Daring Dixie

by Tara Crescent

  12

  Hunter

  When Dixie tells me her fantasy, it takes all the willpower I possess to keep quiet. I want to volunteer—of course I do. I’m not insane. I’m not blind, and I sure as hell am not immune to her.

  I don’t know what instinct possessed me to ask her about her fantasies. I wasn’t sure what she’d say, but I thought it would be something a small step up from pure vanilla. Pink fur-covered handcuffs or something like that.

  But no. Once again, Dixie is full of surprises. Holy fuck, she likes to be watched. She might even want a threesome.

  And I want to give it all to her. I want to make every single one of her wicked fantasies come true.

  But I hadn’t said anything. Because as much as I want to, it isn’t a good idea. It wouldn’t be casual sex with Dixie. She’s not that type of woman. She would want a relationship that was about more than kinky sex.

  She deserves a relationship that’s about more than kinky sex. I’m just not the right person to give it to her. Not now. I’m too numb to form emotional attachments.

  When clients lose their loved ones, I tell them not to expect anything of themselves for a year. The first twelve months is a time for survival. It’s not the time to make any major changes.

  Even if I’d volunteered, there’s no guarantee she would have accepted. She’s still grappling with her wants and needs. When I was in my twenties, I might have tried harder to convince her to live out her fantasies, but I’m in my thirties now, and I don’t want to talk her into having sex with me. I want her to want it.

  The surge of possessiveness that went through you when she approached that guy? That was nothing, was it? And if she finds someone to participate in her fantasy—

  I push away that thought and tamp down my instinctive spike of jealousy. She’s free to sleep with whoever she wants. I have no claim on her.

  I turn into the driveway. The house is dark. If she knew I was coming home, my mother always left the porch light on for me.

  I park the car and enter the house. The full-fledged erection I sported when Dixie told me her fantasy has subsided, but I’m still semi-erect. It wouldn’t take much to close my eyes, to visualize Dixie in a car with me, naked, writhing on my lap, bouncing on my cock. To picture her eyes going wide as Eric walks up. To hear her gasp of shock. To feel her clench around my erection.

  Fuck. I need a cold shower, stat. It’s not the only thing that will take care of my erection, but it’s been a very long time since I’ve jerked off in my mother’s house, and it somehow feels wrong.

  You’re a fucking mess, Driesse.

  I’m about to head upstairs when a car turns into the driveway. Dixie? Could she have changed her mind?

  It’s not her. It’s Mitch Donahue. “I was driving by, and I saw the porch light was on,” he says with an ingratiating smile. “You’re a hard man to reach, Hunter.”

  “You can’t see the light from the street,” I retort bluntly. “The house is in a valley. You have to turn into the lane to catch sight of it.”

  “Like I said, I was driving by,” he says blandly. “Can I come in?”

  I’ve been ignoring Donahue’s attempts to reach me. After my discussion with Brian Holland, my mother’s lawyer, I should have looked into his allegations, but I haven’t. It just all seems so pointless, and I don’t have the time or the inclination or the energy to do anything about it. All I’ve done is dodge Donahue’s calls. You’d think he’d get the message.

  I step aside, and he enters. I wave him to the living room. He takes a seat on the couch. “Have you had a chance to think about what you’re going to do with this house?”

  No. I’m only in Highfield two days a week, and it seems ridiculous to hold onto this house just for a place to crash. I have many friends in the neighborhood who have offered me their spare bedrooms. Caleb and Nolan both live close by. Xavier owns a freaking castle. If none of that works out, I can rent a studio apartment. I don’t need a lot of room. It’s just one night a week.

  This house doesn’t mean anything to me without my mother. The kitchen isn’t a place for endless cups of coffee and long conversations any longer. The garden is chock-full of weeds. I still haven’t gone into her bedroom. Still can’t face it.

  I don’t want to hold onto this house. Maybe if I let it go, I’ll be able to get rid of this numbness. Maybe I’ll be able to move on.

