“Are you sure? I’m good at fixing things.” Her cheeks are so red I think she will turn into flames any second. I laugh. I could let my little charade go on all night. When she stays silent, I nod at her bare foot and then the shoe she clutches in her hand. “Your shoe is broken. Do you want me to fix it?” I ask, putting her out of her misery. She visibly relaxes when she realizes I’m not talking about munching on her. The joke was too easy.
Balancing on one foot, she slips her shoe back on. I catch a glimpse of her purple toes before she does. It reminds me of how all women get dressed after I’m done with them and my dick gets hard. I readjust it through my pocket. Her eyes dart down to my crotch. Perfect. It’s exactly where I want her attention.
“My shoe is fine. Some idiot spilled on me,” she says, as her gaze wanders back up to my face. I make sure the smile is in place when she does. I like to watch them squirm before I leave them in the dust. She’s different though. Her expression hardens even further. “I won’t be needing your services tonight.”
Ouch. Blue eyes isn’t even pretending; she doesn’t have any interest. Which pisses me off because that means I’m wrong. Mentally, I lower my woman targeting percentage. I’m intrigued even more. Studying her small frame, hugged inside a tight black dress, I want to see more. Because I know the challenge is steep, I want it that much more.
Her friend peeks over her shoulder. “Or maybe you do need fixing tonight, Windsor?”
Her name. Something as small as a name holds a huge part in seduction. I use it to its full advantage. If the friend thinks she needs fixing, it must be really bad.
Blue Eyes shoots her friend a death glare and hisses something under her breath. She yanks down her dress. “Despite what my bitch best friend says, I don’t need fixing. Especially the brand of fixing you are skilled at dealing out,” she says. Her eyes don’t waver. Her shoulders don’t slink. She stands proud as she shoots me down. The problem is I haven’t even propositioned her yet. Not really anyways. Not flat out. Game fucking on. Challenge accepted.
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about, Windsor. I was just going to ask this fine bartender to fix you a drink. What is your pleasure?” I ask. I don’t take my eyes off hers as I throw my hand in the air to get Benji’s attention. Surely she won’t turn down a drink. She is out at a bar after all.
Her poker face is tight. Better than some of the guys. I think she will turn me down and it pisses me off. Her friend leaves and starts dancing with a girl in a tiny skirt. Blue Eyes looks at them longingly. She bites her bottom lip. The thought of my dick in her mouth pops into my mind.
“A martini. Vodka. No ice. No olives. Dirty,” she says, leaning in. Barely suppressing a groan, I order her drink and motion for her to take the seat next to me at the bar. Sitting is the only thing I’ll be able to do while I’m around this girl. The supreme cock tease. That’s exactly what the guys would call this one.
My goal tonight is to figure out just how challenging this will be. One should always know exactly what they’re fighting for. Once I fixate on something I don’t stop until I get it perfected. I want to perfect fucking Blue Eyes. Then, once I reach that goal, I’ll find a new one. Something or someone more complicated. The women shouldn’t be offended. It’s how my entire life is. One set of hurdles followed by more and more and more. Now, at almost thirty I’m pretty perfect at a lot of fucking things. I may not be a good guy, but I am fucking perfect. Maverick Hart’s luck doesn’t ever run dry.
“Name?” she asks, staring into her martini glass. I chuckle.
“What do you want it to be?” If looks could kill, I’d be doubling over in pain.
“I don’t want it to be anything. It is rude not to introduce yourself. After all, you’ve already offered the rental of your mouth and/or dick for the night without even telling me your name,” she says, grimacing. Damn. She reads between the lines better than I thought.
“I don’t rent out my body parts, Windsor. I loan my services. My name is Maverick and I do not want to loan to you. I don’t think you have a large enough down payment. Too much liability,” I tease. Her face drops. She looks surprised by my cavalier sex talk. So, she’s guarded and innocent. “So what does Windsor, who does not like to be objectified, do for a living?” I ask.
