I offer her one of my thousand-watt smiles. The smile that makes everyone feel safe but especially women. Like they should trust me. Like I'm their big brother, best friend, and boyfriend all rolled into one. The smile I flash the moment before I talk a woman right out of their panties and into my bed.
"Funny, I keep hearing about all of the king's so-called charisma, yet your charms don't seem to have any effect on me. I must be immune."
My body biologically responds to a challenge. It just does. Especially because it's coming from this woman. I have the strongest urge to pull her close and shove my tongue down her smart-ass little throat, but I compromise with my primitive desires and simply move in a little closer to her. Feeling exactly what I did the last time I was this close to her.
Heat.
Kinetic energy.
And pheromones bouncing off of her like a siren's call.
I've been strongly attracted to certain women before but damn. Whether she annoys me or amuses me, every time I'm within ten feet of this woman I have the deep desire to pound my chest, throw her over my shoulder, and club any man who dares to challenge me into a bloody pulp. And when her almond shaped eyes finally pop up to meet mine straight on, that's when I'm assured of something that I wasn't as nearly confident about a few days ago.
I see it.
Excitement, desire, and maybe a smidgeon of healthy fear. If I were a betting man I'd say that Sloan wants me badly, or at least she's mildly curious, but it scares the hell out of her.
As I move farther in, I place my palm on her chest above her breasts and get my confirmation. "Perhaps you're not as immune as you think. Your heart is telling me something different. It's racing."
She jumps back.
"No it isn't, and don't touch me."
I move only one final step forward, keeping my hands by my sides, and my lips very close to her earlobe.
"Don't worry, princess. The next time I touch you it will be because you either ask me politely or beg me angrily."
Panic settles into the corners of her eyes. She's going to run from me like her life depends on it. Sure enough when the houselights start to flicker to let us know the second part of the show is about to begin, she bolts for her seat without even as much as a goodbye.
"Excuse me," she says urgently to all of the spectators moving at a snail's pace down the aisle. "Excuse me, please."
I track her as she moves swiftly through the aisle. Mostly because I can't take my eyes off of her, and partly because I want to see more of the asswipe she's here with tonight. Usually Sloan meets her men at Lotus. The kind of men whose only concern is how fast they're going to make their first million during the day and how many women they can get to spread their legs at night. Never caring about the woman's pleasure. Barely even asking their names.
These are the kinds of douchebags I've watched Sloan talk to. Dance with. Flirt with. Complete wastes of her time, but easy enough for me to scare away. I've done it countless times unbeknownst to her, and even if she discovered what I was doing, I wouldn't care.
As soon as I spot her date again, I take a really good look at him and realize that this guy just may be different. He looks different. She didn't meet him at the club. In fact he doesn't look like he's been inside of a nightclub in years. Based on the soft look in his eyes when she sits back down, they may even have a history. I heard her mention a doctor on the phone with Elizabeth. Is he someone she works with or an old flame?
After I'm back in my seat, I can't help but keep my eye on her and her dry-as-toast date during the entire second half of the performance. Actually it's him I'm watching. He's definitely into her. I know the body language of my species well. His body is slightly leaning into hers, so that he can whisper some irrelevant shit to her throughout the performance. He's almost salivating at the mouth. He wants inside of her badly.
It makes me recall the kiss that Sloan and I shared. I wanted inside of her badly that day too. So the sight of this guy obviously feeling the same way about her is making my eye twitch which is always the precursor to an unpleasant interaction. I need to leave as soon as the show ends or something bad is bound to happen.
What am I doing? I'm losing my shit over a woman I've shared one kiss with. A woman who isn't mine. A woman that will never be mine.
"Who are you staring at?" my client asks with the loudest whisper ever.
"No one," I say grumpily. "Why aren't you watching the dancers?"
"Why aren't you?"
Because neither of us really wants to be here, but we have to be. My client, professional baseball star Roberto Mendez, and I are sitting in front of his club's general manager and wife per their invitation. Mendez was supposed to be here with a respectable woman on his arm since he and his wife broke up, but that's one of his issues–he doesn't do respectable. It's my job to make sure that he does.
Even though I've pulled back from my responsibilities at the club and the tapas lounge, it would have been totally unfair and unprofessional to abandon Mendez. Neither Camden nor Roman have any idea how to handle him and he pays us good money to make sure he's managed.
If I hadn't reeled him in tonight, he was going to bring a woman here, who if memory serves, has had the distinct pleasure of receiving a couple of my twenty-dollar bills inside the crotch of her panties at my favorite strip bar. So needless to say, I put the kibosh on Roberto's date plans and went with him instead at the last minute. Not my idea of a good time, but it's my job to babysit him and make sure that he and the general manager get the photo opportunity that the ball club's been wanting for the media. A shot that appears as if contract negotiations between Mendez and the ball club are moving forward like clockwork. Like they're homies hanging out, even though it's totally staged.
"Oh, now I see why you're looking over there." He smirks. "She's definitely one hot piece of–"
"Watch your mouth," I warn.
"She looks familiar."
