Million Dollar Devil

by Evans, Katy

  Jeanine: Don’t worry on that. He’s signed the contract, so you’re good to go. You’re going to need all the time you can get to transform that beast into a beauty.

  “Thanks, Roger,” I tell the driver as he drops me off.

  I’m marching briskly, phone in hand, toward my building when I spot a tall man leaning against the building’s mirrored walls.

  Dressed in light denim jeans and a white old T-shirt, something about him makes me take a second look. He’s very . . . very . . . hot, but he does not belong in this neighborhood in the least. I’m surprised the doormen didn’t shoo him away for loitering.

  He’s looking down at his phone, and I pretend I’m not that into him when I suddenly recognize the phone. The beat-up old cell phone with the cracked screen.

  I jerk back to look at his face as he lifts his head.

  What the . . .

  It’s HIM. Oh god. In daylight he looks more . . . dangerous.

  Edible.

  Scrumptious.

  He smiles a dimpled, bearded smile as he pushes off the wall.

  As though he knows his effect on me.

  “Hey,” I blurt out. “I didn’t . . . know you’d be here.”

  I stumble on the sidewalk edge, and he quickens his steps, but thankfully, I recover before he has to come save me. Trying to save face, I breeze toward the elevator and push my floor number. “You haven’t cashed the check?”

  I shoot him a sidelong glance.

  My tummy is tumbling.

  Nervous because . . . um, the back-seat-of-the-cab thing?

  The delicious-hands-on-me thing?

  All that. Six-feet-plus thing.

  Yeah.

  “I’ll get to it. Don’t worry. Have a good day?” he asks as he runs his gaze over my business suit.

  “Yes. You? Beat anyone up?”

  “No.” His lips curve.

  “So it’s . . .” I’m unsure. “Not a good day?”

  “Oh, it’s a good day.”

  I fight the overwhelming urge to grab his face and plant a happy kiss on his jaw. He smiles down at me.

  My angel’s working overtime to give me time to introduce my dad to my guy.

  And he is here now, so we can get started . . .

  Definitely a good day. “Do you want dinner? I was going to order in.”

  He nods. We go upstairs to my apartment. As hungry as I am, the OCD part of me can’t stop looking at that forest of hair on his face and picturing what’s underneath. After all the selling I did to my dad, I hope it’s not hiding a massive birthmark or a double chin.

  “You know what? We have time to shave you before dinner.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me.” I set my bag down and extend my hand. “Come on. And I can get to know the real James Rowan while I shave you.”

  “This wasn’t what I was planning when I stopped by here. Ya know?”

  “Oh, I know what you were planning. But that’s not good for business, and we’re in business,” I say, taking his hand and pulling him into my bathroom.

  I pull up the seat of my vanity and pat it. “Sit here.”

  He’s reluctant before he drops down on the seat, his body engulfing it. “I like my beard,” he says, rubbing his chin in the mirror. “You’d like it, too, if you just got me between your legs.”

  I give him a look.

  He gives me an innocent shrug. “I don’t get complaints. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Thank you for that bit of info,” I say stiffly. “But we’re going less Paul Bunyan with our launch and more Michael Bublé.”

  “Who?”

  “Forget it. Lean your head back.”

  I open a drawer and pull out a brand-new razor from my “new stash”—where I keep a set of new toothbrushes, a new toothpaste, a box of Q-tips, and fresh sets of razors. When I pull out the razor and look down at him, my breath hitches.

  He’s sitting there with his head tilted a bit back, his blue eyes trained on me. Swallowing, I try to recover by fanning a towel around his shoulders, hoping that he doesn’t notice my trembling fingers.

  I’ve never shaved a man before, and now here I am, hoping I don’t cut him.

  “Are you good with razors?” He cocks one brow.

  “I’m terrible with them. Any final words before we do this?” I grin down at him before grabbing the shaving cream and lathering it on his face.

  “Guess that was my way of asking if you’ve ever shaved another man? Elizabeth?”

  I pause before looking down at him.

  He’s looking straight into my eyes, and for a second there, I feel as if he can see right through me.

