Sarasota Sin

by Scott, Talyn

  “And you think you can make a relationship with Payton work without my involvement?”

  “When you left, I considered my future, too.” Avery flashed an insolent smile, opening a file and blindly signing. “I’m sick of mistresses.” He wanted to experience love again, to breathe easily once more. “It’s time I married.”

  “I understand you feel different around Payton, but all of the sudden, you can…keep a wife?”

  Avery barely refrained from shouting. He’d been reminded enough of his inadequacies for one day. “What’s your problem? You’ve watched me satisfy our lovers.”

  Dylan hesitated. “Those women were ones we paid not to question anything sexual,” he replied gently, “and I finished for us every time.”

  Avery didn’t need that reminder, but Dylan was the only person he could be completely honest with, even if he sounded like a pussy in doing so. “I barely know her, yet it doesn’t feel that way.”

  “I held her, too. I get it. Without me, though, you are dooming her to an eternity without her needs being met,” Dylan finished.

  “Not if I were honest from the beginning. Her needs would be met; she’d know what to expect.” He would refuse her nothing. “Because I would sit down with Payton and bottom-line it.”

  “Bottom, interesting choice of words,” Dylan replied hoarsely, his hand slipping down to adjust his growing length. “I remember the feel of her lush ass in my hands. Damn, I would enjoy seeing it naked, over my lap, glistening from my tongue, and reddened by my hand.”

  Avery wouldn’t permit Dylan to screw this up for him. “Might I remind you that the longest we shared a mistress was six months? Your attention span is childlike and frightening. Without any consideration of her heart, you’ll want her for however long you will last.”

  “Right now,” Dylan replied coyly, “I want her for lunch.”

  Avery was sure that came out wrong. “You mean…you want to take her to lunch.”

  “For lunch,” he clarified. “Upon my table, I would spread her creamy, full-figured legs wide and feast as though I were king.” A challenge lit Dylan’s eyes. “She would beg me to stop before I was through; I swear my tongue is infinite.”

  Avery nodded. “You can move back in with me, if you want.” He pushed back his chair and stood. “But I want to see where these urges, these new needs take me with Payton,” he explained while walking to his private bathroom. “So unless I say otherwise, I won't be sharing any women you choose. I only want Payton.”

  “Fine,” Dylan said with a low chuckle as Avery closed the bathroom door. He slid his hand across his step-cousin’s desk, searching through the files needing immediate attention, wondering if he could help Avery wade through paperwork, when he landed on one labeled The Sarasota Firehouse. Then he moved that file aside when he caught sight of a manila envelope shoved beneath Avery’s blotter. “What are you hiding, A?” Easing out the unmarked envelope, he opened the tab and slid the contents free. Beyond women, Avery and Dylan still shared almost everything. Apart from the past two weeks, they were mutually exclusive in all things — best friends, and uneasiness stroked Dylan’s soul at the thought of Avery keeping something from him.

  Payton Calloway, he read at the top of the investigative report. Ah, he mused, she was connected to the Firehouse. The place Trey would give his left nut to torch for his golf course. When he heard Avery washing his hands, he pulled out his phone and snapped shots of the first three pages, irritated photos of her weren’t included. Hurriedly placing everything where he found it, he grabbed The Sarasota Firehouse file and left Avery’s office with renewed purpose.

  Walking past his assistant, he ordered, “Barbra, I’m leaving at one, please clear my schedule thereafter.” He didn’t like the fact that her eyes bugged, but she was new and he’d let it slide this once.

  “Yes, Sir.” Punching her keyboard in double-time, lines of concern marred her forehead. “Your ten o’clock is waiting, Mr. Grafity of Sarasota Community Bank.”

  “Mr. Grafity?” How many times would this man beg for The Easton Company’s local business? “I’ve met with him once.” Once was enough. “Did I approve this meeting?”

  Her cheeks flushed. “He’s persistent.”

  Strike two for Barbra. “Bank Presidents often are, therefore, you’ll have to be equally persistent, if not more, in asking him to leave.” Not for the first time, he wondered what skills promoted her to The Easton Company’s elite fifteenth floor. “And remember this mistake next time he becomes a pest.”

