Beached with the Bad Boy (Bad Boys on Holiday #3)

by Sylvia Pierce

  Interesting little tell you’ve got…

  “You okay there, Sunshine?” he teased.

  Clearly flustered, she said, “Listen, I know you like to flaunt your junk to every woman with a pulse, but could you—I don’t know—put some clothes on it?”

  “Could you—I don’t know—let me back into my room? Where all my clothes are? Because I unpacked them when I checked in yesterday morning, hours before you showed up?”

  “You don’t have to be such a jerk about it.” The woman sighed, her mouth pulling into a frown. For some reason it made him feel bad. Which was bullshit—she was the one being a jerk.

  Still, he didn’t like that he’d put those frown lines on her face…

  Dude. What the serious fuck?

  Trick stopped his train of thought before he turned any more sentimental. He hadn’t wanted to start off the day bickering with a ball and chain like an old married bastard. He didn’t do morning afters, especially considering they hadn’t even hooked up.

  “Can I go in now?” he asked, gesturing impatiently toward the bedroom at the end of the hall.

  “Go ahead,” she finally said. “Just don’t snoop through my things.”

  “Not interested. Believe me.”

  The first thing he noticed was the floor. She’d put the dresser back in place, but now, the wood floor was gouged with four fresh grooves from the legs.

  That’s coming out of her deposit.

  From the looks of things, she hadn’t unpacked—her suitcase was at the end of the bed where she’d left it last night, and all of his clothes looked undisturbed in the closet. The bed was freshly made, not a thing out of place. Yet the room felt totally different. He was always amazed at how the presence of a woman could change everything about a place in a matter of minutes—the way it looked, the way it felt, the way it smelled.

  In the few hours she’d spent in the bedroom, she’d managed to fill it completely with her scent—like honeysuckle and oranges and something else he couldn’t quite identify—something totally unique to her.

  Damn. She smelled so fucking good, so soft. Was it her shampoo? Her skin? Fuck if he didn’t want to get up close and personal, just to find out…

  As if she could read his thoughts, the woman dropped something into the kitchen sink, the clatter jolting him.

  Trick didn’t know if she was married or attached or what, but he figured she had to live alone. No way would any dude in his right mind put up with all that racket, not for lust or love.

  Like you know jack shit about love.

  Trick shoved a hand through his hair. This whole experience was rattling his cage, and not in a good way. Most of the women who’d entered his life were just as happy to leave the moment they’d gotten their fill. He knew what the media said about him, and yeah, he had been around the block a few times. But he’d never lied about his intentions, always gave as good as he got, and never, ever made promises he didn’t intend to keep.

  At least not to the women he’d bedded.

  Ignoring the familiar stab of pain, he headed for the closet, pulling out a fresh pair of running shorts and a white T-shirt. The run. He just needed to go on that run. An hour with his feet pounding the sand, the wind at his back, the roar of the ocean in his ears… That would fix him right up. By the time he got back, she’d be gone—or close to it—and he could get to work.

  Back in the kitchen, the woman was pouring coffee into two mugs, her back turned to him. One of her curls had come loose from the bun, trailing down her back in a long spiral.

  He resisted the urge to tug on it.

  “Coffee?” she asked, turning toward him. Her smile was tentative, but sincere. It was the first pleasant thing she’d said since their meeting. At his grateful nod, she said, “How do you take it?”

  “I like my coffee how I like my women.”

  The woman rolled those bright green eyes. “Let me guess: Old and bitter?”

  “Hot and naked, a fresh one every morning.” Ignoring her open mouth, Trick took the mug from her outstretched hand and lifted it in a cheer. “Here’s to a brand new day.”

  Their eyes locked as they took their first sips. Trick tried not to wince. The coffee was so strong it was nearly chewable.

  No wonder she’s so damn high-strung.

  “So what’s the good news, finally?” he asked, pretending to take another sip. He’d have to water it down the moment she looked away, or else he’d be wired for days.

