British Bad Boys: Box Set

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  Not me though. I’d gone modern with a slinky little number and three-inch heels, putting my height at nearly six feet. Yep, I’m the masked giant in the blue dress, towering over every girl and some of the guys at the bar.

  My teeth dug into my bottom lip as I gazed around the smoky club, my eyes bouncing off random faces. I felt terribly alone—not surprising since my groom was MIA.

  I’d been dumped.

  That’s right. Hartford Wilcox, aka Mr. Nice Guy Douchebag of Whitman University in North Carolina, had jilted me two weeks before the big wedding day as we had dinner at our favorite Italian restaurant, Mario’s.

  We were over. Like pay phones and mom jeans.

  He’d been everything I wanted on my Perfect Man List—except for his fast-paced intercourse and overly hairy chest, but I’d overlooked those things because slow, passionate, mind-blowing sex isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

  Trust me.

  I’d had that—a long time ago.

  That kind of passion can cut you open and rip your heart out with a spoon.

  I never wanted that kind of love lust again.

  My bestie Lulu, who’d come with me to London at the last minute, poked me with her finger as we sat in front of the heavy wooden bar of the club. “Hey, Earth to Remi, get that glazed look out of your eyes and order a drink already. I’m thirsty.”

  Alcohol. I nodded. Time to get wasted.

  “Dang, the men in here are hotter than a billy goat with a blowtorch,” she added in her southern drawl. She fluffed her pixie-cut pink hair and straightened her black tutu.

  Clearly, she was on a manhunt—as I should be.

  I half-heartedly agreed, more intent on scanning the bottles behind the bar. “I want tequila,” I said.

  Her face snapped back to me. “What? I know what happens when you drink that crap. You either eat a ton of tacos and puke, or you wrap yourself around some cocky bastard with a well-developed backside.”

  I grimaced. Hairy Hartford had a great ass—which was probably plowing some sorority girl right now.

  A short laugh burst out of me—one of those I’m-miserable-but-pretending-to-be-okay laughs I’d been doing a lot of lately. For the past two weeks, I’d vacillated between a sobbing mess and an angry woman who periodically became so incensed that “fuck” was the only word that seemed appropriate in any given situation. Going to the post office to mail he dumped me but thank you anyway cards. Fuck. Going to the wedding venue and not getting the ten-thousand-dollar deposit back. Double fuck. Realizing I was homeless fall semester—which was in two weeks—holy fuck.

  Of course my mom said it was all my fault.

  Looking down, I realized I’d resorted to my nervous habit— twisting my diamond tennis bracelet around my wrist like rosary beads.

  You have to move on, Remi.

  The bartender swaggered over to us, a tall, lean guy with a beard and a sleeve of rose tattoos down his arms. He introduced himself as Mike and asked what we wanted. Lulu stuck with her usual, an apple martini.

  I ordered an entire bottle of Silver Patrón. Oblivion, thy name is Remi.

  “Your funeral,” Lulu muttered as I tossed back the first shot and sucked on the lime Mike had left. I shivered as it went down, my face scrunching up from the bite.

  “What does it taste like?” she asked, eyeing me.

  “Like bad decisions,” I said, wiping my mouth with the napkin. “But it gets me where I want. Give me fifteen minutes and I might even attempt to dance.”

  She half snorted, half laughed. “Liar.”

  Yeah. Me dancing resembled a goldfish flopping on the floor.

  I sucked down another drink as two guys came over and struck up a conversation with Lulu. I barely looked at them. She practically swooned when they asked us to dance.

  “Let’s go have fun, Remi,” she implored as she gazed longingly at the dance floor and then back at me. The guys were already out there, motioning for us to join them.

  “I’ll join in a sec.” I probably wouldn’t.

  She pouted. “You’re lying.”

  “Yes. But don’t worry about me.” I shoved down my no-good horrible mood and indicated the bottle of tequila. “Besides, this guy and I have a date.”

  She gave me a rueful smile. “Okay, but if you see someone you want to get cozy with, go for it. Don’t sit on that stool all night and think about Hairy Hartford. You know what they say—‘Sometimes you have to get under someone to get over someone.’”

