by Avery Flynn
Stop that!
“I don’t think we’ve met,” he said, all sexy-serious, and her body’s reaction to that voice confirmed his lie. Her body knew that voice like a snake knew its charmer.
And worse—as if there was possibly another level to this cluster—his lie confirmed something else.
He knew who she was, even before she’d uttered a single word.
He was here. For her.
Her mind raced, making connections, dismissing theories, drawing conclusions. Was this planned? He knew her name. Had called it out when he came last night.
After he made her—Oh, God.
Apparently, he’d met Harper before and while Addison’s friendship with the heir-in-waiting to the Rebels wasn’t exactly Taylor Swift plus insert current A-lister BBF here levels of notoriety, it occasionally made the society pages on Addison’s visits to Chicago. Primarily because she had a famous persona that pre-existed the connection to her ex-husband.
His boss.
“Miz Chayyyse!” A plaintive cry from the direction of the kitchen broke the tense silence.
“Never hire Bulgarians.” Harper turned to the friendly neighborhood hockey player-stalker. “Ford, Addison. Addison, Ford. Ford, get Addison a drink, will you, while I see what the hell’s happening to the food?” She click-clacked off, leaving them alone in the foyer.
They stared at each other while Addison tried to curb her racing pulse.
“What’s going on here?” she asked, once sure she could speak without her voice cracking. She couldn’t let him see that this was bothering her, or let anyone else present know they had history.
As of twenty-four hours ago.
“Last night,” he started, moving forward, his voice low and dangerous and damn him, so sexy, “I swear I had no idea who you were. I came to find you this morning, and you’d already checked out. Then I was talking about the Rebels with my brother and I realized it was Harper’s voice I’d recognized. I also remembered she’d said something about a dinner party, so here I am.”
Such a simple explanation.
“Here you are? Just like that?” She rubbed her fingers against her chest, an old habit when she was feeling trapped. She’d practically rubbed a hole to her heart in the last year of her marriage to Michael.
“I wanted to see you again.” He stepped in close, and God, his sheer size, and that sex-tinged voice in combination, made her knees melt. “I didn’t set out to meet Addison Williams, famous model, ex-wife of Michael Babineaux, who also happens to be my boss.”
Yes, those were all the niggling details, succinctly outlined in under one-hundred-forty characters. His strong brow creased above chocolate-brown eyes now darkened to an inky black. Was that anger? Frustration? Something else?
His reaction appeared genuine. He was as surprised as she to find out their true identities.
Fine. He was welcome to the benefit of her doubt. It shouldn’t make any difference because she’d had no intention of meeting him outside of her fantasy. Just because she knew who he was did not change that. If anything, it made last night’s decision to not take what happened any further especially prescient.
Of course, there was always the chance he wasn’t interested in seeing her again now he had actually seen her. Up close, in the size-16 flesh. Not every man liked a woman with a little meat on her, and now that neither of them could use the darkness as an excuse, she’d understand if he wanted to back away slowly.
No number of magazine covers could eliminate those big-girl doubts.
As for her opinion of him? The guy was smokin’. In another lifetime, she’d totally tap that.
In the moments it was taking her to gather her wits, he had moved to within inches of her. Smooth outside of the shadows as well.
“I’m not sure what you’re expecting here,” she said, increasingly overwhelmed by his presence as well as this situation. She was a large woman, and it took a helluva lot of man to make her feel like she could be picked up and put in his pocket.
“Just a nice dinner with a beautiful woman.”
She refused to enjoy the wriggle of pleasure in her stomach. He still wants me. Pathetic, you schizoid. You’re gorgeous. Ten million Instagram followers agree.
“Harper will be pleased you think so.”
That amused him. “Electing to play coy? After all we’ve meant to each other, Addy?”
Her name on his lips was like gasoline to the fire in her blood. The Addison Williams of yesterday had not been coy. She’d been vocal, demanding, honest. But then it was safe in the dark.
“There won’t be a repeat of last night,” she affirmed, as much to herself as to him.
“You’re right. I’m all about the variety. In the bedroom, in the foyer—or on the balcony.” He grinned and yowza, knock me over with the killer smile, why don’t you? “You look like you could do with a drink, Addy.”
“Lead the freakin’ way.”
Harper had assembled an intimate crew of twelve for her dinner party: several Chicago power couples, an environmental activist, a novelist of some repute (big ego, low sales), and the Chicago Rebels lawyer, Kenneth Bailey, who hung on each of Harper’s words like they were water to his thirst.
Then there was the hockey player and the accountant.
The bean counter’s combover was less creative Mohawk and more wispy strands that wouldn’t survive a gentle breeze intact. Swooping in from the back, angry, frosted tips stood to attention on the crown of his head. The style turned his forehead into a five-head. He was also shorter than her, by at least four inches.
How could Harper have possibly thought this guy might be a good match for her? Since Michael, Harper had tried to steer Addison to safer (read: boring) harbors. The women had become insta-friends one night, sitting in the owner’s box during a Rebels-Rajuns game. While the WAGs of other team owners looked down on Addison’s modeling career, Harper saw a business woman anxious to escape the bimbo image that inevitably plagued those who made a living wearing little or no clothing. After the divorce, Harper had been her biggest cheerleader as Addison reconstructed her life, reestablished her independence, and took tentative steps on her new path.