  Three minutes later, Dylan slipped behind his desk, pulled out The Sarasota Firehouse file, and immediately located an original document diagramming the property lines encompassing the base structure. He held up the still, turning it this way and that. “A perfect circle,” he murmured curiously, wondering what else would garner his jaded interest today. “Hmm, Trey, what are you up to?”

  7

  Payton closed her eyes, held on to her dresser, and gritted her teeth as Libby zipped her. “It’s going to rip, and then you’ll really lose your job at the theater,” Payton warned.

  “Stop wiggling. It’s a perfect fit.”

  “I felt a seam pop.”

  “No seam popped, Pay.”

  She opened her eyes, studying her reflection: a throwback to old Hollywood, when women were proud of their curves and no one could convince them otherwise. Even so, she couldn’t believe she was wearing a gown this formfitting, even more shocked to find she looked good in it — hips and all. If only she could afford these creations on her own, instead of Libby risking her job to forage for her lacking wardrobe. “If I move, I’ll explode right out of this baby, and when those theater biddies find the remnants,” she said of the cappuccino-colored evening gown with an ebony-flocked overlay and trumpet skirt, “they’ll also find my DNA linking me to the crime.”

  “We’re borrowing not stealing,” Libby huffed. “They won’t look for DNA.”

  “It only takes a hair, Lib.” She held up a solitary finger, flipping Libby’s smirking reflection the bird. “One hair can send me up the river for eternity.”

  Libby swatted her. “I told you to stop watching those old Perry Mason reruns.”

  Last night, Payton had watched a marathon of decades-gone-by shows while an exhausted Noah snored like a leaf blower. Her mind unable to follow the simplest plots, considering it stayed tuned to her internal station featuring the incomparable Avery Easton. Avery had insisted she be ready for everything, then tried to keep her from her tutoring job by taking her to dinner and proving his words. She wasn’t in a position to skip work, needed the income, so she’d refused his invitation. He’d promised to call her today, and although she’d worked a busy day tiling the small reflection pool out back, technically on Easton property, she’d watched the time as if she had a pie in the oven. One minute ticked by the same as an hour, and since it was nearing dinnertime, she was going stir crazy. Half of her knew better than to get involved with a powerful man such as him, one who could demand any woman with a simple nod of his head. Her other half called her every name in the book, insisting she go after Avery Easton in a full-frontal attack, baring her teeth at any woman who dared stand in her way.

  Then, there was Dylan.

  Not that the second Mr. Easton was in her life one iota. But the dreams she’d had of him, so far, had brought her out of a sound sleep, clutching her blanket with one hand and stroking her pulsating core with the other. Frustratingly, not once had she experienced climax. Considering how he’d treated her, kissing her after he’d just placed his hands and lips on another woman, and then dismissing her as if she were a lowlife reporter from a sleazy celebrity rag, Payton shouldn’t be wasting her time headlining Dylan in her dreams. Unfortunately, she’d been unsuccessful in stopping two nights of subconscious fantasies: Dylan scraping his flaxen stubble over her tightened nipples, biting ever so lightly on the peaks before lowering his mouth down, down, down, where she’d never before felt a mouth. And she s
tood contemplating if tonight would be filled with a third dream or would she be given a break?

  “All zipped up,” Libby said, beaming over Payton’s shoulder. “To offset the kohl around your eyes, I want to paint your lips red.”

  “Not with red hair, Lib,” she argued, pushing Libby’s lip brush away and checking the clock on her nightstand. Her stomach gave a little nervous squeeze as she reached for her pot gloss. Payton dabbed nude glaze on her mouth, rubbing to the edges and pressing her lips together.

  “Ah, Payton,” Noah exclaimed from the doorway, “you look like a wet.” He thought better of finishing that sentence, clearing his throat while dropping his eyes from her sultry-shined mouth. “What I meant to say was, you are gorgeous, as usual, but particularly so in that dress.” He had his guitar case in one hand, his car keys in the other. “I wish I could join you for dinner instead of playing this gig.”

  Payton glanced at him quickly, threading glittery hoops through her ears. They didn’t suit the style of the dress, but the chandelier earrings Libby had insisted on were too heavy. “You guys are lucky to get an extra gig. Gotta take it, right?”