  But do I want to sell it to Donahue? Do I want the lot to be divided up, and six hideous homes built among the rolling hills? They’ll raze down this house, rip up my mother’s vegetable garden, and cut down the trees dotting the gently rolling hills. The property will be transformed—changing from a serene refuge into a cookie-cutter subdivision.

  That would have broken my mother’s heart.

  “I appreciate your interest, but I’m going to pass on your offer.”

  A weight lifts off me the moment I tell Donahue I’m out. It feels good to make this decision.

  Of course, the man doesn’t take my answer at face value. He pushes back. “Look, Hunter. Can I be honest with you?”

  Mitch Donahue wouldn’t know honesty if it came up and slapped him in the face. “Sure.” I don’t care what he has to say, but this might be the fastest way to get him to leave, short of throwing him out the door.

  “The offer I made is a really good one. You're not going to get that kind of money anywhere else.”

  “Money isn't the only factor in my decision,” I respond. “I’m not in a situation where I need to make urgent financial decisions.”

  He doesn’t like my answer. Frustration flashes on his face before he wipes it clean, replacing it with a broad smile. “I totally understand.” He leans forward, trying another tack. “I came to know your mother quite well.”

  I very much doubt that.

  “She was very involved in the community,” he continues. “She gave generously to several organizations in the neighborhood. She led several of their fund-raising drives. Why, I don’t think the domestic violence shelter would have opened without her support.”

  Donahue is persistent; I have to give him that. And while I doubt that he knows my mother, he’s done his homework. One time, she’d even broached the idea of a charity auction at Club M. I’d almost spit out my coffee at her suggestion. “Do you have any idea what happens at the club?” I’d asked her.

  She’d snorted in amused derision. “I don’t know why young people think they’re the first generation to have sex,” she’d replied archly. “You do know I—”

  “Stop right there,” I’d begged her. “Please. I want to hold onto my innocence.”

  She’d laughed. “To answer your question, Hunter, I don’t care what happens at the club, not as long as people are generous with their wallets. Sex money spends the same as any other.”

  Thankfully, she found other sources of funding, because there had been no auctions at Club M that year.

  Donahue is waiting for me to say something. “It’s late,” I say bluntly. “I want to get to bed. Why don’t you tell me where you’re heading with this?”

  “Six million dollars is a lot of money,” he says. “Sure, you could hold onto this property. Or you could accept my offer. Think of how much good you could do with that money. Think of what a difference you would make. In your mother’s name. To honor her memory.”

  Well, fuck.

  Fresh doubt assails me. What would my mother have done? Would she have held on to the family home, or would she have done whatever she could to help the nonprofits that meant so much to her?

  “I’ll think about it.”

  The developer nods. “Of course.” He gets to his feet at last. His job is done—I am once again in turmoil, uncertain about the best course of action. “I ran into Ms. Thorsen yesterday. Have you met Sophia yet? She’s new in town. She works for the community health center, the one on Stuart Street.”

  “Yes.” She’d been at the will reading. My mother had left her organization some money, but I ha
dn’t paid attention to the specifics.

  “They’re having difficulty making ends meet,” he says. He’s trying to disguise the glee in his voice and doing a terrible job at it. I suppress the urge to punch him in the jaw. “It’s so hard to get a new nonprofit off the ground. She thought she was going to get a government grant, but then it fell through. I promised her that I’d give them a generous donation if I have a good year.” He gives me a sly smile. “This is the only deal I have in the works.”

  Mitch Donahue has the subtlety of a sledgehammer. I walk him to the front door. “See you around, Donahue.”

  Of course, he doesn’t let me have the last word. “I’ll call you in a week or two,” he says. “Think about what I said, Hunter. Think about the difference that six million dollars could make.”

  I watch his car pull away, my mood dark once again. I want easy answers, but there are none. I wish I knew what to do.

  13

  Eric

  Monday night, I’d told Xavier he had a problem. “Someone’s trying to frame you. It’s been going on for a few months. I’m trying to find out who’s behind it, but the trail is convoluted. There are a series of shell companies, half of them headquartered in the Caymans, and finding out what’s going on will neither be easy nor quick.”

