House Of Payne: Payne

by Stacy Gail

  Becks breezed through the doors and all but skipped down the stairs, ignoring him the entire way. It was almost laughable, really, how appalled the great Payne was that she didn’t instantly spring to obey his command. But there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. He was nothing to her.

  Unless he decided to launch a smear campaign against her.

  A chill blew away her warm glow of satisfaction. Holy shit. Why hadn’t that occurred to her before she’d opened her smartass mouth? From what little she’d just witnessed of his personality, Sebastian Payne was a condescending, spoiled brat who assumed he was better than anyone else in the known universe. A dinky little nobody like her could easily be crushed if he decided to punish her for not kowtowing to his perceived greatness. One word from him and she’d never sell another piece of art anywhere. Her career as a freelance graphic artist would vanish if she got blacklisted. God knew she couldn’t ask her parents for help if that happened. They’d told her that she was dead to them. If Payne chose to sabotage her reputation, she’d be reduced to doing caricature art on the street for pennies—

  “Becks, before you leave, I’ve got something to say to you, and I’m going to say it only once.”

  Everyone in the lobby froze and looked up at the second-floor mezzanine. Everyone, that was, except Becks, who kept heading for the door as if her life depended on it. Maybe if she didn’t hear how he was going to obliterate her, it wouldn’t really happen…

  “I’m sorry.”

  She stopped so abruptly she skidded. The rockabilly brunette froze. An artist climbing the stairs dropped his bottle of water. A customer perusing a touchscreen computer, all seven feet of him and known throughout the city as the bad boy of the NBA, looked up first at Payne, then straight at her, and his curious look said it all.

  Who was she for the great Sebastian Payne to offer up an apology?

  I’m a great big no one, so move along, folks. There’s nothing to see.

  As if in slow motion, she turned to look up at the mezzanine where Payne leaned on the chrome-topped glass railing. He watched her with laser-locked intensity, apparently happy to ignore the rest of the world while he waited to see which way she’d jump. From out of nowhere, the memory of her brother Justin surfaced, as it so often did to surprise the breath out of her. He’d once told her to pay attention to a man strong enough to apologize, as that one man was worth all the others who couldn’t get the words past their lips.

  Like that, she made her decision.

  “You know what I believe in? I believe in do-overs.” She raised her voice, trying not to care that everyone could hear them. “I believe in brunch and I believe in going Dutch treat. What do you believe in?”

  That wicked smirk came back with a vengeance, and for some bizarre reason, it made her flush with warmth. “I believe there’s a great café right across the street.”

  Chapter Two

  Rebecca “Becks” Delgado was a whole lot of something-something.

  Seated at a window booth across from her, Payne studied her as she filled the divots in her waffle with syrup without spilling a drop on the plate. Even if he hadn’t known everything there was to know about her, he would have pegged her as some kind of artist. One side of her wavy brown hair was twisted into twin French braids, making arcs over an ear pierced half a dozen times. The other side was left loose to tumble past her shoulder, its lush darkness streaked with platinum. Like most Chicagoans at this time of year, her milky complexion could have used some good old-fashioned sun. Her delicately carved face held only a whisper of makeup, when women usually showed up in his path with their full man-eater war paint on. Her whiskey brown eyes were what his mother would have called the eyes of an old soul. Even when she’d been furious with him, there had been a hint of melancholy there, a shadow that went deeper than all the others combined.

  Or maybe his guilty conscience was fucking with his perception.

  “What are you going to do when people come in to get the Missing Piece tattoo?” Apparently satisfied that all the holes in her waffle were sufficiently filled, she picked up her fork and raised her eyes to his. The sheer impact of it nailed him to the spot. “I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one in Chicago who watches the news.”

  He loved her voice, that husky, kittenish purr. Like she’d worn it out after a bout of all-night sex. “I don’t suppose I can talk you into changing your mind?”

  “Nope.”

  “Didn’t think so.” She still hadn’t looked away, even though it seemed like she wanted to. It was ridiculous, how much he liked that. “It’s already covered. If anyone comes in, they’ll be told there was a mistake, and they’re welcome to look through our other—though I’ll admit it, inferior—3D tat designs. We do have quite a few butterflies in our 3D collection.”