She runs her forefinger around the rim of her glass. I shift in my seat. She notices. A smile crosses her lips. “I balance risks and liabilities,” she says, tilting her head to the side. Her brown hair swings around her shoulder. I smile so she’ll continue and so I can hide the God damned lust I feel. “I’m an accountant, Maverick. A CPA. I deal with other people’s money for a living. What about you?” she asks.
Cock Polishing Assistant. The abbreviation wiggles in my mind, but the second she says what she does I’m already trying to think of what I can do to force her to see me again. The ideas are endless now that I know her profession.
She raises her eyebrows as she waits for me to tell her what I do. I think she already knows. She saw the guys I arrived with. It’s not really a secret. Just in case she really is clueless, I play the subtle card. “Oh, you know. I’m Navy,” I say, sipping on water.
She nods, smiles, and brings her lips to her glass, draining it in one large gulp. “I knew it,” she says, after taking a large breath. I raise my eyebrows. She glances over at Stone and his wife Morganna, lifting her small hand to wave in their direction.
I follow her gaze and see a stony-faced Morg. She knows I’m a womanizer. She knows my game. Windsor must be her friend. Shit. Shit. Shit. Bad news. Stone smiles and then forces Morg to kiss him, all tongue and groping hands. Only Stone has that kind of control over that wild card. I’ll have to ask him to smooth my way with Windsor. I want this and I want her more than anything I’ve wanted in a while. It confuses me and excites me at the same fucking time. A new, shiny toy.
Windsor clears her throat. “Well, I think I’ve had enough fixing for tonight.” She stands to go and I grab her wrist. She’s warm and soft against my huge calloused hand. Delicate. Fragile. Perfect for fucking. I stand in front of her, towering over her slight frame. I know the masses of easy fucks are just behind me, but I want this one. I want Windsor. I study her profile as she looks out the dancing bodies, searching for someone. Her friend? A man? The questions are endless and I feel helpless. I need to talk to her more. Her glossy lips shine in the dim lights. I want to know exactly how she can use them. On every square inch of my body.
“Number?” I ask in the same manner she asked for my name. I never get phone numbers. There’s no need. I fuck em’ and forget em’. I can’t even believe the word just came out of my mouth. I hope I don’t sound desperate. Actually, maybe it will work to my benefit if I do. This is a game, after all.
“I don’t do dates. I don’t give numbers. I work with them. Let’s not pretend this is going anywhere.” She motions between us with a swift flick of her hand. “I know what you’re after and, frankly, I’m not giving it up. Not to anyone and especially not to a Navy SEAL who shoots just as precisely with his gun as he does his dick,” she says.
I can’t help the chuckle that escapes. Humor, innocence, and guarded like Ft. Knox. She smiles over her shoulder as she walks away, her perfect ass moving in the wrong direction.
I only know a few things about this woman, but I’m left with one damn thought: Windsor wins this match, hands down. I rearrange my hard-on for the millionth time in one night. Mother fucker.
Chapter Four
Windsor
I spent Sunday sulking because I didn’t pull the damn trigger on the guy at the bar. I had him. I saw it in his eyes. He isn’t my type at all. He’s dangerous. Breaking hearts is probably one of his perfected skill sets. I should have just taken him home and beaten him at his own game. Sex and skedaddle. Hormones have completely taken over my body since coming in contact with Maverick. Horny doesn’t even begin to describe what the mere thought of him does to me. And I didn’t even see him with his shirt off!
I can’t concentrate on my computer screen in front of me because of the color of the damn numbers in my program. They are like this bluish black color, and I wonder if it’s the exact color of his tattoos. I’m sick. I don’t even think banging Garrett, the hot CPA in the office next to mine, all lunch hour would work. No. Only a Maverick or someone similar would do for my wanton needs. This is what I get for going years without sex. One sexual laced conversation with a sex God, because I know he is a sex God, and I’m a panting dog. I bet he even knows his effect on women, which makes this all the more horrible. A maybe-solution pops into my mind as I hit speed dial number four.
“Hey, Phillipe. Is Morganna super swamped? I need to talk to her,” I say. I hear the hiss of an iron and cover my giggle. He’s doing her ironing.
“Of course she’s busy, Windsor, but I’ll ask if she wants to talk to you if she isn’t screaming on her head set.” I laugh again. He remains quiet. He isn’t joking.
