Million Dollar Devil

by Evans, Katy

  Yeah, he’ll do.

  I’m taking this guy home.

  I tip the bartender a hundred. “Thanks.”

  “Whoa. You’re welcome. Anytime.”

  “Let’s go, James,” I say primly, and he scowls at me, shoots a confused glance at Luke, but follows me out.

  Jimmy

  First of all. I didn’t plan for this. I was coming over to the office when I bumped into Denny and company. Decided I was hankering to tear his limbs off, one by one. Turns out I can do neither because Hillary Clinton here has some business. With me.

  Right.

  Still puzzling over that one. Oh yeah . . . I have some ideas of what business she’s thinking ’bout. It’s not the first time some classy, high-end chick comes to Tim’s Bar and thinks either me or my buddy Luke is some sort of personal Magic Mike.

  I like fucking like any other man, but one’s got some pride, and I always turn those chicks down. Except why didn’t I send this one and her suit out the door?

  I scan her profile as she fiddles with her phone, and I assume she’s summoning a car service. Her hand trembles. She’s a small thing, at least a head and a half shorter than me. Shoulder-length dark hair. Skin like porcelain. She looks like one of those pretty dolls people keep behind glass doors. Never to touch, only to admire from afar.

  So why the fuck are my hands itching to reach out and trace her, head to toe?

  It’s as if her tremors increase as I study her, like she senses my stare. I smile to myself. Hell, I like that I make her nervous.

  A part of me wants to make her more nervous, while another just wants to get to the part where we both take our clothes off.

  That’s what she wants, I bet. And I never take my bets lightly.

  “Did you get lost on your way home from . . .” I narrow my eyes as I silently debate. “A tea party?”

  “Tea party? Really?” She shoots me a shocked look. “For all you know, I live down the street!” She sounds annoyed that I called her out on how much she sticks out here.

  I laugh. “I don’t think so. I’d definitely know if that were the case.”

  “Because you know everyone who lives around here?” She sizes me up, her gaze a little too caressing, if you ask me.

  “All the pretty women.”

  “I’m sure you know them by first, middle, and last name.”

  “Pet names,” I say, lips twitching as I wink at her. “And those are subject to change as we advance from foreplay, the throes of it, and pillow talk.”

  She bristles a bit, and I wonder if she’s spoiled as well as obviously rich. I look at her, wondering if she fucks all nice and clean or all raw and dirty. She tilts her chin up a little higher. “The car’s on its way,” she says, smoothing her hands primly down her suit.

  “I have all night,” I drawl easily, crossing my arms.

  “Yeah, me too,” she says offhandedly.

  “Just the kind of thing I like to hear.” I give her a lopsided grin. “I like patient women. Means they won’t rush me once I get busy.”

  She laughs sarcastically. “Oh . . . why would I be in a rush when I’m standing out on the corner of—where are we again?—with a man I’ve never seen before at a bar I’ve never heard of?”

  I laugh, then reach out and tweak that little pearl necklace on her throat. Watch her go breathless before I release it. “No one forced ya. If they did, tell me where to find them, and I’ll take care of it, but I’m guessing you walked in the bar on your own accord tonight. I’m assuming you weren’t dragged here. As for the man you don’t know? That’s me, and I’m going home with you.” I drag my thumb along her lower lip and study her. “Because you forced me. For what reason, I’m still waiting for you to tell me, baby.”

  She swallows, then rolls her eyes away from my biceps and gnaws on her lips.

  “While we’re waiting, I have a few questions.”

  “Like?”

  “Like why do you jump out of planes for a few bucks?”

  “A few bucks? Lady, five hundred ain’t a few. I can see where those dollar signs could be a little blurred for someone like you, but for most of us, five hundred is quite a bit.” I jerk my chin in the direction of her shoe. “I bet five hundred wouldn’t even buy one of these.”

  She seems to silently plead the Fifth.

  Bites that bottom lip.

  And damn, why do I wanna be the one who bites it so hard?

