Corrupted--A Scorching Hot Romance

by Cathryn Fox

  “My advice?”

  “Yeah, you told me I needed to work on myself, so I did. I did a lot of thinking.” He steps up to me, and his eyes are dark, full of warmth as he takes my hands in his. “Want to know what I concluded?”

  “Yes?” I say, my voice as shaky as my hands. He dips his head, his lips close to mine, and everything inside me fills with the love I have for him. My throat tightens, and my heart squeezes as I stare up at him.

  “I think I’m an ogre, and an oaf. You and Peyton were right,” he says in a teasing voice.

  “Cason...”

  His face falls, and he goes completely sober as he pulls me in and I rest my face on his chest, his heart pounding hard against my cheek. “Seriously, Londyn, I need to you listen to me. I have to tell you what I think. What I’ve been thinking all along.”

  “Okay,” I say, my knees so wobbly that if he wasn’t holding me, I’m sure I’d collapse.

  “You are kind, generous and caring. You have untapped talent beyond belief and it’s time the world knows who you are. I believe in you, and everything you do.”

  “You do?”

  “Of course I do. Contrary to what you think, I have never hated you, and deep down, a part of me wanted our time in Cannes to be about revenge, but I’m just not that guy. I’d never want to do anything to hurt you, Londyn. I was an ass for the things I said, and for not giving you a chance to explain, and I hope you can forgive me.”

  “You never hated me?”

  “No, in fact, I never stopped loving you. I struck out without listening to you, even though you believed in me. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Londyn. I made a mistake.”

  “I made mistakes, too.”

  “We both did. But how about we leave them in the past, and start fresh.”

  A bone-deep want seeps into my soul. I step back, and his eyes go wide. He swallows, and runs his hand over his face like he always does when he’s worried about something.

  I sniff. “You had your say, now it’s time I had mine.” He takes a deep breath, like he’s preparing himself for the worst. “You remember I said by the end of our two weeks I’d come up with the perfect description of you, and you were a little worried about that?” He nods, his dark eyes brimming with unease.

  “I’ve given it a ton of thought. You’re right, you are an ogre and an oaf.”

  He nods, and looks at the ground, his eyes dark and full of sadness. “I understand if you can’t forgive me.”

  “But you’re also the kindest, most trustworthy guy I know. Don’t think for a minute that I didn’t know it was you who donated to the film class.” A wide grin splits his mouth, and he looks up and whistles innocently. I step back into him and put my arms around his neck. “But you know what I think the perfect description is?”

  His big hands wrap around me and drag me close. “No, what?”

  “Cason Harrison, my fiancé.”

  “Is that what you think?” he asks, his eyes full of warmth and desire.

  I poke him in the chest. “It’s what I know.”

  “It’s what I know, too,” he says, grinning. He arches a brow. “Do you forgive me, Londyn? Or perhaps I should say, do you forgive me, fiancée?”

  “Always,” I say and go up on my toes. His lips find mine, and the world shimmers around me, my heart so full of love and hope, I’m sure I’m going to burst.

  “There’s one matter we need to discuss,” he says.

  “Oh?”

  “You see, you left before you fulfilled your contract, and I believe I have a few more days with you.”

  I grin, liking where his mind is going. “You don’t think I fulfilled my end of the contract?” I ask, even though we both know I did, but I’ll play along, see where he’s taking this.

  “That’s right, and I plan on taking what’s mine.”

  “What are you saying, Cason?”

  “I think we should fly back to Cannes, where I can tie you up, and do dirty delicious things to your body.”

  “Is that what you think?” I ask.

  He scoops me up and I yelp with joy. “It’s what I know.”

  * * *

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  CHAPTER ONE

  A COUPLE MORE MINUTES and he’d put a stop to it.

  While the woman dancing on one of the low-level tables was nowhere near indecent, the suggestive way she was moving her hips to the music signalled things could be heading that way.

  Connor Fitzpatrick sat back in his chair at the rear of the bar, nursing a whisky. His lower back complained, likely due to all the late nights he’d been pulling. He should be making time for the gym rather than running herd on a group of women who, from their laughter, had undoubtedly been upping his bar profits considerably.

  While that was always good, it wasn’t as if either of his London clubs needed much in the way of a boost. They were going great guns. He looked around the packed club with its soft ambient lighting, deep, black leather sofas and stylish features in chrome and glass. This club had been his first and had quickly gained favour amongst the young and fashionable. That was why he had been well placed to act when providence had smiled on him and dropped the property he’d been patiently waiting to buy—and then destroy—right in his lap.

  About bloody time. Now he could get closure, payback, revenge. Whatever the hell anyone chose to call it.

