideways at her, his look more perceptive than was comfortable.
She shrugged. Whether he turned her down because he was too busy or because he didn’t think it wise to be associated with a woman who didn’t own a single Chanel suit, it all came down to the same thing. She didn’t have an attorney, and the deal was coming up fast.
“You know what? I’m going to go talk to him again.”
“You should. I heard he was doing some legal work for Taylor. Maybe if you ask him to reconsider while he’s talking to her, it’ll guilt him into it.”
She almost laughed out loud. “I don’t know, big brother. Keep that up, and people are going to think you’ve started taking after me.”
“I assure you, I have a limited quota of deviousness. I think I’ve hit my max for the year.”
With a final grin to her brother, she hopped off the stool, intending to head toward Easton. At the same time, she realized that the ball of hard, cold jealousy had begun to dissolve with the revelation that Easton was Taylor’s attorney. “I just want to ask him one thing. But if I’m not back by the time Landon trots up onto the stage, take some pics for me.”
With Matthew waving her away, she headed toward the front tables where Easton was sitting with Taylor. He turned toward her, his gorgeous eyes widening almost imperceptibly. And though he would have been justified to be irritated with her, all she saw in those eyes was the warmth of a pleasant surprise.
Even so, it was Taylor who spoke first, bursting out with a laugh followed by, “Bat girl!” She grinned. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist. I started calling you that to myself when I first saw you delivering stock. I love your stuff.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t you have a delivery crew? I mean, you’re getting to be pretty well-known now.”
“I had to break down and hire some folks recently,” she admitted. “But I like to do some of the deliveries myself. Keep my hand in it. Meet the customers.”
“Is that so?” Easton had shifted his stance, so that now he was looking directly at her, his eyes full of speculation.
She shrugged, strangely uncomfortable with his intense examination, then turned her attention back to Taylor. “I’ll bring you a couple of bottles.”
“Really? That would be great.”
“Sure. Word of mouth is the best advertising.”
“Thanks,” Taylor said, grinning and looking like it was Christmas morning while Easton maintained that odd, pensive expression.
Selma frowned, debating whether to simply walk away. But now that she was here, she didn’t want to squander the opportunity.
She cleared her throat. “Am I interrupting? Because I had one thing to add to that legal matter we were talking about earlier.”
“Oh,” Taylor said. “It’s fine. The show’s about to start anyway, and I should, you know, sit by myself anyway.”
“Why?” Selma asked.
“Oh, you know.” She lifted her shoulders. “Bait.”
“What do you—”
“Come on,” Easton said. “We can talk in the back.”
“What’s going on?” Selma asked as Easton led her toward the dark hall that led to Tyree’s office.
“Taylor has a stalker,” he said. “And Landon’s helping to lure him into the open.”
“Oh!”
“That much I can tell you because several people in the bar already know. And I’m also doing some tangential legal work for Taylor. Helping her out of a bind. And that part I can’t talk about. Privilege.”
“I won’t ask.” She paused by Tyree’s door. “Nice of you to help her out since you have such limited time.”
“Selma…”
“It’s just—”
“What?” he demanded. “I told you I can’t handle the contract.”
“Because of us? Or because of your campaign?”
“Does it matter?”
“Probably not,” she admitted. “But I still want to know. Call it ego.” Or call it libido. Because the more she was around him, the more she realized that legal work was secondary. No, what she wanted was Easton. He’d been on her mind on and off for too long. She’d walked away too fast all those years ago.
Now she wanted to satisfy that craving before she hopped on a plane for Scotland.
A few feet away, Tyree’s door snapped open, shooting a wedge of light between them. He looked at her face, then Easton’s. “You two heading toward the show?”
“Just clarifying one legal point,” Easton said. “Then we’ll be there.”
“Fair enough,” Tyree said, then hurried down the hall toward the bar as Beverly Martin, a rising film star who acted as emcee, started her contest schtick.
“Why are we here?” Easton asked.
And though she hadn’t planned this out at all, she took one eager step toward him, rose up on tip toes, and captured his mouth with hers.
At first, he didn’t react, and she feared he’d push her away. Then his lips parted and his tongue swept into her mouth, hot and demanding. His arm went around her waist, pulling her close, until their bodies were pressed flat against each other, her breasts hard against his chest—and his cock enticingly hard against her lower belly.
She’d changed clothes for the contest, and she was wearing a black silk tank top with a denim mini-skirt that she’d paired with Cuban-style silk stockings and a black garter belt.
His hand thrust beneath her shirt, and his palm against her lower back was making her crazed. Then he started to slide his hand over her ass—and she was certain he’d soon sneak his fingers under her skirt to find her soaking wet and pantyless…
Oh, God, yes, please.
