by Stacy Gail
“Oh, really? Why’s that?”
“I have a gift I often use in my work—the gift of seeing behind the public face to the person hidden underneath. So believe me when I say that I have seen heartless before, many times over. And it is there inside you, of course. You are capable of heartlessness. But to my eyes, this is not the biggest part of what I see in you.”
What do you see in me? The question formed on her tongue, and she punished it by biting down until the words died a silent death. That would just be playing his game, and she wasn’t in the mood to be played. If he thought he could make a tough piece of work like her daydream about sitting on his face while floating around on a yacht, mouth open and grinding into him as he made her forget the whole world could see them because he clearly had the most talented mouth in the Northern Hemisphere…
Damn. What was the point she was trying to make?
She pressed her lips together in a fit of self-directed aggravation. “Look, let’s just put an end to this, all right? I know what you want, or at least I think I do, and it’s not to get your hands on my M&Ms.”
“You say this with such certainty. And, if I may say, getting hands on your sweet assets would be a noble goal for any man.”
“Uh-huh. Right.”
He looked wounded. “How can you not believe me?”
“Because you’re a bullshit smooth-talker trying to make moves on a chick from South Deering’s picturesque Slag Valley.” And it bugged her no end. But she had to give credit where credit was due—he was an expert when it came to smooth. No surprise there, since his last escapade before hitting Chicago had been all about sweet-talking a supermodel away from her football-playing man. He could probably charm the birds right out of their frigging feathers if he put his mind to it.
But she was from the school of hard knocks. No way was she ever going to fall for it.
“South Deering? Slag Valley?” His black brows drew together. “I thought you were from Chicago.”
“I am—South Chicago, to be precise. I’m proud to say I’m from one of the worst neighborhoods this fine city has to offer. If that doesn’t give you an idea of what South Deering is, nothing will.” She moved to collapse onto a sofa, hoping her unimpressed air camouflaged just how freakishly aware she was of him. “You’ve been haunting House Of Payne for weeks now, yammering on about the tattoo spread you want to do, yeah?”
“It pains me, the way you phrase it. Not only have I never yammered in my life, but you speak as though any fool with a camera could take snaps of a tattoo.” His pissed-off tone seemed genuine as he joined her in the living area. She tensed, only to feel vaguely disappointed when he slouched opposite her on the matching couch a good six feet away. So much for wanting to get his hands on her assets. “Tattoos are more mainstream than ever, yes? People from all walks of life are now getting them, more often than not to commemorate significant personal moments. I want to shine a spotlight on the life stories that are told in the form of body art, as well as reveal the people who display their personal stories on their very skin.”
“I understand why you’d be interested in the subject. I guess I’m just stupid, because I don’t get why you’re so fucking determined to get your hands on our extremely confidential client list.”
“You make it sound diabolical.”
“Probably because it is.”
“I assure you, my motives are completely innocent.”
“Oh, gee, really? Gosh and golly, I sure would love to take your assurances straight to the bank, but promises that you’ll be a good little boy hold no currency.”
“I am hardly little.”
She’d just bet. “Why do you keep knocking on House Of Payne’s door when we keep refusing to let you in?”
“You really have to ask?”
“Uh, yeah. Obviously.”
“Perhaps you are unaware of what House Of Payne has become?” His brows went up, and for a moment his carved face verged on looking almost wicked. “It is famous for its artistic creations—no other tattoo studio in the world can compare. Naturally I must start this project with the greatest gallery of living art the world has to offer.”
“And, just as naturally, you must understand we became great for several reasons, one of which is trust. We won’t hand our clientele list over to you and say ‘have at it.’ There’s going to be ice-fishing in hell before that ever happens.”
He grimaced. It was a tribute to the perfection of his face that even a grimace could be beautiful. “I have realized this, of course. Bad for business.”
“Hot damn, you’re finally getting it.”
“And considering how much this luxurious penthouse must have set you back,” he added, looking around in apparent admiration, “it occurs to me that you will protect the business of House Of Payne with everything you have. You get so much from it, after all.”
Scout frowned. Despite the seemingly complimentary tone, that sounded… wrong. “This penthouse and everything in it was bequeathed to me by House Of Payne’s main investor, who was also a close personal friend of mine. So let’s not make it sound like I’m some grasping, greedy money-grubber draining the House dry financially just because you’re pissed about not getting your way. I put twice as much into House Of Payne as I get out of it.”
He held up a hand. “I meant no offense, of course. No one who works as hard as you do could ever be called—how did you say?—a money-grubber. Certainly, you earn your paycheck.”
The frown didn’t lessen, because damn it, she did earn every penny she made, and then some. “Forget about offending me—which yeah, you totally did, and I can’t imagine you spouting that kind of shit to, say, Payne, about his lakeside estate that he worked his ass off to get. You’re smart enough to realize he’d pop you in the mouth for a smarmy little comment like that. And by damn, he’d be right to do it.”
“Truly, I meant no—”
“But like I said, forget about offending me, because you need to get something through that thick head of yours, Fournier. House Of Payne is under no obligation to accommodate whatever fanciful artistic whims that strike you. It doesn’t even have to give you the fucking time of day. Do you have any questions at this point regarding how the House doesn’t have to acknowledge your existence?”
