Con Man: Complete Series Box Set: A Bad Boy Romance

by M. S. Parker

  The fact that she'd done that for a complete stranger intrigued me.

  Hell, she was pretty much the only thing that intrigued me at the moment.

  Then the person who'd come into the room stepped close enough that I could see who it was. My heart twisted, suddenly too full of emotions.

  Tall, muscular despite his age. Dark brown hair streaked with white. Emerald eyes that looked sadder than they had in a long time.

  “Oh, kid. What'd you do now?” The old man shook his head as he pulled up a chair.

  Father Doron O'Toole. The closest thing to family I had.

  My throat felt like it was tightening around the tube, and my eyes stung. I appreciated the fact that he was here, but I didn't want him to see me like this. Weak. Helpless.

  Destroyed.

  I motioned with my right hand. We'd been pretty much sticking with the 'blink once for yes, twice for no' line of communication, but this wasn't something I wanted to play a guessing game with. I'd had one thought repeating over and over in my head since I'd woken up. I'd tried to push it away, tried to think of something else, but now that he was here, I needed to tell him.

  After a moment, he saw what I was doing and found a pad of paper and a pen. He set it on my bed and put the pen in my hand. It took a moment before my fingers could grip it correctly, and even then, I knew my handwriting was shit. It didn't matter though, as long as it was legible.

  When I held it up for Father O'Toole to read, I knew I'd managed at least that much.

  Four words.

  Four shaky words.

  I want to die.

  Continues in Dom X Vol. 2.

  CLICK HERE to read the complete five book box set of the Dom X series. On sale for a limited time.

  Bonus 2 - Pure Lust Vol. 1

  M. S. Parker & Cassie Wild

  Chapter One

  Three steps into the white marble and glass lobby of the Bouvier building and I knew I was so out of my league. The skyscraper housed the largest fashion house in Manhattan and there I was, a tiny little country mouse, dressed in last year’s fashions.

  Appointment or not, I didn’t belong here. The suited man behind the counter must have thought so too. I only had a few seconds inside the bright elegance of the lobby before he addressed me coolly, “All visitors must sign in. Name?”

  “Gabriella Baine.”

  The few people milling about a large square of white leather couches in the cavernous lobby looked up at the sound of my voice. Had I really spoken that loud?

  Two bored models sipped sparkling water while a man in a close-fitting, tailored suit strode over to the windows, looking outside, then glared at his watch. The fourth person, a young man with a bright purple shirt glowing from underneath his conservative suit studied me from under his lashes, the look on his face caught between boredom and hostility.

  He was wearing the same silver visitor’s pin the security guard handed to me. Was he here interviewing for the same job? Bouvier, the internationally known high-end fashion house, was looking for a new talent acquisitions assistant. I guess they could have been interviewing for several positions. I tried a polite smile as I moved to sit down in the sitting area.

  The man in the bright purple shirt all but growled at me.

  I’m in way over my head…

  “Thanks, Kendra.” I muttered.

  My roommate, native New Yorker and six feet of jaw-dropping natural beauty, was a model and while she hadn’t quite hit the big times—yet—she had a few connections. She’d set up this interview as if I was a shoe-in.

  As if.

  Speaking of shoes, I looked down at my patent leather heels. The sexy peekaboos had plenty of shine, but they weren’t designer shoes, and I was sure the people in the lobby had already noticed. Even the guy who’d opened the door for me had worn hand-cobbled loafers.

  I took a deep breath and put on a fake pair of tortoise shell glasses. The stage fright trick I’d picked up studying improvisational theater in college was now a habit, though I liked to think of it more as a quirk.

  It reminded me that what I really wanted out of life was to sit in a small room surrounded by other writers, arguing out the beats, hooks, and jokes of a new television show. Not trying to sell myself as being some sort of expert in acquiring new talent.

  Wearing the glasses, I could make myself look at everything as possible fodder for my writing. This would be a typical fish-out-of-water scene. Maybe I could make it different—the heroine would bolt before it was too late. Take off running down the sidewalk in a fit of hysterical panic. Crash into Prince Charming.