She shifted, spreading her legs just slightly, her own arms going more tightly around his neck as she deepened the kiss, as if she could show him with her tongue what she wanted him to do with his fingers.
But then he broke away, the separation so fast and brutal it was almost painful.
“Jesus, Selma. What are you doing?”
“Me? I think this was definitely a we thing.” He didn’t answer, and she grimaced. “Fine. I thought you might be more persuaded by action than by words. And besides, you told me you wouldn’t take me on as a client. But I don’t recall any other protests.” She rose up on her toes and kissed him lightly again. “Or am I wrong?”
For a second, she thought that he was going to walk away. But then he took her hand, yanked her close up against his body, but twisted her arm behind her back. He held her that way—trapped, muscles bound and tight—as he bent his head to quickly kiss her.
“We’re in public.”
“Then you have two choices. Let me go, or take me someplace private.” With her free hand, she took his, then guided his hand up her thigh, over the band of the stockings. Then al
l the way up to her slick, wet core.
He exhaled. The simple sound strained and heavy with eroticism.
“I can’t do this. I’m running for office.”
“Pretty sure there are lots of politicians who do exactly this.” She released his hand and was gratified that his fingers continued to tease her sex. Then she put her fingers to work on his fly, and when it was open she slipped her hand in, intending to set him free.
“Fuck.” In one deliberate motion, he stepped back, breaking all contact between them. “Selma, I—I don’t know what game you’re playing, but no. I’m not getting on the Selma-go-round again. Not when I have so damn much to lose. I really am sorry. I think you know I want you. You’ve certainly felt the evidence.”
And then, for the second time in less than twelve hours, he walked away from her.
As far as Selma was concerned, he’d just thrown down the gauntlet. “Challenge accepted,” she whispered. Then walked down the hall as she considered Plan B.
Chapter Five
Easton’s entire evening could be summed up in one word—frustrating. Not only had Selma given him an inconvenient raging hard-on, but by the time Easton returned to watch the Man of the Month contest, Landon was already being crowned Mr. August—and there’d been no sign of Taylor’s stalker.
“Sorry,” he’d said to her on the way out. “It seemed like a perfect plan.”
She’d shrugged, seeming both disappointed and relieved. And now, in his car, Easton felt essentially the same way, though for entirely different reasons.
He was disappointed that he didn’t have Selma naked and beneath him. But he was also relieved to know that he’d made the right decision. Clearly, he had no self-control where Selma Herrington was concerned. She was his Kryptonite, and if he hadn’t walked away, God only knew what kind of scandal he’d find himself wrapped up in during this campaign.
So, yeah. Good choice.
Even if it did mean that he was still craving her.
It was a short drive to his house in Rollingwood, a small community in South Austin, and when he pulled into the garage, he was sure of only two things. One, that he needed a long cold shower. And two, that a double bourbon really wasn’t going to be enough to take the edge off.
He entered through the utility room, then dumped his briefcase on the bench that lined the hall leading to the butler’s pantry before he continued through to the kitchen. Built in the fifties, the original architect had been an admirer of Frank Lloyd Wright, and the house had a contemporary/retro feel. Easton had done very little to it other than update the appliances and put on a fresh coat of paint.
The backyard was a different story. He’d done much of the work himself, working with a few day laborers to build the terraced back yard from the hill that backed up to the rear of the house. Now, he had a wonderful covered patio with an outdoor kitchen, a narrow lap pool with a hot tub on one end, and a stunning garden that rose up to the sky and was filled with flowers and herbs.
He hadn’t realized until he’d started house hunting how much the place would mean to him. But after being nomadic with his parents after they lost their business, he’d craved roots. And now, simply walking through the doors of his home made him happy.
And, thanks to the lucrative nature of the career he’d chosen, his parents no longer had to rent. He’d bought them a small home in their Connecticut town, his only regret that they didn’t want to move down to Texas where, as they said, they’d never get to watch the seasons change.
In the kitchen, he opened the refrigerator door out of habit, but it wasn’t food he wanted, and he continued through the open-style house from kitchen to living room until he reached the built-in bar. He pulled open the cabinet at the bottom and pulled out a bottle of Dusk Flight Rye—ironic, since that was one of Selma’s better-selling small-batch labels, and the woman was clinging to his thoughts. But damned if it wasn’t his favorite.
The bar had a small ice-maker, and he poured two shots over ice, then pressed the remote to open the blinds that covered the sliding glass doors that made up the entire back wall. He expected to see only the slight dotting of lights that marked the walking path up the terrace. Instead, he saw the unmistakable watery blue glow from the hot tub.
Frowning, he pulled out his phone, wondering if he’d accidentally turned the tub on remotely. But, no, the app was closed.
Someone else had started the tub manually.