She picks up almost immediately. “Morganna Sterns,” she breathes in a huge rush of air. I get up to close my office door as tightly as it will go.
“I need that date you were talking about.” I cut right to the chase. No need to mince words or beat around the damn bush. That ship sailed the second Maverick asked for my phone number. “Who were you going to set me up with last night?” Please be Maverick, please be Maverick. My silent pleas are freaking pathetic and I inwardly chastise myself.
“Happy Monday to you too, Winnie. Hard up are you?” I hear the smile in her voice. I suddenly know exactly why Morganna is wrapped around Stone’s finger if she deals with this insane sex drive just from looking at him.
“Hard up doesn’t even begin to cover the bases. Date. Phone number, e-mail address – whatever you have. Now!” The phone line she has on hold chirps. I hear papers shuffling.
“Mav Hart is bad news. Stay away from him. I wouldn’t fix you up with him unless you were my mortal enemy. He has a really twisted back story. It’s not my business to discuss this with you. Just please, accept this warning, Winnie.”
My heart sinks and a pit forms in my stomach. It’s not like I didn’t already know it; it just sucks to hear someone else say it.
“I was going to set you up with Steve. He’s a good guy. Maybe a little more tame than some of the others in the rat pack.”
Tame. Ugh. I don’t want tame. That definitely won’t do for what I have in mind: amazing barbarian sex that makes me forget I ever preferred missionary sex with the Nashhole. Who wants eye contact anyway?
“Okay. I’ll e-mail him.” I scribble down Steve’s phone number and e-mail address with half effort, still undecided if I want to date him. Morganna’s warning about Maverick was like dumping a huge bucket of ice water on my libido.
“Shut up with your useless drivel and do it!” Morganna yells. “That was to Phillipe, not you, honey.”
“Are you always such a bitch to him?” I ask, laughing. It makes me feel a little better knowing Phillipe is having a bad day, too.
“No, only when he questions me,” she deadpans. “I’m serious about Maverick, too. He-e…” she trails off.
“He what?”
“Might as well tell you, you’ll find out soon enough. He called me this morning trying to get your information. I didn’t give it of course. But I’m sure he’ll find another way. He’s persistent at his worst.”
“Oh,” I say. I’m sure she knows I’m disappointed, but if she says it’s for the best I have to trust her. Especially with something like this—something she deals in. She knows The Guys.
“Thanks, I guess. I’ll let you get back to work.”
“When he finds you, because I know he will, don’t get upset with me when I say ‘I told you so’. Gotta go, darlin’.” Her accent slips at the end. She was being sincere.
Click. The line is dead.
I scribble doodles all over the notepad with Steve’s number. I feel like a traitor because I secretly hope Maverick gets in touch before I make this phone call. Then I won’t have to worry about anything except hot sex. Morganna doesn’t know that I already know what type of guy he is. I tried the good guy for a long time and it ended up biting me in the ass. A bad guy was exactly what I needed all along. A villain—a nasty one with hot hands and wet lips. I’m not trying to find insta-love, or even insta-lust, even though the last one is probably part of the deal.
A shiver shoots down my spine and my core clenches. It’s ten a.m. and I’ve gotten nothing accomplished. I pick at my barely living desk plant. I dump the remnants of my water bottle onto the soil. “You never had a chance,” I whisper to the inanimate object.
“You have two afternoon appointments. New clients. One and Four,” Hannah drones through my phone’s intercom.
“After lunch? Why one, Hannah?” I had plans to go home for a long lunch and have a long drawn out date with Bob, my battery operated boyfriend. I sigh. “E-mail me the info,” I say.
My inbox chimes almost immediately. One is just a tax consult, which is normal and boring. The second email, the one o’clock appointment with T.H., is a full consult. My boss has an asterisk next to the subject line, which means money. Lots of it.
I beep Hannah back. “How much are we talking?”
“No details. He requested you. Even after I told him you prefer morning appointments.”