  I drag a hand along the back of my neck, sharing something I don’t usually share with strangers. But can’t blame me trying to impress the girl. Hello? She’s fucking smoking. And I want her in bed beneath me as hard as I wanted to tear those two men apart just now.

  “See . . . I’ve got some advertisers starting to come up on my channel, but I’m having a hard time getting them to up the amount. So . . . I need to keep attracting attention. Views and followers. Their offers will go up once my numbers climb.”

  She eyes me as if in great interest, as if she never once considered I might have a brain under all my brawn.

  “So, you going to give me more?” I ask her. Not certain whether she wants me for a fuck or not. I wouldn’t charge her a dime for that. But I’m curious as to what it is she could possibly want from me, and whether it’s a fuck or real business, the kind people do behind closed doors where there are contracts involved and lots of money too.

  I wonder if she’s seen my channel often. If she came looking for me because she knows nobody can get shit done the way Jimmy Rowan can.

  Elizabeth nods and, as if her thoughts are running as dirty as mine, blushes a pretty red color. “Most assuredly. If you agree to my terms.”

  A car pulls over before us, and the driver steps out. “Miss Banks?”

  “That’s me. This is us,” she tells me as she motions me to the black Lexus, trying to hide that blush, and my dick gets even harder at the mere prospect of having her all to myself in the back of that car.

  It hits me right then and there that I know exactly who this walking wet dream of a woman is. But does that hold me back? Hell no.

  WOMAN ON A MISSION

  Elizabeth

  You’ve lost your shit, Elizabeth.

  Your therapist has warned you time and again about how easy stress can get to you, and look at you. Look at what you did!

  Instead of continuing with my internal war, I turn to the guy who stands beside me. He looks half-amused, half-still-annoyed that I coaxed him out of the bar. There’s also a dash of curiosity there.

  Good. I can work with that.

  But. What if this guy isn’t as great as Luke the bartender implied? What if Luke is a really horrible judge of character?

  As I overthink this, James finally takes a step and opens the back door of the car . . .

  Hops in first and slides across the seat.

  Hmph.

  I shoot him a snooty look of superiority as I slide in next to him and reach for the door. After the door is closed, I say, “You’re no gentleman. Are you?”

  A wicked grin settles on his face as he gives me a sultry look that suggests he has all sorts of ideas for our twenty-minute ride. “And you figured that out after the first or second punch was thrown? If you were shopping for gentlemen, baby, you went to the wrong place.”

  Stiffening when I find his relentless gaze lingering inappropriately long on my face, I dig into my purse and spritz my palms with a dab of Purell, rubbing them together.

  “Want some?” I cordially offer.

  “Not of that. No.”

  I jump a little in my seat when I hear his deep voice in the closed confines of the car.

  The driver apparently believes he’s been cued to watch. He fiddles with the rearview mirror, and it’s trained on us until I glare at him. He readjusts the mirror.

  What a perv.

  Fighting to relax and exhaling, I give him my address and really focus on my idea. My crazy, out-of-this-world idea: if I can’t find the perfect man, I’ll create him.

  And as
the guy with the beard and blue eyes stares back at me, I can’t help but give him a smile.

  “You should’ve said what you were up to from the start.” The daredevil’s voice sounds oddly husky as he stretches his arm behind the seat, his gaze falling to my mouth as he cups my nape in his big fingers.

  He pulls me a little closer. I panic and put on the brakes. “Oh, no . . . wait. Not that. I have a business proposition for you. Business. But let’s get you cleaned up first.”

  He looks at me in confusion, then glances back at my lips with ill-concealed hunger. I lick them. Once. Twice.

  “You don’t want this? You seem pretty into me.” He glances pointedly at my nipples, pushing against my shirt.

  “I . . . ah . . .” I try to cover my chest, and when I hear a slow chuckle, I glance back up. “Could you stop staring at my chest?”

  I narrow my eyes as the guy watches me. He’s grinning as he pulls his eyes up to mine. He smells good. Masculine. Warm and exciting and . . . dangerous.

  “You dig my touch. Don’t you?” he asks, trailing a finger down my jaw, watching as my lips part on a soft gasp.