  The deal he’d made with Damian McBride had taken some ducking and diving, but Connor had no scruples about putting on the emotional screws. Offering over the market value hadn’t hurt, either, which was why Connor was only a signature away from owning the now defunct Cabacal Club, the place that symbolised the lowest point of his life.

  He had no idea what he’d do with it. Maybe j
ust gut the place, or let it fall to rack and ruin. He didn’t give a fuck.

  It was no skin off his balls. And he should know, since they’d already been sliced and bruised enough for one lifetime. For the past five years he’d placed his focus squarely on building his business, taking pleasure in the rapid success his clubs had brought him. Now the acquisition of the property at the heart of his near-downfall would provide the last soothing layer of balm to heal old wounds right over.

  He sipped his whisky, letting it drive down the bile of memories as his gaze drifted back to the woman still making full use of the table. While he liked his patrons to enjoy themselves, this one’s impromptu dance wasn’t exactly the kind he encouraged. No denying she had curves, displayed as they were in tight white jeans and a sleeveless grey top that had a zipper down the front, opened to reveal some tantalising cleavage.

  Still moving, the woman pushed her hands underneath her long mane of dark-blonde hair, lifting it away from her neck and letting it cascade back down over her shoulders. The way she shimmied, her body undulating in perfect time to the music, had his already alert cock throbbing against the fly of his suit pants. Shit, this was all he needed. A frigging hard-on courtesy of Ms Footloose up there.

  She held her arms out to the side, gyrating in a way that reminded him of a belly dancer he’d once encountered during a pub crawl with his mates. He had very happy memories of that night, especially the one where he’d peeled away all seven layers of flimsy gauze—in private, of course—before he and said belly dancer had fucked the living hell out of each other.

  He took a healthy slug of his drink as he continued to watch the current show, imagining sliding down the zipper of her top to reveal breasts perfect for his hands and mouth. Since he could see the faintest outline of nipple, he’d bet she wasn’t wearing a bra. He imagined feasting on her breasts, ruthlessly licking her nipples, then slowly stripping her out of those jeans. He wondered what kind of underwear she favoured. Those skimpy, lacy deals, perhaps? Or maybe she wore none at all.

  He swallowed, his fingers curling tightly around the glass as his gaze zoomed in on her ass, looking for a distinct panty line. Shit, he had a full-blown throbbing erection now. And if he did then he’d bet nearly every other guy in the place did too.

  Since he prided himself on running classy establishments, he knew the time had come to call a halt. With considerable reluctance, and hoping to hell his erection wasn’t visible to all and sundry, he tossed back the remainder of his drink, placed the glass on the table and stood. Instantly, one of his security men was at his side.

  The man glanced over at the group of women. ‘You want me to deal with this, boss?’

  Connor shook his head. It didn’t matter how many times he told Nigel not to call him ‘boss’, the man was old school, an ex-copper, and seemed to prefer formalities. ‘No.’ Connor let out a long exhale. ‘I’m heading home anyway, so I’ll sort it on my way out. Keep an eye on them, though, and if they attempt a replay or start to get rowdy call them a cab.’

  Nigel tapped two fingers to his temple. ‘Consider it done.’

  Connor walked across to the table, hoping that the raunchy dance hadn’t offended his other customers. From his brief glance around the club, most seemed to be taking the unexpected entertainment in a genial manner.

  As he neared the table, the woman reached down and took off one shoe. It was one of those lethal, spiky heels that looked as if it should come with a health warning. Not that he didn’t enjoy seeing them at the end of a woman’s leg—sexy as hell, especially when they wore nothing else.

  Encouraged by her friends, the woman started twirling around, wobbling precariously on the one remaining heel. She bent, obviously intent on removing the other shoe, but toppled and stumbled back against him.

  As Connor reached out to catch her, something lanced across his neck. He inhaled sharply, his fingers reflexively digging into her waist as she fell to her knees, still holding the recalcitrant shoe.

  ‘Oh, shit. I’m so sorry.’

  Caught in the startled green of her eyes, his hands tightened around her waist, holding her steady.

  ‘You’re bleeding. I’ve hurt you,’ she said.

  He tore his gaze away from hers long enough to turn his head, the spike of her shoe dangerously close to his head. ‘It’s fine. Just get that thing away from me before you poke my bloody eye out.’

  Using his shoulders as leverage, she swivelled around, then sat on the edge of the table and put her shoe back on. All the while she peered at his neck. ‘I’m really sorry.’

  Connor touched his hand to the spot she was staring at, aware of the slight sting there. He wasn’t sure if that sensation was because of the wound itself, or the intensity of her study, but when he drew his fingers away they were streaked with blood.

  She reached up. ‘You’re bleeding on your shirt collar.’

  Connor stepped away from where she was about to touch his neck. ‘I’ve bled on worse things. Don’t worry about it.’

