Bastard In A Suit (Book Two)

by Ivy Carter

  Duke Kingston lives on the top floor of a vintage condo complex, a multi-million-dollar suite in North Chicago. I stand outside the intimidating brick façade and look up, way up, to the top balcony, re-gathering some of the courage that seems to have leaked out of me between the time it took me to get from the library to the front entrance of his building.

  I can’t help but wonder if Duke is peering down from his window, watching the crowds of people on the street that must look like ants, and thinking about how he can crush their hopes and dreams.

  Dusk hovers over the city, creating a hazy effect that turns this whole situation surreal. A conversation about work, no matter how personal, should take place at the office, not Duke’s condo. But I can’t wait until tomorrow.

  Not even one more second.

  I switch off my cell to avoid interruption, and walk through the rotating glass door to the inside of the building. My heels click, clack, click against the dark, marbled floor. A vintage crystal chandelier hangs over the open-beam lobby. Soft light spills along the dark marble floor. An expensive-looking piece of abstract art hangs over the reception desk where a uniformed concierge stares at me in expectation.

  He forces a smile. “May I help you?”

  I try to ignore the tight flutter of foreboding in my throat. “Duke Kingston’s residence, please.”

  He nods. “And who may I say is calling?”

  I swallow hard. In my haste, I hadn’t carved out the full logistics of my plan. Like whether I should use my real name, or a fake name, or someone else’s name altogether. There’s the distinct possibility he might not agree to see me, by any name. Even more plausible that any interaction will turn hostile given this morning’s argument.

  The concierge arches his neck, craning downward like a bird, and tilts his head.

  I chew on my lower lip. “Hailey. Hailey Yorke. We work together…” My cheeks flush. “Er, I mean I work for him at Kingston Industries.”

  The man ignores my rambling and calls up to Duke’s suite. After announcing my arrival with a slightly British accent, he pauses, gives me a look up and down, and then responds with “very well” and “yes, sir.”

  I swallow, waiting for the dreaded blow off.

  But the man instead arches an eyebrow. “Mr. Kingston invites you to his penthouse on the top floor,” he says, voice clipped. “Once inside the elevator, you’ll need to enter a code.”

  “No retinal scan?”

  The concierge doesn’t smile at my joke, merely tells me the six digit code and then gestures for me to move along.

  The elevator arrives and I get in before I can change my mind. My fingers tremble as I punch in the access code. On the way to the penthouse, I practice my speech, mimicking my expressions and gestures in the mirrored brass. I will speak clearly. I will stand tall. I will not succumb to Duke Kingston’s seductions.

  It’s a great plan that evaporates the instant the elevator doors swooshes open.

  Duke stands at the entrance to his apartment, leaning against the doorframe like a damned GQ model. He’s taken off his jacket, loosened his tie, and rolled his cuffs up to his elbows. The drink in his hand looks fresh. Condensation covers the outside of the glass.

  My pulse ratchets up a notch.

  “This is a surprise,” he says, dryly.

  The sarcastic edge in his tone eases some of the tension that pulls my shoulders tight. I expected a harsher greeting, a disapproving sneer.

  “May I come in?”

  “If I asked you to leave, would you?”

  That would be the smart thing to do, but my body’s response to Duke has made any logical train of thought fly out the window. I’m walking a precariously thin line here. It should intimidate me, but an electric thrill zig zags up my spine, as if the I’m just as excited by the challenge. “Is that what you want me to do?” I say, challenging him to show me how little interest he has in me.

  Or how much.

  He quirks an eyebrow, and then steps back, motioning me in. I follow his spiced earth scent into the foyer. The suite is enormous, made that much bigger by wall-to-wall windows that boast a spectacular view of the Chicago skyline. The Kingston Industries logo shimmers in the distance under dusk’s fading light, so big you can see it from most of the city. Open oak beams add warmth to a stark color scheme of cream-colored furniture and pale wooden floors.

  “Drink?” he offers.

  My gaze shifts to the wet bar where Duke stands amid a collection of liquor bottles and glasses. He holds a tumbler in one hand, a wine carafe in the other. A boyish smile curves the edges of his mouth.