  Her sneer was so quick he almost missed it. “Butterflies are easy. All it takes is some shading under the original image and boom. 3D butterfly.”

  “Which is why I want to commission you for an exclusive House of Payne 3D portfolio.”

  “Still? You mean I haven’t scared you away with my iffy artistic temperament?”

  “I like the way you defend your art. And besides,” he added with a sharp grin, “do I seem like the kind of guy who scares easily?”

  “I haven’t figured that out yet. I’ve never known a suspender-wearing man before.” Before he had a clue what she was going to do, she leaned across the table and sampled the thin red strap. Though she didn’t actually touch him, every nerve in the vicinity of her fingers jangled as if electrified, while the familiar heavy edginess of lust stirred to low, humming life. “I can’t tell if you’re an original who doesn’t give a damn, or a hipster who does.”

  “Rebecca Delgado, that’s one hell of a dangerous mouth you’ve got going on.” If public touching was the name of the game, he was more than happy to play along. With her leaning across the table, it was easy to catch her chin and press a thumb against her plump lower lip. When he did, his heart almost stopped. God help him, her mouth was like living velvet and tangible sin. In that moment he knew beyond all doubt that he would one day taste that irresistible softness. And he’d revel in it as it tasted him back, caressing along his skin until he was covered in goose bumps. When it wrapped with wet suction around his dick, his world would fucking explode…

  The warming fantasy faded as she sat back in her seat, breaking the contact. “As Future Perfect Enterprises, you’ve been dealing with me for a while now. I’m sure you know that I prefer to go by my screen name, Becks. And what’s so dangerous about my mouth?”

  The list that sprang to mind was both extensive and X-rated. “Don’t tell me it’s never gotten you into trouble before.”

  “Sure it has. But never so much trouble that I couldn’t handle it.” Once again she leaned on the table, this time with her hands stacked in front of her. “Easily.”

  “Ooh. A challenge. I like that.” And he did, especially when those sad, soulful eyes lightened with a smile that seemed to be as rare as a shooting star. “I also like you thinking that I’ll be easily handled. Makes the idea of turning the tables on you that much sweeter.”

  “Underestimating a man who built his no-name tattoo studio up to become the best in the world would be something only an idiot would do. I’m a lot of things, but an idiot isn’t one of them.”

  House Of Payne had become what it was now thanks to Frank Bournival, the father of the crazy, meth-tweaked woman who’d brought Becks into his orbit. He wasn’t about to explain that now, however. “So what are you? What’s the first word that comes to mind when describing yourself?”

  “Artist.” There was no hesitation, and with a shrug, she picked up her fork once more. “Which sucks, if you think about it. Philanthropist or crusader or family gal would sound so much cooler, but sadly none of those altruistic labels fit. The one charity case I support is myself, I crusade diligently in defense of my own rights, and I’m alone in the world. So… artist is all I am.”


  “It could be worse,” he said after a moment. “At least the first words that popped into your head weren’t serial killer or cannibal.”

  “Wow.” Her husky half-laugh flowed over him like melted honey. God help him, he actually had to work at stifling a shiver. “That’s one hell of a silver lining you found.”

  “What can I say? I’m a natural-born optimist. And for what it’s worth, I can’t lay claim to being a family guy, either,” he added, pushing his own empty plate aside. “I never knew my father, and my mom died of breast cancer when I was a freshman in college.” He pulled up his right sleeve to show her a pink ribbon, with a portrait of a smiling woman within the ribbon’s loop. “She was fearless, my mom. A goddamn tigress in fragile human skin, and she fought all the way to the end. I’d like to think she’d be happy with how my life turned out.”

  Becks stared at the image, and to his surprise, her eyes glazed with moisture. “It’s so beautiful, how much love there is in her face. And how much love there was in you, when you decided to place that portrait there. You’re a good son, Payne.”

  That melancholy was back with a vengeance, until it was almost painful to see. “What about you?”

  “I told you, I don’t have any tattoos. I hope you don’t hold that against me.”

  “I don’t, and that’s not what I meant. How’d you wind up with no family? Are you an orphan like me?”