Out of respect for her friend, Addison would give Ben the Bean Counter a shot. She’d say one thing for him: he was very attentive, and not just to her cleavage as most men usually were when faced with Addison Williams, renowned full-figured lingerie model. (Please don’t call her plus-sized.) Although, his lack of leering might be directly correlated to the lack of cleavage on display. She had elected to cover up with a silk shell so her “date” wouldn’t get confused between her breasts and her face.
Meanwhile, her breasts were in a state of confusion all on their own. Should we point toward Ford Callaghan’s chest like hunk-seeking missiles? Or should we nipple-pop hard against this erotically thin fabric every time he casts a smoldering look in our direction?
“So, Addison,” Ben the Bean Counter started, “Harper tells me you’re designing your own line of plus-sized lingerie. That sounds interesting.”
“Don’t think they say plus-sized anymore, dude,” Ford said, catching her eye.
She scowled at him. Stow your phony support, Callaghan. These big-girl panties are locked tight!
“Oh, really?” Ben asked. “I didn’t know we’d become that PC.”
Addison directed her attention—and a brittle smile—to Ben. “We’re all models, only some of us are more representative of the market we serve. Full-figured, curvy women who prefer not to be labeled as whales and shunted off to a forgotten corner of the lingerie section of department stores or specialty boutiques. It’s hard for bigger gals to get breast support without sacrificing the sexy. Why not have both?”
Ben dipped his gaze to her chest and murmured, “Why not indeed?”
Okaaay. So he responded more to the verbal. She tried to refocus the conversation.
“The design part is my favorite. Picking fabrics, silhouettes, trimmings. But the business aspe
ct is more fun than I expected. I like bargaining, trying to get my line into stores, bringing attention to something that makes a woman feel her best.”
Harper chimed in. “That shouldn’t be a problem with your pedigree. You’ve made other people’s bras and knickers look good. You’re a name to be trusted in the biz.”
Addison certainly hoped so. Her eponymous line, Beautiful by Addison, aimed at full-figured women, would be unveiled in time for the holiday shopping season. When a man went into Macy’s to buy his wife, girlfriend, or mistress a sexy gift, she prayed Addison would be the name on his lips. And if it was the name in his head when he uncovered his lady later, then so be it. Addison was fully aware of the fantasy she was selling with that balconette bra and barely there thong.
“So are you going to be modeling the underwear, Addy?”
Addison’s eyes shot up at the questioner: the hockey player wearing a completely serious expression. Irritation pitched her internal organs into a storm, though the warm way he said her name gave other parts of her anatomy a flutter of caution. He shouldn’t run his tongue over her name like he was tasting it—and her with it.
“Would you have a problem with that?”
Shit, she hadn’t meant to sound so testy or imply she cared if he cared. She meant men in general. Men such as her husband, who objected to her modeling as soon as he shackled her.
With this ring, I thee wed.
With this ring, thy career is dead.
Callaghan held her gaze, far too intimately for someone who had supposedly just met her. “Some guys don’t like seeing their woman showing that much skin to the public.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Trust a Neanderthal goon to have a brain as big as one of his nads. He truly was her husband’s man.
Ignoring the brawny lump, she turned to the accountant. “What about you, Ben? Would it bother you if your woman showcased her 38 Double Ds”—that’s right, boys, they’re real and they’re spectacular—“in sexy lace and silks to pimp her clothing line?”
Ben picked up his glass of wine and sipped, then gulped. She tried to imagine him between her legs, working her over with his tongue, while his frosty-tipped Faux-hawk bobbed up and down. Would it be stiff with hair product? Would it split apart to reveal a shiny pate if she grabbed it? Would he look up and surprise her because he wasn’t Ford Callaghan?
Stop it!
Ben set the glass down carefully. “My wife wouldn’t need to work.”
Ah, please fuck off forever, Ben.
Her eyes snapped to Callaghan and found a mischief she couldn’t appreciate in his dark caramel-hued gaze.
“Is that how you feel, Mr. Callaghan?” He smirked at how she addressed him, and even that was sexy on him. “Should a wife be hidden away, relying on her husband’s financial support, keeping her best lingerie for his eyes only?”
Just as her ex-husband had decreed. And to think she had listened to him as he insisted he’d “take care of her.” Remembrance of those days spiked her Irish, not because Michael had a warped view of modern marriage, but because she had allowed him to dictate the terms. She’d turned down lucrative contracts so he wouldn’t have to endure social media commentary about how his half-naked wife made her living.
She was to be his trophy, a prize for him alone.
“If my woman wanted to show the world how talented and beautiful she was, then she could be wearing a Snuggie for all I care. But if she’d rather do it wearing lingerie on a catwalk, I’d have no problem with that. Whatever makes her happy and fulfilled. If it contributes to our household bottom line, all the better.”
Evolved and annoying. He had deliberately poked her to set her up. Likely, he had heard the rumors about her ex-husband not appreciating his wife’s own efforts to contribute to the household bottom line.