  Damn him.

  I could so easily fall under his spell, forget the anger that led me here, push past the sense of betrayal that needles my skin like a tattoo gun. An overwhelming feeling of sadness sweeps over me and I blink, blink, blink to avoid crying. Standing in Duke’s penthouse like this is a harsh reminder of everything I almost had—a thriving company, an innovative product, the opportunity to work with a man, a legend, like Duke Kingston. All of it, even my ridiculous hope that he would see me as more than a naïve fuck, stripped from me in one fatal swoop.

  Dead. Just like the product.

  Anger thrums through me again. “This isn’t a social call.”

  “Shame.” Duke pours himself anther drink and comes around to the other side of the bar. “Would you like to sit?”

  I eye the two bar stools and shake my head. Getting comfortable here, allowing myself to relax even a little, would be a mistake. And I’ve already made one too many of those with Duke. “I’ll stand.”

  Duke slides onto the seat and rests his arm on the bar. “I’m going to sit, if you don’t mind. It’s been a long day.”

  His cavalier tone grates on me like fingernails over a chalkboard. “Busy taking advantage of people?” I snap. The coil binding my emotions together begins to unravel and my tone turns rude, disrespectful. “Or is that just your morning ritual?”

  “I like to keep my afternoons open for raping and pillaging.”

  He fucking winks. Of all the nerve.

  My adrenaline jacks. “Pushing my buttons won’t work.”

  Duke raises his glass in mock toast. “Don’t tempt me to try and see if you’re as good as your word.”

  My knees buckle at the unspoken meaning behind his words. I grip the bar for balance, and try to pretend that his words haven’t re-stoked my pathetic and inappropriate desire to feel his touch. My mouth goes dry, pasty.

  “Have a drink,” Duke says. Another damn wink.

  “I said no.” My response comes out harsher than I intend, too emotionally charged. I can’t afford to show weakness—Duke thrives on it, like a panther sizing up his prey. My stomach flutters. “You don’t control me.”

  Maybe it’s the light, but I could swear his eyes flicker with amusement. He hops off the stool and wanders toward the open living room area. I feel like he can hear my heart pounding through the awkward silences in our conversation. He flicks on some music—instrumental, classic—and sinks into the sofa. Pats the seat beside him. “There’s room here.”

  Fuck no. It was such a mistake to come here.

  I’m playing into Duke’s game while he acts like I’m here to feed him strawberries, not read him the riot act. I may as well be a fly in his scotch—pesky and insignificant. Not worth more than a sniff. A growing sense of discomfort inches along the back of my neck. I won’t sit, but I can’t stand here and shout at him over the music either.

  I shuffle closer and lean against one of the tall columns that support the ceiling. It feels informal, so I stand tall, fold my arms across my chest like I mean business. My anger sends tiny vibrations along my skin, and I try not to show how much I’m trembling.

  “Relax, Hailey.”

  “Relax?” My voice lifts upward, incredulous. “I’ve been working on the MicroTracker for three years. Three. Fucking. Years. It’s single-handedly the most significant thing I have ever done. And you’re going to just stu
ff it on a shelf in some warehouse and let it collect dust—but I’m supposed to just sit back and relax?”

  This is impossible. He is impossible.

  Duke sets his glass on the side table. “You’re still wound up about that?” He sighs, interlinks his fingers, and splays his thumbs outward. “You’ll work on something new. By your own admission, you’re a young, intelligent entrepreneur. Not everyone knocks it out of the park on their first try. Ask Einstein.”

  “He’s dead,” I say, annoyed at the analogy. Just like the MicroTracker. “If you’re not going to use us, the least you can do is let us go.”

  “Release you from your contracts?” His gaze darkens at the suggestion. “Not a chance.”

  “You’re an ego-maniac.”

  “I’m a business man,” he says. “And this is a business decision. You signed the paperwork. It’s final. I warned you about that.”

  “Regardless of how I feel about any of it?”