  “No. I’m invisible.”

  The deadened tone, far more than the words, made him frown. “I don’t get it.”

  “Disowned or estranged might be the correct words when it comes to my family, but invisible is far more accurate. When you say you’re interested in a 3D portfolio, what sort of images did you have in mind?”

  No Trespassing. Do Not Enter. Violators Will Be Shot, Gutted and Served on a Stick. She may as well have had a sign hung around her neck. “I take it you have no interest in butterflies?”

  “You already have those. What don’t you have?”

  A rush of answers flooded in, all of them having to do with her. “I don’t suppose you’d relax your stance on Missing Piece?”

  “That work is off the table. It was hard enough making it available for private sale. Allowing it to be worn by everyone and their hamster would diminish what it represents.”

  “What does it represent?”

  She was quiet for so long he thought she wouldn’t answer. Then she pushed her plate away as well, her waffle half-eaten. “Death. Its agonized and never-healed aftermath. I have many more 3D pieces on my website. Take a look through what I’ve got available and let me know if there’s anything that grabs you. I’ll also post more projects tonight, just to give you an idea of what else I have going on. Oh, and one last thing,” she added, pushing to her feet and digging out a few bills to lay on the table, “if you even mention the word audition again, it’ll be the last word you say to me.”

  “I have one last thing as well.” He also slid out of the booth and didn’t suffer a hint of shame when he towered over her. Dainty women had always brought out the knuckle-dragging protector in him, but never more so than now. No matter how much fire and ferocity Becks put on display, he suspected it was only window-dressing to camouflage the cracks in her armor. “You said you believe in brunch, remember?”

  She blinked. “Yes, of course. So?”

  “I’m guessing you’re like most creative types—up until the wee hours of the morning while the sane and the unimaginative are in their boring little beds, getting their boring little eight hours. That would mean you’re crazy-desperate for coffee by… what? Noon?”

  “Ten, actually,” came the huffy reply. “Again I ask, so?”

  “So… I’m going to see you tomorrow for brunch.” He cupped the nape of her neck, his thumb elevating her chin to meet the descent of his mouth. Most farewell kisses were nothing, really, a shallow gesture that had no meaning behind it. The modern-day equivalent of a handshake.

  Most farewell kisses.

  Not this one.

  Her lips were warm velvet and not anywhere near ready for his. He loved that. She’d had no time to stitch together some bullshit game so often used by women with seduction on their minds and dollar signs in their eyes. This was just… Becks. A woman he was attracted to. A woman who corrected him to his face. A woman who forgave without any drama or guilt trips.

  In every conceivable way, she was his kind of woman.

  Her lips parted with a gasp of surprise. Shamelessly he took advantage, softening his mouth to mold to hers while pushing her deeper into the kiss until their tongues tangled. He felt the moment her bewilderment and shock evaporated into dazed participation, as she slowly melted like wax against him. The long, unbroken line where their bodies touched dropped the floor out from under his feet, and the heaviness in his cock intensified into a sweet, pulsating ache. Damn, talk about escalating quickly. He had to break this up, now, before he got so worked up he lost it right there. And he could lose it, he realized with a jolt. Somehow her kiss had gained the power to hold time so still the world itself seemed to hold its breath at its simple perfection.

  Her kiss alone was almost too much for him to handle.

  It took most of his strength to lift his head, a fact that frankly alarmed him. Her eyes opened, and he had to lock every muscle in place at the sight of the dreamy desire glittering in their soulful depths. That was how a woman should look when kissed by her man, he thought before he could check it. Drunk. Dazed.

  Hungry for more.

  God knew he was ready to give it to her. Right there, in a crowded restaurant, he wanted to give it to her in the worst way.

  Then that hungry look was blinked away a second later, and he was baffled by the chill that closed around him when she pushed out of his hold.

  “I’ve got a lot of work to get done, so I’d better get going.” Her voice was little more than a breathless whisper as she grabbed up her purse. “I hope we can do business together. Email me about your portfolio ideas, and um… have a nice day.”

