Million Dollar Devil

by Evans, Katy

  “I . . .” His hands are still on my face. He looks at me like he wants me.

  Like he knows I want him back.

  “I haven’t been in a relationship in a long time. Maybe not ever. Not really.” I shake my head, forcing myself to step back as I try to explain. “See, sometimes it’s hard to know what I’m worth to the guy I’m dating. Or why he’s even dating me. I’ve never been . . . like this with a guy. Like I am with you. Relaxed. Able to let my guard down.”

  “Why? You’re perfect.”

  “This isn’t perfect to my dad.”

  “It’s perfect. In any language, you’re perfect.”

  I exhale as I walk around my desk, flushing in every part of me. “Well, now we want to make YOU perfect,” I say, flushing when there’s a rap on the door and Michael yelling.

  “Honey, open up! I’ve got a ton of stuff in my arms, and I don’t want to faint out here!”

  James smiles, rubbing a thumb along his thoroughly kissed lips as he goes to open the door.

  Jimmy

  Michael and two of his assistants are setting everything up in Lizzy’s spare bedroom. While Lizzy’s pretending she didn’t just kiss me right here.

  Pretending I didn’t catch her watching my videos just now.

  That’s okay.

  Might have come on a little too strong over there.

  But she looked edible when she opened her door. Her hair wet and tied in a bun behind her head. A little black dress hugging her form.

  I didn’t sleep for want of it.

  So I just went in and gave us both what we wanted.

  Now, as Michael’s assistants go downstairs for another round of suits, I stick my hands in my pockets as I eye Michael.

  “So, Mike,” I say, clapping my hands as I circle him.

  The fact that I call him Mike makes him beam.

  “You mentioned something about some dude . . . some dude placing a bet on Lizzy’s venture.”

  “Oh”—he waves a hand—“LB is always wanting to be sure Lizzy fails in her father’s eyes.”

  “But you don’t. Right?”

  I gauge the guy, whether he’s Team Lizzy or not.

  “God, never! I adore Lizzy. She’s smart, hardworking, warm, unlike that foolish, wicked . . . little bitch.” He shudders as if merely thinking about the guy gives him the creeps.

  “How much?”

  “What?”

  “How much was the bet?”

  “I believe it was . . . 100K. Sicko,” he mumbles as if to himself.

  “So what do you say you get the guy to double up on his bet?”

  He whirls from where he was organizing the suits by colors.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Get him to double up his bet to two hundred grand. Tell him there’s an anonymous person wanting in.”

  Michael seems to be sweating from the excitement under his suit, licking his lips. “Oh my, I’m in love with you,” he says, waving at his face. “Count on it, James.”

  “You two look cozy,” Elizabeth says as she walks in. She halts, surprised to find us whispering behind the suits.

  Michael’s assistants stumble past the door, hurrying to continue with the setup.

  “You know me, darling,” Michael says, his attention back on Lizzy. “Always trying to offer drinks, dinner, or dick to the hottest man around.”

  I choke and slam a hand to my chest while Michael follows his assistants to the door and waves at me. “Don’t forget your declaration of love,” I tell the guy, meaning, Don’t forget our bet.

  “Never!” he replies with a nod that tells me, I’m in.

  I smirk when he leaves, my gaze sliding to a suspicious Lizzy. I prop a shoulder on the wall, watching her watch me. “At least he didn’t kiss me goodbye.”

  “Or good morning,” Lizzy says, walking over to the suits. “Like me.” She shuts her eyes and groans, then laughs, her cheeks coloring pink.

  When she drops her hand, our eyes meet.

  And I want to kiss her again—madly. Fully. Passionately.

  Talk dirty to her.

  Get her worked up over me, with me.

  Get her under me.

  I just watch her try to find words, swallowing as she sets a hand on a suit.

  “So, can we . . . start over? Pretend that didn’t happen so we can get back to business?”

  She glances up at me. And damn me, just like the first time, I can’t say no to her.

  SUITING UP

  Elizabeth

  My stomach is tumbling.

