Oh God, the fourth glass of champagne had been a mistake. Truth. She wasn’t much of a drinker, but she’d given in to a rare bout of loneliness and self-pity yesterday evening, and alcohol had been her only sympathetic friend. Later, it had helped ease the sting of getting setup and knocked down like a bowling pin by the one man on this entire island with whom she’d intended to establish the upper hand.
She shoved the sunglasses on and faced the reality she’d used her buddy Dom to hide from last night. McLean won round one. You lost. Shake it off.
Good advice. Too bad she couldn’t get her ego to play along. The judgmental bastard had insulted her before he’d even clapped eyes on her, with his superior attitude and knee-jerk disdain for her profession, her situation, and, well, basically everything about her. Worse than the self-defensive anger he’d pulled out of her was the hurt. He’d hurt her feelings, dammit, and few people had the power to do that—certainly not strangers.
She was no special snowflake. Growing up in the business had toughened her soul. During her early years, she’d dealt with the frustration of sitting in Callum’s shadow, all but invisible, watching him garner praise and attention as his career soared and hers stalled on the runway. Even now, as an established actress in her own right, she handled skepticism, criticism, and plain old rejection on a regular basis, and she did it without crying on anyone’s shoulder. But Luke? For whatever reason, she couldn’t handle him. His low opinion hit some vulnerable crevice inside her where insecurity rooted, despite all her attempts to pave it over.
Why?
Answering that question forced her to face the most uncomfortable fact of all. She took a bottle of water from the fridge, and then paused there to let the cool air—and the sad truth—flow over her hot face. She was attracted to the man. From the second she’d heard his disembodied voice over Eddie’s phone, some purely feminine and neglected parts had roused and taken notice. But Luke McLean embodied, absolutely captivated them. They responded to more than sun-burnished brown hair her fingers wanted to comb through, or the tall, masculine frame reinforced with honed muscle as naturally breathtaking and imposing as a sequoia. In her business, she routinely encountered sculpted jaws and zero percent body fat. It took more than that to turn her head. But damn him, he had more.
Even in something as innocuous as a T-shirt and shorts, strength and confidence flowed from every pore, and yes, she would have loved to crash up against that athletic body, feel it jar hers as lean hips and hard thighs pumped pleasure into her with every thrust.
You’re going to have to climb into the freezer if you keep this up.
Right. She shut the fridge and then turned to search for Advil in the basket of goodies hospitality had left on the kitchen island. This is where inadvertently banishing herself to a sexual desert for half a year got her—so pent-up, a well-packaged set of XY chromosomes could throw her off her game.
Not entirely, she acknowledged as she tore open a small packet and swallowed the blue gelcaps. She couldn’t blame her response to him solely on the physical promise inherent in such an awe-inspiring example of the male species, because the part of him that really got under her skin was his…intensity. When his steady hazel gaze inspected her, it took measure on every level, as if he saw past the normal distractions most people got caught up in—blond hair, nice rack, a quick, sardonic smile—and looked straight into her. They judged. Hell yes, they did, but not strictly on appearance in the way she’d grown accustomed to encountering. And maybe because she wasn’t accustomed to anyone looking deeper, his assessment stripped her of her standard defenses. She found herself searching those inscrutable depths for…it killed her to admit it…some sign of approval. Like a freaking kindergartner standing before her teacher, reciting the alphabet.
She hadn’t found it, at least not last night. She’d seen male admiration. He’d given her that much—and she recognized it well enough to know it hadn’t been part of his act—but he’d withheld approval. More aptly, he’d woven it into a red flag of sexual chemistry and waved it in her face. Then boom. She’d charged headlong into a brick wall of rejection.
Her skull pounded in agreement. To be fair, maybe she’d had it coming. No fitness consultant worth his fee would pat a client on the back for selecting champagne and molten chocolate cake for dinner. But last night, she’d still been on her time, not his, and was it really so weak to enjoy one final indulgence before submitting to six weeks of some unholy regimen?
