Now, staring at her damn cereal bowl, he wondered if getting involved with Madeline St. Clair was such a brilliant idea after all.
LEANING BACK AGAINST her bedroom door, Maddie squeezed her eyes shut.
LeCroix was the devil in a dark blue suit. Forget the heroics with John Doe. The casual bill-it-to-me crap. Forget the oil-stained shirt, the filthy trousers, and ruined shoes. It all amounted to pocket change to him.
Okay, so maybe he seemed to genuinely care about John. He’d just farm him out to one of his many estates. He didn’t understand that a dog, especially one like John, needed love.
But what did Adam LeCroix know about love? Nothing, that’s what.
He was all about money and stuff and taking what he wanted, even if he had to steal it. Especially if he had to steal it. Stealing was fun for him, a game, a hobby, and she’d been so close to nailing him.
Now he was out there sneering at her apartment. So what if it was small, and modest, and, okay, kind of messy at the moment? Downsizing had forced her to pare down her possessions, to bring only what truly mattered. Like the love seat that cuddled her after a long day at the office. Her oversized TV, perfect for escaping into movies with popcorn and Cabernet.
And Lucy’s work, of course. Bold and colorful and full of life, just like her sister. Inspiring Maddie to be better, work harder. To do whatever it took to care for the young woman she’d abandoned as a girl.
Now LeCroix’s cooties were on all of it.
Grinding her teeth, she rifled her drawers. Underwear, bras, and socks hit the bed. Yoga pants and T-shirts and a cotton nightie followed. Pawing through her closet, she yanked out two Gucci suits, periwinkle and gunmetal gray, and the blouses and accessories to match.
Then she dragged her garment bag out from under her bed and layered the whole kit and caboodle into it, stuffed her toiletry bag, still stocked from her last business trip, into the outside pocket, and was done packing with four minutes to spare.
Not that it was a competition.
Slinging the bag over her shoulder, she cast a long last look at her sleigh bed with its comfortable-as-a-cloud mattress and reminded herself to stop in the bathroom for her sleeping pills. She’d done without them until now, but things were going downhill like a pig on ice.
Adam was waiting by the door when she emerged. She dropped her bag and brushed past him, then pulled up short. “Where is it?”
“Where’s what?” He looked bored.
“My cereal bowl.”
“I washed it.”
“You washed it? Why?”
He hefted her bag. “To move things along. Leonardo times his carbonara to the minute.”
She snatched her purse from the counter as he opened the door. Damn it, she hated to be rushed. But carbonara was an art form, and it happened to be her favorite dish.
“I take it Leonardo’s one of your lackeys,” she said snottily.
“It’s unlikely he’d characterize himself as a lackey.” Adam stepped back so she could precede him down the stairs. His manners were flawless, double damn him.
“How about flunky?” she lobbed over her shoulder. “Grunt, stooge, minion?”
He laughed, and she realized she’d never heard him sound genuinely amused.
She redoubled her efforts to be abrasive.
“It must suck knowing that everyone around you is there because you pay them. No friends, just hired hands.”
“Whereas you,” he said lightly, holding the outer door, “are awash in friends and lovers.”
“I have friends,” she snapped, managing to step on his toe as she passed him. Fredo opened the car door and she plunked herself on the forward-facing seat.
LeCroix eyed her through the open door.
“I get carsick if I ride backwards,” she announced. “You want me puking all over the place?”
“Certainly not. Slide over. We’ll share the seat.”
She had no intention of sitting that close to him. Their knees might touch.
She crossed her arms, a truculent two-year-old.
“Madeline.” With a definite edge. “Shove over, or I’ll shove you over.”
She stared straight ahead. Let him try it.
Then—whoosh—the bastard scooped her up like a feather and deposited her two feet to the left! He dropped onto the seat beside her, Fredo closed the door, and five seconds later they were under way.
“I guess you’ve been working out,” she snipped, masking wounded pride. “Planning another heist?”
He broke into a smile, amusement again, and she felt an unwelcome tingle. Some perverse part of her liked being the center of his attention.
