by Lori Foster
“I propose a new bet.”
“Clearly losing rankles you more than you’ll admit.”
“I’ve got Linc in my sights right now,” she said, ignoring his jibe. “He’s fully in control and unruffled. Lakota didn’t get to him, you see. But I’m going to bet your client is so hot under the collar she’ll try to make Linc jealous. I hear that’s her modus operandi.”
He couldn’t dispute her comment, but he still knew Lakota had ample brains and wouldn’t make him lose. “And I’m supposed to wager that Lincoln does something to make Lakota jealous first? Hell, yeah, my money’s on him to blow it.”
“We’ll see. Linc’s a professional.”
With practiced skill, Sean reached out, running a thumb over her collarbone as she watched him. He dipped the thumb under her bra strap. Toyed with it. Her pulse fluttered against his skin.
“What does the winner get?” he asked.
She glanced at his hand, then back at him. “When I win, you tell me something secret about yourself.”
“Or the other way around. I’ve been wondering what you wear to bed anyway.”
It was out there now. She could either tell him to back off and he’d respect her wishes, or she could take up the gaunt-let. Her call.
Fiona’s eyes went soft, and Sean could have sworn that he’d passed some test. Did she appreciate that he’d laid the choice in her lap?
Instead, she said, “Lakota’s got fifteen minutes to lose the bet for you, Mac.”
A smile spread over his mouth, and they locked gazes, the promise of tonight and what could happen in the wee hours after the party stretching between them.
As Fiona coolly glanced away from him, making it a point to watch Lincoln and Lakota across the room, the DJ put the pedal to the metal with the music, cranking up the volume. People gradually wandered onto the floor, shedding jackets, dancing, bumping against each other.
Ten minutes passed, but Lakota and Lincoln remained apart. Good girl. She wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize her cultivated image, not after he’d put her through all that media combat training.
Then again, maybe he’d spoken too soon. In the near distance, Lakota was arrowing a sly glare in her ex-boyfriend’s direction.
It was as if Lincoln felt the sting of Lakota’s eyes, because he glanced over at her, their gazes meeting. Sean knew that look.
Wounded, open.
The kind of expression his dad had worn for years, sitting across from his mom’s empty chair at the dinner table while Sean and his two sisters took care of the food, the bills, the anguish.
Across the room, Lakota smirked, then turned back to her crowd of admirers, leaving Lincoln hanging.
Sean refrained from toasting her expertise. Clever woman, toying with Lincoln. A lot like Fiona.
Lincoln grabbed a nearby woman’s hand and led her to the dance floor, provoking Lakota first, thus assuring Sean’s victory in his wager with Fiona. Obviously affronted, Lakota followed suit, partnered with her own weapon of choice— Brendon Fillmore, who’d been courting his own fans with his soft-rebel persona.
Great.
“Dance off,” said Sean.
“Let me guess. Lakota’s the Shark, Lincoln’s the Jet.” Her voice was resigned.
He shrugged.
She sighed, a clear white flag of surrender. “I wear girls’ tighty-whitie undies.”
“You wear ugly underwear to bed?”
“They’re made for women, and they’re extremely cute. You know, bun-huggers?”
Lust sucker punched him once again. “Fiona, I’m surprised. I expected you to confess a fondness for black-net bodysuits or satin nightgowns. But…”
The image clouded his mind. Fiona, with her long legs showcased by a pair of those clinging panties. With her torso bare, breasts full and throbbing for his touch.
She mock-glared at him. “You’re developing a nasty habit of winning.”
“That’s the way I like it.”
Though she seemed to be joking, Sean wondered if she wasn’t telling the truth.
“You know,” he said, “there’s a hole-in-the-wall bar on the corner. Quiet. Secluded.”
“Meaning?”
“You’re a smart woman.”
Fiona stared at him, as if considering the offer. Self-aware ladies knew a night like this probably wouldn’t end with a drink. Not with the way he and Fiona were offering those testing swipes.
