His Kind of Trouble

by Terri L. Austin

  Walking down the hall and into the suite, she found Stella Greene waiting for her. “Good, you’re here.” The office manager twisted the pink scarf knotted at her neck. “Things have been crazy this morning.”

  “What happened?” Monica glanced around the open space at her ten employees. They all appeared busy, not harried.

  Now in her fifties, Stella had spent the last thirty years working for some of the toughest people in Vegas—tourists. As a hotel concierge, her job had been to remain unflustered and make the guests happy, so seeing her have a mini-freakout gave Monica pause.

  “The printers screwed up the date on the gala tickets, two donors called and asked to speak to you specifically, and Mr. Stanford is here. He’s been waiting in your office for over an hour.”

  Ah, so that’s what caused the panic. Marcus Stanford was a pain in Monica’s ass, and her most difficult board member. He asked for ballsy favors, tried to co-opt the foundation’s staff for his own business purposes, and had a remarkable knack for showing up on hectic days. “What does he want?”

  “No idea,” Stella said. “I’m sorry I let him into your office. He tends to steamroll right over me.”

  “Don’t take it personally, he does that with everyone.” She moved past Stella and waved at Carmen Jimenez. The thirty-year-old mother of two was talking on the phone, but when she spied Monica, she placed her hand over the receiver. “The liquor company wants their name on the signage. Too tacky for a cancer event?”

  Monica lifted one brow.

  “Fine,” she said, “but they’re going to bitch about it.”

  Jason West strolled up to her with a half-eaten doughnut in his hand. “We need a new server, because ours is shit. Should I call Allie? And I hid a doughnut for you in the sweetener box, but it’s blueberry. Stanford got the last chocolate.”

  A tide of frustration rose inside Monica—not about the doughnut, although blueberry was her least favorite. As the foundation’s coordinator, Monica held the title, yet none of the power. Every decision needed to be filtered through Allie. Monica’s crappy morning had drained her of patience, and she was feeling a little rebellious. “Just get what you need, and I’ll authorize it.” She could defend herself at the next board meeting. And if Allie didn’t like it, too bad.

  Jason toasted her with his Bavarian cream. “Excellent.”

  “What about the misprinted tickets?” Stella asked.

  “Tell the printer to do it again. And he’s paying for it. If he gives you grief, I’ll talk to him myself.”

  “I’m on it.” Stella gave her scarf one last tug and hustled to her desk.

  Immediate fires now doused, Monica made her way down the hall and slapped a smile on her face before opening her office door. But when she saw Marcus Stanford sitting in her chair with his dirty work boots propped up on her desk, it threatened to slip.

  With graying hair and skin the color of red brick, he wasn’t unattractive, but he was arrogant and overbearing. His construction company was worth millions, and he had ties all over Vegas. He’d given a hefty donation in return for a board seat, but he hadn’t done a bit of work since. He also liked to throw his weight around, and today, he was throwing it in Monica’s direction.

  “Mr. Stanford, how are you, sir? Can I get you some coffee? You take it black, right?”

  “No thanks. Good memory, though.”

  “Is there something I can do for you?” Extra gift bags for the wife, donors’ private phone numbers? He’d asked for that and more. Her answer was always the same: No, it’s against foundation rules.

  “Of course there is, why else would I be sitting here? We’re getting ready to vote on next year’s budget, and I want you to open up the grants. Cast a wider net, so to speak.”

  That was a surprisingly thoughtful request and coincided with her own goals—providing funds for impoverished countries. “I’ll consider it. The board would have to go along with any changes.”

  Stanford lowered his feet to the floor and stood. “Count me in. My wife’s charity, Parents for a Healthy Tomorrow or Today or some such bullshit…anyway, they’ll fill out an application. Make sure they get a cut.”

  She should have seen it coming. Monica really was off her game this morning. And she blamed Cal Hughes. His tight ass and uneven smile made her lose perspective.

