by MK Meredith
“No?”
“No.”
“Wanna bet?”
Laughter from their audience echoed in the elevator. Her brown eyes turned more a molten fudge the feistier she got, and right now she was pretty fired up. He wanted to laugh, but one more chuckle might send the poor woman over the edge. He’d humor her, for now. Plus, he only had about five minutes left before he had to leave. “You seriously want to bet me on something so ridiculous?”
The doors pinged open. She smirked. “What’s wrong? Afraid you’ll lose?”
He pushed away from the wall. “I never lose.”
“Oh, you’ll lose this one.” Stepping from the elevator, she called over her shoulder, “This is my floor. I’m not riding in that thing all day.”
Noting the floor number, he glanced at their audience and then back. Clenching his teeth, he pulled his bag higher on his shoulder and joined her.
She was the cockiest little thing he’d ever met. For not being much over five feet, she stood as if she were ten feet tall. High time he brought her back down to size. “What are the rules?”
With a slow nod, she adjusted her bags. “I’ll seduce a man, using the seven rules the heroine used in my book.”
“Seduce?”
She rolled her eyes. “You know the word. And no worries—even though his seduction will mean I win, he’ll be greatly rewarded.”
“With what?”
“With me.” She looked away and then back, biting her lip.
His body tensed. She had to be kidding. “With you?”
She gave one jerk of her chin and challenge flashed in her eyes. “With me. And if I win, you have to buy ten of my books and…” Her mouth spread into a wicked grin. “You’re here for business, aren’t you?”
He stilled. “Sales. So what?”
“You have meetings?”
A feeling of dread washed over him, but he couldn’t put a finger on why, so he nodded, still not sure what she was getting at.
She jabbed his chest. “You have to pass them out to your colleagues at a meeting and sell it, legitimately, as a guide to close the deal.”
“Woman, you must be batshit crazy. There is no way—”
She threw her head back and laughed, then nailed him with a narrow look. “So you are afraid you’ll lose.”
Why the little— He fisted his hands at his sides. “Fine. Deal.”
The surprise on her face soothed him, but only a little. He had a plan of his own.
Lips he’d felt against his own only minutes before spread wide across the woman’s face, and she sent him a victory wink. How had he ever thought that mouth was small? His body tightened in memory.
What the hell? She wasn’t his type at all.
She turned to leave.
“Not so fast.” He checked his watch. Two minutes. He absolutely had to leave in two minutes. “What the hell is your name, anyway?”
With a slight pucker to her mouth, she studied him, then lifted her badge. Sevannah Michaels. “You can call me Seven.”
“Are you kidding?” What the hell kind of name was Seven?
She waited.
Stepping close so she had to crane her neck to look up at him, he narrowed his eyes down at her. “If I win, you have to announce at your last banquet or party, or whatever the hell you women have going on, that your book is a fraud, nothing but fiction written out of desperation and read by bored, insecure women.”
Her eyes flared, but she held her ground, though her hands wringing at her waist were interesting. Tilting her head to the side, she leaned back and looked him over. “Desperation is right if you’re the example of what the male masses have to offer.”
“One more thing. I choose the man.”
She stared at him a beat and then looked around up and down the hallway. “Fine, who do you want to—”
“Me.”
Her eyes went wide. “What? Hell no. No way.”
This was going to be the easiest wager he’d ever placed. He never backed down from a challenge, and he always won. If he could do anything right this weekend, it would be setting straight hundreds of irrational women. And he’d arranged it in four minutes flat. Fuck, he should be given a Man of the Year award.
Leaning toward her, his arms crossed at his chest, he wiggled his brow. “Scared you’ll lose?” There was no doubt in his mind she would, because losing wasn’t in his vocabulary. Love was not part of his vocabulary, not part of his reality. The idea of him falling for this little woman—not being able to say good-bye come Sunday—was about as likely as him becoming a male model. He chuckled. This was going to be too easy.