  After she left, I fiddled with my bracelet and mulled. I grumbled under my breath, remembering how Hartford had sworn he’d love me forever—only to break up with me over a plate of lasagna. My mind drifted to better memories. I thought about his kindness and sweet nature, his penchant for anticipating my every need, his all-American good looks—

  Oh, for heaven’s sake, stop the sentimental crap, I yelled at myself.

  Lulu was right. I needed a man, someone so spectacularly different from Hartford that—

  My mouth plopped open at the beautiful male who strode past me, and by beautiful I mean drop-dead sexy with a body like a brick house.

  I snapped my lips shut and adjusted my velvet half-mask—the annoying feathery plumes on the sides kept sticking to my red lipstick—and turned ever so slightly to check him out. He slid into the seat next to me, tall and broad with rippling shoulders and a massive frame.

  “Whatta Man” from Salt-N-Pepa came to mind.

  I checked my appearance in a mirror behind the bar, mentally analyzing the odds of an overgrown, average girl like me snagging a hottie like him.

  Although no one had ever called me beautiful, I did have two—okay, maybe three—things going for me in the looks department. My golden-brown hair that hung down to my shoulders, my fluffy “pillow lips” as Lulu described them, and, lastly, I had an itsy bitsy space between my two front teeth which were otherwise white and perfect. Lulu claimed the gap lent me an exotic look, like Madonna or Sookie Stackhouse. Whatever. I was a True Blood fan. I went with it.

  The guy turned his head in my direction.

  Then promptly looked away.

  Dammit. I had about a one in a gazillion chance of catching his eye.

  He shifted on the stool, leaning closer to me. His cologne swirled in the air, the smell of expensive Scotch and musk mingling together to create a heady, slightly dangerous scent. I paused, goosebumps rising when the spicy whiff triggered a distant memory.

  I knew that smell…

  But whatever my nose recognized, it didn’t connect with my brain.

  As slyly as I could, I studied his profile from top to bottom. Like me, he wore a black mask, although his was more masculine, not hiding his chiseled, movie star jawline. His lips were carnal and luscious, the bottom more plump than the top with a slight indentation in the middle. As I watched, his tongue swept out and caressed it, his top teeth biting it as if he were deep in thought. He raked a hand through his dark, longish, messy hair, held it suspended above his head for a few seconds, and then released it, letting it swish back into its tousled yet perfect place.

  Choreographed male perfection.

  I tore my eyes away.

  Something about him sent loud warning bells ringing in every atom in my body.

  Danger, danger. Don’t touch that.

  You will be annihilated with an M16 rifle straight to your heart.

  But my gaze would not be denied as I took in the tight black shirt and sculpted chest that was obviously used to the inside of a gym, right down to an arm that looked like it could snap a board in half—or me.

  Nice biceps, Mr. Beautiful.

  The pièce de résistance was the dragonfly tattoo he sported on his left arm—it was bigger than my hand and in vivid blues and oranges. My gaze traced the contours of the design from the papery wings to the multi-faceted eyes. A bold black color outlined the insect, giving it a masculine feel.

  Gorgeous.

  Of course, I didn’t have any tattoos—my mom wo
uld flip her lid—but secretly I’d always wanted one. The artistic side of me admired them on people, especially when they featured anything with wings. Probably because I’m a bird girl, as in someday I’ll have a doctorate in ornithology.

  Him tonight?

  Yes, my body said, go for Mr. Beautiful! Make him yours!

  He was the polar opposite of Hartford, who was blond, lean, and tattoo-free.

  I nibbled on my fingernail. How do I get him to notice little ole me?

  Just then a redhead with fluffy Farrah Fawcett hair strode up to his stool, bold as brass, wearing a tight, white mini-skirt that barely covered her booty.

  She flicked her hair over her shoulder, casually stroked her finger down his arm, and struck up a conversation. Her fake, black lashes—which she’d somehow managed to get outside the eyeholes of her mask—batted. She puffed out her well-developed chest.

  I saw it for what it was. Classic mating ritual.

  Even flamingos toss their heads around and take little mincing steps toward their desired mate. A red-capped manakin bird courts by moonwalking on a nearby branch. It’s pretty much the coolest thing ever.