Um…you also called him an arrogant fitness nazi with freakishly large muscles, a single-digit IQ, and the world’s smallest dick.
The memory pried a laugh out of her—one she immediately paid for when her headache flared. She bit her lip and inhaled a cautious breath through her nose. He’d had that coming, for being such a jerk when Eddie had called. Unwittingly insulting him to his face hardly qualified as her finest moment, but…whatever. He’d pigeonholed her as a narcissistic, neurotic actress, and nothing she did now was likely to change his closed little mind. She considered him an arrogant ass, because he was. Ultimately, it didn’t matter what they thought of each other. She was the client, and she was paying him—exorbitantly—to do a job. He could keep his personal opinions to himself. She toasted that with a swallow of water.
Her stomach rumbled, and she thought briefly about grabbing an energy bar from the goody basket, but with only a minute until nine, she didn’t have time. God forbid she arrive a second late for her first morning of supervised torture. Luke McLean would walk—which didn’t necessarily worry her—but then Eddie would murder her. And that would be a problem.
Contenting herself with another sip of water, she wound her way to the wall of soaring plantation shutters someone had been nice enough to open in preparation for her arrival. She stepped out onto the cobblestone patio surrounded by tall palms, curling ferns, and privacy walls covered in flowering vines. The scent of jasmine-infused air was so heavy, it made her want to stretch out on one of the lounge chairs surrounding the pool and do nothing more strenuous than watch paper-thin purple bougainvillea blossoms float across the glassy surface of the water. Instead she marched past the chairs to the smaller building on the opposite side of the courtyard. The little pool house looked like a charming bungalow, with its covered porch cooled by the lazy rotations of two woven rattan ceiling fans. But looks could be deceiving. She knew this from the self-guided tour she’d braved last night. Beyond the rustic slatted doors lay a room full of equipment and mirrors that promised to be her personal torture chamber for the next six weeks.
The doors opened as she approached, and there he was—her oppressor—in all his scowling, stone-jawed glory. Flinty eyes inspected her from her on-the-fly ponytail to the laces of her Puma Pulses.
“Right on time, Trouble. Come in, strip down, and we’ll get started.”
…
Dark blond brows arched over the reflective lenses of polarized aviators. “Maybe you should call a woman by her actual name before you tell her to strip?”
He’d expected a smart-ass reply. Not because he’d instructed her to remove her clothes—the modesty quotient tended to be pretty low with the actors and athletes he’d worked with—but because he’d instructed her at all. She didn’t think she needed him. She sure as hell didn’t respect his expertise, and she didn’t care to listen to anything he had to say. True respect had to be earned, but by the end of this session, she’d know she needed him. That would be lesson number one.
He shut the doors behind her, then turned to face her and crossed his arms. Many clients found it an intimidating experience, staring down six foot, three inches and 230 pounds of external motivation, but this one was an exception. She stood there in her slouchy gray-and-black zip-front hoodie and matching jogger pants, nearly a foot shorter than him and over a hundred pounds lighter, and deliberately took a long, slow drink from her water bottle before crossing her arms to mimic his pose.
“Maybe you should read the information my client coordinator se
nt you concerning proper workout attire, Quinn. But since you obviously didn’t, strip down to your underwear, and stand over there.” He pointed to one end of the workout room where a sand-colored wall formed a neutral background. “We’ll start with a photo session.”
And an assessment, but that was mainly for him. The photos were mainly for her. He didn’t airbrush, or aim for the most flattering angle. Despite how much time they spent in front of a camera, a surprising percentage of his industry clients found the straight, unfiltered truth eye-opening.
Her little, dimpled chin came up a notch. “I dance in clothes like these all the time.” She tossed her empty water bottle into the bin beside the door. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing, Mr. McLean?”
“Luke,” he corrected, and slid the sunglasses off her face.