His eyes narrowed. “No.”
“Outstanding. Now that I’ve cleared the air on that, I’m not going to spend another goddamn second justifying my hard-earned paycheck, where I happen to live, or keeping private business matters such as our clientele list just that—private. We’re done.”
“Of course.” His voice was soothing, his smile non-threatening, and his eyes…
Blank.
Like always.
That was what set off her trouble alarms, Scout realized, her frown deepening. Sure, she liked the look of him—killer blue eyes, sculpted square jaw and suave manners that belonged in some hoity-toity chateau. Hell, what wasn’t there to like? By anyone’s definition Ivar Fournier was totally drool-worthy.
But…
There was nothing there in his eyes.
How could there be nothing?
The one thing she’d always been able to do was read people. It wasn’t unusual for her to know what people were going to do before they did it. Because of this, she could get out in front of a problem if someone chose to create one. It was one hell of a tool to have, especially when she was determined to make sure House Of Payne was bulletproof.
But with Ivar… things were different.
She couldn’t tell which way he was going to jump. And that worried her, because this had happened to her once before—the only time her gift had let her down.
No, that wasn’t quite true, though that was difficult to admit, even now. She’d chosen to ignore all the alarms and warning signs. That was when she’d learned the lesson that if she ignored the signs, she wound up in a place she didn’t want to be.
When House Of Payne first became a sensation, she’d fallen hard for a guy
who went by the name Vishous. He’d been an edgy kind of guy, a bad-boy fantasy come to life with his smoky dark eyes and a dirty mouth that got her hotter than the surface of the sun. For weeks he made certain she believed she was the center of his universe, and it wasn’t until she’d been sucker-punched with an exposé Vishous had written for Rolling Stone magazine that he came clean with what he’d really wanted.
And it had never been her.
In point of fact, that asshole had even laughed that she’d bought his line of bullshit. Laughed, for God‘s sake. The way he’d told it, she’d been nothing more than the gatekeeper he’d needed to get around in order to have free reign in the tattoo world’s version of Wonka’s candy factory. The slimy bastard.
It had been a hard, hard lesson, but she’d learned it. And she’d never forgotten it.
This latest potential threat, though, was different. She couldn’t get a bead on Ivar. Maybe it was because this time around, the threat was wrapped up in a sophisticated, blue-blooded package of masculine perfection. Time and again she tried to read him, but she always came up as blank as his eyes. Either the guy was hiding something that she wasn’t going to enjoy—like, at all—or he was simply unplugged when it came to basic human-to-human emotion.
All things considered, those two choices sucked. Either he was up to something that could potentially hurt House Of Payne, or he was a sociopath.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
“If you still want to pursue this idea you’ve got, I suggest you take it up with Payne personally.” When in doubt, dump trouble on Payne’s doorstep, she decided, pushing to her feet. If Payne thought the guy’s plan was kosher, and a few select clients were willing to share their tattoos and the personal stories that went with them, so be it. But she was tired of dealing with Ivar, as of now. “I’m on vacation for the rest of the month, so I can’t help you. That means it’s time for you to leave.”
“Scout.” He joined her by the elevator, looking the picture of regret with brows drawn together and mouth tight. But did his eyes reflect any of that? Nope. Blank as new glass. “Clearly I have hurt your feelings. That was not my intention.”
“What is your intention?” Baffled, she searched his face, trying to see past the killer supermodel looks. But damn, it was hard not to be distracted by so much masculine perfection. “Why are you really here?”
For an instant, something flickered in those icy blue depths. It could have been labeled as surprise, but his half-step back—the body’s language for caution—told her it edged closer to alarm.
Hmmm.
“I did come here today in the hope of convincing you to speak to Payne on my behalf. If you’re on board with my project, it’s all but certain that Payne will give it the green light.”
“Okay. Since I’m the House’s gatekeeper, that sounds legit.” The elevator doors opened when she hit the button. “How did you know where I live?”
“The internet is an amazing thing, and I’m highly motivated. With House Of Payne unveiling its 3D art as the latest, hottest trend in tattooing, now is the time for me to strike.”
She grimaced, well aware through her own troubleshooting sessions online that just about everything was up for grabs if a person looked hard enough. “Thanks, at least, for not continuing to pass off being in my neighborhood as some freaky coincidence. Anything less would have been insulting.”
“I believe I have insulted you enough.” His accent deepened, and when she glanced up at him she could have sworn she saw a hint of genuine regret. “I want to make it up to you. You lost your coffee when you were mugged, yes? Allow me to buy you another and we can start over.”
“It was tea, and I’m so freaking done talking about anything work-related. I told you, I’m on vacation. You know, the thing that you go on to escape from your work?”
“As much as it pains me, I promise I will not mention my project again,” came the solemn vow. “I too, would be angry if anyone reminded me of work if I were on holiday. I promise to be on my best behavior, while at the same time doing all that I can to make up for my poor choice of words.”