His eyes, midnight blue in the waning light, flicked over her once. “What do you weigh? Ninety pounds?”
She narrowed her eyes. “It’s rude to ask someone’s weight.”
“Rudeness is hardly the worst you’ve accused me of.”
“True, but it’s your latest offense. Along with touching my person. That’s battery.”
He grinned now, and damn it, her insides fluttered. She pinched it off. Reminded herself why she was sitting here with a goddamn felon. Because he was blackmailing her.
“Keep your mitts to yourself, LeCroix. You might’ve hijacked my services as a lawyer, but don’t even think about getting into my pants, because sex isn’t part of this deal.”
He dropped the grin. “I don’t deal for sex, Madeline. It never crossed my mind. But since it appears to be at the forefront of yours, let me be clear. I’ve never bought sex, never coerced it in any manner. I don’t use sex as a tool, a weapon, or a means to an end. For me, sex is about desire. Mutual desire. We’d both have to want it.
“And frankly, darling”—he smiled apologetically—“diminutive women don’t do it for me.”
WATCHING THE FLUSH rush up Madeline’s neck, Adam wished he’d stopped short of making it personal. It was beneath him to poke at another’s physical attributes. He’d been bloody lucky in that department, through no doing of his own, and always found it boorish when others mocked those less fortunate.
Now he’d gone and done it himself. Not that there was anything wrong with being petite. Some men undoubtedly preferred their women pocket-sized. He’d begun to see the attraction himself. But she was obviously self-conscious about it, so it wasn’t fair to taunt her.
He wanted, desperately, to blame his transgression on her. The woman deliberately got under his skin, pricked his ego. But it was no excuse for his own bad behavior.
There was no making up for it now, not without drawing more attention to both her size and his indiscretion. Best to ignore the whole thing and hope she forgot about it.
Like that would happen.
He gave it a try anyway, opening his laptop to the latest quarterly report on his most recent acquisition. He had decisions to make. A change in management was overdue, and he’d be plugging his own people into key positions before the week was out.
He jotted some notes, sent a brief e-mail. But he couldn’t concentrate. Madeline was thinking too loudly. He could almost hear her plotting.
Foolishly, he hadn’t fully thought through his plans for her. Again, he’d acted impulsively, even recklessly, his usual clear-sightedness blurred by the tantalizing thought of having her at his mercy. He hadn’t considered that keeping Madeline close was like cuddling a live grenade.
It was bound to go boom.
He could, he supposed, strand her on one of his more remote estates. Leave her to chew through the woodwork while he went about his business, summoning her only when the Hawthorne matter required it.
But now that he had her, he was oddly reluctant to let her go. Not only did the old adage fit—keep your friends close and your enemies closer—but he was man enough to admit she’d captured his interest. She was a puzzle begging to be solved.
And despite his crass comment about diminutive women, she was damn desirable.
In any case, it behooved him to keep her too busy to plot
. And after his digression into name calling, he needed to reestablish their professional footing.
Him, boss; her, minion.
So, taking a file from the stack on the seat, he held it out to her without looking away from the screen.
“What?” she asked without touching it.
“I’m installing a new CFO at a software company I’ve just acquired.”
“So?”
“So this is her employment contract. Look it over. And pay special attention to the noncompete clause.” It would give her something to do besides plan his castration.
She sniffed. “I’m here to squeeze Hawthorne, not help your crusade for world domination. Give it to one of your lackeys.”
He looked over at her then, and was startled to see that instead of steely gray, the eyes glaring back at him were a pale and luminous sea green.
He blinked.
It was her sage-colored shirt that brought out the hue. But a hint of it must have been layered beneath the steel, which explained why he’d always found her eyes so arresting. Green eyes hit him below the belt.
He recovered quickly. “I am giving it to one of my lackeys. You.”
Those arresting eyes narrowed.
He feigned surprise. “Did you expect to loaf? Draft a few motions and then lounge by the pool? At five hundred dollars an hour?”