  Now, she smiled. Big and bright, the kind that changed her whole face.

  Damn, she really is pretty…

  “I finally got through to management. Yep, they double-booked us—totally their fault. So, they’re going to put one of us in a hotel for the rest of the week, plus give a discount for next time. Here.” She grabbed a piece of paper from the countertop and handed it over. “It’s the number for the office. I told them you’d call back to get the info for your hotel.”

  Trick narrowed his eyes over the rim of the mug. “My hotel?”

  “Well, I’m certainly not leaving. Like I said, I booked this place weeks ago. The management knows me—I come here every year. By the way, you owe me about two hundred bucks for all the food you ate. I paid extra for them to stock it for me.”

  Ignoring all this, he said, “The girl I spoke with yesterday assured me the place was free.”

  “The girl. You’re talking about Missy, I presume?”

  “Misty.”

  “Trust me, it’s Missy. She’s the manager’s daughter. And she was obviously star-struck, and inadvertently gave you a cottage that was already rented.”

  “By you.”

  “You catch on pretty quick for a rock star.”

  “Funny, because for a librarian, you’re pretty dense.”

  “Last night I’m a prostitute, today a librarian…” She forced a cheesy grin. “Only in America!”

  “I never said you were a prostitute. I simply asked if my manager had sent you. It wouldn’t be the first time—the guy’s got strange ideas about motivation.”

  She swept her hand down the front of her shirt. “Do I look like an escort to you?”

  This made him smile. He raked his eyes over her body, taking his sweet time. “I mean, I’m saying. You’ve got the whole dirty librarian thing going on with the glasses and the bun and—”

  “Well, it’s been lovely chatting with you.” She poured another round of coffee into her mug, then squeezed past him out of the kitchen. The space was so small, her arm and shoulder brushed against his chest. He nearly shuddered at the contact. “But I need to get set up for work.”

  He watched her retreat down the hall, that messy bun bobbing on her head, the perfect orbs of her ass bouncing with each step.

  “No problem,” he said to her back. “I’ll be back in a few hours. I can help you pack up if you want.”

  At this, she came to a full stop at the bedroom doorway. When she turned to face him, her eyes were wide with shock and annoyance.

  Three, two, one, and—

  “I’m not packing anything,” she said. “You need to call management now. I’m working here—I can’t have you coming and going at all hours, taking your sweet time getting out of here.”

  “Oh, I’m not getting out of here. Just going for a run. So if you need help loading up, it’s now or never.”

  She put her hand on her hip and furrowed her brow. Classic.

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Suit yourself.” Trick shrugged. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

  “And then you’re leaving?”

  “And then I’ll probably shower—you’re welcome to join me if you like—and after that, I’ll eat some lunch—you’re welcome to cook it for me if you like—and then I’ll get to work. But leaving? No, my sweet little bookworm. I’m afraid that’s not happening.”

  She was steaming mad, her ears turning red like before, only now her whole face was in on it, too, her freckles standing out adorably against her
pink skin. Trick could practically see the smoke pouring out of her ears.

  He hadn’t had this much fun with a woman outside the bedroom in…well…ever.

  “We need to resolve this,” she said. “Now.” She tried to stomp toward him down the hall, but instead of looking angry or intimidating, she looked like a total klutz, spilling coffee over her hand and all over the bottom of her shirt.

  “Smooth,” he said. “Real smooth.”

  She shook off her hand, pushing past him again to get to the kitchen sink. Setting down her mug, she lifted the hem of her shirt and ran the edge under the water, revealing a strip of creamy bare skin just above her hipbone. Her sweatpants were rolled at the waist like they were just waiting for someone to come along and unroll the rest of them, one inch at a time…

  “Need some help with that?” he asked, his mouth pulling into a lopsided grin. “I could hold something for you. Or maybe you could hold something for me. I’m open to negotiations.”

  “You are so cocky,” she said, refusing to meet his eyes.

