Play My Game: A 100 Series Standalone Romance

by Lara Adrian

  Maybe it is normal for him.

  Maybe he plays the part of the polite, albeit arrogant, Southern gentleman for all of his models before eviscerating them on his canvas. I watch him reach for the sharp knife next to his plate, then slice into his omelet with a surgeon’s precision. Those elegant, strong hands mesmerize me. The way they move with nuanced, utter control, no matter how mundane the task.

  I don’t want to think about all the wicked things he does with those hands. I don’t want to think about all of the wicked things I’ve heard about his other appetites, but I can’t stop the flood of rumors that fill my mind.

  As I sit in silence while he devours his breakfast with gusto and a total masculine lack of self-consciousness, I’m thinking of the rumors about wild sex parties and BDSM clubs. Rumors about his insatiable hunger for beautiful women and the seemingly revolving door that leads to his bedroom. I’ve seen some of the supporting evidence for that last rumor in the pictures I found online.

  As for the other rumors, they wouldn’t surprise me, having gone to his new nightclub, Muse, two weeks ago with my friends Evelyn Beckham and Paige Johansson. Although Muse is billed as a dance club, part of its allure—and its phenomenal success—is the flashing, strobe-quick glimpses of people having sex behind one-way glass in the private VIP rooms that circle the multi-story dance floor. That night with my friends, I’d dismissed what I saw as an illusion, a gimmick designed to play on the club’s name, but now I have to wonder.

  Now, I have to wonder about a lot when it comes to Jared Rush.

  His plate emptied, he wipes his mouth on the starched white napkin, then pours another cup of strong black coffee from the French press on the table.

  “How do you think you did on your exam yesterday?”

  For a moment, I’m startled by the question—by the idea that he not only remembers about my test, but bothers to ask. It feels too personal, too intimate, that he should know anything about what I do with my private time. I swallow to recalibrate my nerves, but it’s not easy to project calm under the intensity of his gaze.

  “I’m sure I did fine. I take my studies very seriously.”

  He chuckles. “I wouldn’t doubt that for a minute.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Anger nettles me. I scowl at him across the table. “Are you mocking me because I’m trying to get a better education and improve myself?”

  “No.” He sets down his cup without drinking. “I’m telling you what I see when I look at you, Ms. Laurent. I see a good girl, too good. The kind who protects the people she cares about, even if they don’t deserve it. Even to her own peril. The kind who gets perfect grades in all her classes and wears her Sunday best to an appointment with a man who’s only waiting for the chance to get her out of it.”

  Heat surges into my face. I don’t know what upsets me more, the accuracy of what he sees in me, or his audacity to say it.

  His words send another kind of heat through me, too, a darker one that blooms deep inside me no matter how hard I want to deny it. I discreetly cross my legs, but squeezing my thighs together only makes the heat twist tighter.

  “First of all, Mr. Rush, I’m not a girl. I’m a twenty-five-year-old woman.”

  He grunts. “I’ve got more than ten years on you, darlin’. A hell of a lot more than that, if we’re talking about anything other than age.”

  “I wouldn’t doubt that for a minute,” I say, tossing his words back at him. “As for protecting the people I care about, yes, you’re right. That is important to me, regardless of what it might cost me in the end.”

  “He doesn’t deserve you,” Rush utters tersely. “Deep down, I think you already know that.”

  I can’t believe his gall. What can he possibly know about Daniel, or me, for that matter? “Daniel cares for me. And I care for him, too.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “I didn’t hear you ask one.”

  My flippant reply irks him. Well, good. He needs to be irked.

  He needs to be put in his place—especially before he starts thinking he’s going to deconstruct me the way he does everyone else. I’m not letting him in, no matter how hard he pushes. If this chat over his breakfast table is supposed to get us familiar with each other before our arrangement officially begins, then I want him to understand I’m drawing a hard line between us, here and now.