  Clearing my throat, I’m suddenly carefully raking the razor over his tight jaw. “Why do you ask?”

  He laughs. “Why not. Answer me.” His timbre drops.

  Wow. This guy. I’m the one with the razor. But he acts like he’s the one with all the control.

  I frown for a second, then relax and concentrate as I drag the blade across his chin. “Well, I . . . I don’t have a boyfriend. And I’ve never shaved anyone for the hell of it. Never worked in a barbershop.”

  “I’m a lot of work.” He grins up at me. “So why me, baby?”

  “I’m . . .” I scowl down at him. “I’m not your baby. And maybe I think you’re worth it.”

  “Maybe I am.” His lips are thick, full, and completely beautiful.

  Eyes up, Elizabeth.

  But god, those baby blues aren’t much easier to look at.

  “So, what do you want to talk about?” he asks, crossing his arms and exhaling as he relaxes in the chair.

  I try to focus on the task, not wanting to nick him. He needs to be perfect. God, and he smells so good. I try not to notice. “Why don’t you tell me about yourself?”

  “Where do you want to start?”

  I think a minute before deciding. “Let’s play a game. I’ll ask a question. You answer it.”

  “That’s not a game. That’s called prying, baby.”

  “It’s for a good cause. Stop calling me baby!” I laugh, wondering if he’s doing it to distract me.

  He smirks.

  “What do you want to know?” He tilts his chin higher, and I almost nick him. He flinches and grunts. “Watch yourself. Baby.”

  “Don’t move. Devil.” I check the blade to be sure there isn’t blood on the end. “Favorite color?”

  “Black.”

  “These questions pertain to fashion.”

  “Still black.”

  “Pinstripe?”

  “What the fuck is that?”

  I bite my lip. “What ties do you like?”

  “Cartoons.”

  “Really?”

  “Nah. Just checking if you were paying attention. I don’t wear ties. Don’t wear suits either.”

  He doesn’t? Oh god. This is going to be even tougher than I thought. “Never? Okay, well, if you were going to wear one?”

  “I like red. Sometimes black and white. I’m not one for flash.”

  I smile. “So . . . why did you agree?”

  “Easy. Because I want you writhing in bed beneath me.”

  I fumble the razor, try to play it off, but catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I’m red, completely flushed.

  I lift my gaze, and a half-shaven James Rowan with a foamy jaw is staring at my mouth.

  “What did I tell you about that?” I ask calmly.

  “What?” he asks. “I forget.”

  “My eyes are up here, Rowan. And you’ll kindly refrain from the come-ons.”

  He lifts his gaze, and they gleam mischievously and intelligently. Predator-like. “Can’t help it. Love to see you blush.”

  “I’m not blushing.”

  “Sure you are.”

  Of course I am.

  “Anyway . . . so why did you agree? For real.” If my hand stopped trembling, maybe I could finish this whole thing?

  “I don’t know. Charlie, I guess.”
r />   “And Charlie is your brother?” I can’t help but be curious.

  “He’s my everything.”

  I blink at that. Shocked by the honesty of his words and gaze.

  “He’s all I have,” he adds, gruff and somber.

  I ease back, taking a moment to switch sides. “You were punching the guy at the bar because someone hurt Charlie?”

  “Yeah. Charlie’s . . . he’s too damn wiry. He don’t like to fight.”

  I quietly finish shaving him and drag a damp towel across his jaw. I’m touched by his words and protectiveness over his brother.

  “There,” I say, stepping back so James can lift his head and meet my gaze. He slowly comes to a stand. I turn him to the mirror. Our eyes meet in the reflection.

  And holy mother of god.

  I can barely breathe.

  JAMES ROWAN IS . . . IT.

  I marvel how I didn’t get cut shaving that jaw. All hard angles, square and mean and masculine. And that perfect little dimple, right in the center of his chin. Yum.

  “Smoothly shaven. Now when you want to kiss someone”—I pat his square jaw—“your jaw won’t feel bristly.”

