She swallowed a squeak and glanced around. If any of the other gentlemen lifted their heads, they would have been able to see their client with half of his arm up his assistant's skirt, plain as day. He managed to run his finger under the hem of her underwear, down the left side of her butt cheek, before she pulled away. She stomped back to the food station, throwing the towel down with such violence, she knocked over a stack of sugar cubes.
When she turned around, Jameson was finally looking at her. She plunked her fists on her hips, staring straight back. His smirk was in place – as she had expected it would be – and he held up a finger, pointing it straight up. One. Then he pointed at himself. One point. Tied. He thought they were playing a game. She hadn't wanted to play games with him, but she hated to lose at anything, and she never wanted to lose to a man like Jameson Kane.
An idea flitted across her mind. Tate wanted to make him as uncomfortable as he had just made her feel. She coolly raised an eyebrow and then took her time looking around the room. The lawyers all still had their backs to her – not one of them had turned around the entire time she'd been there. Blinds had been drawn over every window, no one could see in the office, but she knew the door wasn't locked. Anyone could walk into the room. She took a deep breath. It didn't matter anyway, what was the worst that could happen? She would get fired? It was a temp job, that Jameson had requested her for – he didn't even work there. Did she really care what happened?
She dragged her stare back to meet his and then ran her hands down the sides of her skirt. He raised an eyebrow as well, his eyes following her hands. When she got to the hem of the skirt, she pressed her palms flat and began to slowly, achingly, slide the material up her legs. Now both his eyebrows were raised. He flicked his gaze to her face, then went right back to her skirt. Higher, up past her knees. To the middle of her thighs. Higher still. If anyone turned around, they would be very surprised at what they saw. One more inch, and her skirt would be moot. Jameson's stare was practically burning holes through her.
Taking short, quick, breaths through her nose, Tate slid her hands around to her butt. She wiggled the material up higher back there, careful to keep the front low enough to hide her whole business, and was able to hook her fingers into her underwear. She didn't even think about what she was doing, couldn't take her eyes off of Jameson, as she slid her underwear over her butt and down her hips. As the lace slid to her ankles, she pushed her skirt back into place. Then she stepped out of the panties and bent over, picking them up. When she stood upright, she let the lace dangle from her hand while she held up one finger. Point.
Winning.
Jameson nodded his head at her, obviously conceding to her victory, then returned his attention to the papers in front of him. Tate let out a breath that she hadn't even realized she was holding, and turned around, bracing her hands against the table. She leaned forward and took deep breaths. She had just started to gain some ground on slowing her heart rate, when a throat cleared.
“What is that, Ms. O'Shea?” Jameson called out from behind her. She spun around, balling up her underwear in her fist.
“Excuse me, sir?” she asked.
“That,” he continued, gesturing with his pen at her. “In your hands. You have something for me. Bring it here.”
Now everyone turned towards her. Tate held herself as still as possible, her hands clasped together in front of her legs, hiding the underwear between her fingers. All eyes were on her. Jameson smirked at her and leaned back in his chair. She took a shaky breath.
“I don't know what -,”
“Bring it here, Ms. O'Shea, now,” he ordered, tapping the table top with his pen. She glared at him.
Fuck this.
She turned around and pulled one of the silver trays in front of her. She laid her panties out neatly on top, making sure the material was smooth and flat. She was very thankful that she had gone all out and worn her good, expensive, “I'm-successful-and-career-oriented!”, underwear. She balanced the tray on top of her fingertips and spun around, striding towards their table, a big smile on her face.
“For you, Mr. Kane,” she said in a breathy voice, then dropped the tray in front of him. It clattered loudly and spun around a little before coming to a rest, the panties sliding off to one side.
As she walked away, she could hear some gasps. A couple laughs. A very familiar chuckle. When she got to the door, she pulled it open before turning back to the room. A couple of the lawyers were gawking at her, and the rest were laughing, gesturing to the display she had just put on; Jameson was looking straight at her, his smirk in place. She blew him a kiss and then stomped out the door.
The Bad Ones Excerpt
Available Now
“Constantine!?”
Dulcie groaned. Frannie. Since Con had come back, she hadn't seen the other woman. She'd begun to think maybe it was a sign, that her luck was changing. Con was her dark little rainbow, spreading peace over her world. But no. Apparently not.
“Hi, Frannie,” he said politely, his politician's-smile making an appearance. No hint of the big bad wolf in that grin.
“It's been so long! How are you? Move, Dulcie, jesus, I'm trying to talk to my old friend,” Frannie demanded, shoving her out of the way. The ice cream fell out of her hand and smacked into the floor.
