“A drink?” he teases, running a finger from my shoulder to the crook of my elbow. He swirls it there until a small fire tries to ignite in my core. I blow it out.
“The sex that follows the drink,” I tell him plainly, pushing his hand off me. His touch doesn’t affect my body nearly the same way as even a look from… No. Don’t even go there.
He takes a lock of my chestnut hair and curls it around his finger until it’s wound so tight the tip turns purple. His eyes have darkened a shade or two. “We were pretty good together, Saine. Remember?” He unwinds it and it bounces back into place against my chest.
Yeah. I remember. I also remember the fear that sat in the pit of my stomach the second he withdrew that I’d lose my friend of twenty years all because I was desperately trying to erase strange feelings some asshole I didn’t even like managed to stir in me. Feelings similar to those I had on one of the worst days of my life when a sexy stranger helped somewhat soften the blow.
But if I let what we did happen again, we’re treading down a slippery slope and a few hours of gratification isn’t worth losing a friend that I’ve had since the third grade. One I desperately need in my life.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
That smirk grows, as if my rebuttal feeds it. “I think it’s the best idea I’ve had in quite a while. Come, on, Saine,” he pleads a little too convincingly. God, he’s good. So, so good. “I think we both could use the release.”
And that right there is the whole point.
I’m over meaningless sex. I’m tired of using and being used. I’m twenty-eight years old, and I’ve had one whopping serious relationship with a man who apparently fell out of love with me and in love with my cousin the second he laid eyes on her when I brought him home to meet the aunt and uncle who raised me.
It’s been four years since they married. Four. And I haven’t allowed myself to move on from that blade to the heart I can’t seem to dislodge. I don’t want it there anymore. It needs to go, and if I slide into Ian’s bed again, I’ll be twisting the handle in deeper myself, like the masochist I’ve turned into.
I open my mouth to let him down gently when Maura, our band’s assistant, pops her head around the corner. “There you two are.”
“Hey, what’s up?” I take a couple of steps backward until velvet presses against my shoulder blades. She licks her lips and blinks her eyelids a few times. She looks scared.
“I’m supposed to give this to you.” She raises her hand, which is clutching two sheets of unlined white paper with scribbles all over them.
“What is it?” I ask, tearing them out of her shaking hand. My eyes drop and scan and after only seconds, my blood boils until I’m positive blisters are forming under my skin.
“What the fuck is this?” I ask her again, my voice as sharp as a scythe, cutting, aimed unfairly at the messenger.
She swallows hard, pursing her lips. “It’s your new set list,” she mumbles nearly incoherently through a long, resigned exhale.
“A new set list?” I practically scream. I run my eyes over the songs and scoff. Everything Comes Back To You, Closer, Wicked Games. What the ever-loving…? “Let Me Love You?” A screeching noise that could shatter glass rips from my lungs. “What the hell is this?” And why does it feel like a not so subtle message is being sent? To me?
Ian rips the papers from my fingers, and I wince at the stinging cut to my palm he left behind.
Practically shaking with rage, I check the face of my vintage watch, the braided green leather strap wrapped around my wrist multiple times like an enchanted snake. Three dangling musical note charms give it character. Right now I want to break them off and shove them down a certain someone’s throat.
“It’s eight fifteen. We go on in forty-five minutes. How are we supposed to manage this in less than an hour?”
She shrugs, her palms facing the ceiling. She has a tough job sometimes making everyone happy. “I checked it over. You guys can perform all of those songs, Saine.”
“That’s not the point,” I grit, fury firing on all cylinders.
“I don’t know what to tell you. I was told you were playing this tonight and I’m simply passing along the message.”
“Who specifically requested this?” I nod to the paper I’m fighting not to rip into tiny little shreds.
Her left eye twitches. Her bottom teeth sink into her upper lip. As she takes a deep breath, I know exactly what’s coming. “Mr. Montgomery.”
Of course. That fucking asshat.