Taking a step back, she pulled in a breath. “I know I’ll win, so I hope you’ll be able to handle my good-bye on Sunday when I do.”
His chuckle turned into an outright guffaw. Was this chick serious? “Your good-bye? Yeah, I’ll try to handle it.”
Seven looked him in the eye. “Are you sure? I don’t actually want to hurt anyone here.”
Blake looked around. Surely there was a camera hidden somewhere and this was all a joke. “Lady, the only thing broken will be your pride.”
She blew out a breath and extended her hand. “Fine. Deal.”
He studied her, standing there as if she’d already won. What this little lady needed was a reminder of whom she was dealing with. “I was actually on my way somewhere before you accosted me, but every deal needs negotiations. Meet me for dinner in an hour at the sushi bar.”
She scoffed. “Accosted. Please.”
Looking at his watch, he tapped his foot.
Hesitating, she looked past his shoulder, then back to his face. “I haven’t even been to my room yet.”
He had one minute left. Stepping toward her and sliding a hand around her little waist in one smooth motion, he pulled her up against his chest and pressed his mouth against hers. She squeaked, and he angled his head, taking advantage of the small sound by sliding his tongue once against hers. Her taste was cinnamon and honey. He wasn’t one for sweets, but he couldn’t deny he wanted a bigger bite. He slid his hand down over the roundness of her hip, a lot more curve than her simple dress showed. There was no way he’d buy what she was selling, but this might be more fun than he first imagined. And Blake Turner always closed the deal.
Chapter Two
Seven paced her room. What the hell had she just done? Stomping over to the thermostat, she pushed the button until the temperature hit the low sixties. She fanned her face and then tugged her cotton pullover dress up and over her head. She flung it on her bed and looked down at her bright yellow bra, her eyes then darting to her luggage where her matching panties would be. Her mortification from her conversation with Blake about her underwear returned and heated her cheeks. The sexy underwear always cheered her up a bit, one of her private indulgences—when she wore them, that was.
Blake Turner was arrogant and cocky and—God, she’d thought she’d pass out during the whole conversation. Talk about “fake it till you make it.” Confrontation was not in her comfort zone, bold and brazen not her usual MO. But the man’s opinion about her profession got under her skin, and she couldn’t stop herself. She’d never worked so hard to come off as confident when all she wanted to do was run.
Romance was her life, her love, her livelihood, but not her reality. She was tired of the constant belittling of the genre and the writers, especially when the persistent lack of any romance in her own life sometimes made her worry she might be making it all up.
She continued to pace, then stopped at the foot of her bed, placing one hand to her forehead and one to her stomach. Somehow between getting off the airplane and getting to her hotel room, she’d bet a drop-dead gorgeous man that she could seduce him by Sunday, and not only that, but also give him the best sex of his life. Who the hell was she, Jenna Jameson?
Flopping back on the bed, she stared at the ceiling. Oh well, surely she was already going to hell for worse things. She was a single, successful woman needing a dis
traction to get over her editor. A great bout of sex would do the trick. Thanks to her big mouth, it looked like she had the means to do it.
Warming up to the idea, Seven rolled onto her side. Blake was an arrogant ass, but a handsome arrogant ass. Which could be a lot of fun, because she was sure as shit never falling in love with a guy like him. A naughty little weekend would be just the thing she needed to put her humiliation with her editor out of her mind.
Her editor, Nathaniel Hennings, was a man she could fall in love with. With the utmost respect, he shepherded his authors’ careers, helping them realize their dreams. He supported the romance field by devoting himself to it and building his own career around it. She loved the way his mind worked and the time they’d spent together. Before she’d known it, she’d fallen for him. But he didn’t want her, and it was making her regret the unrequited love she’d handed to a character or two.
The more she thought about her idea, the more she liked it. Sex. That was what she needed. And the reassurance that she could still make someone want her. Because with Nathaniel, she’d completely failed.