  Xavier had absorbed that in silence.

  “This is a big deal, Xavier. This could blow up in your face. Any idea who might have a grudge against you?”

  “There’s a long list of people,” he’d said wryly. “But people with the skill and the resources to pull this off? I don’t know, Eric. Nothing’s jumping out at me. I’ll think about it.”

  He had seemed distracted, and I didn’t need to be a genius to figure out why. “Is Layla okay?”

  He’d looked up. “Why do you ask?”

  “It’s always Layla.”

  He’d smiled at that, a sad smile. Then he’d changed the subject. “You’re going to need help,” he’d said. “You already have your hands full here with the mess Pierre left. I’ll call Adrian and Brody. They have some financial analysts on their team. They might be able to help.”

  Tuesday morning, I’d arrived early at work once again. Dixie was already there, of course, her blue Beetle parked in the usual spot in the far corner, under a leafy tree to protect it from the sunlight. You told her you’d keep her posted, my conscience reminded me. She was the one who spotted the suspicious transactions. You wouldn’t have gotten anywhere without her.

  I’d wanted to walk down to her office. Linger there, ask her what she was working on. But I’d been only too aware of my feelings. Saturday night, when Dixie started to walk up to that guy, a sharp shard of jealousy had pierced me. Pick me, I’d wanted to say. Kiss me. Tell me what you need, and I will give it to you.

  I’m insane. This lust is a major problem. This is Cici all over again. I’m barreling full speed into another train wreck, and I don’t have enough sense to get off before the crash.

  I’d called Dixie instead, and I’d briefed her on what I’d found. She’d been concerned, and she’d promised to keep digging.

  And that was that. Or it should have been, but of course, it’s not possible to avoid Dixie. We work together, after all. We’re on the same floor. Our offices are a few doors apart. I run into her in the kitchen multiple times during the week, and every time, I have to fight to keep my voice calm and controlled. Yesterday, I’d walked into the copy room, and she’d been on her hands and knees, fixing a paper jam, and I’d stared at her tight ass, my brain going straight to the gutter, and I had to turn around and leave before my erection gave me away.

  Fucking chemistry.

  The week speeds by. I’m swamped. Apart from cleaning up the various messes Pierre left, I also have to work closely with John Stone, and that’s trying my patience. Stone thinks he’s God’s gift to numbers, and he bristles at my questions, viewing them as an affront to his credibility. It’s exhausting navigating around his ego.

  This is why I prefer to work alone; I don’t have to put up with people. Xavier owes me.

  My temper is on the verge of fraying by the time Friday afternoon rolls around. I haven’t been able to figure out who’s trying to frame Xavier, I’ve spent most of the week putting out one ridiculous fire after another, and Kevin Hughes has sent me three emails bitching about Legal holding up his contracts.

  “You look like a ray of sunshine,” Xavier greets me as I walk into the conference room for the weekly senior team huddle. I’m early, and he’s even earlier; he’s the only one there.

  “Go away.”

  He gives me a rueful grin. “I really am sorry,” he says. “I screwed up. I shouldn’t have waited so long to fire Pierre. How bad is it?”

  I make a valiant attempt to look for the silver lining. “If it wasn’t for XPM, it would be fine,” I tell him. “People might grumble about how Pierre did things differently, but they’ll soon get used to my style, and in any case, I’m not here to win friends and influence people. But the XPM thing—” John Stone walks into the room, and I shut up. Until I know otherwise, everyone is a suspect.

  Except Dixie. Why is that, do you think?

  Stupid inner voice. Dixie isn’t under suspicion because these fraudulent transactions started before she joined Leforte.

  And there’s no other reason? None at all?

  The rest of the team files in. Kevin Hughes is here in person, as I suspected he’d be. “Ah, Xavier, you’re here,” he says, looking relieved to see my friend at the huddle. “I need your help. My contracts are stuck, and Legal refuses to get on board.”