“Hey…” She blinked, and took an automatic step back, nearly falling over a workout bench before he wrapped a hand around her upper arm and caught her. “This place is a death trap,” she muttered, and then shot him a glare when he didn’t release her.
“It can be. Which is why we have rules.”
“Rules…right. I remember your rules from our lovely conversation in Eddie’s office. Keep my neurosis and narcissism under control and don’t expect you to cater to my whims. I think that sums it up.” Her eyes went wide and innocent. “Gosh. I don’t remember the part where I agreed to let you dictate what I wear.”
Her voice could freeze a man’s balls off, but her expression revealed traces of weariness he felt sure she didn’t realize she showed. He stifled a sigh, released her arm, and hung her sunglasses from the neck of his T-shirt. Yes, her attitude sucked, but part of the reason was because of him. They’d gotten off on the wrong foot, thanks to Eddie’s call—and his uncensored reaction to discovering his friend had coerced him into precisely the kind of job he’d sworn off. He’d founded McLean Fitness to help regular people overcome weight management challenges, and make real, lasting changes in their lives. Catering to overprivileged, appearance-obsessed clients no longer fulfilled him.
Still, none of that was her doing. The neurotic, narcissistic bit had been a generalization meant to convey to Eddie how frustrated he was with the whole request. It hadn’t been directed at Quinn personally, and it certainly hadn’t been intended for her ears. But, of course, she had taken it personally, and immediately labeled him an adversary. Normally, he didn’t give a shit what label he wore, as long as he got results. And adversarial relationships could produce dramatic results, as any drill sergeant would attest, but not if it meant she fought him every step of the way.
And she was definitely fighting him. Every. Damn. Step.
Those tired, distrustful eyes only confirmed that…as well as the fact that this morning she was paying for her champagne binge last night. She needed some decent nourishment, at least one more bottle of water, and a couple additional hours of sleep. Aside from the water, she’d have to get the others on her own time. But he could give her an explanation, if for no other reason than to demonstrate he wasn’t being an arbitrary wardrobe dictator.
“There are several problems with what you’re wearing.” He turned her around and marched her through a jungle of Precor machines until they stood facing one of the mirrored walls. “First, loose clothes are a hazard in the gym. They can get snagged on equipment”—he tugged on the pocket of her hoodie hard enough to pull her off-balance, and then took hold of her shoulders and righted her—“or caught in the moving parts. In either case, you end up injured. I refuse to let that happen. Next, we both need to be able to see your body during workouts.” He unzipped the hoodie and drew it down her arms, revealing a small black sports bra that showed off all the generous cleavage he remembered from yesterday evening at the hotel bar, and from the dreams he’d tossed, and turned, and groaned his way through last night.
“Like what you see?”
Everything about her provoked—the question, her arched brows, and the hint of a smile curving her lips. He ignored all of it. Most of him did, at any rate, because rising to the provocation went against every professional and personal ethic he possessed. But it shouldn’t have been so painfully difficult, goddammit. He’d worked with many spectacularly beautiful women over the years. Quinn Sheridan was just another one in a long list. A client. End of story. Luckily, her body blocked a view of the part of him finding the limits of their situation hardest to ignore.
To buy another moment, he draped her jacket over a rack of free weights, and then turned to face her in the mirror again. “I like being able to see if you’re doing the moves properly, so I can correct you if necessary.”
“And this requires me to run around in next to nothing?” Her gaze narrowed. “Give you a free show over the next six weeks? That’s a nice bonus for you.” She turned to face him, and dialed the smile up a notch. “What bonus do I get out of it?”
Okay, they needed to clarify this right here, right now. “Over the next six weeks I’m going to see and handle damn near every inch of you, but that’s not a bonus for either of us. That’s me doing my job. I’m your medic, chiropractor, and physical therapist all rolled into one. Before we’re done, I’ll also be your shrink, your coach, your cheerleader, and your taskmaster, but what I will not be, Quinn, is your fuck toy. That is not part of the services you’re paying me to perform. Are we clear?”