And he had a damn good idea who that someone might be.
With a sigh, he slid open the door, then stepped onto the brushed concrete patio. In front of him, the lap pool sat dark, the wind making only the slightest ripples on the water.
To the right, however, blue light filled that corner of the yard, rising from beneath the steaming, bubbling water to cast exotic shadows on the underside of the house’s eaves. And there, with water up to her neck and her arms stretched out on either side of her, sat Selma.
Easton pinched the bridge of his nose, then walked toward her. “What the hell are you doing here? For that matter, how did you know where I live?”
Her wet hair was slicked back from her face, and her mascara was running. And when that wide mouth curved into a seductive smile, all Easton could think was that her face was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen. And that, sadly, really wasn’t the direction he wanted his thoughts to be going.
“You’re in Matthew’s contacts,” she said. “He shared them with me last year so I could throw him a birthday party. I kept your address.” She tilted her head in a casual, flirty way. “I thought I might want it again someday. Guess I was right.”
His head was spinning. “And my security? The house and the backyard are all set on an alarm system.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve got mad skills.” She flashed a flirty grin. “Don’t worry. I didn’t go into your house. I was tempted—I’d love to know if your bedroom is the way I imagine it—but I exercised self-restraint.”
“That must have been hard,” he said dryly.
“Oh, you have no idea.”
He spread his hand over his forehead, massaging his temples with his thumb and middle finger. “I think it’s time for you to go.”
When he looked up, she was staring at him. “Seriously? You didn’t used to be so boring. Oh, wait. Yes, you did.”
“I think the word you’re looking for is responsible.”
“Hmmm.” Her lips pressed together, and her head tilted as if she was seriously considering his suggestion. “Nope. I’m gonna stick with boring.”
“Selma…”
“What?”
“You broke into my yard.”
“True. But only because I knew you wouldn’t mind.”
He resisted the urge to rub his temples again. “Except I do mind.”
“Right. Apparently you do.” She clicked her tongue on the roof of her mouth. “So, um, does that mean you want me to leave?”
“Very perceptive of you.”
“Oh. Well. Then, fine.” She stood up, water sluicing off her naked body as it glistened in that surreal light, making her variety of tattoos stand out. And in that moment, Easton more or less forgot how to breathe.
“Christ, Selma.” His voice sounded raw.
“Sorry. I guess responsible means modest, too.” She settled back into the water, but it didn’t matter. The image of her exceptional body was burned into his mind. Her lush breasts with the dark nipples he wanted to taste. That narrow waist that was the perfect size to slide his hand around. Those long, lean thighs leading up to her bare pussy. His imagination had kicked into overdrive and his body was on fire simply from the fantasies of how she would feel beneath his fingers. How soft her skin would be against his mouth. And how her deep, throaty voice would sound when he made her come so hard she screamed.
She cleared her throat, and when he jumped, she laughed and settled back into the water. “Maybe you ought to bring me a towel. Or you could just join me.”
He wished he wasn’t so damn tem
pted, but he forced himself to head toward the cedar-lined chest that held the pool towels. He picked one, then set it on the coping, within easy reach of her.
She sighed. “Come on, Easton. Give me a break. Maybe tonight was a little over the top, but at the end of the day, I’m trying to be responsible, too. I need an attorney. Truly need one. And that’s why I came to you.”
“There are hundreds of attorneys in this town.”
“Yeah, but aren’t you the best?”
He said nothing. Just scowled.
She rolled her eyes. “Look, I considered at least half a dozen others, but yours is the name everyone came up with. And yet you won’t let me hire you. Not even for a short-term deal that will probably be over even before you officially announce that you’re trying for a seat on the bench. Or maybe there’s another reason you don’t want me to retain you. Maybe you’re punishing me for what happened over a decade ago? In which case, that seems petty. I mean, don’t they say we’re basically a new person every seven years? And that means you’re punishing me for something another person did.”
He couldn’t help laughing. “I really do love the way you think.”
“I just need help. I am who I am, Easton.”
“Aimless?”
“More like carefree,” she countered.
“Irresponsible?”
“Dammit,” she snapped, and he heard real temper in her voice. “I told you. I’m trying to do this right. I want to make sure I get paid well for this deal and they can’t screw up the brand I built.”
He took a step toward her. “So tell me why you’re selling? Because you got lucky and the distillery exploded into a success? Now you’re afraid of the hard work it’ll take to keep it going? Because that’s what you do, isn’t it? Walk away before anything gets too real?”
“You know what, Easton? Screw you. I have never been afraid of hard work. Ever. Just because I don’t want to work in the same damn job in a suit for the rest of my life doesn’t mean I’m less than you.”
She stood up, her wet, naked body gleaming. “I’ll find another damn attorney.”