  Nervous because . . . um, the IRRESISTIBLENESS-of-him thing?

  The delicious-kiss thing?

  All that six-feet-plus thing.

  Yeah.

  He’s just standing there, looking at me quietly. He said we can forget the kiss—but the look in his eyes. God, it’s so primitive.

  He seems pensive, possessive. Predatory.

  “Hold it right there.” I yank my phone from my back pocket and snap a shot.

  James frowns.

  “Exactly like that!” I say, snapping another one. Suddenly I can’t help but take a few more.

  When I realize James is just giving me a look, I lower my phone and think of how silly I’m acting.

  “If you wanted a picture of me, all you had to do is ask. You don’t have to go to all this trouble and pretend these are for the job.” His blue eyes gleam teasingly.

  “They’re for the job, James,” I groan, shooting him a little chiding look.

  “Uh-huh. What do you really want to do with the pictures?”

  “Post on my social media accounts after the launch,” I tease. Really, what I need to do is send some pictures to LB to get him off my back.

  “Will you tell your friends I’m your boy toy?”

  “No, because you aren’t.” I’m frowning now, thinking of Jeanine.

  “Not yet anyway.”

  “All righty then,” I squeak, turning to the clothes.

  “I bet you masturbate to them.”

  “What?” I turn around, shocked by his bluntness. Then again, I have to remember where I found him. James is a street guy. He brawls in the streets. He’s lived near the streets.

  The street lives in him.

  “I’d do it.” His gruff voice is sexy as hell.

  “You’d masturbate to your own images?” I make light of it. “You give self-love a whole new meaning.”

  “You know what I meant.”

  I do, and that knowledge makes me very vulnerable. Because the thought of James Rowan pulling at his cock, breathing raggedly as he whispers my name? Well, let’s just say that it gives me all the warm feels from my head to my toes. And the last thing I need is more warm feels about the guy.

  “We’re working.” I point at the clothes before grabbing the first suit I see. While I unbutton the jacket, I watch him strip off his shirt.

  Bad idea.

  I glance away, out the window, as I extend the jacket out on the hanger. Then I sit down and start to craft a bio of James Rowan:

  Atlanta native James Rowan is a true Renaissance man. Whether at the beach or in the office, he believes in living life to the fullest and will never resist an opportunity to make his mark on the world. Working hard or playing hard, he embodies the Banks image of strength, vitality, and power. That is why we have selected James Rowan as the new face of Banks LTD’s exciting new line of menswear.

  Hmm.

  It’ll do. I quickly send it off to LB, along with two of the pics I snapped, with Presenting James Rowan! as the subject.

  James dresses without any other comments. Once I sense he’s dressed, I turn and size up the man in the mirror. “Nice. Works for me. How about you?”

  “Not my favorite.”

  At least he’s honest. “Too bad, because it’s one of mine.”

  “What’s a suit like this cost?”

  “Why? You get to keep the clothes.”

  “Just wondered. Maybe I’ll buy one for Charlie.”


  Is he trying to get as much as he can from this arrangement, or is he genuinely interested in purchasing nice clothes for his brother?

  “How about I throw in a gift card for Charlie?”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?” I fish out another jacket. “I’ll text my assistant now and have her email the code to Charlie. What’s his email?”

  James looks blank now. “I’ll buy my brother’s clothes.”

  “Suit yourself,” I say, pocketing my phone and glaring at him. “And while you’re doing that, you choose the next suit.”

  I want to see what he likes, what he’ll choose. To my pleasure, he picks the next suit that I would’ve chosen.

  “Do ya like this one?”

  “Yes.”

  “How about the tie?” He chooses a bright-red one with royal-blue splashes.

  “Definitely.”

  “And how about me? Like me too?”

  “And we’re back to this.” I need to set some boundaries so we can get some work done. “You said we’d ignore what just happened.”

  “And yet here we are . . . alone in your apartment . . . just so you and I could be alone?” He’s amused. His twinkling blue eyes always give him away.