But before she could answer, Sean felt the frigid fingers of his business sense strumming the back of his neck. He contained a shiver, then turned around.
Lakota and Lincoln had come toe-to-toe on the dance floor, and it wasn’t a West Side Story moment, either. She’d left Brendon dancing by himself in order to confront Lincoln, her hand splayed over her ex’s chest, nails bared like claws. For his part, Lincoln was holding strong, trying to play off the contact. But before Sean could get out of his chair, the managers had pulled the two apart.
Lakota’s handler, Carmella Shears, shot him a glare. Back to the ever-present office.
“Looks like I need to get busy seeing that Lakota smiles for the cameras on the way out.” He rose from his chair. “I’m off to help her handler lock her away for the night.”
Fiona followed his example and stood. “Have fun tucking her in.”
“I don’t get involved with clients.” But he would mix business with pleasure if given the chance. With Fiona, that is.
He started to leave, then on the spur of the moment, turned back around. “Bailey’s. That’s what the place on the corner is called.”
And, without waiting for her answer, Sean moved toward his troublemaking soap star, feeling Fiona’s eyes track him with every step he took away from her.
HE’D WON EVERY BET, damn him.
Fiona had hailed a cab from Linc’s house near Griffith Park, where she’d comforted him and talked him down from his doomed meeting with Lakota. Now, as she traveled to her apartment by The Farmer’s Market, she stewed over Mac’s victory streak.
Sure, he could’ve really fried her over the flames if he were less of a gentleman. Could’ve asked her to do something deliciously ridiculous, like flash her breasts in the crowded room. Or was that her fantasy machine at work?
Whatever the case, she’d told him she didn’t like to lose, and that had been the truth. Fiona had been raised to compete, growing up in a household of three brothers, where they’d all had to vie for attention. Maybe she’d absorbed a lot of testosterone over the course of the years. Who knew?
But she certainly didn’t like sitting in the loser’s column.
They were approaching Hollywood Boulevard and Bailey’s, the bar Mac had mentioned. Her body sang with longing as they got closer. Closer. Passing it by.
Was he waiting there?
And what would happen if she walked in? Sat down?
They’d end up in someone’s bed.
A tremble of remembrance riffled through her body, recalling his hand on her leg, in between her thighs.
She wanted him there. Everywhere.
Handling him at work wouldn’t be a problem. She’d enjoyed an office affair or two and had always controlled the situation with discreet grace. No one got hurt; that was her mantra.
So why was this any different? Because she needed this gig? Needed to feel successful again?
She was on her way up, and nothing, not even Sean McIntyre, was going to stop her. She could have her cake and eat it, too, just like any man in her business.
“Please turn around,” she said to the driver. “There’s a bar. Bailey’s.”
“I know it.” The man whipped around the cab, probably thinking she was indecisive, mind-scrambled.
And she was, wasn’t she? Deliriously, ecstatically giddy with flashbacks of Mac’s corded chest against hers, the chiseled bulges of his arms holding her captive. Controlling her when she’d always been the one calling the shots.
The driver dropped her off in front of a sign with a neon-lined martin
i and olive, and she paid him. As he left, the motor revving into the distance, Fiona took a deep breath, walked into the dark recesses of the bar.
It was a real funky joint: a slim cigarette case lined with half-empty bottles, the aroma of salt and gin, anonymously low lighting and faux-leather upholstery gleaming in the shadows. The jukebox near the back played a Doors tune— “People Are Strange”—and a few suited patrons splayed their bodies over bar stools.
A dead-end weeknight. Her dead end, too.
Mac was among the barflies, ensconced in a booth, discarded tuxedo jacket slouched over the seat, his expansive back to the door. She knew his choice of location was purposeful—not too eager, not too concerned if she showed up or not.
She laughed to herself, then took the first confident step toward him, feeling the gazes of the male customers. Her power grew with every collected, silent compliment.