  He shakes his head. “Emotions don’t come into play—they don’t belong in business. If you were more experienced…”

  I lift my chin, annoyed at the haughty tone of his voice, and scan his face for any sign that he’ll change is mind. His features are set in determination and it pisses me off. But more than that, I hate that I haven’t walked away. That for some reason, I see this as yet another challenge. As though maybe I can convince him that we’re worthy of an exception to his stupid rules.

  “We didn’t know when we signed those contracts that you wouldn’t be going forward on the project.” I concede a sliver of a smile. “You could have given us a heads up.”

  “You never would have agreed to the terms.”

  “So rather than negotiate, you lead us on?” My voice tightens with disgust. This isn’t the first time Duke has admitted to lying or misinterpreting facts to get his way. The truth cuts deeper. “You used me.”

  His expression appears to soften. For a split second, I almost believe I’ve hacked through the thick armor suction cupped to his heart. But then any thread of compassion vanishes in a flash. “Only an amateur mistakes business for pleasure.”

  I stagger backward at the cruelty of his words. “I won’t work for you.”

  “Too late.”

  Damn him. I’m so angry I could spit nails, but beneath my frustration lingers an attraction so intense I can scarcely breathe. “I’ll work from home.” At least then, I won’t have to see him. I can begin to forget Duke ever looked at me, touched me. “If all I’m going to do is pretend to work, I’d prefer to do it from the comfort of my own apartment.”

  “Charming,” Duke says.

  A bad taste lingers at the back of my throat. Spending the day cooped up with my judgmental cat listening to the crazy lady upstairs blasting Days of Our Lives is the exact opposite of charming. I hold my ground. “I mean it. I won’t set foot in Kingston Industries.”

  “Fine,” he says.

  “Fine!”

  He grabs his drink and takes a long pull. “Anything else?”

  The obnoxious tinkling of ice cubes snaps my last nerve in half. I have every urge to rip the glass from his hand and dump what’s left of the scotch on his shirt, make him feel something, anything. Maybe he’s right—I’m too invested, too emotional, too inexperienced to understand the art of the business world. But if being successful means pulling off the kind of indifference that radiates from Duke right now, he can have it. All of it. I don’t fucking care.

  “You can sue me,” I say, pointing my finger aggressively. “And I still won’t take one breath inside that building.”

  “Sue you?” Duke sputters. “For what?”

  “For not working.” Jesus. My throat is scratched and raw. I’d do anything for a drink. I’m teetering over the edge and I can’t stop, even as my sub conscious knocks on my skull with mighty fists of reason. “I’ll collect my pay at the end of each month. You won’t see me. Not even a glimpse.”

  Somewhere in the back of my mind it registers that this is what’s bugging me—the fact that Duke isn’t demanding that I come into the office, if nothing more than to see me. It’s a childish hope that makes me feel like a toddler.

  “Would you have me drag you in by your hair?” he says. “Let me be clear, Hailey. I couldn’t care less if you throw a temper tantrum every morning. Protest. Or don’t. It makes no difference to me.”

  Blood rushes to my head so fast I get dizzy. “That’s just it, isn’t it? You don’t care about anything. You’re a cold, emotionless fish.”

  Duke’s pupils go inky. “I’d be very careful of what you say here, Hailey.”

  My skin goes prickly, sensitive. I’m ever so cognizant that the last time I spoke out against Duke, he bent me over his desk and paddled my ass with the flat of his hand. And still, I steam roll forward like a freight train gone off the rails. “You’re incapable of feeling anything.”

  This time the edge in his voice is very real. “You know nothing about me.”

  My mind flits through the catalogue of things I know about Duke Kingston—the rumors and tabloid reports, the models he’s dated and dumped, the way his voice curls my toes and ignites a fire in my belly. “You’re exactly what people say you are. Ruthless. Emotionless.”

  I scan the perimeter of his beautiful home, breathing in the scents of vanilla and spice. A chill seeps into my bones. There’s no warmth here, among the stark, white décor. That should prove my point, but it just makes me sad. The weight of defeat bores down on my back.

  A rash of crimson spreads up the side of Duke’s neck. His tense jaw twitches. “Your observations are superficial at best.”