  “Money talks,” he agreed.

  An awkward silence fell, unnatural for their long-term friendship, and Payton hated it. Last night, when she had rolled in with pizza, Noah had rolled in from practice smelling mildly of beer and heavily of cheap perfume. Normally, he’d toss his shirt and find his way to the sofa, surfing the channels while propping his bare feet on the ottoman. Last night, however, he’d left on his shirt and Payton recently found out why. She’d caught sight of his back this morning, when he was hosing down the side lanai. Eight perfect claw marks lined either side of Noah’s spine, and love bites bruised one delectable shoulder. Payton wasn’t as angry as she should have been. After all, he’d earnestly pledged his desire to be her man, forsaking all others while he was with her, and yet he couldn’t keep it in his pants for a few hours after leaving her just to prove, if nothing else, his determination to further their relationship. She should be royally insulted and equally pissed. Instead, she felt sad, oddly deflated that he didn’t find her worthy enough to try and prove he could be faithful. But what was she expecting? This was Noah Wyatt in his truest form: the good, the bad, and the horny.

  “Well, good luck rooting for the firehouse tonight, ladies.” He pecked Libby on the cheek. Libby was brushing Payton’s hair, twirling her long curls around her fingers until they looked like red velvet ribbons. Turning to Payton, he looked at her hard. “There was another delivery for you while you were in the shower.” He kissed her temple, his lips lingering longer than necessary, causing Libby to raise a questioning brow.

  “What delivery?”

  Noah never answered, was gone so quickly Payton’s stomach gave another anxious squeeze. Then she heard the loft door clicking shut. Payton spun around and then gasped in delight when her trumpet skirt whooshed around her knees.

  “You’re going to kill it on the dance floor.” Libby tapped her chin with her fingertips, circling Payton, her long nails tipped in silver. “Do you remember how to waltz?”

  “Yes, how can I forget sitting through all your ballroom lessons, and then you practicing on me.”

  Libby made a face. “At least, they’ve paid off recently, with all these events.” She pulled her to the hallway. “Let’s see what this delivery is all about.”

  Payton couldn’t walk fast, her thighs and knees tight in the dress, and she heard Libby hoot when she reached the great room. “What is it?”

  “Brut champagne, it’s truly from France, not sparkling wine!”

  Thinking she could use a drink before they faced another party with Sarasota’s rich and famous, she suggested, “Pop it and I’ll grab some glasses.”

  “It’s Krug Clos d’Ambonnay nineteen-ninety-five!”

  Growing up in an affluent household, Libby held a wealth of information, had friends in high places. Sometimes her upbringing came in handy, particularly since her father bought three plates for tonight’s Sarasota Burn Recovery Dinner. Its purpose to raise money for a much-needed, state-of-the-art life flight, a lifesaving helicopter with a hefty multi million-dollar price tag. Though kept from the press, Libby had found out that this evening’s festivities were sponsored by none other than Drake Easton, one of the assholes pressing the Easton’s suit against the firehouse.

  Payton’s mouth watered for the champagne. “So, nineteen-ninety-five isn’t that old.”

  “You wouldn’t dare drink this stuff! Not when we need money to finish the bathroom in apartment C.”

  “We need nineteen-hundred dollars for that bathroom,” Payton said, lifting her hands in a so-what gesture.

  “E-bay!” Libby wagged the bottle. “I wouldn’t let it go for less than twenty-eight hundred bucks. We’ll have money to spare.” She chewed her lip. “Well, that is if you are donating it to our cause.”

  Twenty-eight hundred dollars? “Of course, I would donate it to our cause, if I were keeping it.” She marched to the basket filled with boxes and boxes of confections, colored salts, cheeses, and crackers labeled in French, to search for the card. “Flowers are one thing, extravagant gifts are another.”

  “If this is from Avery Easton,” Libby hooted again, spinning with the bottle in hand, “the cost of this champagne is nothing to him.”

  “That doesn’t make it right,” Payton argued hotly. “And put that down before I don’t have to worry about returning it.” She searched again. “There’s no card.”