When she arrived at his seat, he didn’t acknowledge her at first. Part of the game, she knew, the pretense of not having the other person on your mind for the past hour and a half. Instead, he kept his eyes on the wall across from him, gaze trained on a picture of a man who could’ve been the bar’s owner posing with Marcus Allen in a Raider’s football uniform. One of Mac’s hands enfolded a glass of amber liquid—probably that damned whisky he’d wanted her to fetch earlier.
“Drinking alone?” she asked.
Finally, he glanced up. “Thought I would be.”
Was that relief written in the tough-life lines of his face? There was something about his expression—the stumbling slant of his mouth, the laconic curve of an eyebrow… She didn’t dare hope he was that happy to see her.
His mien returned to its regular programming: gunslinger calm mixed with roguish promise. Then he motioned to the space opposite. “Did you sing Lincoln a few lullabies?”
She slid into the booth. “He’s a big boy. Lakota didn’t rattle him as much as his manager did, lecturing him about comebacks and all that fun stuff.”
“Right.” Mac turned to the bartender and ordered her a sour apple martini. Turned back around to flash her a shit-eating grin.
So he was returning the favor from their first bet, flying against her wishes just to get the best of her. Playful boy. Luckily she liked his choice in beverages.
“You actually showed up,” he said.
The words had a lonely ring to them, and Fiona’s heart tilted on its axis. Lopsided, off center.
“How could I resist?” she asked. “You practically begged.”
He laughed, probably not feeling the need to correct her. Fiona was certain that Sean McIntyre never had to plead with a woman, but she could see how it might be the other way around.
“So…” she said.
Silence, as the bartender slid her drink onto the table. She didn’t touch it.
Mac waited for the man to leave, then reclined against the seat’s cracked leather, narrowing his sharp green eyes. Assessing her intentions?
“Tell me why you’re here, Fiona Cruz.”
Her breath caught in her throat. Then, she eased her arms onto the table, leaning toward him, knowing good and well that she was showing cleavage, reveling in the power as his eyes strayed there.
“You asked,” she said, “and I came.”
He grinned again, and her heart did a belly flop, a scalding, breathtaking plunge.
“And come you did. But hopefully not for the last time tonight.”
Highly entertained, she smiled right back at him.
Chapter Three
FIONA SHOOK HER HEAD. “You think I’m going to hop right into the sack with you.”
“You haven’t thought about it?”
The crimson light from a vintage beer sign fizzed on, suffusing Mac’s steady gaze. A second later, it blinked off, as if too weary to put out the effort.
She pressed her breasts against the table, rubbing a little, watching the undisguised hunger of his posture: his wide shoulders arched forward, arm muscles straining against the white of his rolled-up shirtsleeves. Poised like a predator. Practiced and ready.
“Mac,” she said, “let’s stop circling each other and be direct. I like men. I like those ridges right above the hipbones. I like kissing my way down a hard chest until I get to the belly button, where I can feel the ab muscles clench with each touch of my lips. I like the feel of a man’s back as his shoulders bunch and flex.” She paused. “But there are also things I don’t like. Pretty words designed to get me into bed. Speedos at the beach. Commitment.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment. Instead, he ran a finger around the rim of his glass, still watching her.
She tried not to think about what that finger could be doing to her body within the next hour.
Finally, he spoke. “I don’t wear Speedos.”
“Not many American men make that mistake.”
“And I’m wondering how we’re going to manage the boss man when he finds out that I made you purr tonight.”
Oh.
“Are you assuming that you’re going to have the chance?”
He lifted his drink, toasted her. “I’m banking on it.”
Cocky. God, she liked that in a man.
As he swigged his whisky, she suggestively ran a finger along the stem of her own martini glass. “Just so we have an understanding, we wouldn’t talk about our…extracurricular activities…inside the office. If it were to happen.”
He pushed his glass away, though it still had plenty in it. “Discretion is the better part of fooling around.”
She couldn’t believe they were sitting here, talking about this so calmly, not yet tearing each other’s clothes off and rolling over the intimate, scarred table. But the verbal foreplay was nice, making her swollen, wet, in need of release.