  Monica stared at Stanford, amazed at the size of his brass cojones, then simply shook her head. “You know I can’t do that—it’s a conflict of interest.” Besides, grant approval was an exacting process. Monica spent months scouring through hundreds, sometimes thousands of applications, carefully examining each possible charity. “Is your wife interested in cancer prevention? We’d love to have her help—”

  “Nah, my wife’s just trying to get kids off the junk food.” He strutted to the door. “You wouldn’t believe the lengths I have to go to to sneak a burger.”

  She swiveled her head to follow his movements. “Mr. Stanford, I’m sorry. I’m not going to award funds to your wife’s project.”

  He paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Look, you seem like a good kid, but let’s face it, you got this job because you’re related to Trevor Blake’s wife. It keeps you occupied, and that’s great. But this is a tax write-off, and nothing more. Just give my wife a few million. I’ll consider it a personal favor.” He winked and left the office, shutting the door behind him.

  Monica let out a shaky breath. True, she had gotten the job because she was Allie’s sister, but Monica had worked her ass off for the past two years to prove she could handle the responsibility, and yet everyone looked at her like she was Allie’s lapdog. And that didn’t sit well at all.

  “What a fuckwad,” she said to the empty room.

  Ultimately, the nepotism didn’t matter. Not if she continued to work hard and successfully tackled the demands of the job. Monica had made so many mistakes in the past, she needed this, needed to show Allie that she’d changed.

  Monica swiped her palm across the desk blotter where Stanford’s big feet had left behind a clump of dirt. After booting up her laptop, she put her self-doubts and Calum Hughes from her mind. She had work to do.

  Chapter 4

  Monica plowed steadily through her day. Stella brought her a salad at noon, and Monica took bites in between phone calls. She met briefly with the staff to make sure everyone was on task, and she touched base with the local media outlets about the upcoming event. Finally, Monica wanted to shore up her international grant proposal, so Allie couldn’t shoot her down for not having all the facts at her fingertips.

  She was so engrossed that when Stella knocked on the door and stepped into the room, Monica blinked in surprise. “Hey, what’s up?”

  “I’m leaving for the night.”

  “Oh God, it’s six already?” Stretching her back, Monica tried to ease her stiff muscles. “I guess I should order some dinner.”

  “Not tonight,” Stella said. “There’s a man in the outer office asking for you. And, honey, if I were ten years younger, I’d be all over that.”

  “What man?” A trickle of apprehension slid through her.

  “Tall, tan, and British. That voice. Mmm, mmm. I’ll send him in.”

  “Wait—” But Stella had already gone. Monica had spent the entire day pushing Cal out of her mind, and now he’d popped up in person. Why wouldn’t he just leave her alone?

  Quickly, she pulled out a compact she kept in her desk. Gazing into the tiny mirror, she ran her fingers through her hair, then snapped it shut in disgust and threw it back in the drawer. She wasn’t going out with him. She’d firmly tell him no and get him to accept it this time. And if her makeup was a mess, so what?

  Monica’s hand flew to the hollow of her throat as she stood. With shaky fingers, she fastened the top two buttons on her shirt. She probably looked Amish, but she didn’t care.

  Cal walked in a moment later. The tattered jeans from this morning had been replaced by a slightly less faded pair, which he teamed with a bla
ck button-down. He’d rolled the sleeves up to reveal his lean, tanned forearms. The stubble from this morning had disappeared, leaving his face smooth. Groomed or not—the man looked sinfully hot either way.

  “Had a good day, love?”

  “What are you doing here?” In spite of her best intentions, Monica’s gaze slowly slid over him. He even wore a pair of black motorcycle boots. Goddamn it. Was he trying to make her come on the spot? If he flashed another glimpse of that tattoo, it was a real possibility.

  She forced her eyes back up to his face. To that irritating smirk he wore.

  “We were having dinner, remember?”

  “No, we weren’t. I told you I had to work.”

  He snapped his fingers. “That’s right, so you did.” He glanced around, taking in the picture window that framed the orange sun hanging low in the sky. “You spend all day, every day, in this little box, do you?”