  So why couldn’t I do that?

  He leaned into her and grinned wickedly, his body language telling me he was confident he was the hottest thing in the room. She whispered in his ear, boobs right in his face, but whatever he said back wasn’t what she wanted to hear because a few ticks later she crossed her arms, gave me a nasty glare, and stalked away.

  I blinked. What had I done?

  Then he turned and pointed his devastating smile at ME.

  My heart flip-flopped inside my chest.

  Shit, he’d made eye contact—as much as you could with a claustrophobic mask on.

  But wait . . .

  Was he crazy?

  Because if he’d turned down her flirtation, I didn’t have a shot.

  I didn’t know how to do the fingers-tiptoeing-up-his-arm thing and sexy hair flicking. I didn’t know how to make my boobs sit up that high.

  Everyone knew I wasn’t a flirt. Not in a million years. Heck, Hartford had only asked me out because I’d tripped over his legs as they stuck out from a study carrel at the library.

  And that memory pricked at my heart.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid. This entire night and all men.

  Forget Mr. Beautiful. Forget Hartford. Forget everything.

  I rapped on the bar and tried to get someone to bring me more limes.

  Mike with the beard and tats finally noticed me waving. I held my ravaged lime up for him to see. He smiled, gave me a thumbs-up signal, and as soon as he’d finished his current drink order, he brought several over to me in a nice bowl.

  “So . . . American?” he asked as he leaned over the counter.

  “Kinda obvious.” I nodded my chin at him. “You British?”

  “Kinda obvious.” His lips twitched.

  He poured my next shot and I tossed it back, sucked the lime, and slammed the glass back down on the bar. A drink later, I was swaying to the crazy techno music, which I didn’t even like.

  “Perhaps you should sip it,” Mike murmured, still hanging around.

  “If you’d had the past few weeks I’d had, you’d chug it too.”

  He let that go, running a hand across his beard, his eyes skating across the V-neck of my dress. Lingering. He met my eyes. “What’s your name, sweets?”

  I squinted. “Are you flirting with me? It’s okay if you are. Just sayin’.”

  “Absolutely. You’re bloody gorgeous.” Hooded eyes raked over my chest. Again.

  I laughed. Feeling loose.

  Maybe my rebound guy was right here in front of me.

  “When you’re done hitting on the clientele, barman, we’d like a drink,” Mr. Beautiful snapped out in an authoritative British accent that demanded to be heard, causing Mike to flip away from me and focus on him. He scurried over and took his order.

  I scowled. Wait a dang minute . . .

  I almost knew that accent—deep with soft, rounded vowels, the kind of voice that made you want to hop into his bed and ride him like a cowgirl.

  At the sound of it, chills had gone up my spine, and part of me wanted to jump off my stool and run away screaming, but the other side wanted to trace my fingers over Mr. Beautiful’s lips and ask him to say something else.

  My name.

  My phone number.

  Romeo’s monologue outside Juliet’s window.

  I pivoted on my barstool and found that Mr. Beautiful’s eyes had zeroed in on me once more, as if he too recognized the strange pull between us. Weird.

  What was going on? Why was he staring at me?

  My heart played hopscotch, jumping against my chest. My skin prickled.

  Did I know him?

  Did he know me?

  It clicked, everything sliding into place. Dax Blay?

  My breath hitched, and I swallowed down the emotion that zipped up my spine whenever I thought of him. He was my one HUGE mistake; the time I’d tossed inhibitions and carefully laid plans aside and went with my instincts (lots of sex), only to have it tossed back in my face.

  But the man next to me wasn’t Dax. Thank God.

  Last spring at the campus-wide end of the year fraternity party with Hartford, I’d seen Dax, and he’d had shorter hair, like always, and zero tattoos. Yeah. No way.

  Plus, last I heard, he was in Raleigh where his father lived.

  Yet . . .

  Dax was British. He could have family here. Maybe he got a tattoo?

  Nah. I mean, what were the odds of us both being at the same club on the same night in a country where neither of us lived?

  Move on, Remi, forget faux-Dax. Focus on the bartender. He likes your cleavage.