  I could use a Prince Charming, as well as a job.

  Resisting the urge to huff out a dramatic sigh, I swept the room with another nervous glance. I should bolt, though, Prince Charming or not. But I needed the job. My current job was all about connections and experience, but the pay sucked and I needed the money.

  “Ms. Baine?”

  Too late to run now. I made myself smile as I stood.

  It was time to teeter across a slick white marble minefield of possible embarrassments to interview for a job I knew nothing about. You’re paying your dues, I told myself. We all had to pay them. Kendra had paid hers and she was almost there. I had to pay mine.

  “Gabriella?”

  “That’s, ah, me.” I stumbled and tried to play it off as a quick dance shuffle in the doorway of what looked like a break room. The fake glasses slid down my nose and I hurriedly took them off. They might work to calm me, but I didn’t want to explain to people why I didn’t wear them all the time. That would really convince people I had a few screws loose.

  He stepped aside, allowing me to enter. I edged in through the doorway, looking around nervously.

  It was indeed a break room.

  “I’m Simon Hughes.” He spoke in a brisk, borderline rude voice as he came around the table and sat down. He held a file in his hand and he flipped it open, gesturing for me to sit.

  I did, watching as he skimmed the information in the file.

  “It says here you’re from Tennessee.”

  “Yes.” I smiled.

  “I don’t hear much of an accent.”

  I was used to this by now. It had seemed obnoxious when I’d first moved here, but one thing I’d learned early on was that the slow twang of the south wasn’t going to open any doors in New York—and it might in fact slam them in my face.

  “I’ve been gone from home a while. The accent only comes out when I’m riled.” I winked, trying to lighten the tension.

  The young man with the thinning blond hair just studied me with the same cool expression for a long moment. Absently, he smoothed down a skinny tie, brushed invisible lint off his tan suit and adjusted his cufflinks. Something about those gestures seemed familiar, like the way I wore my glasses. A ritual. Possible personality quirk, I told myself. I had an entire mental file of them.

  “I’m sorry for the location,” he said, glancing back down at the file. “Bouvier is having a big launch meeting upstairs and the other conference room is covered in catalog work, but at least there’s coffee.”

  He gestured toward the counter along the wall in what I assumed was an offer. “No, thank you.”

  I was jittery enough.

  He flipped through my application, the silence straining on my nerves until I found myself measuring the steps between me and the door, then that door and the main doors. Could I make a break for it in these heels?

  “So, Ms. Baine.” He reshuffled the papers in front of them, neatly stacked them, aligning the edges in a way that struck me as borderline obsessive. Then he did the tie, lint, cufflink check again.

  The dude had enough quirks going on for a whole cast of characters all by himself.

  Abruptly, he jerked his head up and pinned me with a hard look.

  “Exactly what do you bring to the world of talent acquisition?”

  “A need for talent?” I flashed him a smile.

  “I’ll rephrase.�
�� He tapped a finger on the thin file. “What is your experience in the talent industry, Ms. Baine?”

  Aw, hell…

  The horrible interview continued to go downhill from there. When the door flew open nearly fifteen minutes in—had it only been fifteen minutes—I could have cried in relief.

  Then I caught a look of the intruder.

  Oh. Wow.

  A jaw-dropping gorgeous intruder. He swept aside a pile of files so neatly organized, I knew they had to have been Simon Hughes’ handy work and I watched as the man across from me went red in the face.

  Then I slid the sexy storm another covert look. He was flinging open cabinets and grumbling. Then finally, he grunted, grabbing something from one of them, slamming the door with a resounding bang. He had a fistful of sugar packets.

  He turned, studying us as he ripped them all open at once. Sugar spilled across the counter, only half of it going into the cup.

  Simon Hughes clenched his jaw and focused on me. “I’m sorry. Please continue.”

  I guess we were going to pretend we were still alone.