"I said mind your business."
"Watch my mouth. Mind my business." Mendez starts cracking up. "You're mighty touchy about a woman who's here with somebody else. You losing your touch, King Cutty?"
I watch like a dickhead as the suit amateurishly puts his arm around the back of Sloan's chair. His fingers just inches away from her bare skin. I can't believe that old high school trick actually still works. Not only does she allow him to keep his arm there, but I'll be damned if . . . she actually leans into it.
Fuck me.
"Shhh!" The general manager's wife scolds the two of us from behind. "You both are being too loud."
My phone dings.
It's Roman.
Roman: You could have given me a heads up that DJ Khaled was spinning tonight. I thought he was coming next month.
Once a month I like to book a celebrity deejay for the club. I love music. In another life I would have been a musician, but sometimes you just have to play the hand the you've been dealt in life.
Me: This is what happens when you don't come to the club. You don't know what's going on. He's going out of the country on tour next month, so it was now or never.
I'm a little disappointed. I had to call in a lot of favors to get Khaled into Philadelphia this week, and I wanted to reap the fruits of my labor. It's been part of my long-term brand strategy to attract different clientele to the club certain nights, and tonight will be a big step toward that.
Roman: His management is looking specifically for you.
Me: The contract is in a file with his name on the desktop. The manager is looking for the side deal I cut with him to book the date. An extra $1000 on top of Khaled's price. The cash is in the safe.
Roman: Still, it would be better if you were here.
Me: Not coming.
"I swear I know her," Mendez says loudly in my ear.
The general manager's wife leans over to Mendez. "She's Dan Pearson's little girl. Now will you please be quiet."
"Not so little anymore," he says under his breath.
; "Shut up," I whisper.
I take another long look at Sloan and for the first time in days, I ask myself what the hell it is that I think I'm trying to accomplish by bogarting my way into her life. What the hell is wrong with me all of a sudden?
She's the daughter of an NBA legend. She's been raised as a pampered princess her whole life. I don't care what she says about not wanting love, of course she's looking for the fairy tale. She wants a respectable corporate drone she can take home to mommy and daddy, marry, and have babies with. She doesn't want any parts of what I have to offer.
She wouldn't know what to do with a king like me.
Twenty
Sloan
Cutter King is a slumlord.
He's never here and he doesn't fix anything. Not only is my thermostat on the blink, but now I don't have any hot water. I can't even wash my hair, and I need to be showered, dressed, and at work by nine.
I suppose that's why he hasn't been around, not that I was looking for him, because I guess that's what slumlords do. They duck their tenants, so that they won't have to actually do anything that costs them money, time, or effort.
Thank God Kyle works from home. He has hot water and has graciously offered me the use of his bathroom. I pack up one of my reusable Whole Foods totes with toiletries and a towel and head down to his apartment. I knock on the door a few times, and when he doesn't answer I shoot him a quick text.
Me: I'm outside.
Kyle: Sorry, I'll be there in a second.
I lean against the door, my hands full of stuff, wrapped up in my fluffy robe when the door to 7B opens. The unit next door to Kyle's.
The hairs on my forearms rise and my nipples rise to attention.
Damn Benedict Arnolds.
"Morning, princess."
It was just a matter of time before we saw each other, and now I wish we hadn't, because my body is starting to crave what it can't have. This man gets better with time. Like a fine wine. Today he's wearing a pair of soft gray sweats which are slung low, showcasing the perfect V of abdominal muscles that point straight toward what looks like a large piece of morning wood. I can't imagine waking up to that every morning. Well, maybe I can. I'd never get anything done.
Focus on his face, Sloan.
Focus on his face.
"Landlord."
"Why are you at my neighbor's door in a state of undress?"
"Funny you should ask that, but I need to take a shower and lo and behold, I don't have any hot water. Do you know anything about that?"
"Did you report it to the super?"
"Of course I told him, but the landlord has to actually approve the work so that Pete can do his job."
Kyle finally opens the door with a messy head of hair looking like he just rolled out of bed. I know he says he works from home, but I've never really been sure about what he actually does. Something about networks and such.
"Sorry about that, gorgeous. I was on the can. You may want to watch a little TV or something before you go into the bathroom. Give the air freshener I sprayed a minute to do its job."
Good grief.
"Take a shower in here," Cutter offers. Actually it almost sounds like an order, not a suggestion.
"And who are you?" Kyle asks.
"I'm Cutter King, the new owner of this building, your next-door neighbor, and a friend of Miss Pearson's."
Kyle turns to me looking for confirmation.
"Yep, he's the new owner."
"Who you know and never mentioned?"
"Yes."
"That's interesting," he says giving Cutter another once-over.
"If you're tired of chitchatting out here in your pajamas, and you want to get to work sometime this year, I'd say it's time for you to come take that shower. I'll call Pete while you're getting ready."
Kyle looks back and forth between Cutter and I and much to my chagrin, I can tell that he already sees it. The pull between us. The fierce attraction.