  “I DIDN’T . . . I didn’t think of doing this here so we could be alone. I did it so that you wouldn’t be exposed to the world before you were ready!”

  My mouth dries as he sheds the shirt. My eyes fixate on his gorgeous chest and the matting of hair already growing back. The way he moves his long fingers, the way they work as he slides on and buttons the next shirt.

  He closes the distance between us but doesn’t touch me. Instead, he lets me long for his touch, and I do.

  Long for his touch.

  “I can stay professional, if that’s what you want.” His thick promise runs over the exposed skin of my arms like a caress. Like the caress I crave more and more every second.

  “This line, it’s important to me. It’s everything.” I want to tell him that my dad . . . that my dad is the only person that has ever truly loved me, and feeling his love—feeling his acceptance of me and his pride in me—is important to me.

  “I get that, Lizzy,” he says quietly. “But can’t you have a little of both?”

  I don’t know how to respond, and so I let the silence envelop us. It’s a safety net, a blanket of warmth and protection, because if I don’t answer him, I don’t grant permission or turn him away. We remain in this uncharted territory, and right now that’s fine. The unknown may keep us trapped in dangerous waters, but I’m not in too deep. Not yet. But I’m afraid that soon this devil will have me drowning in him.

  He clucks his tongue and checks out the next suit in the mirror. “Okay then. We’ll play it your way.”

  “Perfect,” I say at his back, now flooded with relief and surprised that I’m flooded with even more disappointment. “We have so much work to do.”

  Minutes fly by, and soon he’s facing me again while he slowly fastens the buttons on a baby-blue shirt. He easily snaps on the cuff links, too, as if he’s been dressing like this all his life.

  “That’s perfect. Matches your eyes.” I force a smile but know the look on my face gives me away.

  My cheeks feel warmer than usual, and the rest of my body is following suit.

  His broad chest, cut abs, strong arms, and the way that shirt hugs all of this man make my stomach turn flips. He looks away right when I’m about to crumble, shrugging off the shirt and exposing his bare back.

  “Okay, then,” I say, twisting my hair into a knot as I watch him disrobe from the waist down. His cock is tight against his white briefs, and my mouth waters as I think about our questions.

  “Eyes up, Miss Banks.”

  I swallow and try to think of anything but his hard body, his long and beautiful . . .

  Clearing my throat, I somehow manage to snatch up the closest jacket and pass it over as I say, “This is our Banks Brunch Jacket. What do you think?”

  He checks the collar and discards it, not even trying it on. “I like the solid black.”

  I watch him grab a plain white shirt and briskly button it, then shove on the jacket. I run my hands over his back to determine the fit as I circle him. “Move your arms.”

  He stretches them forward, and I admire the give in the material, the way it pulls nicely around his shapely shoulders, his broad form.

  He smells good.

  I’m surprised by how attractive the scent that clings to him is.

  I peer around him. “You look great in this color.”

  “Black and white makes the sharp-dressed man?” he says, and rather than looking at himself in the mirror, he’s looking at me.

  “On you,” I say, cursing my forwardness. If we’re all business, I can’t make comments like this. “Let’s try the charcoal next.”

  He does. And rocks that one too.

  We spend a couple of hours trying everything, from shirts to slacks to jackets, ties to cuff links to socks.

  He’s tried to flirt; I’ve tried not to notice and to simply focus on the clothes. He’s now standing in a blue shirt that matches his eyes, and perfectly tailored black slacks, frowning at me as he buttons his cuffs. “You know, we can have fun with this.”

  “I’m having fun,” I say absently, already selecting his next one.

  “It doesn’t have to be strained.” He comes over and puts his palm on top of the shirt I was surveying, making me look up. He stares down the bridge of his slender nose and says, “I want you. I’m insanely attracted to you. And I mean to have you. How’s that for an icebreaker?”

  I gasp. “I, um . . .”

  “Don’t say anything. It’s fine. But it’s out there. It’s out there, and I can still be professional, Lizzy.” He waits, probably thinking I’ll return the sentiment.

  Instead, I’m melting.