  “It’s called an office. People work in rooms like this all over the world.” Being in such a small space with him made her muscles tighten. Tension, electric and immediate, thrummed through her body. She needed to be on her guard, ready for combat.

  “Reminds me of a zoo,” he said and began wandering around. He took in the framed photos of various distinguished events and tapped the glass of one picture. “You look good in blue,” he said with his back to her. When he turned, his leaf-green eyes flickered in assessment, taking in her high-collared blouse. “I think I like you best in red, though. Dark red.”

  Monica’s gaze traveled over the pictures on the wall. She wore subdued colors in all of them. She hadn’t worn red in years, unless lingerie counted for something. With both hands, she tugged on the hem of her jacket, hyperaware of the way he kept staring at her.

  After a few drawn-out seconds, Cal pivoted and continued to peruse the room. He sauntered to the opposite wall and stopped in front of a large oil portrait. “In loving memory of Patricia Campbell. You named the foundation after your mother?”

  “Trevor did.” Monica faced the desk and adjusted the angle of her laptop. She couldn’t look at him. If she did, her defenses would weaken. Hell, they were threadbare as it was. Her stomach fluttered every time he rumbled something in that deep, sexy voice—Jason Statham crossed with James Bond. And he smelled good too—crisp and woodsy. His aftershave came wafting toward her with each step he took.

  Immune. Immune. The word kept running through her mind like a chant. She clung to it as if it were a talisman.

  “You look just like your mum, except your lips are fuller, especially the upper one.” He faced her then, and her eyes sought him, as if they had a will of their own. Cal’s were riveted on her mouth. When she nervously bit her lower lip, that steady gaze never wavered.

  “Thank you,” she said, then cleared her throat. “Look, I still have work to do, so…”

  With long, graceful strides, he walked over and dropped into her guest chair. “No worries, I’ll wait.”

  How was she supposed to get any work done with him sitting there, looking at her as if he were starving and she was a T-bone? She desperately wished she hadn’t buttoned her shirt all the way up to her neck, because the scratchy, stiff material was starting to itch.

  In an effort to regain some control, she sat down and placed her hands flat on the top of her desk. Monica focused on his Adam’s apple. If she looked too deeply into those eyes, she’d fold faster than a lowball poker player with a handful of aces. “Cal, I’m not having dinner with you. I’m going to finish my to-do list and go home.”

  “Oh my, I think I popped a bit of a boner just now.” He grabbed his chest with one hand. “To-do lists have that effect on me.”

  Monica rolled her lips inward to prevent a grin. “Remind me not to show you my spreadsheet. You’ll never be the same.” Oh God, why was she flirting back?

  “You, Monica Campbell, know how to put the sin in Sin City.”

  He was the tiniest bit amusing. Still, if she gave him half an inch, he’d have her flat on her back in under a minute. She knew herself too well to pretend otherwise. That bad girl part of Monica had been hibernating for the past few years, but the minute Cal Hughes blew into town, it had started to wake up and rattle around inside the tight little cage where Monica kept it. Cal represented Old Monica—the shot-slamming, bad boy–loving, promiscuous girl she used to be. Immune, remember?

  “It was so nice of you to drop by, Cal, but I really have a lot of work to finish.”

  “Are you seriously going to sit here and cross off items on a list, rather than have dinner with me?”

  “Yes.”

  He shook his head in mock sadness. “I’m profoundly disappointed. Wouldn’t you rather take in a show? Or better yet, we could hit the craps table. Ever wonder what it’s like to place a ten-thousand-dollar chip on one roll of the dice? I’ll give you a hint,” he whispered, cupping both hands around his mouth. “It’s thrilling.”

  Monica set her jaw. “Do you know how much good you could do with ten thousand dollars?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Oh God, I can’t bear the earnestness. Fine, I’ll make out a check to the foundation. But only if you come play with me tonight. You’ll have fun, I promise.”

  Monica knew she sounded sanctimonious. Trevor had a boatload of money, and she never begrudged him a penny…mainly because he gave a ton of it away. But Cal was so tempting, she felt like Eve staring at a bright, shiny apple.