“I…” She was sorry she’d lost her tea, but she could easily make more for herself, despite Leo’s suspicion that she was incapable. The fact was, she simply liked the social connection of going out for it, and grabbing some tea with high class eye-candy like Ivar Fournier was a social connection to be wished for by any female with a pulse.
Not to mention if she got him to relax his guard, she might be able to figure out why he set off her trouble alarms…
“Okay. As long as we can stop by a flower shop along the way, I’m game.”
Chapter Three
As he watched Scout roam through the displays of fresh-cut flowers, Ivar studied her every nuance.
He’d almost ruined everything.
The moment he’d seen the storm rise in her eyes, he realized his mistake. Scout wasn’t like the women in his world; so many of those women were spoiled, vapid brats who were used to being revered. They assumed that every word spoken had to be a compliment to their greatness, even when it wasn’t.
Scout Upton was the exact opposite. She believed every word he spoke was an attack.
She didn’t trust him. That was new, and he didn’t like it. Nor did he understand why she was so on guard with him. With the exception of his family, he’d been able to charm every female he’d come across from the time he’d learned to smile on command. His grandmother had forced him to show the world what she called the “Fournier charm,” and no one had ever seen past it.
Trying to look past his charm was all Scout ever did.
He couldn’t allow that to happen. No one got to see the monster behind the mask.
“These hyacinths are gorgeous.” She plucked up a bundle of conical flowers on long stems that looked like giant purple, pink and white Q-Tips. She buried her face in them and inhaled deeply. “Wow, that’s heaven right there. You just can’t beat springtime for flowers.”
So those were hyacinths. She knew their name on sight. “I thought most women preferred roses.”
She slid him an unimpressed side-eye. “First off, puh-lease. Stereotypes show a decided lack of imagination, so I’m not even going to go there. Secondly, I do love roses—just as much as I love honeysuckle, lilacs, cherry blossoms and tulips. Or, in this case, hyacinths.”
“Ah.” Again, she’d been less than bowled over by him. What the hell was with her? “A nature lover in the heart of one of this country’s largest cities, eh?”
“I don’t know about the entirety of nature, but I’m totally gaga for flowers.” As she wandered nearer, she absently brushed her fingers over the flowers inked across her upper chest and around her neck in a lei-like pattern. “Do you remember the first time you ever saw a flower?”
“The first time?” He thought of the formal gardens of his grandmother’s estate he’d been able to see from his window, and the showy floral arrangements the household staff changed out every other day. Random facets of the magnificent prison that had been his childhood world. “No one can remember such a thing.”
“I can.” She continued to scan the cut flowers, her expression happy while he looked at her in surprise. “Even back in the day, inner-city parks were a dangerous place to be, and they’re nothing like what you’d probably think of when I say the word park. Where I come from, a park consists of cracked hardtop and graffiti-covered concrete, dirt and chain link fencing. There might be some grass in the spring. But if you blink you miss it, and by summer, that beautiful splash of green is nothing but a memory. And flowers… yeah, no. You’d be surprised how many inner city kids, even at kindergarten age, have never seen a flower in person.”
“That sounds like a very gray world.”
“Now you’re getting the picture.”
“It is almost impossible to envision you in such drab surroundings.” Ivar stared at her as she bent to savor the scent of a bunch of simple pink carnations. He’d never forget the moment he�
�d first laid eyes on her—decked out in a fiercely purple pencil skirt that did amazing things for her perfectly rounded ass, a scarlet-tinted mouth that matched her nails and a bold streak of violet in her flirty pinup hair.
He might not be able to remember the first flower he had ever seen. But he’d never forget the first time he saw her.
“Now I am curious.” Idly, because it was second nature to try and capture moments that made him pause, he fished his phone out and took a picture of her browsing through the blooms. “What was the first flower you ever saw?”
“It was the most perfect flower in the world, and to this day it’s my all-time favorite flower.” Her smile was soft, and he was sure she no longer saw the carnations in front of her. He took another shot. Beautiful. “I must’ve been about five at the time, because I remember being relieved that I finally got to go to school and escape the foster home I was in at the time. There are good homes and bad homes,” she added with a crooked smile that, to his surprise, held genuine humor. “I’m still besties with several of my foster siblings and to this day I’m in touch with my last foster family, who are genuinely wonderful people. But the foster home I had when I was five… Let’s just say it definitely wasn’t run by wonderful people.”
He stepped closer, something he didn’t realize he’d done until he moved. “What was not wonderful about these people?”
“The foster parents at that particular home were fond of what I’d call your basic, run-of-the-mill beatings whenever a kid got out of line. But on the upside, no sexual abuse, so I count myself as one lucky duck on that score.”
“Lucky?” He stared at her while flashes unfurled in his mind—a small and airless closet, of being made to sit perfectly still for hours, of being so overcome with hunger he couldn’t even speak. “You have a strange definition of the word.”
“That’s probably because I’m a strange person.” With a bright smile that declared pride in the statement, she plucked up a few carnations and added them to her bundle. “I guess I just have a habit of trying to find the beauty in everything. It’s there, if you look long enough.”