  Melting because of the way he looks at me.

  Melting because he said he’s attracted TO ME.

  Melting because his eyes spin with desire.

  Melting because I crave him like I don’t remember craving anything before.

  Not knowing how to deal with this, I thrust another suit forward, shoving it against his chest in a playful manner. “Okay, so you want to have fun. What constitutes a good time in your book?”

  “You dressing up with me.” He drags his thumb across his lip, thoughtful. “Maybe we finish here and go out for drinks. That would be fun. Right?”

  I swallow. Of course that would be enjoyable, but it wouldn’t be my smartest move to date.

  “What d’you say, Lizzy?”

  “We can’t go out. Not yet. You’re not ready.”

  “Okay. Let’s pretend. Dress up to the nines and order in.”

  “As you can see, there aren’t any clothes here for me.”

  “Ya don’t have an evening gown hidden in your closet?”

  “Maybe one or two.”

  “Go change. Hop to it. I’ll wait here.”

  When I don’t move, he adds, “We’ve been at this for a while now. Let me show you a good time tonight, and I’ll be the perfect man for the rest of the duration.”

  “Why is this important?”

  “Maybe I need to get you out of my system.”

  “And dressing me up will help with that?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Okay, then.” How can I refuse? I love dressing up in formal wear, and besides, we have a lot of things to practice, so I might as well look the part.

  A minute later, I’m standing in my walk-in closet, thumbing through formal gowns, trying to find one that’s elegant and stylish.

  That’s when it hits me. What will I wear for our big launch? Maybe I should decide now so we can see how we look together. We need to be perfect because on the night of our launch, we’ll arrive together. We’ll work the crowd together.

  There will be a lot of togetherness in the coming weeks.

  My body seems to like that idea
and is far more sensitive now. What will this togetherness do for the rest of our relationship, not only in the professional sense?

  We’re about to find out.

  I find a black-studded gown, one with a discreet slit to the hip. The low-dip neckline is stunning if flashing a bit of cleavage is the aim. It has a slender waistline and a snug top.

  No, Lizzy, no.

  Go for sexy, not slutty, something that leans toward inappropriate, yet pretty. No. Beautiful and classy.

  I choose an open-back red gown dripping with sequins. Gentle curves with ample support cradle my chest and hips. The backless design leads to a V plunge and well-fitted gown, one that doesn’t shift with the sway of my walk.

  Super. I feel like a mermaid. Unfortunately, the design is so fitted that it looks as if it’s been painted on.

  One look in the mirror and I question my goals.

  Bull.

  I know exactly what I want. I’m sure of my goals. If not, I might as well take off the gown now.

  I can’t. I won’t.

  I want James to look at me as if he can’t wait to strip away the fabric, tear away the design. I’d gladly toss the ruined dress to the side for one night of undefinable passion, one glorious night of James and Elizabeth, two people who are opposites but find the perfect complement in each other. Just one night. Several hours of pleasure-bound sex that ends in no promises, no expectations.

  Snap out of it, Elizabeth.

  Breathe in. Breathe out.

  Daydreams and fantasies be damned.

  I walk out into my great room.

  “James?” Great. Where’d he go? “Are you hiding again?”

  “I’m right here.”

  I jump at the sound of his voice and slowly turn to find him sipping a glass of wine by the bar, a glass of wine that seems to be quite intriguing, given the look on his face—only he isn’t intrigued by the wine.

  He’s looking at me as if he can drink me in anytime he chooses.

  He is eating me up with his eyes. His body is rigid as hell. His jaw is set, firm.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Looking at a damn fine woman. You?”

  “Smooth talking your boss will not get you a free pass for drinking on the job!”

  I approach the bar and pluck the glass from his hand. He’s taken out my 1980 Chateau Margaux, which isn’t exactly cheap, but maybe it shows he has some taste. Of course, my bar doesn’t have cheap liquor. I glance up and notice that burning gaze again and promptly drink the wine. “But thank you.” I set aside the glass. “For the drink and the compliment.” I clap my hands. “Now, back to work.”