“It's been a while,” Con agreed, ignoring the incident between the girls. “How've you been? You look great.”
Dulcie stared at their interaction, dumbfounded.
“Oh, stop. I don't. Do I? Well, not as good as you. You look incredible,” Frannie gushed. His smile got bigger and Dulcie watched as Frannie fell a little more in love with him.
“Thanks.”
“Enough about me. What are you doing here? And god, is Dulcie bothering you? Townies, I swear. C'mon, there's a great coffee shop next door, it just opened. Let me get you a cup,” Frannie offered, then linked her arm though his and began dragging him away.
“A coffee shop? Wow, Fuller's almost like a real town,” he laughed, and she cackled right along with him as they walked out the door together. He didn't look back, not even once.
What. The fuck.
Dulcie stomped the whole way home. She bypassed her elevator and took the stairs, wanting to burn off some energy. When she got into her apartment, she slammed the door shut behind her and locked it. The knob and the bolt, even put on the chain. Something she rarely ever did; she pitied anyone who would be stupid enough to try and rob her. But that afternoon, she wasn't in the mood for anyone to come inside.
She felt like she was going to explode, she had to do something with all the tension that was threatening to blow her apart, so she tore around the apartment. The bed was a mess, blankets scattered everywhere – they'd stayed the night at her place, but hadn't slept much. So she changed the sheets and made the bed, then tidied up other parts of the room. There was a wash basin set up on a counter top, so she cleaned the meager amount of dishes she had and left them out to dry. She was rinsing off a chef's knife when she heard what she'd been waiting for – scratching, on the other side of her door.
“Fuck off, I'm not in the mood for you right now!” she yelled. Deep laughter rolled straight through the wood and brick, almost filling her apartment.
“That's a lie, and you know it.”
She frowned and turned so her back was against the wall between the counter top and the door.
“I don't want you to come in.”
“I wasn't asking. Open the door, or I'll open it myself.”
She held the knife up, touching the tip of the blade with her index finger.
“Go ahead.”
The building was old, she didn't expect the door to put up much of a fight. She turned back to her wash station and went about drying the knife. There was silence for a solid minute after her dare, and she paused in her movements. Then the door almost exploded off its hinges as Con rammed through it, and she went back to drying.
“You can't honestly be mad at me,”
he said simply, brushing his shoulder off as he moved to stand next to her.
“You didn't think that was possible? I spent three years being mad at you. I'm really good at it,” she informed him. He chuckled and put his hands flat on the counter top, leaning down so he was at her level.
“Dulcie, you couldn't be mad at me if you tried. You're scared. What are you so scared of, little girl?”
I'll show him scared.
She let out a yell as she stabbed the knife down in front of him. The blade lodged in the wood right between his index and middle fingers, and had gone so deep, it stood upright on its own. Con didn't even flinch.
“Not her,” Dulcie hissed. “You can do whatever you want, but don't ever play your little pretend act with her. Got it!?”
Almost stabbing him was fine, but telling him what do do? That was just going too far. His hand was around her jaw, his fingernails cutting into her skin, and he literally dragged her across the room. She cried out as he slammed her up against a window, the back of her head breaking out a pane of glass.
“If you're actually threatened by a girl like her, then I'm insulted. Then you're fucking stupid, and what's going on here between us isn't what I thought. Don't you ever fucking talk to me like that again,” he snapped, baring his teeth against the side of her face. She held onto his wrist, trying to relieve some of the pressure he was putting on her jaw.
“While you were off playing pretend for those three years, I was stuck here listening to her voice. Dealing with her insults, her jabs, her digs. Watching as she sucked the life out of her husband. A guy whose only mistake in life was dating me, yet she won't stop punishing him for it. I've had to listen as she spread rumors about me, about you. Had to deal with not getting hired in places because she had her father forbid it. So you know what? Fuck you, Constantine. I'll talk to you any way I fucking want.”
He was silent for a moment, his eyes wandering over her face. She knew he was attracted to her, obviously, but she often wondered if he found her half as beautiful as she found him to be. His blue eyes dipped lower, tracing over the outline of her lips, watching as she gasped for air.
“You are the most amazing thing I've ever seen,” he said, reading her thoughts. She struggled to take in air and stumbled a little; his hand was still on her jaw, holding her up so she was forced onto her toes. His forearm was resting on her chest, making it hard to breathe. Yet she let go of his wrist. Let him push almost his full weight against her, and against the glass behind them.
“We're going to kill each other, aren't we?” she whispered.
“Baby ...” he sighed, his eyes fluttering shut as he moved to rest his forehead against her. “What a beautiful thing to say.”
Muscle Memory Page 26