Her eyes plead with me to let it go. We need this gig. All of us. It’s been steady extra income we can all use, and our success at The Revelry has led to so many bookings we now have to turn a fair amount down. I’m finally thinking about quitting my full-time job as a marketing account analyst, so I can concentrate on what I love. So what I should do is keep my mouth shut. But what I should do and what I will do are two different things.
My brother used to own this nightclub, but he only owns a third now since six months ago he brought in a new partner—aka one Bennett Montgomery—and that partner has changed the entire feel of this place.
Live music replaced subpar DJ’s. No more tacky wet T-shirt contests. No catering to the college-age crowd. No more fights outside at two a.m.
Greasy bar food fried by pimply teenagers has been replaced with a unique, upscale menu designed and overseen by a 5-star chef.
The draw is now class. Edgy elegance. Sultry lighting. Sensual rhythms. VIP rooms. Bottle service that rivals Vegas-style price tags. Exclusivity among the common. A nightclub where the elite of Chicago’s burbs want to be seen and the middle class wants a piece of it they can brag about. A rare diamond even city dwellers flock to partake in.
I have to agree the changes were needed and for the better, and instead of being near bankruptcy, my brother is finally, finally out of the red. But I also know we’re a big part of that success, too, and our chain has been yanked one too many times over the past few months by a single thorn jammed constantly in my side.
Well, I’m done.
“Mr. Montgomery?” I repeat, only I heard it perfectly fine the first damn time.
“Yeah,” she answers impatiently. “You know, the co-owner?”
“I know who he is,” I reply, punching each vowel and consonant the way I want to punch his balls in. A distinct scratchiness is now present in my throat I hope no one heard but me. “Why does he care what we sing? We draw a crowd that puts a wad of cash in his pocket every Friday and Saturday night. That should be good enough.”
“No big deal, Saine. We’re ready,” Ian, ever the pleaser, tries to interject in hopes to placate me, but I’m already on the move, anger igniting a fire under the soles of my feet so hot if I don’t move I’ll meld with the floor. “This is like a walk in the park at high noon.”
That’s not the point. One of my strengths is flexibility and yes, I can sing every blessed song on this new list, but again…Not. The. Point. I’ve had about enough of Bennett Montgomery jerking me around.
I don’t care how “experienced” he is in the club scene. I don’t even care that he’s responsible for booking the talent and is solely responsible for deciding if I stay or go.
How dare he.
How fucking dare he.
“Saine, wait.” Ian catches up with me and grabs for my arm, but I pull out of his grip. “Don’t go off half-cocked.”
“Half-cocked?” I spit over my shoulder as I power forward. The heels of my black thigh-high boots click furiously against the wood floor. “He can’t just come strolling in here once a month and interfere.”
“He’s the boss, Neeny.” Ian reverts to my childhood nickname, the one he only uses to get my attention because he knows it pisses me off. Well, tonight I use it as fuel. Logs on the fire. Mr. Montgomery’s ridiculous demands the kindling that started the unwieldy blaze in the first place.
“He doesn’t give a shit what we do unless he’s here and then he just wants to m
eddle.”
In truth, other than hiding in the dark where I feel his eyes roam the lines of my body as if I’m some sort of stock he’s inspecting for purchase, I don’t think he gives a shit about much of anything. Or anyone.
Ian laughs. It’s loud and sardonic, as if he knows something I don’t. “Oh, he gives a shit. Trust me.”
I stop so fast he slams into my back and I almost lose my balance. Large hands grip my waist, keeping me upright. “What do you mean by that?” I ask, whizzing around on him.
He surveys the area around us. We’re not alone, but there is no one close by, either. “You can be so dense sometimes, Neeny.”
My jaw clamps together. “Stop calling me that and stop being so damn cryptic.”
He shakes his head, a loose piece of hair falling over one eye. He brushes it out of the way and just stares.
“What?” I practically yell. When he doesn’t answer, I spin around and head from backstage toward the entrance that leads to the club floor. It’s the long way. I could have easily torn across the stage and down the side steps, but I use the extra time it will take to hunt down his arrogant ass to get myself nice and worked up, virtually frothing at the mouth.