  I start to exit my bathroom when he steps forward in a flash, seizing my elbow in his grip as he turns me.

  “Want to give it a try?” He smiles amusedly.

  “Right!” I roll my eyes, and he laughs at my immediate flush.

  He takes a step closer, boxing me in. I swallow, but not because I’m afraid.

  Because he nerve-racks the hell out of me.

  His voice turns thick, and suddenly his arm is around my waist, and my hand is on his chest. His flat, muscular, warm chest—the definition palpable under the cotton of his T-shirt.

  He lifts my chin with his thumb. “You’ve been thinking about me. Haven’t you?”

  His gaze blazes so intently that my lungs can’t seem to get enough air.

  I nod, breathless.

  I lift my hand and run my fingers over his smooth jaw.

  “In a business sense, yes. Professionalism is very important to me.”

  “And your pleasure is important to me.”

  “James. Don’t break the contract on your first day.” I laugh, and he chuckles and buries his face in my neck, his breath tickling me.

  “You smell good.”

  “Mmm. So do you,” I say, then curse myself the second it’s out. Stop encouraging him.

  Even though, yum. He really smells good.

  We remain like that for a second, until he uncurls his arms from around me and lets me go.

  We’re smiling as we make eye contact.

  But the air leaps between us, like electricity.

  I need to call Jeanine and get her to talk some sense into me before I do something I’ll regret.

  “We need to get your hair cut too. But I leave that to a professional.” My voice is a little thick as I pull out my phone and dial. I hope to get my favorite stylist, Sherry, to pull an emergency makeover. I need to keep him as quiet and under wraps as possible during this transformation period, and I know she will be discreet.

  “Sherry, I need a huge favor. I need a total makeover, and I need it stat.” I laugh. “Of course, I don’t need a makeover—you just gave me the perfect shoulder-length haircut.” I eye my Perfect-Man-in-the-Raw. “It’s for a guy. Uh-huh. My company is using him for the face of our new line. It’s top secret. But I need it all—haircut, waxing all that bear chest. Pedicure, manicure. Eyebrows. The works.”

  She gives me a slot for tomorrow at noon, during her lunchtime. And I quickly head to the living room and write down the address for James and hand it over after I hang up.

  “We have a lot of work ahead. Tomorrow, meet me there at noon. Get your life squared away. You’ll be mine for three months.”

  James Rowan then surprises me by pocketing the address and asking, “So for three months, does that mean you’re mine too?”

  “I . . .”

  I hold my breath, wondering if anyone in their right mind has ever said no to the guy.

  “Oh, and . . .” He grabs me by the chin and scrubs his thumb along my lower lip. “You’re not waxing me.”

  I try to suppress a shiver from his touch. “Um . . . not me. But someone is waxing you.”

  “No one is waxing me.”

  I sigh, getting the feeling this guy will be the death of me.

  SPA DAY

  I’m flipping through the magazines outside the spa when I get a call from Jeanine.

  “How goes it with Thor?” she asks me.

  “He’s not exactly Thor anymore,” I whisper into the receiver. “I have him at the spa now, and he’s getting more sexified with every passing minute.”

  “Seriously? I want pics.”

  “He’ll definitely look the part. Whether he can act it . . . I don’t know. He’s stubborn and has absolutely no manners whatsoever.”

  “Not to mention the whole caveman thing and that godawful accent.”

  I pause. “He’s not dumb,” I say, but she is right about his slow, easy, fuck-proper-speaking accent. “I just . . .”

  “Maybe you can get him to keep his mouth shut.”

  I frown. “He does not keep his mouth shut, that’s for sure. Especially about . . .”

  “About what?”

  “He’s always coming on to me. He doesn’t possess a lick of subtlety. Even if it is in the contract, he’s constantly trying to . . . you know.”

  She laughs. “Ah. You live a hard, hard life, Lizzy my dear, with a gorgeous man wanting to fuck you. So, are you having trouble keeping it in your pants? Is that what you’re saying?”

  I let out a huge breath of air. “Yeah.”