  If he gave a donation, then that would make this a legitimate business dinner.

  Sort of.

  And the foundation could always use the money.

  “You’re rather stubborn, aren’t you?” he asked. “Tell you what.” Standing, he dug into his front pocket and pulled out a silver coin. “Heads, you come out with me. Tails, I pick up takeaway and we’ll eat here.” He flipped the coin a foot into the air and caught it in his right hand. Holding it in his fist, he smiled. “Can you stand the anticipation? My breath is absolutely bated.”

  “Cal…”

  He slapped it on the back of his hand. “Oh look, Her Majesty’s lovely face. Out for dinner it is.” He stuck the coin back in his pocket without showing it to her.

  “That’s cheating,” she said, pointing at him. “It could have been tails.”

  “You’ll never prove it.” Placing his hands on her desk, he leaned in. “Since I took a cab, we’ll have to drive your car. The Mustang’s still not running properly. Hurry now, chop-chop.”

  She thought about arguing some more, but he was just as determined as she was. And she’d never get anything done with him sitting across from her, smelling so good and looking even better. Giving in to the inevitable, Monica shut down her computer. “Just dinner. Then I’m going home.”

  Cal watched her pack her bag with a look of smug satisfaction. “If that’s what you really want.”

  “It is.” Monica clicked off her desk lamp and walked to the door. “What happened to Allie’s dinner party? I thought your parents were supposed to be there.”

  Cal huffed. “Pixie may be my mother, but Paolo is only ten years older than I am. He’s not even a proper stepfather. Never took me fishing, not once.” Though his tone was light, a hint of something darker colored his voice. She refused to ask him about it. Cal’s life wasn’t any of her business. “Besides, I told Allison I had plans with an old friend.”

  She gazed at him before hitting the light switch. “We’re not old friends—we met once.”

  Before she could walk out of the room, Cal grabbed her purse strap and gave it a pull. He used it to swing her around until she faced him. Through the open door, a soft glow from the hallway allowed her to barely see his face. He looked serious in the half-light, more predatory than ever.

  Monica’s heart stuttered as he stepped closer. He was so much bigger than she remembered, his shoulders wider. Maybe she was misremembering their seven minutes in heaven. Maybe she’d built it up into something special when it was nothing more than a simple kiss.

  But t
hen Cal framed her face with his large hands, and she felt powerless to move as he lowered his head. She watched him descend toward her, then her eyes drifted closed. When he softly brushed her lips with his, it was all Monica could do not to give in. She wanted to open her mouth wider, stroke his tongue with her own. At his brief touch, heat pooled low in her belly. For a split second, Monica wished she was still the girl whose default was set to yes, because she missed this feeling, this rush of excitement. And she hadn’t been imagining things. Though Cal had barely touched her lips, the effect was potent. That kiss in the garden had been epic after all.

  When Cal dropped his hands and took a step backward, Monica’s eyes fluttered open. “I remember snogging you that night, Monica, and touching you right here.” He reached out, and with a careful, light movement, drew his finger from the edge of her collarbone down to the center of her right breast. Even through the heavy fabric of her jacket, her nipple pebbled. “If that’s not friendly, what would you call it?”

  At his mocking tone, desire flickered out, and humiliation took its place. He’d had her so easily, with barely a kiss. It took almost no effort on his part, and she was practically falling at his feet. She smacked his hand away. “I’d call it a mistake.” With hurried steps, she scampered to the outer office.

  This time when she turned off the overhead lights, she made sure she stepped out of the suite and into the lighted hallway first. She didn’t want to be caught in the dark with him again—it fostered a false sense of intimacy.

  Who was she kidding? Cal could have pulled that move in broad daylight and the outcome would have been the same—damp panties and limp-noodle legs.

  Cal strolled out a couple seconds later. “Almost broke my toe in there,” he said cheerfully. “Fumbling around in the dark is more fun when you’re naked with a partner. Just a little tip for you.”