She scowled again. Ford blasted her with a smile that made her furious. She was not enjoying this, not at all. Caught off guard was not a good look on her.
Harper coughed significantly. “Addy, could you help me for a second in the kitchen?”
“Sure!”
Harper double-frowned at Addison’s uncharacteristic enthusiasm.
Smiling like a clown at Ben and sparing not a crumb of attention for Callaghan, Addison followed her friend into the amazingly appointed kitchen where Harper had never cooked a thing in her life. The woman wasn’t really the “keep the home fires burning” type. As one of professional sport’s potentially most powerful business owners—if her father would loosen the reins and have a little faith—she would never have been satisfied playing meek housewife.
It wasn’t completely inaccurate to say that Addison wanted to be Harper when she grew up.
Addison opened her mouth to apologize, but Harper got there first. “I’m so sorry about Ford. This has got to be awkward, him being on Michael’s team and all.”
Girl, you have no idea.
“It’s fine.” Her voice pitched a smidge too high. “Really, I’m okay. Like I said, Michael and I are ancient history.”
Harper looked how Addison felt. Unconvinced.
“So what do you think of Ben? He’d make a good . . . lap dog?”
Addison laughed, then covered her mouth guiltily.
“He’s quite nice despite the throwback statements about his wife not needing to work.”
Harper waved that off. “Sometimes the nice ones are demons in the sack. No doubt he’d be working hard at the downtown station making sure the trains run on time. Would treat you like a queen, but grateful, y’know? He’d never stray, not with a hot mama like you warming his bed.”
“You’re really selling it. Alas, I’d crush him with my thighs.”
Laughing, Harper picked up a glass of wine on the counter and sipped it. She liked to leave spare glasses everywhere so she was never long without. Not judgin’, just sayin’.
“Ford called you Addy. Sort of familiar.”
“He’s got some nerve.”
Harper’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, but instead of questioning Addison’s overreaction, she mused, “Pity about his connection to Michael because I think he might be man enough for you.”
That’s what she was afraid of. She couldn’t remember being so affected by such a masculine presence. For two years while married to Michael, she’d spent plenty of time at parties and events filled with strapping jocks and walking muscle factories. There was no good reason why this one should be different than any other.
Apart from the voice that teased an illicit orgasm from her.
But it wasn’t just what the voice unlocked or the inhibition it had dissolved. Addison would never forget the reverence. How special and beautiful and complete he had made her feel. Ridiculous, because she knew she was all those things, and didn’t need a man to validate her. But it had been wonderful to be the focus of this stranger’s attention. His wonder.
To be seen so intimately without being seen at all.
But now he was here in the light, and his focus no longer felt so liberating. She hadn’t liked how he’d watched her across the dinner table, those dark eyes filled with carnal knowledge, those sensuous lips goading her into a defense of her right to earn a goddamn living.
I know what makes you feel good, those eyes said. I know you like it a little bit dirty. A whole lot dangerous.
There was no safety in his presence. He had thoroughly seduced her without laying a finger on her body and now she was falling under his spell again. She needed to gather her wits and work up a plan that didn’t involve going ten rounds of foreplay with Ford “Killer” Callaghan.
5
As soon as Harper came back without Addy, Ford made his move. He had to get her alone. Either he left the room and sought her out or he stayed and punched out the guy Harper had set Addy up with. So the accountant hadn’t done anything except be in the wrong place at the wrong time; Ford was all for giving him a chance to stay out of the way of his fist.
He should have put two and two together when he heard her name,
but she and Babineaux had divorced before Ford landed on the Cajun Rage sixteen months ago. Of course before that, everyone had known who she was—who wouldn’t know about Addison Williams, the first woman who wasn’t a negative size four to be featured on the cover of Sports Illustrated’s Swimwear Issue? She was already a big deal, but that spread rocketed her into every heterosexual male’s spank bank. During college, he’d had a picture of her inside his locker. She had helped him pass many a lonely night and last night she’d done it again.
With just her voice.
But there was more to it than that. Sure, she was a knockout with flawless olive skin, bright moss-green eyes, honey-brown waves that fell over her shoulders (he’d guessed wrong about her being a brunette), and more curves than the Daytona Speedway. All that was gravy to her wry humor and obvious passion about her career. He loved hearing how fired up she got about it—after spending years fending off women looking to use him as a meal ticket, Addy’s independence and comfort in her own skin was more attractive to him than her perfect set of measurements.
Pity this was a disaster in the making. Ex or not, she was still one of Babineaux’s Babes, as his harem of women were labeled by the sports media, even if her membership had expired. While playing for Houston a couple years ago, Ford had spotted her in the owner’s box at rink-level. His breath had whooshed from his body at seeing his schoolboy fantasy in the flesh, then trapped in his lungs at seeing Babineaux with a hand on her leg, announcing to all that she belonged to him.
She’d looked uncomfortable. Lonely.
Or perhaps, that was wishful thinking and plenty revisionist because even then, Ford would rather have been the one possessing her.
So she was his boss’s ex. Babe Prime. He didn’t know what happened between them beyond the man’s inability to satisfy his woman in the bedroom. What else he knew? He had to talk to her alone.