Before I’ve made it ten paces, though, I’m being twisted around and pressed into a wall. “Why are you stirring the pot, Saine?” Ian asks, caging me with his lean body. “Huh?” Curious eyes bore into mine, demanding the truth. “Just do as he asks and leave well enough alone.”
“I’m stirring the pot?” I spit back. “He’s the pot stirrer. Last month he came in and demanded we go on forty-five minutes early. The month before he instructs Maura to tell me to ‘show less skin’. Now, like a pussy who can’t fight his own battles, he hands her a new set list he came up with? Without our consent? Without our input? Without the common courtesy of a goddamn discussion? We are the artists, not him. We get our asses up there and entertain for five hours straight so he can line his pockets with cars and penthouses and trips to Belize. So, fuck that. Fuck him. I’m done with it.”
“You know this is what he’s after, right?”
I shake my head back and forth. “What? A fight? Confrontation? War? Well, he’s going to get every one of them. I’m not caving on this. Get out of my way.” I shove him. He doesn’t budge.
“It is the fight he wants, but it’s so much more, Saine. Even a blind man can see that.”
I don’t particularly care what Bennett fucking Montgomery is after. All I care about is giving him a piece of my mind—even if it means putting my job on the line—and I’m not stopping until I find him and chew his ass up one side and down the other.
I don’t stay to listen to Ian’s drivel. In a quick move, I slide down the wall and duck under brute arms holding me captive. I tear off down the hallway, past the kitchen to my left, shoving the swinging door open with all my might.
I quickly scan the room for my target. It doesn’t take me long.
In the roped-off VIP section in the back, which is elevated slightly from the rest of the floor, there he sits with my brother in a dimly lit area, a light haze hanging in the air around him.
Lounging coolly in a deep chocolate buckskin chair, his attention hones in on me as if he was waiting for me to appear out of thin air like an apparition.
With two fingers casually set at the side of his square jaw and an elbow resting on the arm of the chair, it looks as if he’s holding court.
He’s haughty and powerful. Aloof. Intoxicating.
Jesus H…he is sexy as all hell, and I hate it. I hate that a man who looks as good as he does is such an arrogant bastard with a god complex, who has some sort of bone to pick with me. It’s almost as if he’s found all of my buttons and he’s pushing every one of them with glee.
Prick.
I drop my gaze from his piercing cocoa eyes and oh boy…
…big mistake.
As my eyes helplessly fall down the length of him, I attempt to ignore how perfectly his crisp heather-gray button-down fits his muscled frame, or how the top two buttons are undone, showing off just a smattering of mouth-watering chest hair, or how the midnight-black blazer he dons stretches seamlessly from shoulder to broad shoulder.
I bite my lip and keep going, knowing I should just stop while the stopping’s good because those long legs of his are spread wide apart, and holy crap, I battle with myself not to drop my eyes to his crotch where I know I’ll find a nice big bulge behind his expensive fitted trousers.
I lose the fight.
God damn, I am a weak woman.
Shit.
I mean…holy effing shit.
Even from twenty feet away it’s easy to see the guy is doubly blessed.
No. Ignore the way he looks as if he’s a mythical sexgician who just stepped straight from a Dolce & Gabbana ad, Saine. Jackass, jackass, jackass.
Resolved, my eyes snap back to his, mine now hard and crusted over, but his…they’re intently studying me. Making me heat up. Making me burn like wildfire fanned by a gentle breeze.
I don’t know why I stand frozen while he takes his turn leisurely perusing me now, but I do. I allow him to drag his blazing gaze down my face, my throat. I suppress a shiver when it lingers for long seconds on my breasts, bared in a merlot plunging camisole, the generous swell of them pushed up and together thanks to the secret of Victoria. Which, let’s face it, is no secret at all: Men like boobs.