  Desperation tinges my voice. “Prove to me that you have feelings, then. Because from everything I see, you’re nothing but a robot in a suit.”

  Duke stands so fast he knocks over his glass. Ice cubes skip across the hardwood. His face twists into some kind of tortured pain and he advances on me, fast. A shockwave ripples through to my core.

  He doesn’t touch me, not even one inch, but my body responds to the force of his overwhelming presence. My heartbeat ramps up, my nipples harden. I am at once excited and scared.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  But the damage is already done. Duke points down the hall, his finger rigid, his voice gruff. “To my bedroom, you naughty girl.”

  My eyes widen.

  He lips curl into a sneer. “Now.”

  Chapter 4

  The master suite stands in sharp contrast the rest of Duke’s penthouse. Rich hardwood combines with burgundy accents to add color and character to an atmosphere that is surprisingly warm, somehow erotic. Thick curtains drape from wrought iron rods that hang over floor-to-ceiling windows.

  Duke yanks on my wrist and spins me around. I gasp when his lips crash against my mouth. He pushes me up against the wall and runs his tongue along the curve of my throat, flicks the sensitive flesh at the tip of my earlobe.

  My body yields to his touch, growing soft and pliant.

  I realize now that this is all I was really ever here for. The contracts, the so-called betrayal of our business deal, none of it meant a thing to me compared to this.

  The knowledge of my own weakness is like a blow to my solar plexus, and yet it doesn’t change a thing. I’m getting what I really want, and I’m wet and ready for whatever comes next.

  Duke guides me to the center of the room, hands firm on my hips. My mouth hungrily searches for his. “Stay,” he growls.

  Every cell of my body snaps to attention at the command.

  He stalks across the bedroom, spins around a chair, and plants it two feet away from me. He drops down into the seat and leans back, legs spread wide, eyes trapping me in place. “Strip,” he says.

  My heartbeat stutters. “Pardon?”

  He scrapes his teeth along his bottom lip. “Take off. Your clothes. Slowly. ”

  My chin lifts. Giving in to this, to him, is what lands me in these precarious situations. I’m more aware this time, but I ca
n no more turn around now than I can go back in time and re-draw the professional lines I’ve already crossed. Deep down, this is what I wanted. What I feared I wouldn’t get more of. Him. His hands on my body, his tongue trailing along my skin. I wanted this.

  I want—

  Him.

  Being mad doesn’t erase this undeniable chemistry between us.

  I’m addicted to the way he looks at me, and I can’t get enough.

  But can I do this? Can I actually strip for him?

  My hands move tentatively to the bottom of my blouse and I hook my fingers into the bottom of my skirt. I sway my hips lightly side to side, grasping for some measure of confidence. It’s not like Duke hasn’t seen my body, but to remove each piece of clothing as he watches…I shudder. It’s too raw. Vulnerable. But exciting, too. My body hums, feeling more alive than it’s ever been.

  Duke nudges his head with subtle encouragement. A sly smile curls his lip and damn if it doesn’t fire a shot of adrenaline through to my core. I tug at my shirt until it hangs loosely at my sides. With gentle prodding, the first button pops loose. My fingers work slowly down the blouse, exposing the sharp V of cleavage and the outline of my black lace bra. When at last the buttons are all undone, I slide the silk over my shoulders.

  “That’s it baby,” Duke says. “Slower.”

  Desire is written all over his face and it’s almost my undoing. My pulse picks up speed. I’ve never been body conscious—I’d rather win over a man with my brains than my boobs—but the way Duke stares at me gives me confidence. Makes me feel empowered.

  I drop the blouse on the carpet and my skin instantly cools.

  His eyes lock on my chest. I heave under his scrutiny, resisting the urge to throw my arms across myself. I straighten my back.

  “Remove the bra,” he says.

  Jesus. His voice is all low and throaty, turning me on. I don’t speak, just nod.

  I reach behind and unhook the clasp of my bra, hesitating just a little, before I slide the straps down my arms. It falls to the ground. My nipples tighten.

  I wonder what I’m doing right now. What about everything he’s done to hurt me, to ruin my chance at a real career?