  “Well, the contract doesn’t officially prohibit sexual contact. It simply says that he must treat you in a professional manner. But if you were to treat him in a not-so-professional manner, there’s nothing he can do about it.”

  “You mean he’s the one in breach of contract? Not me? So I could sleep with him and treat him like crap and demand the million dollars back, and he’d have no recourse?”

  “Yep. The contract definitely favors you, sweetie. I told him to run it past his lawyer, but he didn’t have one.”

  I rub my eyes. It feels wrong taking advantage of him like that. Dirty. “I don’t even know why I’m having this conversation with you. It’s stupid. It’s against everything my father wants for me. I need to focus on business.”

  “You’re contemplating it because he’s hot as fuck,” she says. “If I had that opportunity, girl, I’d be all in too.”

  Great. Just another reason for me to want him. Like I need any more.

  I end the call and am checking the time when my phone pings.

  James: Real men don’t get manis and pedis.

  An hour later: They damn sure don’t get facials.

  Massages? Really? Infrared?

  Where you at, Liz?

  Where you at? No. Liz? Hell no.

  No response? ’S okay. Can’t talk now anyway. Freezing my balls off in a machine that uses subzero temps. What the fuck are you doing to me? I thought you wanted a man! I’m being treated like a prissy teenage girl.

  An hour later: Where are you, Ms. Banks?

  Better. He doesn’t sound like a rapper.

  I type out a quick response and hit send.

  Me: I’m right outside. Where you left me.

  James: I’ll never complain about a massage again. Nothing but fond memories here.

  I frown at the implication but assume he’s just trying to get a response, something to hint at interest.

  Never going to happen, James. I grin, then think of his exposed cock. A tingle settles in my hips and a little lower, which is a little too pleasurable for my liking.

  James: She’s great. REAL attentive if you know what I mean.

  Me: Sherry is a happily married WOMAN with three kids, a dog, and a white picket fence.

  James: Sherry? Psht. She had to go out. I got Wanda. An
d THANK YOU for putting Wanda ON me.

  Wanda? What the . . . ? No. No. HELL no. I booked Sherry for a reason.

  Broad has great . . . hands . . .

  The dot-dot-dot bit is intentional. She has great boobs, and she’s shown them to everyone. In fact, she’s a breast-implants influencer.

  Can you imagine? What does a breast-implants influencer do in her spare time? Flash random guys?

  You should see what she does with her little finger when she drags it across . . .

  You know what? Fuck him. AND his dots and her little fingers.

  I’m pacing outside when the doors open, and Sherry steps out.

  Behind her is James. Partly blocked from view.

  I glare at whatever pieces are visible, realizing he WAS trying to get a reaction.

  “All done. Everything except . . . well. He’ll tell you.” Sherry beams at me, then glances past her shoulder and lets him step out. “Well, Mr. Rowan. You’re free to go.”

  I’m standing here.

  Speechless.

  Drooling in my mouth.

  As he fills my complete line of vision.

  All six foot plus of him.

  “Well?”

  He’s speaking. He’s asking me something. Hands in his pockets, glare on his face.

  He approaches, and I almost lose my balance. This guy, this hot-as-hell man, is like WHOA . . . I can’t even describe him.

  Only I can, but it’ll take a minute.

  I run my eyes all over him, taking it all in. His hair cut shorter to enhance his incredible features. He even smells amazing. I can tell he pulled out his best jeans, loafers, and T-shirt for today, and though he rocked them when we went in, right now he’s totally rocking the world. My stomach ropes in with excitement and dread over his black, stony look.

  I realize I’m ogling him a little too much before I finally smile up at him and, to hide my blush, turn my attention to the cashier.

  I flip out my card. “Checking him out.”

  They charge me for everything and swipe my card, and we climb into the back of a cab as I give the driver the address of our next stop. I suppose I should’ve driven my car over here so that I could tuck our purchases in the trunk later, but I’m so used to riding in company cars provided by my dad, used to having my hands free to work from my phone and keep in touch with the office while we head from one place to the next, that it didn’t occur to me to take my car out for the day until now.