“You make a good point,” she said in a tone that meant anything but. “Why hire me full-time when I can draft those motions in a couple of hours? They’ll still have my name on them, so you’ll get my”—air quotes—“stamp of approval. And you’ll save yourself a fortune.”
Allowing a faint smile, he launched a decoy to draw her away from the sound point she’d made. “Yes, but it’s my fortune, isn’t it? And I wouldn’t keep it for long if I frittered it away on lazy lawyers.”
Her lips flattened out. “This lazy lawyer came within an inch of taking you down.”
“Ah, but a decisive inch it was.” He dropped the folder on her lap and went back to his laptop like he’d lost interest in the conversation.
With a great many muttered fucks and damns, she pulled out the contract. Two minutes later she slapped it down on the seat. “You’re kidding, right? This is the language you always use?”
He gave her his full attention. “Why do you ask?”
“Because it sucks.” She pulled a pen from her bag and circled a phrase, jabbed it with the point.
He picked it up, read it, gave her a questioning look.
She rolled her eyes. “This is basic. I can’t believe it hasn’t bitten you in the ass.”
He lowered the contract. “This happens to be the first contract drafted by a firm I’ve recently retained. But my own attorneys reviewed it and found it ironclad.”
“That’s because the problem’s so obvious that they overlooked it. Happens all the time. You expect to see something, so you see it. Even when it’s not there.” She snatched the contract, wrote three words—“directly or indirectly”—and dropped it again.
“How’s that for lazy, LeCroix? You were an inch from getting fucked.”
And didn’t that conjure up some interesting images?
Five years ago, he’d entertained a few fantasies about her. Lifting her skirt, bending her over the desk. The usual thing.
But now he threw her down on the seat, cuffed her wrists. Tore her blouse, popped her tits out of her bra. She pretended to fight him, thrashing her head, cursing his name. But when he mounted her, drove into her, she bucked up to meet him, shuddering as she came.
Yes, this time around it was hardcore porn fast-forwarding in his brain, hardening his dick while he looked steadily into her eyes.
“Thank you, Madeline,” he said, managing a civilized tone, while his inner barbarian stripped her naked.
She must have sensed the atmosphere change; the heat rising from his skin, the primal scent of lust. “Whatever,” she muttered, but she didn’t look away. She wanted to, he could tell. But their eyes had locked.
Color rose in her cheeks as the moment lengthened. Her lips went dry; she touched them with her tongue.
He broke his gaze to stare at it, hungrily. Only willpower kept him from biting it, sucking it . . .
Then the door opened. He hadn’t even realized they’d stopped.
Maddie leaped over him and out of the car.
CHAPTER FIVE
RATTLED DOWN TO her genes by the pheromone explosion in the limo, Maddie’s resistance took another hit when Adam’s private elevator opened onto a magnificent foyer twice as large as her apartment.
Determined not to show weakness, she hid shock and awe behind an insouciant facade, barely glancing at the chandelier—as big as a Volkswagen. Or the Persian rug—as wide as a hockey rink. And she refused to acknowledge the art dripping from the walls, or the life-size bronze nude she knew to be a Rodin.
A gaunt man in a black suit was harder to ignore. He dropped a tight bow and spoke with a high-toned British accent. “Mr. LeCroix, a pleasure to have you back with us so soon.”
“Thank you, Henry. This is Ms. St. Clair. She’ll have the emerald suite.”
Henry nodded at a hovering maid, who disappeared to do the master’s bidding.
“Please tell Leonardo we’ll dine early. Say, half an hour.”
Henry nodded again, then turned to Maddie. “If you’ll follow me?”
Half a mile of art-lined hallway later, he opened the door to a suite more luxurious than the most opulent hotel. Ankle-deep cream carpet, fireplace fronted with jade marble, sofa and chairs upholstered in ultra-soft sage, all designed with elegant comfort in mind.
The art here was museum quality too. Every surface boasted artifacts from around the world. And the paintings. Good God. On one wall a Remington, on another a Turner. And above the fireplace, a Cezanne rounded out the eclectic collection.