  “All right, Ms. Laurent. Then I’ll ask the question plainly.” His stare penetrates deeper as he leans forward on his elbows—as if he’s two seconds away from leaping at me from across the table. Maybe he is. “If you and Mr. Hathaway have such a strong, loving bond, why didn’t you know he has a gambling problem?”

  “Just because he made a couple of mistakes doesn’t mean he’s got a problem—”

  “One hundred and sixty-five thousand mistakes,” Rush interjects grimly. “And you had no idea. In fact, you were blindsided by it.”

  I can’t deny anything he’s saying. If I try to, Rush will only see through me, anyway.

  He slowly shakes his head, studying me. “He’s keeping secrets from you. Think about that next time you hear him say he loves you. Think about that the next time you let him fuck you.”

  I draw in a sharp breath, not that I’m actually shocked by his crudeness. He’s needling me now, trying to find my soft underbelly.

  Right now, what I want to show him are my claws.

  “I didn’t come here to discuss Daniel or my relationship with him. I didn’t come here to discuss anything with you at all.” My voice climbs along with the rapid beating of my heart. “My private life is just that—private. Now, we have an agreement, Mr. Rush, and I intend to honor it. I’ll sit for you in your studio and let you paint me, but I will not let you dissect me. Not on your canvas, and for damn sure not here, over your French-pressed coffee and croissants, you arrogant asshole.”

  His gaze stays rooted on mine through the entirety of my angry outburst. His face is unreadable, schooled into a mask of indifference. Maddeningly, he reaches for his coffee and takes a slow drink before replacing the cup on its saucer without making the slightest sound.

  Those artist’s hands of his move deliberately, in measured, total control.

  “You’re right,” he says after a long moment. “I’ve overstepped the bounds of our agreement. I apologize.”

  His contrition takes me aback. I was expecting fury. Hell, I was half-expecting him to void our contract and have me thrown out of his mansion.

  Hoping, maybe.

  As uncertain as I was about being alone with Jared Rush before, this encounter has only fortified my apprehension. Because that spark that ignited between us in his study two nights ago is still alive now. Stronger, as if that were possible.

  It’s explosive, dangerous.

  He’s dangerous.

  All the more so when he’s showing me a glimmer of humanity beneath the exterior of the untamed beast seated across the table from me.

  “I’m glad you understand,” I murmur, dropping my gaze momentarily if only to avoid his searching, penetrating stare that refuses to let me go.

  Abruptly, he pushes back from the table and stands. My eyes flick up, following him as he stalks over to a sturdy mahogany sideboard on the other side of the room.

  I don’t know where to look first, at the glorious way his broad shoulders and muscled back move beneath the creamy linen of his loose shirt, or at the way the loose denim of his jeans call attention to his long stride and tight, round ass as he walks.

  He opens the cupboard door at the front of the sideboard and reaches inside, withdrawing a bottle of Macallan and a short, cut-crystal glass. He pours more than two fingers’ worth into it, then pivots around to face me, leaning casually against the bar.

  “Take off your clothes, Ms. Laurent.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He lifts the whisky to his mouth and tosses all of it back in one swallow. When his molasses-brown eyes meet my gaze again, his stare carves right into t
he center of my being.

  “Remove it all,” he says. “I want to see what I have to work with.”

  9

  MELANIE

  He can’t be serious.

  Yet, of course, he is. His hard expression leaves no room for doubt. His dark gaze is demanding in the heavy silence that stretches between us. With his broad mouth held in an unsmiling line against the edge of his emptied glass, he continues to stare at me. Waiting for me to obey.

  Even though I know what I’ve agreed to with this man, I bristle at the way he seems to think he can command me as if he’s got any right. As if he owns me the way he does any other object in his orbit.

  I stand up, refusing to sit in subservience while he attempts to lord over me from across the room. My spine feels rigid and unnaturally straight as I face off against him with my hands fisted at my sides. “I came here this morning to begin my obligation in your studio, as your model. Since you have no intention of painting me today, I don’t see why you should expect me to take off my clothes for you.”