  “And you’ve got the pictures to prove it.”

  She didn’t take the bait; just stood on her tiptoes and wrung out her shirt, letting it fall back into place. “So you’re refusing to give up the rental? Even after I let you stay here last night, and made you coffee, and contacted management myself?”

  Trick nodded. “Even after all that generosity you’ve bestowed upon me, I’m still not giving up my rental.”

  She was standing in front of him now, her back to the counter, blocking his water bottle.

  Reaching behind her with one arm, Trick leaned in close, enjoying her sharp intake of breath. He stared at her, hard and intense, daring her to look away, registering the change in her body as he held her gaze. Her breath quickened, the vein on her neck pulsing.

  He wanted to close his lips over it.

  To kiss.

  To suck.

  I bet she tastes so fucking good…

  “Well I’m… I’m not leaving,” she stammered.

  “Then I guess you’d better get used to this charming face,” he said softly, finally grabbing his water bottle. “Because you and I are about to get real close.”

  She swallowed hard, her eyes wide. Unlike last night, there was no fear there, only surprise, curiosity, and the one thing guaranteed to fuck up his plans for the rest of the week:

  Desire.

  Before his dick had a chance to change his mind, Trick backed away, headed out the front door, and took off down the beach, his plans completely shot.

  So much for getting any work done today.

  So much for getting any work done at all.

  Chapter Six

  Sweat rolled down between his shoulder blades, the ocean breeze chilling his skin despite the sun’s punishing heat. He was panting hard, tearing up the shoreline with every stride, trying like hell to outrun his ghosts.

  Never worked.

  At least it kept him in shape, and gave him a reason to escape the situation in the house.

  Trick couldn’t believe how stubborn that woman was being. Did the beach house mean that much to her that she was willing to share it with a total stranger for a week? He didn’t like pulling the celebrity card, but maybe he should—drop a few names, wave a little more cash around, get the managers to remove her once and for all.

  Just give her the cottage, asshole.

  Gabe again, his ever-present voice of reason, right on schedule.

  No can do, Trick thought. I was there first.

  That, and he couldn’t stop thinking about her. God, that woman. He didn’t even know her name, but unlike most of his conquests, this one was a face he’d never forget.

  Because unlike most of your conquests, she doesn’t want you, dickhole.

  Yeah, that much was obvious. And probably for the best.

  Trick wiped his brow with the bottom of his shirt, pushing himself to run faster. He needed to stay focused, eye on the prize. Anything less was putting his whole career at risk, and no woman was worth that.

  He’d enjoyed getting a rise out of her this morning, but he certainly couldn’t keep that up all week. He had serious work to do, and no way could he get anything done with her around. She wouldn’t budge. He knew the type: uptight as hell, total control freak. She’d either drive him crazy or set him on fire in his sleep.

  Or get you so worked up you can’t sleep.

  That too, he thought.

  Well, none of that shit sounded promising—not if he wanted to get his song written. If he didn’t finish this album, then all of it was for nothing. The voice lessons that left him raw and sore for days. The grueling all-night practices. Gabe, ordering him around like a drill sergeant, one chord progression after another. All the chances he took, the risks, just hoping for the big payoff. The golden ticket.

  When he got his first deal, it had felt like winning the lottery. And though Gabe had been working just as hard—harder, even—he’d never hit that jackpot for himself. When it came to technique, Gabe was eons beyond Trick—the man worked the strings so fast, his fingers were no more than a blur—but he always said he didn’t have the soul that Trick had. The raw stuff. The part that made people ache inside when they heard Trick play.

  Trick didn’t know about all that, but Gabe was so certain. And the man didn’t have a jealous bone in his body—he’d always said that as long as one of them made it, it’d be like both of them had, and Trick had believed him.

  He still believed him.

  On the day Trick left California for New York, Gabe made him promise that he’d never look back.

  Now, he just didn’t want to let him down.