She wiggled in her seat a bit. “So I can count on you to keep this quiet?”
“As long as we know what to expect of each other, I think we’ll do fine.”
Expectations. Back when she’d been in love with Ted, she’d cherished a lot of those. Fidelity, everlasting love. Things you saw in romantic movies. Things fairy tales trained young girls to require in a relationship.
She had no expectations now. None except secrecy and lack of commitment.
“If we’re laying down some ground rules here, what do you want from me?” she asked.
He reached across the table, positioning a long finger over the one she was using to fondle the martini glass’s stem.
“From you?” A graveled chuckle. “Don’t worry, Fiona. I’m not the house-in-the-suburbs, two-point-three children and an SUV-in-the-garage type. I’d want to love you for the moment, but nothing beyond that.”
The words dug into her, left her hollow. Though she’d been encouraging him to tell her he didn’t want anything serious, some tiny, princess-hopeful cell in her body hungered to be romanced, valued in the long run.
Maybe even loved.
But she was beyond that. Love was in the cards for some people—they were meant for marriage, babies. Fiona Cruz was the exception, the yin to normalcy’s yang.
“I appreciate your honesty,” she said, forcing some moxie into her tone.
He took both of her hands, and she sat up from her cleavage-show hunch. Here it went, the seduction. The part where he sketched patterns over her skin, warmed her palms with temporary affection.
Good. As always, the predictable contact would take away the sting. Would help her refocus on physical pleasure, pure and simple.
Nevertheless, excitement beat in her chest, lower, where it pooled, boiled, bubbled.
“Is there anything you want from me?” he asked, a glint in his eyes.
She hesitated. “Just your vow that when it’s over, it’s over. No randy winks as you pass my office, no veiled comments to colleagues.”
“Can do.”
“Good.” A quiver passed through her, twanging, vibrating. “I don’t ever want to end up like Lakota and Linc.”
“What? Warped from the
illusion of love?”
Damaged? she added silently.
His comment had a biting snap to it, like the business end of a whip. Did Mac hide his own disappointments, his own reasons for playing the field without settling?
“Something like warped,” she said. “I know Linc was over the moon for Lakota. She was more open in those days, and I think there was genuine affection there. But Linc had a complex. ‘What if she loves the star and not me?’ he’d al ways ask.”
“Lakota seems viperish, but I think she wasn’t always that way. She’s a sweet girl underneath it all.”
Fiona smiled. “A fresh-scrubbed innocent?”
“Believe it or not.”
All this talking was killing her, but Fiona didn’t want to seem desperate, yanking him out of the bar as if she hadn’t had sex in months. Which she actually hadn’t. After miscalculating what her client needed during her last job, she’d concentrated on succeeding in a new one, putting sex…and emotions, she supposed…on the back burner.
Now, she’d wait for him to make the first move. After all, there was pride to consider.
Mac threaded his fingers through hers. The gesture touched her, striking her as somewhat tender, testing. With out thinking, she tightened her grip on him, then loosened it, ashamed of being so needy, so easily charmed.
“Lakota,” she said, swallowing away the surge of feeling, “called off the relationship because she thought Linc was cheating. He wasn’t, of course. You’ll never find a more constant guy than he is. But she got territorial and overreacted by leaving him altogether.”
“Par for the course,” said Mac, focusing attention on just one of her hands now, stroking the rough tips of his fingers up the inside of her arm, back down.
White heat spiraled through her bloodstream, infecting her with passionate discomfort.
“What do you mean?” she asked, slightly breathless. “Are you saying women can’t get through a liaison without some measure of possessiveness?”
“That’s right.”
“You’re wrong.”
He cocked a golden brow. “Am I?”
“Absolutely.” Fiona pushed away his fingers. “There’re women who can be just as cavalier as men. Not in a relationship necessarily, because, by definition, those are supposed to be based on feelings. But when it comes to sex, females don’t necessarily have to get attached.”