  His eyes narrow on me. “Did I say I wasn’t going to begin painting you today?”

  I blink. “You said your studio is in the Hamptons.”

  “That’s irrelevant to this conversation, Ms. Laurent.” He sets his glass down on the edge of the sideboard. “And whether we’re in my studio or somewhere else, when we’re together, you’re mine to observe and to instruct.”

  You’re mine.

  That’s not exactly what he said, but that’s what I hear. That’s what his possessive stare is telling me as he casually folds his muscled arms over his chest.

  All my life—since I first learned enough to mistrust men—I’ve recoiled from arrogant, domineering cavemen who think women were put on Earth for their personal use and entertainment. In fact, I’ve run long and far from that type. That’s how I ended up with Daniel, my safe, steady port from all those earlier storms. My faith in him was shaken a bit the other night. I’m still furious with him today, but everyone makes mistakes sometimes. Even terrible, expensive ones.

  Daniel’s not perfect, but God knows neither am I.

  And he needs me. He needs me to be here for him now, no matter how difficult Jared Rush might intend to make that for me.

  I shake my head. “That’s not fair. You led me to believe our agreement extended only as far as your canvas and your studio. Making me undress in front of you here, now, doesn’t have anything to do with the terms of our contract and you know it.”

  “I disagree,” he replies evenly. “Do you think I only create when I’m holding a paintbrush? I’ve been visualizing how your body will look on my canvas from the moment I decided I wanted to paint you. I’ve already imagined every supple curve and tender hollow. In my mind, I’ve already stroked my brush over every naked inch of your form. Having you remove your clothing so I can confirm what I already know is just a formality—one our contract grants me permission to demand.”

  As he speaks, it’s as if his words are painting a picture in my mind, too. I can see myself alone in a barren, cold studio in front of him, my skin bared for him. I can feel the power of his gaze as he commits all of my features to memory, along with my flaws.

  I can hear the wet lick of his brush bringing all the hidden, most vulnerable, parts of me to life on his canvas through his skill and mastery. I can hear his low voice commanding me, coaxing me, seducing me into surrendering everything I’ve promised him and more.

  My throat goes suddenly dry, in direct opposition to the liquid, molten ache that’s unfurling within me. Beneath the meager covering of my dress and bra, my nipples have gone tight and hard. I don’t want to acknowledge the traitorous response of my body.

  I can’t acknowledge it. What would it say about my loyalty to Daniel? What would it say about me?

  Instead, I cling to my righteous outrage. “Obviously, you have about as much shame as you have morals, Mr. Rush.”

  His answering chuckle only demonstrates he’s also impervious to insult. I can hardly pretend to be surprised.

  “You’re stalling, Ms. Laurent.”

  “And you’re trying to bend the rules of our agreement.”

  “Would you like to be released from it?”

  It’s not a question I expect from him, especially not in the solemn tone in which he asks it.

  He means it.

  He studies me in prolonged silence, his head cocked slightly toward the bulk of his shoulder. As triumphant as he seemed the other night after Daniel and I had signed his contract, I can tell he’s seriously willing to let me go now.

  Is it because I’ve pissed him off? Because I’m not falling at his feet the way he seems accustomed to with other women?

  Somehow, I don’t think it’s either of those things motivating him to let me break our contract. No, this is something else. I can see the truth of it in his consuming, dark eyes.

  It’s a small act of mercy—a shocking one, coming from a man like him.

  Or maybe he’s just having second thoughts now that he’s seeing me in the sober light of day.

  I shouldn’t care why he’s offering this. There is a cowardly part of me that wants to scramble out of this room and never look back. But if I break the contract, where will that leave Daniel?

  His debt to Rush will be due immediately. I’m sure it will also mean the swift cancellation of his big project with him, which will probably cost Daniel not only the partnership he’s hoping for at the firm, but his entire career.

  I don’t even want to consider what his problems in Las Vegas could mean.

  And then, there are my own personal reasons for seeing this through.