  Trick cocked his head, ear toward the sky, wondering if Gabe had any more thoughts.

  Give her the cottage.

  The voice in his head always cut to the damn chase. Right on schedule, prick.

  Trick sighed. Yeah, giving up the cottage was probably the right call, much as he hated to admit defeat. There was just no point fighting this battle—he had his own demons to worry about. Fuck it. He loved the beach, the ocean view, but a hotel would probably be more conducive to productivity anyway.

  By the time he finished his six miles, Trick had decided he’d be a gentleman about it and let the woman have her way. But the moment he got back and saw what she’d done to the place, the gentleman thing blew the fuck out to sea.

  She was on her hands and knees in the living room, brandishing a tape gun like a weapon, her hair fuzzy and wild, eyes sparking like a crazed warrior queen.

  Pointing the tape gun at his chest, she said, “Don’t you dare take another step forward. Not until you’ve agreed to the terms and conditions. Signature required, Boy Band.”

  Trick pinched the bridge of his nose, grumbling into his hand. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Does this look like a joke to you, Trick Harper?”

  Layla tore off the last piece of blue masking tape and pressed it firmly to the floor in the living room, setting the boundaries. She’d done the dining room and patio as well, and made a sign-up sheet for kitchen and bathroom times to ensure they didn’t cross paths any more than absolutely necessary. Obviously, she’d be staying in the bedroom—a place he wasn’t allowed to set foot in, tape or no tape—and half of the living room was his.

  It was, admittedly, a bit over the top. Honestly, she was just hoping it was enough to scare him off for good. They’d gotten off on the wrong foot before—her cowering in the bedroom last night, then practically coming undone in the kitchen anytime he got close. She was just unnerved. Now that the shock had totally worn off, she was feeling more herself.

  And he needed to know who he was dealing with here. She was Layla freaking Hart. International bestselling author. Creator of worlds. Weaver of tales. Maker of spreadsheets. A woman not to be trifled with.

  Trick had just come back from his run, and now he stood in the living room, eyeing up the pile of his cloth
ing and the duffle bag she’d taken the liberty of relocating. He was half naked, as usual, his chest gleaming with sweat, a T-shirt tossed over his shoulder, his running shorts slung low on his hips.

  Layla forced herself not to follow the trail of hair from his bellybutton down to… the place she wasn’t allowed to think about. She’d seen enough last night.

  And dreamed about it enough, too…

  “Is this…” Trick lowered his hand and took in the scene, his eyes finally landing on hers as she tossed aside the empty tape gun and got up off her knees. “Are you… are you serious right now?”

  “Not like I had a choice,” she explained, dusting the sand from her hands. “You’re refusing to vacate my rental, thereby making this a shared living arrangement. We need clear boundaries and a fair system, so I came up with one. Problem solved. Enjoy your run?”

  She’d meant for it to come out dripping with sarcasm, but it sounded more like curiosity. She couldn’t help it—despite the circumstances, everything about him made her want to know more. His presence intimidated her as much as it enraged her.

  As much as it turned her on.

  Ugh, the whole thing was so damn distracting. She’d managed to avoid men for two years. What was it about this jerk that had her suddenly boy-crazy?

  Trick closed the distance between them in two long strides, stopping just inches away from her. Heat radiated from his body, and it was all she could do not to reach her hands out and touch him, run her fingers down his slick, muscled chest, the ridges of his abs, that line of soft, blond hair…

  “Explain,” he said, nostrils flaring. “Now.”

  Layla took a step backward, the backs of her thighs connecting with the couch. He closed the gap again, his eyes boring into her.

  They were gray, she could see now. Bluish-gray, actually, with a ring of darker blue around the outside.

  The color reminded her of the ocean.

  “It’s simple,” she said, forcing her eyes away from his hypnotic stare. She gestured at the perimeter she’d marked off in the living room, a square around the couch and coffee table that she was willing to sacrifice. “This part in here is your bedroom, so I’ll steer clear.”