Her face paled, save for two slashes of crimson across each stunning cheekbone, which couldn’t have been starker if he’d actually slapped her. “Crystal,” she managed, and then turned her back on him and started toeing off her shoes.
Shit. He’d pounded that point home more brutally than necessary—mostly in an effort to get the message through his own thick skull—but she’d been on the receiving end of his frustration. She’d simply been taunting him, and testing him, because there was a big, horny elephant in the room and neither of them could pretend it wasn’t there. In an attempt to make it go away, he’d ended up insulting them both.
With her back still to him, she bent over and peeled her pants off, leaving her in snug, black shorts-style panties. Really snug. Really short. The fabric stretched low across her hips but ended high enough to leave plenty of territory bare. The bikini she’d worn yesterday had been smaller and more revealing, but he still had to close his eyes for a moment to block out the sight of her heart-shaped ass packaged up like a gift not quite contained by the wrapper. Sweat-drenched nocturnal fantasies from last night resurfaced—fisted sheets, tangled limbs, thighs parted wide and that ass lifted high while her sultry voice echoed in his mind. Yes, Luke. Yes to anything. Everything. All you want. Yes.
Christ. This favor to Eddie was going to be the end of him. He ground his teeth and opened his eyes. She straightened, and their gazes clashed in the mirror.
“Just for the record, Luke, I don’t have to pay men to sleep with me.”
Chapter Four
The son of a bitch had the decency to look away first. He stared a hole through the wall while a muscle ticked in his jaw, and a flush of color rose in his cheeks, though whether anger, embarrassment, or exasperation brought about the ridiculously attractive involuntary responses, she couldn’t guess.
He inhaled deeply through his nose, causing his nostrils to flare, and, God help her, the sight sent billions of tiny bolts of lightning zinging straight to her erogenous zones. She was pathetically hard up when a simple thing like flaring nostrils dissolved her into a puddle of need, but the realization didn’t stop her from wondering if he inhaled with the same disciplined power when he fucked.
You have absolutely no chance of finding out.
But then he pulled his gaze from the wall and pierced her with it.
Holy shit. You have a 50 percent chance of finding out, and a zero percent chance of living through it.
That hot, moody stare dropped away, raked her ass, then ricocheted to the mirror, bounced off her tits, and finally landed back on her face. She mustered up a self-defensive smirk even though it amounted to
playing with fire, because in those volatile depths she saw a testosterone-charged version of the same raw lust tormenting her, shot through with a truly impressive amount of steel-eyed resolve.
Could she tip the balance between lust and resolve? Yeah, if she pushed the right button, right now, he’d throw her over the nearest surface and hate-fuck the smirk right off her face.
But then where will you be?
In the unacceptable position of knowing she’d lived up to his insultingly low expectations. Worse, she’d have to withstand a boatload of self-recriminations, and she had plenty of those to deal with already. That realization took care of the smirk. She drew herself up to her full height, which still only put her at his collarbone, and returned his stare. The light gray T-shirt he wore turned his eyes all the more stormy.
He took another deep breath, and finally answered. “You don’t pay men to sleep with you. Good. We’re on the same page.” Then, to her surprise, he added, “In case your ego needs to hear this, Trouble, I know damn well guys fall all over themselves just to get a chance to jack off to the memory of you shooting them down. I watched them do it last night at the bar. What I’m establishing here is that I’m not going to be one of them.”
This was her moment to gather up her pride, and she took it. Lifting her chin, plastering a cool smile on her lips, she replied, “No. You’re not. Feel free to jack off to the memory of me telling you that.”
Her firm rejection earned her a fleeting smile—a silent touché—that managed to make her feel better.
“See? We’re on the same page again.” He pulled his phone from the pocket of his dark-blue training shorts. “Step over there and stand straight, facing me.”
Awareness skittered along her nerve endings as he framed her up on his screen and snapped off shots before she could even adopt a proper pose.
Dirty Games (Tropical Temptation Book 4) Page 3