  I ease back, putting some distance between us. “You’re no gentleman.” I try to right myself as he gives me a look that says he doesn’t care.

  “You said that once already.”

  “Maybe because it’s true.”

  “Or maybe because you react to my touch in a way that excites the fuck out of you?” he asks, not smiling, his gaze intent. “And me.”

  Oh god.

  And oh god, my dad would kill me if he knew what I was up to.

  I shrug away the tequila buzz that has me longing to jump into this man’s lap.

  Elizabeth, get a hold of yourself. Remember that you picked this guy up in a sewer. Remember what he is here for, and get this done.

  I struggle to regain my composure.

  “If I’m going anywhere with you, it’s because we both know where this is heading.” His deep, rough voice is actually a turn-on too. Too bad his words only piss me off.

  I stick my chin out and look past the window, hoping we can get to my penthouse soon. “No, actually. I assure you. You have no idea where this is heading.”

  He looks at me with that lopsided smile. Oh lordy, that’s cute. Avoid, avoid, avoid. “So, wait . . . you would actually do that, for money?”

  He narrows his eyes at me.

  “Like . . . prostitute yourself?”

  He laughs as if I’m so amusing. “You’re hot. I’d let you have the first one for free.”

  I gape at him. “Let’s get one thing straight, James,” I continue.

  He’s nodding as if he’s listening, all while he reels me by the arm toward the flat planes of his body, and his lips descend. Shocked, I just sit here, panting as he brushes his lips across mine.

  I gasp on contact.

  He growls softly. And he tries it again.

  Brush. Graze.

  OPENING ME . . .

  Suddenly I’m tasting him—he tastes of coffee with alcohol, a little metallic from the blood on his mouth, his tongue wet and slick as he flicks my own. He tastes forbidden. Dark. Sexy. He shifts me closer to him. Our mouths parting wider now, tongues licking at each other, over and over, both of us going at it like we need it.

  I can feel his hardness pressing into my hip bone as we both taste one another, him groaning, me moaning, acting desperate as if this is the only chance we’ll get.

  I try to remind myself this is insane. I don’t know this guy, but I’m kissing him like he’s the only one in the world, grabbing his shoulders, letting him devour my mouth—and do I feel devoured!

  His tongue caresses mine, creating an intense wave of pleasure through me. No man has ever made a kiss make me want in this way, make me crave with desperation and mindlessness. My sex aches and clutches. The void has never felt this empty, this painful.

  When we pull away, I’m gasping, and the guy growls and pulls me back to him. “Mmm, maybe even the second one, too, heiress. I want more of you, and you want it too.”

  His lips descend again, and this second kiss is just as intense, his hands gripping my ass and driving me so insane that I’m suddenly straddling him, my fingers rubbing his muscular forearms and biceps and shoulders.

  I’ve never kissed a guy with a beard before. It’s a little prickly, but it’s naughty and wicked. As my hard nipples brush against his strong chest, the pleasure is excruciatingly sweet. Too sweet. Too exciting.

  Moaning as I tear free, I look at him, gasping for breath.

  We size each other up.

  Stare at each other’s mouth.

  Amusement sparkles in his eyes, mixed with heat and something dark.

  I shake my head. He shoots me a lopsided grin, the grin of a demon, for sure.

  His bold gaze traps mine as he frowns. “What got you so riled?”

  “You. You really sleep with women for money?”

  He shakes his head and reaches for me again. “But I’ll make an exception, since you’re the one offering, and I like the looks of you.”

  I straighten. What have I gotten myself into? “No. We’re not supposed . . . I didn’t invite you to my house to . . . you know what . . . call me Lizzy. It’s less . . .” Serious. Intense. Intimate. Ugh.

  I stop talking when we pause at a Midtown traffic light. My breath catches, and I look around as if I’m seeing the city for the first time. If we’re already in Midtown, then that means we’ve been romping across the back seat for the last fifteen minutes.

  Our driver adjusts his mirror again. He’s getting his jollies, but I ignore him.