It was tasteful and stylish and snug all at once, and if the fourth wall hadn’t been glass—albeit draperied in emerald chenille—Maddie would have been forced to call it perfect.
“The bedroom is through there.” Henry spread an arm toward double doors. “Bridget is unpacking your things. She’ll attend you while you’re in residence, and assist you with your bath if you wish. In any case, you may summon her—or any of the staff—simply by picking up any telephone.”
“Great.” Maddie gave him a friendly smile, hoping she didn’t seem completely out of her element.
He reciprocated with an infinitesimal curve of the lips. “Dinner will be served in thirty minutes. Bridget will escort you to the dining room.”
Not a chance. She wasn’t going near LeCroix tonight, not after they’d almost jumped each other in the limo.
“Thanks, but you can send me a plate.”
Henry’s sunken eyes widened. “But Mr. LeCroix will expect you.”
“He’ll get over it.” She put a hand on the doorknob, a clear signal to scram. “We’re leaving tomorrow, so if I don’t see you again, thanks for everything.”
He backed into the hallway, surprise written large on his dour face. She did a bye-now finger wave, then went hunting for the maid.
She found her—the slender woman from the foyer—folding her panties into tiny triangles.
“Hey, Bridget, I’m Maddie.” She stuck out her hand.
The stunned woman stared at it, eventually reaching out to touch it—barely—before pulling hers back and dropping a quick curtsy.
“Shall I draw your bath, then, ma’am?” she asked in a soft Irish brogue.
It was Downton Abbey come to life. Butlers, and parlors, and curtsying maids.
“Thanks, but I’ve got it from here.” Hustling the girl into the hallway, Maddie looked both ways and dropped her voice. “Listen, Bridget, why don’t you take the night off? Hit the movies, or a club. I promise not to tell.”
And giving the gaping girl a parting grin and a wink, Maddie closed the door in her face.
“SHE SAID WHAT?” Adam stared at Henry.
Henry crossed his arms, his amusement apparent. Gone was the prim and proper butler. His demeanor now was less servant than friend, and his accent less Queen’s English than cockney.
“She’s blowin’ you off, mate.”
Adam pushed his fingers through his hair. He’d hoped to follow up on their interlude in the car. Mutual desire had definitely hung in the air.
He should have known she’d fight it. Any other woman would have thrown herself at him, but she’d thrown herself over him to get away.
Not only that, but she was patently unimpressed by the resources at his command. He had to respect her for that, but damn it, he wanted her to acknowledge his place in the world.
And he wanted her to dine with him.
He pushed back his chair. “All right, then. Serve dinner in the emerald suite. For two.” And taking two flutes in one hand and the icy Prosecco in the other, he strode from the room to take on the Pitbull.
She wasn’t happy to see him.
“What?” She kept her hand on the knob like she’d slam the door in his face if she didn’t like his answer.
Ignoring her question, he strode into the suite like he owned it, which he damn well did. Setting the glasses on the cherry dining table that stood before the window, he twisted the top off the Prosecco. It popped loudly, then fizzed invitingly, foaming as he poured it.
He lifted a flute and held it out to her.
Her pixie nose wrinkled. “I’m not drinking with you.”
“Your loss.” He took a sip from the glass. “You’ll find it’s just the thing with Leonardo’s carbonara.”
“I’m not eating with you either.”
He smiled. She was such a contrary imp. Totally unlike the other women who came in and out of his life, so anxious to please, to tease, to bewitch him with their talents. Not that he discouraged them. But Madeline didn’t even pretend to like him.
Why did he find that so alluring?
Behind her, Henry’s “Excuse me, madame,” made her jump. Pushing past her, he wheeled the dinner cart to the table and commenced setting two places with Wedgwood and silver.
“Hold on.” Maddie fisted her hips, stretching her T-shirt taut across her breasts. “I asked for a plate, not service for two. Get that stuff out of here.”
The Wedding Vow Page 4