  From the small bag she had strapped across her body, she pulled out a wad of tissue. ‘Here, press this hard to the wound. It will staunch the bleeding.’

  He found himself doing as she said. It was those hypnotic green eyes. Or more likely the concern in them.

  That unsettled him. Pulled up too many memories. He’d rather she poked his eye out with that insane heel than make him remember things he’d sworn to forget.

  ‘Thanks,’ Connor said. He turned from her, intending to head to his office at the back of the club, and almost bumped into Nigel.

  ‘Have you got a first-aid kit somewhere?’ she demanded of the burly bouncer, before turning back to Connor. ‘We should make sure the wound is clean and dress it properly. There’s no telling what germs are on the heel of my shoe—you might be infected by something nasty.’

  ‘I’m sure I’ll survive.’

  ‘There’s a kit in the office,’ Nigel said, tilting his head towards the door, and Connor could have sworn the man was battling a grin. ‘It’ll be fully stocked with everything you need.’

  Connor narrowed his eyes, fully intending to remind Nigel of his duty of care towards his employer, especially the part about protecting him from pushy females. ‘Great. Then I’ll thank you both for your unwarranted concern and be on my way.’

  He was almost at his office door, and trying not to think about those eyes, those curves, all that bloody hair, when he felt her behind him.

  Still pressing the wad to his neck, he looked over his shoulder and raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m a big boy. I can take it from here.’

  She shook her head, sending those luxurious locks brushing against her shoulders and—fuck—across her breasts. ‘You really should let me have a look. I’m a qualified first-aider.’ She glanced towards the door, then back at him. Her eyes went wide. ‘Are you the manager, or something?’

  ‘Or something,’ he said, acknowledging that her cagey look was likely due to concern that she’d be charged with bodily harm. ‘Look, it’s okay. No harm done. I’m not about to press charges.’

  Still, she hesitated, looking from him to the door and back again before moving right past him and into his office.

  Connor closed the door, watching as she took a cursory look around before heading over to the three-tiered filing cabinet in the corner. ‘Is this where you keep the first-aid kit?’

  Damned if he knew. ‘Probably.’ He walked over, unlocked the cabinet and, as he knew the first two drawers were jam-packed with business files, slid open the bottom one. His efficient assistant had placed a green box at the back of the drawer, clearly marked with the universal symbol for first-aid supplies.

  Before he could reach for it, the woman bent down and grabbed it from the drawer. ‘Sit,’ she instructed, crossing to the desk and sliding out his black leather chair. ‘Let me take a closer look.’

  Conn
or frowned. He should tell her to get the hell out of his office, remind her that he could deal with his own bloody cut, and if he wanted to sit in his damned chair he would—he didn’t need a pushy siren giving him instructions. Instead, he found himself walking to the chair and sitting like a well-trained canine. His only excuse was that the sooner he let her do her nursing stint, the sooner she would be gone. At least, that was what he told himself.

  She reached out to remove the bloodied wad at the same moment he did. Their fingers brushed, hands touching. Okay, nothing wrong with a little spark of chemistry, a zing of sexual awareness. Some very definite fire in the blood, and below the waist.

  The subtle snatch of her breath as they touched, the way her heated gaze held his a moment too long before dropping to his mouth, confirmed she wasn’t immune to that zing. One glance at her grey top confirmed his theory. Those nipples he’d imagined licking to peak were already reflecting the very outcome he’d visualised.

  Maybe he was being too hasty in his desire to be rid of her. For the past several weeks, he’d been on a rollercoaster, his attention tightly focused on a driving need to buy the Cabacal and lay to rest old ghosts. He couldn’t blame his body for starting to retaliate against having its physical needs denied for too long.

  From her table-dance earlier, she was definitely a party girl, probably up for some fun, and the way she was sending his hormones on this happy journey signalled she was exactly the kind of woman to break his no-sex streak. Fun-loving, easy-going, obviously in touch with her own sexuality. Add this definite mutual attraction to the mix and it boded well for a little private party of their own.

  She tossed the tissue into the waste bin, then she placed her hands on her knees and bent to peer at the wound with an intensity reserved for someone inspecting a new kind of species.

  When she reached for the first-aid box she’d placed on the desk, Connor couldn’t resist a quick glance down her top.

  Nice, he thought, as his extremely interested cock responded with appropriate pleasure. He averted his gaze as she turned back. Instinct had him folding his hands in his lap in a bid to hide the evidence, but he was too late. Her eyes dropped to his hands before she returned her attention to his neck. ‘You don’t have to hide that,’ she teased, dabbing the cut with a cotton ball. ‘Was my dance responsible? Or just the fact I’m wearing a low-cut top?’