She jumped up from the bed and, in a flurry, hung up her dresses and unpacked her toiletries. Time to put her novel’s seven rules of seduction to work. Tapping her finger on her bottom lip, she scanned her weekend wardrobe, then pulled on a matching bra-and-panty set in nude. She’d wear her panties this time to tease Mr. Turner, keep him guessing. Besides, it fit nicely into rule number six: maintain an air of mystery.
A pencil skirt really showed off her little waist and full booty, but leggings and super-high heels would give her legs that went all the way to her armpits. She’d tired of trying to camouflage her assets long ago and decided to embrace them instead. That was part of the beauty of being a romance writer—she worked a persona that was her through and through. Most of it, anyway, when she felt brave enough. The rest she had great fun elaborating on.
She decided on a deep peach high-waisted pencil skirt and paired it with a flowing white button-up blouse. As she applied her makeup, she ticked off one of the seven rules in her head—rule number four: master his five senses. The idea was soft skin, heady aromas, a hint of flavor, a low-timbred voice, and an artistically painted canvas. She dusted her skin with her favorite honey powder, and then slicked her lips with a barely-there peach gloss, the color glowing warm against her tanned skin. Her black hair fell in rich waves around her shoulders, and her dark eyes were lined to play up their almond shape, a big change from the fresh-faced messy-head Blake had met on the elevator.
Giving herself a once-over in the mirror, she pulled in a shaky breath and unbuttoned the top of her blouse down to about midchest, letting a hint of lace and the swell of her breasts peek out whenever she moved.
She really hoped she could keep her sushi down at dinner. It was time to put on her game face and hit Blake where it hurt. A man like him was all about looks, and the way he gave her the once-over in the elevator had told her all she needed to know about his expectations. She grinned and rubbed her hands together.
The high-waisted skirt created a corset-like effect, cinching her waist to impossible proportions. She smoothed her hands over her hips, smiling. Mr. Blake Turner didn’t stand a chance.
She headed down to the lobby, going over the three rules she’d utilize throughout the evening. He may have six feet of beautiful brawn on his side, but she had Rules of Seduction on hers. No contest.
The elevator door opened, revealing a kaleidoscope of gem tones: purple, green, red, silver, and gold ribbons were draped from pillar to pillar, jesters on stilts juggled sparkling balls as they walked through the crowds, and convention-goers of all shapes and sizes wore costumes in every shade of a jeweler’s collection. Writers and readers alike draped themselves across male models for photo ops, creating their very own mock romance novel covers. The first costume event of the weekend was in full swing, but she had more important things to do.
Seven made her way through the crowds, using her map to find Masuku, the casino sushi bar. Her heart skipped a beat as she volleyed back and forth between whether the bet was brilliant or crazy.
With every step closer to the entrance of Masuku, the faster her heart sped in her chest. She pulled in a breath and let it out slowly. She dabbed her fingertips over her upper lip and pulled her shoulders back. Pinning down the terms of the bet would be key. Only a fool would let the man do it. She’d keep a tight rein on his ideas and position her own as priority. First on the list, no reading her book. The last thing she wanted was for him to get the upper hand by knowing her rules ahead of time.
Okay, here goes everything.
Blake sat in a corner booth, looking over a menu. He looked so hot that seeing him was like a punch to the gut. She stumbled but thanked God that she recovered before he looked up.
As she approached, he glanced over, then back to his menu. His head snapped back up, and his eyes ran the length of her. She suppressed the urge to fist-pump, and instead threw a genuine smile his way. “Good evening.”
He stood and thanked the host, then directed her to slide into the booth. “You look nice.”
Nice? That was it? Biting the inside of her lip, she tilted her head. “Thank you. You clean up pretty well yourself.”
He laughed. “Well, I need to in my line of work.”
“And what is your line of work, exactly?”
“High-end luxury sales. You know, the fun toys no one can afford except those who can afford ten. Specifically, leisure transport. Yachts, jets, sports cars. The grossly overpriced for the grossly over-entitled.”