  “Perfect, then you won’t have to worry about returning it, since you don’t know the sender,” she argued just as hotly, moving to the small sideboard next to their round dinette. Bending, Libby placed the bottle in a basket woven of grapevines and filled with her grandmother’s linen napkins. “For now, this is the safest nest for our little egg.” She stood, tugged the strapless top of her indigo, beaded Chanel dress, before snagging her silk wrap and matching beaded purse. With her blonde hair flowing like spun gold around her shoulders, Libby was a walking fantasy.

  “Lib, you might have to use your pepper spray tonight.”

  “I’ll end up using it on myself, if this night’s another bust.” She sighed. “Let’s go. Every minute counts. I’ll drive.”

  Libby’s car was a two-seater, and Payton questioned, “Isn’t Stephen escorting you?”

  “No.”

  “I figured you’d given him Noah’s seat.” Libby and Stephen had been dating for six months.

  “Stephen’s company is catering a wedding of six-hundred in St. Petersburg.”

  “Wow.” Payton slid the coordinating black wrap over one shoulder, smiling as it set off the flocked overlay on her dress. After digging grout from beneath her nails and clipping bits of dried sealant from her hair, the pleasure of dressing up in clothes she could never afford and participating in a party she wouldn’t have otherwise been invited, without Libby’s interference, was nothing short of exhilarating. “But we’ll see your father tonight, right?”

  “Dad’s not feeling well,” she explained, locking the loft door as they stepped on the front landing.

  Payton lifted her trumpet skirt as high as it could go and took a tentative step down. If she didn’t ass-plant, it would be a miracle. “I’m sorry to hear that. I hope it’s not the flu.”

  “It’s not.” Her face flashed concern, but she offered nothing else.

  A half hour later, Libby handed her keys over to the valet as they entered the Hytel Plume. “Remember, Drake Easton is our targeted asshole.”

  “If only we could trust Avery to help us.”

  “We can’t trust anyone in that family. Did you study the pic I texted you.”

  “Yes. I could pick Drake Easton out of any lineup.”

  “Perfect,” Libby said, taking in the sizable crowd, “because we’ll have to split up.” A man with a walking cane stopped cold, his unusual eyes drinking Libby in slowly as though he were memorizing her. “Remember, no drinking, Pay, club
soda for you. Got it?”

  “Got it.” Payton discreetly glanced between the man and Libby. “This really hot guy is…oh, never mind, you have Stephen and he’s a keeper.”

  “Yeah,” she agreed, her smile uncharacteristically brittle, “Stephen is a keeper.”

  Libby turned on sparkling heels, disappearing into the crowd, right as a voice descended on Payton’s ear.

  “Hello, sweetheart.”

  Oh, she knew that voice. Turning around, she lost her breath in a rush of air as she greeted Dylan Easton, “Good evening, Mr. Easton.” The firehouse’s future was too important so Payton bit back what she really wanted to say - how he’d dumped her on a staircase with a sneer, and smiled warmly. His eyes roamed her, moving from forehead to chin, repeatedly, as he closed the distance between them. He appeared startled, reminding her of Avery when he had seen her face for the first time yesterday. She felt her smile slip. Others were beginning to stare. “Is something wrong?”

  Unknotting his jaw, Dylan recomposed himself instantly, flashing a playboy’s smile. “I thought I’d dreamt you,” he purred intimately, his hand clasping hers, lifting her knuckles to his mouth for a warm kiss. The action struck a heady cord deep within her body, waking up places he’d toyed with the night he’d kissed her in the corridor. “Well,” he prompted. “Shall we dance?”

  Could any woman tell Dylan Easton no? “Yes.”

  He moved her hand to his forearm and walked her around the outskirts of the circular room, the floor a lightly veined marble inlaid with a burgundy sunburst outwardly spiking symmetrical triangles. Flamboyant crystal chandeliers glistened, all woven with colorful plumes. Payton’s head started to swim when Dylan brought them close, placing a possessive hand against her lower back where she hadn’t enough fabric between them to miss the hot brand of his skin claiming hers. And then they swayed gently to the music.

  “I regret my behavior in the tower,” he explained, his thighs touching hers, the rise and fall of his chest meeting her breasts. “I’d like to blame it on alcohol, but I’m no liar. I was leery of your purpose and acted like a typical brat, for that I’m sorry.”