  It wasn’t quite noon by the time Becks pushed through the door of her small, gentrified loft overlooking the red-brick spires of St. Michael’s Church in Old Town. Coat, purse and shoes got dumped by the door as she made a beeline to the fridge for a bottle of water. Closing her eyes, she pressed its icy surface to one side of her neck, then the other. It didn’t calm her manic pulse or cool the molten fever coursing through her veins. She tried holding the cold drink to her mouth, but that only called attention to how sensitized her lips were, now that… now that…

  Now that Sebastian Payne had shown her the difference between kissing and having sex with her mouth.

  “Have. A nice. Day.” Oh, dear God in heaven and all his weeping angels, had she actually said that? Maybe she hadn’t. Maybe that was something her dumbstruck brain had dreamed up while he kissed her into a foggy stupor. Maybe she’d merely imagined popping off with that extra-special dose of stupid.

  And, um… have a nice day.

  A groan escaped her. Nope. She’d definitely said it. The damning evidence was in the way his hazel eyes lightened with laughter before she’d made her cringe-worthy escape. Ugh. Any woman on the planet would have recognized that kiss for an invitation to sex it up, for fuck’s sake. She should have grabbed him by those yummy suspenders, dragged him into the nearest private space, and banged him so hard they’d have to exchange insurance information afterward.

  But had she done any of that? Of course not. She was the asshat who excelled at all things non-alluring by spouting phrases like, “Have a nice day,” when one of the sexiest men in the known universe kissed her to the point where her panties threatened to spontaneously combust.

  “Shit.” Grimly she tried to push Payne out of her head and settled at the work area spotlighted by iron-framed windows, a leftover from the converted warehouse’s original architecture. The wall opposite her, once resembling something found in a prison yard with its gray blankness, was now a 3D mural o
f a tumbling mountain stream in autumn, complete with fantastic fairies hidden here and there. But for once she was blind to it as she turned on her computer.

  She couldn’t see anything, except a pair of hazel eyes and a mouth that knew exactly what to do with hers.

  That kiss probably hadn’t even mattered to him, she decided, again trying to dismiss it. For all she knew, that was how the rich and famous said goodbye to each other. Yet here she was, becoming a clingy ball of hormonal crazy who now wanted nothing more than to have her eggs fertilized by him.

  That wasn’t like her. She’d had four years to accept that other people got to feel the wild rush of being wanted, but not her. She didn’t deserve it. The last thing she had a right to do was allow herself a sampling of what other people had, like happiness. Acceptance. Love.

  Even before her brother Justin had died, she’d never had any of that.

  The Skype chime sounded mere seconds after she hopped online. For a second every cell in her body froze while her brain zoomed to the man who’d branded her with a kiss she could still feel on her lips. It didn’t make sense that he’d be contacting her now…

  When she looked at the screen, she couldn’t stop the rocky laugh. Way to overreact, Becks thought, shaking her head as she reached for the right key to answer. If she didn’t get her shit together soon, like now, she was going to make a monumental fool of herself somewhere down the road.

  “Hey, Claire… Uh, is this a bad time?” A snicker escaped her as the video screen opened just in time to see Claire’s three-month old daughter, Mia, slip off a nipple in a sleepy bout of nursing.

  “Oh crap, total nip shot.” Without a shred of embarrassment, Claire Montgomery repositioned the baby and wrestled one-handed with a falling receiving blanket. “I saw you were online, so I pounced while simultaneously trying to feed the sucking minnow. Sorry, sorry.”

  “No worries.” No matter how shell-shocked she was over Payne’s kiss, Becks couldn’t help but chuckle. She and Claire had been friends since the fifth grade, when she had almost beaten up a classmate she’d thought had tripped frizzy-haired, bespectacled Claire as she carried her lunch tray. Only later did she discover that Claire had tripped on an untied shoelace and was quite possibly the clumsiest person in the Northern Hemisphere. Even the creation of Mia had been a “whoopsie” moment, as Claire happily called it, though it was one neither she nor her husband regretted in the least. “What was so urgent that you had to pounce in the first place? Hold on, let me guess. You’ve changed your mind again about getting Mia baptized, and you’re not going to bow to your parents’ wishes, after all.”