  Determined to get Mike’s attention back as he poured drinks for someone else, I slyly attempted to tug down the neckline of my dress with my right hand—check this out, Mikey—but the lace bodice snagged on my tennis bracelet in the process, leaving my wrist dangling like a wet dish rag in a most inappropriate place.

  I wiggled my arm.

  Jiggled it.

  Sweat popped out on my forehead.

  Holding my breath, I twisted and tugged the bracelet, forcing the delicate material in my bodice to stretch into the danger zone.

  “Well, hell,” I breathed, pausing to assess.

  Skin-tight with a plunging neckline, the dress was mostly a blue stretchy fabric held together by sequined straps and a zipper on the side. Slated as part of my honeymoon wardrobe, it was a Tory Burch and had cost four hundred dollars, the most I’d ever paid for a fun outfit, and no way did I want to damage it. I might have to return it to rent an apartment at Whitman.

  Lulu. I needed Lulu. She was a whiz with wardrobe malfunctions.

  I spun around on the barstool and used my free hand to wave at her, but she was slinging herself around dancing, having a great time and completely oblivious. I resorted to flapping both hands at her, one high and one low. Several people waved back with baffled expressions, but Lulu didn’t notice. Dammit.

  I groaned and slumped down in my seat, ready to scream. Now what? Go to the bathroom and repair it there? Good plan.

  But the club tilted when I stood, the strobe lights making me squint as they flashed in my face. I wobbled in my leopard-print heels—that Lulu had insisted I wear—and grabbed the stool to keep my balance.

  I sucked in a breath to gather myself, but I couldn’t think straight. The room spun, and I was suddenly queasy, and why did I slam all that tequila, and oh my God, my wrist is currently attached to my tit like a T. rex arm.

  “Hey, my shift ends in an hour or so depending on the crowd. You want to grab a drink?” Mike said.

  Eeek. I’d forgotten all about the nice bartender.

  Go with it, Remi. Be cool. Don’t be a wacko.

  I pivoted carefully around to face him, using my captured hand as a chinrest, forcing me to lean my head down at an odd angle.

  His br
ow wrinkled. “You okay there? You’re kinda pale.”

  “Uh, maybe? Not really. I just—uh—need to go to the ladies’ room first. I—I’ll be back in a minute.” Trying to be stealth-like, I reached across the bar to get my beaded clutch, but because it was my left hand and not my right, which I used most of the time, I got off balance and stumbled—and my ankle folded in on itself. I yelped as my shoe catapulted off my foot and vaulted off toward who knows where, while I fell forward, straight into Mr. Beautiful’s lap.

  2

  Fifteen Minutes Earlier

  My cousin Spider (real name Clarence) and I walked inside the nightclub.

  I had one goal this evening: Alcohol and a lot of it.

  I hadn’t had sex in eighty-seven days, five hours, and a few odd minutes, which seems strange for a handsome and charismatic guy like myself who was used to getting a different flavor each month, but when my twin brother Declan had dared me to be celibate in order to clear my head, I’d accepted his challenge.

  Besides, it wasn’t proper for a Blay male to turn down a dare. It was on.

  But today before we’d left for the club, I’d had to deal with my father, Mr. Winston Blay, a former United States ambassador who’d gotten my English mum pregnant with my twin and me, married her—then promptly divorced her a year later.

  He’d called me earlier from his mansion in Raleigh to demand I go to graduate school after I graduated from Whitman.

  School hadn’t even started and he was already on my back. As usual.

  I’d said “hell no.”

  As a fifth year senior, I was a huge disappointment to him.

  But this year—this year—I had to get my shit together and figure out what I was going to do after graduation.

  Which meant not living at the frat house any longer. Done. So come fall semester, I was homeless.

  Wearing his standard gray leather jacket and skinny jeans, Spider adjusted his mask around his bright blue hair and nudged me, reminding me to put mine on. With his penchant for getting tossed in jail for brawling and using heroin, I’d officially been his babysitter this summer in London until his bandmates, the Vital Rejects, reunited for their tour. What can I say? I’m a good cousin, and it gave me the chance to get out of Raleigh for the summer.