She winked. “Suits you.”
He flashed her a wicked grin, and her insides returned it with an immediate flippity-flop. Oh, hell no. She shoved down the memory of those lips against hers.
Leaning forward he said, “It does, doesn’t it?”
He’d said it as a statement, as if he were proud of it. He couldn’t be serious. Did people really feel that way? If he kept that up, saying good-bye on Sunday would be a relief.
She needed to focus. Rule number two: smile often. One of the most important rules, and most often overlooked and underestimated. A genuine smile lifted the mood. Being on the receiving end felt good, creating the perfect combination of wanting more, but not knowing why.
Blake held her gaze a beat and then dipped his chin. “Let’s talk business.”
She needed to take control of this conversation. He was mistaken if he thought he could steamroll her like one of his clients. Seven remained quiet, waiting to see what he’d do next. It was one of her favorite things to do. Most people couldn’t handle the silence very long, but Blake wasn’t most people. He returned her smile in silence.
Okay, she might need to amp it up a bit. Gliding one finger across the top of his menu, she glanced at it and then back at him. She leaned forward, and when his gaze didn’t budge, she dug her nails into her palms. “Let’s order first. Anything good?”
His eyes remained on hers. “I’m not looking for anything special. Just the usual fare.”
Heat rushed across her skin as she internalized his comment. She was anything but “the usual fare.”
He picked up the menu and angled it toward her. “Are you in the mood for sushi or are you going to do an entrée?”
Running her hand under her hair, she pulled it to one side over her shoulder, a hint of honey and cinnamon wafting past her. Blake breathed in but continued to look at the menu.
He couldn’t be as immune to her as he pretended to be. God, she hoped not, otherwise she was in a shit-ton of trouble.
Time to ease off a bit, maybe. She didn’t want to give it all away too easily. Rule number four, master his five senses, included a peekaboo of skin here and there in a way that seemed accidental—completely innocent. It had been one of her favorite strategy ideas when she wrote the book. So deliciously insidious. Whether or not her dinner companion was any indication, it was quite effective. Usually.
But too much, too boldly wou
ld set off warning signals and give a man the wrong impression—desperation. The last thing she wanted was handing him any ammo. That kind of shift in power would be detrimental. Best to keep him on the edge of his seat, make him question the intensity of his own interest. If he got too uncomfortable, he’d run. Seven shook her head. For being such a powerful gender, men were the biggest chickens.
Time to regroup and nail down the details. Business first, pleasure later. And there would be, because he was going to lose.
The waiter took their order and returned with a platter of food and wine. Blake served them, then lifted his glass for a toast. “May you be a gracious loser.”
Seven tapped her glass to his. “May your colleagues love my book.”
He scoffed. “Please, the day I have to give my colleagues that book is—”
“The day you lose.” She raised her glass in a toast and took a sip.
“So, what are the rules?” Tapping a finger to her chin, she stared at him. “First and foremost, you are not allowed, under any circumstances, to acquire a copy of my book.”
He smirked. “There is no way in hell I’d read a romance novel. So you’re safe.”
“Oh, but you’ll have to when I win. You’ll want to make sure you really know the product you’re selling to your colleagues on Sunday.”
“Not happening.”
Ignoring his remark, she added, “I’m going to have to trust that you won’t read it.”
“Of course you can trust me,” he answered, too quickly.
She eyed him. No one trusted salesmen, but she didn’t have a choice.
Ticking rule two off on her finger, she continued. “We have all our meals together.”
He shook his head. “Can’t do it. I have work.”
“You do, but we have to make sacrifices. As a matter of fact, I’m missing a party as we speak. I get your meals. The bet isn’t fair if I don’t have time with you.”
Blake only hesitated a second. “Fine.”
“If you sleep with me and show feelings before the weekend is up, I win. You then must share the book with your colleagues as a legitimate resource on life. Both personal and professional.”