  Groaning, I gradually return my attention to James. He’s thoughtful too. I wonder what he’s thinking of when he gives me a hint.

  He responds by bracketing his arm around my hips, drawing me closer to his hard male form. “You know how to use those lips—don’t you, Lizzy?”

  What? What’s he asking? Does he think I’ll blow him?

  Lizzy . . .

  Good lord. It’s not much better when he calls me Lizzy either.

  I groan and slide onto my side of the back seat. James smirks and watches me.

  I clear my throat. “If you could control yourself, Mr. Rowan, I want to discuss some business,” I say, finally back to my senses.

  “Fine. I’m curious. I’ll give you that. I’m all for business . . . Miss Banks.” He winks on that last.

  I blink at his use of my last name.

  He knows my name. He called me Miss Banks.

  I cringe at the thought of this guy knowing me—or worse, maybe, my dad.

  “Have we met or . . .” No. We haven’t met, and I don’t have time for games. “How do you know me, exactly?”

  He watches me in complete silence, which is probably a struggle for someone like Jimmy Rowan, but for James, the man I plan to create, this is good.

  I can work with quiet consideration.

  He crosses his toned arms. “Read the papers, don’t I?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. Can you?” I shoot back, partly having fun, partly annoyed.

  He ignores the dig. “The driver mentioned your name. I put it along with your first name, and voilà, recognized why I felt like I’d seen you before. Everybody knows you. You’re the poor little rich girl, heiress to a fortune. Harold Banks’s only daughter. He’s the man who easily pleases millions of customers but couldn’t satisfy the little woman at home.”

  “That little woman was my mother.”

  “I’m just repeating the story.”

  “It’s one I’d like to forget.”

  Even though Mom left a very long time ago, what he said is true. Locals can’t recall what kind of winter we had a few months ago or even tomorrow’s forecast, but when it comes to lifestyle gossip? Atlanta doesn’t forget.

  My dad was one of the first men who took his company global with online shopping and a worldwide promise: If you’re not completely satisfied with your product, return it for a new one.


  Sometimes I wonder if that’s why Mom left. Maybe she’d traded Dad in for a newer version. At the time, that was the running joke.

  “Back to business,” I say, refocusing. “If you’ll trust me, you’ll be the surprised one in the end. I’m the answer to all your prayers.”

  He runs his fingertip down my jaw. “I don’t pray.”

  “After this, you may.”

  “Honey, if I go down on my hands and knees, want to guess whose legs will be propped up on my shoulders?”

  My breath catches. I can’t pretend that his raw look of masculinity doesn’t spin my libido-meter. Steeped in wild danger, the synergy between us is electrifying.

  I try to recover, but why is it so hard to stay aloof with the tequila buzzing through my system and this unapologetic tower of testosterone buzzing so near?

  He just raises his brows.

  The driver pulls in front of my building. James looks up and snickers. “Exactly what I expected.” He takes out an old-looking cell phone with a cracked screen and punches in some numbers. “Charlie, listen . . . something’s come up. No, not that, not yet. Anyway, I’ll be home late. Call me later.” He hangs up, looks at me.

  I don’t know what to say. The whole car smells of him.

  I wiggle a little bit farther away so I don’t have to sniff his scent. But oddly, I still feel his hands on me. I fight to shake the feeling off. Wondering how a guy who’s a complete stranger and nothing like the guys I usually date can make me feel so restless.

  Focus, Elizabeth. This is about business and business only.

  Right . . .

  THE MAN ON MY COUCH

  We pull into the circular drive of my condominium complex. The doorman opens the door to the cab, and we step out.

  James whistles.

  I know my place is nice. Not as nice as my dad’s, but I can’t complain, because Daddy’s paying for all of it. All. Of. It. I know that makes me a spoiled princess. But I couldn’t tell him no, that I wanted to make my own way in the world, because in his world, he’s supposed to keep me. That’s a fact of his life, like that the sky is blue. He pays for everything for me—my house, my car, my credit card bills; hell, he even has a housekeeper come in every day to fill my refrigerator with food.