  Without the money Jared Rush has guaranteed me at the end of our arrangement, where will that leave me? How long will it take before I can even dream of paying off all my college loans? At the rate I’m going, Katie will be in high school by then, and my mom . . . ?

  “You’re taking an awfully long time to answer, Ms. Laurent. It’s a simple question. But I’m only going to ask it this one time. Do you want me to let you go?”

  There is so much meaning in that question, despite his claim of its simplicity. Do I want him to let me go? I don’t belong to him, no matter what our agreement states. Yet it’s impossible to deny that what’s taking hold between us reaches far beyond the written terms of any contract.

  And no matter how afraid I am of what that means, I can’t seem to convince myself to break away from it. I can’t seem to break away from him.

  I swallow, and my answer falls off my tongue. “No.”

  His chin lifts fractionally, a look of mild surprise flickering in his eyes. I hear the quiet release of his breath, followed by his toneless, deep-voiced reply. “All right, then. Your clothing, please.”

  My movements feel slow, as if my limbs belong to someone else. I toe off my ballet flats, barely resisting the urge to sigh as the luxuriously thick Persian rug crushes beneath my bare soles. My fists unclench slowly, then rise to where the fabric belt of the wrap dress is tied at my waist. As much as I want to look away from Rush as I work the knot loose, I refuse to release him from my stare.

  I know my eyes are defiant, filled with challenge, as the belt goes slack in my fingers and the front of the dress slips open to reveal my simple white cotton bra and a good deal of my bare abdomen.

  He doesn’t blink or react in any way. I’m not even sure he’s breathing as I draw the dress off one shoulder, then the next. The light blue cotton floats down the length of me, as soft and airy as a whisper.

  A tendon jerks in his jaw when I reach around for the clasp of my bra. The hook-and-eye closure pops apart in my fingers, but I hold the two ends together, not yet prepared to give in to this new reality. I’m not someone who jumps from one man’s bed to another. It took nearly two months of dating before I felt comfortable enough with Daniel to take my clothes off in front of him the first time we slept together.

  I’ve spent barely two hours total in Jared Rush’s company and
yet here I am, about to drop my bra and panties merely because he’s ordered me to.

  No, not because he’s demanded it. Because he’s paying me to do it.

  I’m not sure why that makes me feel better, but somehow it does. Because this is a job. That’s all it is; all I can permit it to be.

  Judging from the bland, indifferent way he’s waiting for me to finish, his muscled arms still folded against his chest, I have to believe that Jared Rush considers this nothing more than a job as well. That doesn’t mean he won’t continue attempting to rattle me. I can’t let myself forget for a second that he is at his coldest, most brilliant best as an artist when his subjects are uncomfortable.

  So, he’s not going to get that from me. I won’t give him that satisfaction, no matter how much he’s paying for it.

  I release the ends of the bra and shrug out of it. Cool air hits my bare breasts, making my already tight nipples contract into firmer peaks. The modest undergarment drops to the floor without hesitation or fanfare. I’m not performing a striptease, after all. I’m unwrapping purchased goods for inspection.

  At least, that’s the mantra I repeat over and over again in my head as I reach for the waistband of my panties, then strip out of them as casually as I would on my way into the shower.

  Fully naked, I hold my arms out slightly, hiding nothing from Rush’s inscrutable gaze. “Satisfied?”

  He doesn’t say anything. His eyes slowly travel the length and breadth of my body before returning to mine. “Walk over to the light.”

  His voice is as rough as gravel, hardly more than a growl. I feel as awkward as a bug under a magnifying glass, but I’ll be damned if I let him know that. With my head held high and my hands moving casually at my sides, I pad toward the nimbus of sunlight streaming into the room from the terrace’s French doors.

  The new location puts me on the other side of the small dining table with him now, only a few feet of angled distance between the place where I stand in the heat of the morning light and his unchanged position in front of the sideboard. Those handful of feet feel as insignificant as a couple of inches as I wait for him to speak again.