  “Aren’t you Lee’s assistant?” The man who wasn’t supposed to be there grabbed a stirring stick as he spoke. “What are you doing on the main floor? Isn’t there some kind of attic all you assistants hang in like bats?”

  I laughed out loud and then had to pretend it was my ring tone. I made a good show of turning the phone off and apologizing to Simon. If he hadn’t been glaring at the coffee-swilling, sugar-slinging intruder, I don’t think it would have worked. As it was, neither one even glanced at me.

  “I’m conducting an interview, Mr. McCreary,” Simon said stiffly.

  “And you haven’t even introduced us. I’m Flynn.” The man turned cadet blue eyes on me. All the nerves jittering inside me seemed to coalesce and then explode, turning into something else entirely. Lust.

  Plain and simple.

  Those blue eyes drifted down, lingered on my mouth, then back up.

  Heat suffused me and I managed, barely, not to lick my lips.

  He was bossy and overconfident. I knew his type. He’d be flippant and arrogant through and through. He loomed over that snotty Simon Hughes just because he could and I almost felt bad for the poor guy conducting my lousy interview. But I still had a feeling if he decided to turn his ire my way, I’d be a molten mess.

  Simon shifted nervously in his chair, clearing his throat as he started his tie, lint, cufflink check. “Mr. McCreary—”

  “I’m here for a job interview,” I said, hoping to salvage the situation. “We’ve only got a set amount of time, Mr. McCreary.”

  He cocked an eyebrow at me before he leaned over Simon to read the top file. “Gabriella Baine, from Tennessee.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Too bad you lost the accent. Accents are sexy.”

  I pressed my palms down on the table and spread my fingers to stop from balling my hands into fists. I didn’t find that eyebrow thing sexy. Nope. And I hated that he was flirting during an interview. Definitely.

  Flynn’s blue eyes lingered on me, a faint smile curling his mouth. It was a beautiful mouth, just full enough without being too much. One hundred percent kissable lips.

  Simon looked like he wanted to disappear into the chair, or maybe turn into the invisible lint he was now fussing with.

  This was getting out of control. Aggravated, I looked back at Simon. “I’m sorry, what was your question?”

  Simon went to respond, but Flynn cut him off. “Lee’s assistant, a word please. In private.”

  Flynn yanked Simon from his chair and hauled him out the glass door. I watched as Flynn gave clear instructions with a lot of cutting hand gestures and some head shaking. Somehow I’d lost the job in a matter of syllables and I didn’t know why.

  As he marched away, I could see one other thing. Flynn McCreary had a great ass. Which I supposed was fitting since he was an ass.

  The interviewer’s face was flushed as he came back into the room. “Ms. Baine? Our time is up. I’ll call if we have any further questions.”

  Why am I not surprised? “Thank you.”

  This entire thing had been a disaster from moment one. Without bothering to say anything else, I pushed through the door. Standing in the lobby with its sparkling glass and elegant marble, I tipped my head back and stared up.

  I didn’t belong here and I wasn’t going to pretend like I did.

  Kicking off the borrowed heels, I picked them up and walked barefoot across the lobby. Just before I reached the door, the skin on the back of my neck prickled. Swinging my head around, I caught sight of the bastard who’d cut my interview short.

  Flynn McCreary stood at the visitor’s desk and he had a camera aimed my way. That infuriating smirk was still on his face.

  What the hell?

  I lifted my right hand and flipped him off. It wasn’t like I’d ever be back here anyway.

  “Perfect!” he called as he snapped my picture.

  Chapter Two

  “Why couldn’t you be one of those models who doesn’t eat? Then I wouldn’t feel bad about having a job that pays peanuts.”

  “Great, now I’m hungry for peanuts,” Kendra said. “Did you really give Flynn McCreary the finger?”

  “I flipped the bird to a rude guy who interrupted the interview my beautiful, talented, understanding roommate set up for me,” I countered.

  We stood in our small apartment’s kitchen with the empty cupboard doors hanging open around us. There was one box of pasta left and I was about to get creative with the remaining cans in our pantry.