  Dixie walks in just then, and she hears Kevin’s last sentence. Her shoulders stiffen, and her face wipes clean of expression. Wordlessly, she takes a seat next to Hira, the head of HR. She sat there last week as well. Hira must be a friend. She’s dressed less formally than usual—it’s Casual Friday—she’s wearing an olive-green dress, and her hair is down, hanging in loose waves around her face. Hira says something to her, and she smiles, her face lighting up.

  Stop staring at her, Kane.

  Xavier’s watching me, his eyebrow raised. Crap. I let my gaze wander around the room, hoping that’ll throw him off the scent.

  When everyone gets here, Xavier clears his throat. The side conversations die down. “Shall we get going? Let’s go around the room. What have you been working on, what’s going well, what’s going badly, and what do you need from me?”

  The team makes its reports. Kevin Choi, the head of IT, updates us on corporate security. “We conducted a review this week in six of the subsidiaries,” he says. “We found one hundred and thirteen unlocked laptops. Twenty-seven of them had the laptop password written on a post-it note on the lid. We need to update our training—we haven’t had a security workshop in two years, and it shows.”

  Ouch.

  Xavier clears the workshop. Stone goes next. His long, rambling update is heavy on self-congratulation and light on detail. Tanya, the head of Marketing, talks about a corporate-wide branding initiative. I give the team an update on the projects I’m working on. Dixie is professional and to the point, as is Hira. Finally, it’s Kevin’s turn.

  “I have a problem,” he says ponderously. “As you know, Zephyrus is growing by twenty percent year over year. We’re moving quickly and aggressively; we have to.” He gives Dixie a sullen glare. “We’ve been in talks to buy Scotfield, one of our biggest competitors in Europe. Unfortunately, Legal won’t approve the deal. If it were up to Ms. Ketcham, we wouldn’t take any risks.”

  Dixie compresses her lips.

  He thinks she doesn’t take risks? Hughes has no idea. I think about her at Club M on Saturday, her dress hugging her body, her lips soft and kissable, admittedly outside her comfort zone but sticking with it anyway.

  It’s easy to categorize Dixie as rigid or as a prude—I’d done it myself the first time we met. But the more time I spend around her, the more I realize that’s not quite it. Dixie is complicated. She doesn’t fit neatly
in a box. She defies expectations.

  Kevin is in full swing now. “Ever since Ms. Ketcham stepped into her role, Legal is too cautious, too risk-averse, too rigid. She doesn’t understand how the world works. Pierre would have approved this deal.”

  Okay, that’s quite enough of that. Hughes is being seriously unprofessional. I lean forward. “Pierre Valade is no longer with Leforte Enterprises. He is not in charge of Mergers & Acquisitions; I am. I don’t care how Pierre used to do things. Zephyrus shouldn’t have been negotiating this deal; my department should have been involved right from the start.”

  John opens his mouth to say something, and I shake my head sharply. Stay out of this, Stone. “I’ve read Ms. Ketcham’s summary of the risks involved. I agree with her analysis. Leforte is a multi-billion-dollar business. We don't do anything stupid. We don’t skirt any ethical lines. We have rules and procedures designed to protect the business, and I intend to ensure we follow them.”

  Dixie gives me a thoughtful look. I’d give anything to know what she’s thinking, but she’s good at keeping a poker face.

  Stone glares at me. “I’ve run the numbers myself,” he blusters. “The risk is vastly exaggerated.” He turns to Xavier. “What do you think?”

  Does he think my friend is going to overrule me? This is going to be fun.

  Xavier frowns. “Dixie is the General Counsel,” he says. “Eric heads up Mergers & Acquisitions. If neither of them thinks this deal should go through, then I defer to their expertise.”

  The meeting breaks up shortly after that. Elisa deliberately schedules the huddles for Friday afternoon—that way, everyone is motivated to be brief and get through things quickly.

  Xavier follows me to my office. “What?” I ask once he’s shut the door. “You think I was too harsh on Hughes?”

  “No, and even if I do, it doesn’t matter. I meant what I said. I trust your judgment.” He leans forward. “Any word from Lockhart & Payne?”