The ad I placed online must be working if I’m getting people requesting me personally. I fought an internal battle after the woman in marketing told me I’d get more business if I posted a photo of myself with the advertisement. Like a freaking personal ad or something. I guess I should thank her if it’s actually working. Our accounting firm is large, and there are plenty of other accountants with a lot more experience and with substantially larger resumes. John Nash is also an accountant in this firm. He works a few floors up and I never run into him. I think it’s purposeful. I went a little crazy the months, and probably year, after his cheating scandal. My co-workers went out of their way to make sure I’d never see him again. I don’t even see Nashhole’s car. His parking garage is on the other side of the building.
“Thanks,” I yell a little too loudly before shutting off my intercom. I’m intrigued to find out what I’ll be working with. Who I’ll be working with. The giddy thoughts of advancing because of a large account make me forget why I didn’t get anything done all morning. With a new purpose I start plowing through my work, balancing accounts and calling clients. On a roll, I work straight through lunch, clearing my workload so I can leave directly following my four o’clock. It startles me when Hannah’s voice echoes in my small office.
“Your one,” she stutters. I narrow my eyes at the phone, wondering what the hell is making the iron-willed Hannah fumble words. “Your one is here, Ms. Forbes.” Recovered completely. Even addressing me formally in front of clients like our boss requests. I straighten my desk so I don’t look like a complete paper slob.
“Send them back, please,” I tell her. I comb my fingers through my hair and plaster the fake, friendly smile on my face. The same smile that is on my ad. The one they expect. I’m discovering new levels of vanity I never knew could exist.
All vanity goes directly out the window the second Mr. T.H. enters my office, closing the door behind him.
“Windsor Forbes. You were far easier to track down than you should be,” Maverick says. I should be scared because he obviously stalked me. I should be angry that this asshole didn’t take no for an answer. I should beep Hannah and tell her to send security up to my office, even though I’m sure the rent-a-cops wouldn’t stand a chance against the muscle wall that is Maverick.
But I don’t do any of those things. I shake my head out of sheer feminine cattiness. Inside? My stomach is doing flip-flops and my heart is pounding, sending jolts all the way down to my sex. The things that flit through my mind are all lewd. Crass. We are both naked in all of the images. Sweating, skin clapping, hair pulling. I want him. His dimples are out in full force, because I still haven’t spoken.
He knows what he’s doing to my insides.
“T.H.? Well who would have thought,” I say, extending my hand to shake his. I’m suddenly a little disappointed it’s Maverick when I was expecting to land a huge account. Granted, I will land some other huge object straight between my thighs. He must see the displeasure on my face.
He takes my outstretched hand, shakes it, and then folds his large arms across his chest. “Expecting someone else?” he asks.
“Yes and no. I spoke with Morganna today. She told me you wanted my information.” As I say the words, paranoia hits me. Maybe Maverick really does have a lot of money and he does want me to manage it for him. Maybe he’s not interested in dating, screwing, insert sex act here, with me. He wants my professional services. I’m not sure what is worse. Not getting a large account or not getting him, Morganna’s warnings aside.
“I want your information, huh?” He stalks around my office like a predator. Which is what this man is. Fully. I love it. His eyes heat when he looks me up and down, not trying to hide his appraisal. He drags the office chair that sits in front of my desk next to my seat.
His proximity heats me, wetting my panties and blushing every part of me that isn’t covered by clothes. I cross my legs. His unreadable gaze darts to my legs and the black pencil skirt that covers my desire. This much man, and how he affects me, should be illegal.
“Well, you’ve found me. What can I do for you,” I say, glancing down at the paperwork he laid on top of my keyboard, “Mr. Thomas Maverick Hart?” Trying to ignore the way his arm brushes mine, I scan the numbers on the paperwork. The large numbers. Maverick is loaded. Not loaded like a Navy bachelor who has a couple re-enlistment bonuses in his account; he’s loaded like a trust fund baby who never has to work a day in his life. I feel his gaze boring into the side of my head as I read. It’s unrelenting. I look at him and hold up the top page, pointing at the bottom line.
He shrugs his shoulders and the top of his neck tattoo peeks out of his polo shirt. “Can you help me with it or not? You are a CPA.” He rasps my title a little too excitedly.
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