"You know what, Sloan, I totally forgot about an appointment I have. The dentist. I'm actually going to have to hop in the shower right now to make it on time. So why don't you shower at Mr. King's here, and I'll catch up with you later."
He's totally lying.
"But Kyle–"
He grins mischievously. "Don't give me a hard time about it. You know how bad my molars are. I have to make this appointment or I'll keep putting it off. Go on now." He actually gives me a small push toward Cutter. "When you get off work tonight, I'm going to tell you about the brilliant thing my nephew did the other day. Little man called nine-one-one and nearly gave my sister a heart attack. They broke down the door to the house and everything."
"Ready or not," Cutter says.
I check the time on my phone. I've wasted ten valuable hair detangling minutes contemplating where I'm going to wash my private parts. It's not that serious. It's just a shower.
"Fine. Let's go."
One of things that helped me make a final decision about renting in this building was the fact that there are no two apartments in the building that look alike. Every unit has its own bit of individuality. Something special that makes it uniquely its own space. I've really never seen anything like it.
My apartment has these cool dark wooden beams running across the length of the ceiling. Kyle's has a cozy window nook where you can sit and drink coffee and read a book. And Cutter's has a large open face red brick wall in his living room. What he doesn't have much of is furniture or window treatments. It definitely looks like he just moved in.
"You know someone can see everything in here at night."
"Who can? We're on the seventh floor."
"What about the people in that building across from us. Right on the seventh floor, genius. They can look in here and see everything you're doing. You need some blinds or some curtains."
"I'm not modest. If they want to look they can look."
I roll my eyes.
"Forget I mentioned it. Just point me to the hot water."
"Right in here. How much time do you have to get ready?"
"Less than an hour. Why?"
"I'm calling Pete now. I'm not sure why some of the units have hot water and you don't, but he'll get to the bottom of it. It'll be repaired by the time you get home."
"Thanks, landlord."
My shower is heavenly and informative. There are several brands of shampoo in Cutter's bathroom, no conditioner, only one brand of soap, and two washcloths. It makes me think that a woman has been in this shower lately. Of course I can't let that random thought go.
"Are either of these washcloths clean?" I yell through the door. Hoping he can hear what I'm saying.
He opens the door to the bathroom.
"Aah!" I quickly turn my body around with my back facing him. Although the doors to his shower are frosted, he can definitely see my silhouette through them. "Would you get out please."
"I couldn't understand what you were saying. It could have been important, so I came in."
"I asked if either of these washcloths were clean. I forgot mine."
"No, let me grab you a fresh one."
Figures.
"Here."
I crack open the door just enough to allow him to hand me the washcloth.
"And next time just ask what you really want to ask me. I'm an open book to you, darlin'."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"I use two washcloths. One for my face and one for my body. I haven't had female company over at this place at all or at my old place in a long time."
"I wasn't asking you about any of that."
"You're a shit liar, darlin'. You were definitely asking that. See you in a few minutes."
After soaking my head under the showerhead to try my best to forget that I just freakin' embarrassed myself, I finish up and return to the living room squeaky clean and with my tote bag full of stuff. As I pass the open door to his bedroom, I can see a part of a gun, a shoulder holster, and what looks like a cleaning k
it on top of his dresser.
Totally reminds me of my youth.
I can't wait to get out of here.
"Thanks for the shower," I say as I hightail it to the door.
He stares quietly at me for a moment then growls out an order.
"Wait. Sit. Eat."
"I don't have time for breakfast. I have to go get dressed."
The food on the table looks delicious. There's hot bacon, scrambled eggs, bagels and butter, and a bowl of mixed fruit. I don't smell coffee, not everyone drinks it, but I see a few bottles of spring water over on the counter. But I'm literally standing in a pair of lacy underwear, a robe, and slippers. I'm not sure that I could manage to take two bites of what he's prepared sitting across from him in this.
"This looks great, Cutter, but I have to go."
"You've got ten minutes. Scrambled eggs are my specialty. Eat."
"I thought you said steak was."
He grins. "That too. I'm good at a lot of shit."
I bet, I think to myself.
"I bought a Keurig the other day. Shouldn't take long to set up. You want me to make you a cup of coffee?"
"I don't drink plain coffee."
"Coffee's coffee."
"Clearly you don't drink it."
He doesn't respond to that. I wonder why he even bothered to buy a Keurig machine if he doesn't drink coffee. Weirdo.
"So what kind of coffee do you drink then?"
"I like specialty espresso drinks. Like caramel macchiatos."
"Oh, fancy coffee."
I stare at the bacon. I haven't had a strip of that type of greasy goodness in months.
"Okay, maybe just a few bites."
The first bite is salty deliciousness and you can't eat bacon without eggs, so I take a nibble of them as well. He's right, they are good.
"What's in these?"
"If I told you, then I'd have to kill you." He grins.
"With the gun in your bedroom?"
"I'd prefer to fuck you to death."
"Seriously, do you have a permit for that thing?"
"Of course I do and that thing has a name."
"What?"
"My glock–his name is Benny."
"Do you wear Benny all the time?"
Indebted To A King Page 15