  It wasn’t the first time we’d been in this situation and it wouldn’t be the last.

  Despite the lack of food, our apartment was my favorite place. The hardwood floors glowed in the sunshine and the old-fashioned wall sconce lighting added a soft glow in the evening. Kendra walked around turning the lamps on as I added water to our one pot. There was a built-in window seat that overlooked our busy street and a typical New York City fire escape we had turned into a small, straggled garden.

  Kendra watered two of the plants and then stretched out on the window seat. Her legs were so long she had to prop them up on the opposite wall and she smiled as she gazed outside.

  We both loved it here.

  Kendra had just been signed on to model for a swimwear line at Bouvier, but the money wouldn’t come in for a while.

  I wrote for a small creative firm, but I might as well write for peanuts for all the money I brought in. I kept hoping I’d luck out and land a serious job somehow, but for now, we were barely hanging on.

  We’d been doing okay, but then our landlord had gotten sick.

  He’d recovered, but it had hit home pretty hard, I guess. He was retiring to Florida and his son—the sleazoid from hell—was taking over.

  “I’m telling you, we need to figure out who to call about this rent thing,” I told Kendra. My gut was in a twist over what was happening. “I really don’t think he can jack the rent up like that. And we both know he’s doing it because he’s pissed off you won’t sleep with him.”

  The smile faded from Kendra’s face and she turned her head. “What are you going to do? I keep calling the agency that’s supposed to handle it and nobody is calling me back.” Her shoulders sagged as she looked around the apartment. “We’ve only got two weeks before the money is due and if we don’t pay, he’ll throw us out. My grandma lived here since she was my age. I don’t want to lose this place.”

  “I know.” Feeling terrible that I’d ruined her good mood, I turned back to the food. “Look…” Then I shook my head. “Never mind.”

  Kendra would be fine once she started getting paid for her new modeling gig, but we needed money in the meantime. I’d still keep making phone calls to the agency though.

  I stirred the water as she went back to the subject she wanted to discuss.

  “I can’t believe you flipped Flynn McCreary the bird.”

  Tossing her a grin, I shrugged. “I don’t see why not. H
e was a jerk.”

  “That jerk is one of the most talented photographers at Bouvier.”

  “I know.” I grinned at her. “It was all part of my grand scheme to become the world’s next top hand model!”

  “Oh, stop, Gabs.” Kendra laughed and shook her head. “Was it really that bad?”

  “On a scale of one to ten, it was a two thousand.” I shuddered in mock terror as I reached for the pasta.

  She beat me to it and put it back on the counter. “In that case, I owe you for your misery. How about a night out?”

  “Did you miss the part where I didn’t get the job?” I rolled my eyes. “I can’t afford a night out.”

  “What about an exclusive party with free food and drinks? Remember that swimwear gig I landed? They’re having a launch party and I just happen to have two passes.”

  “Please tell me I don’t have to wear a swimsuit,” I said, switching off the stove immediately. For the chance to eat for free and not have to attempt to make do with what we had, I would’ve worn a tutu.

  * * *

  The blue dress Kendra loaned me wasn’t hers.

  I was above average height, but she had nearly six inches on me and while there were a few pieces of clothing we could swap out, anything that involved legs was pretty much a no-go. But the blue dress had been left over from a photo shoot and Kendra had a covetous love of clothes. If there was something left lying around and nobody took it, she did.

  I’d come to love the habit, because it meant I could raid her closet and sometimes come out with pieces that would fit me. She wasn’t quite as curvy as me—I was little over average in the bust and hip department—but she at least had something of a figure.

  The blue dress came just a few inches short of my ass, and showed off more cleavage than it would have on a skinny model, but I didn’t mind. The dance floor at the club was jammed and every time I looked around a new knot of men were orbiting us. After the rejection of the interview and how Flynn had behaved, the attention felt good and I soaked it up like a sponge. I’d also had more than a few drinks, but after that lousy day, I told myself I was entitled.