I instinctively suck in my stomach as he continues his trek down my torso to the juncture of my thighs, barely covered by the shortest black leather skirt I own and chose with intent. I’m sure I hear him force in a sharp hit of oxygen a second before his nostrils flare and his jaw tightens.
I hide my smile.
I may have a few extra pounds on me and a few too many jiggly parts no woman wants to jiggle, but with dark hair falling like water down my back and smoky, sultry eyes painted to pop, and a killer outfit that shows off my best assets, even I can admit I’m pretty freaking hot.
What I won’t admit is that I dressed for Bennett Montgomery tonight, the same as I do every other night I play at The Revelry in case he shows.
I’ll be damned if I’ll ever admit that.
Remembering I’m supposed to be mad, not turned on, I lock wills with him and slant a single brow in deliberate defiance.
You want to play, Bennett Montgomery?
Oh, I’ll play, all right.
But I play by my rules and my rules alone.
And I don’t lose.
Or at least, that was the plan.
CHAPTER 2
Bennett
Sable hair.
Mossy eyes. Dangerous curves.
Long legs that drop a man’s IQ by twenty points.
Wits and a temper to match.
She’s flawless. Every goddamn inch of her is perfection.
My cock is as hard as a crowbar. My need for her as potent and irresistible as it was the first time I laid eyes on her in that putrid green bridesmaid dress nursing a dry martini with three olives she just swirled around in clear desolation.
She stands at the mouth of the kitchen, breasts heaving, lips pursed, that death glare skewering me in place. She’s spitting mad. The steam rolling out of her ears hovers over her head like an angelic halo. Or a devil’s calling card. And, surprisingly, I’ve come to like both sides of her equally. The sweet and the tart. Although she’s lacking in the sweet at the moment.
Saine Campbell.
Fascinating. Cagey. A puzzle I’ve yet to solve.
Saine Campbell.
My partner’s sister. The very bane of my existence.
Saine Campbell.
The one woman I couldn’t just fuck and forget, and believe me…I’ve tried forgetting everything about Saine Campbell.
And though I’ve spent the last few years trying to figure out the why’s of her impact on me, I’ve decided it doesn’t matter. It just is. She is the most extraordinary creature I have ever met.
That gravelly lilt of hers still
rings in my ears. The way her eyes stayed on mine orgasm after sweet orgasm is burned into my memory for life. How she peeled her clothes off for me, piece by piece, her moves wary but wild, not quite innocent but not quite experienced, is fodder for the spank bank. It’s used frequently let me tell you.
And the taste of her? Jesus Christ. The taste of Saine Campbell has utterly haunted me. Her skin was like sugared orange slices. Her tangy release still reminds me of a handful of candied skittles. I’m now officially a candy junkie.
But while her physical appeal is undeniable and she is an incredible lover I’ve yet to find a repeat of, it’s not that. She has this undefined, indescribable power over me, and she doesn’t even know it.
When I was twenty, my father and I sat by mother’s bedside and each held a hand as she took her last breaths. He looked up at me with fat tears and fresh loss in his eyes and told me when the woman came along I was meant to marry she’d scramble every sane thought I had and I wouldn’t not only give a shit, I’d be on my knees begging for more.
I haven’t thought clearly in four long years.
So yeah. Forgetting this woman has been a completely futile effort.
For me, anyway.
For her, not so much, I guess.
And though I’m a very different man now than the one I was when we met—both inside and out—I’d be lying if I didn’t say it was a blow to the ol’ male ego and that I’ve made her life slightly miserable because of it.
I’m not proud, though I’m not honorable enough to stop it, either.
So here we are, at odds. Her hating me. Me desperate for her but not willing to give in to what I’ve wanted to do since the moment I set my starved eyes on her once again six months ago when I insisted Fallen Angel was the perfect house band to breathe life back into a club that I don’t even give a rat’s ass about. Will fought me on it but if he wanted my money, I wanted her in return.
So I invested in what I thought was a sinkhole for one reason and one reason alone.
Drawn to Him: A Romance Collection Page 44
