by Diana Downey
My gaze locks onto the man the girl who ran me over was gawking at. She doesn’t offer to help or apologize but gapes at this man reeking of testosterone. Where are these woman’s manners, obviously not a true Southerner.
Stunned into silence we both stare at him. She’s a natural blonde. I am not, though I did dye it to look more like my mom.
This gorgeous, send-me-over-the-edge-of-sexual-fulfillment man gracefully crouches beside me and helps me gather my strewn papers.
The other girl’s brain finally engages. “My apologies. I should’ve watched where I was going.” She helps me too and tries to shove me out of the way, but the electricity between this man and me creates a force field around us. The tangible strength of his sheer will radiates from him, like a beacon on a stormy sea, luring me into shallow waters where I’ll gladly crash.
The girl then slips on the marble and falls on her ass, and to my enjoyment, he helps her up and says, “I think Cynthia and I can get this.”
He knows my name. Score.
Oh stupid me. It’s on my badge that dangles against my bare knee while I collect the last of my reports.
He brushes back carefully styled inky-black hair. His brows sexily hood his sterling blue eyes. He rubs the light stubble on his magazine-pretty cut jaw, and his seductively rakish grin has “take me to bed” written all over it. “That should be it.” The voice is articulate with a slight edgy grate that sends my stomach somersaulting.
My breath stops in my chest while my heart takes off, beating maniacally fast. Thick dark hair any woman would love to tangle her fingers in on a cold night, glacier blue eyes that undress and naughtily caress me, a designer suit cut to fit broad shoulders and a trim waist. Oh sweet goodness. The scent of musky testosterone fills my nose. And is that Clive Christian—chic and expensive—wafting off his delectable neck?
His lips are firm, like they’d sizzle on my tongue while lulling me into a stupor.
“Oh Mr. Waits,” the other intern titters, her blonde hair falling in waves over her shoulders.
She dips her chin to her shoulder. “It’s so nice to bump into you.”
She hasn’t left? Go away!
My internship at Chambers and Son, one of the most prestigious law firms in Austin, has led me to Mr. Right, and his surname probably means he’s related to the Waits corporate law team. His long, manicured fingers brush against mine, sending shivers of delight into the nether regions between my thighs.
Oh yeah. He can make it happen. I know he can. At twenty-one, I desperately await the chart topper all my friends have bragged about—the elusive orgasm. Well, elusive for me.
He hands me my reports, completely ignoring the blonde. With my dark brows and eyes, my blonde dye job looks better than her natural hair. His hand wraps around my wrist, skin on skin, heat firing up my arm with a bullet to my heart. If this guy were any hotter, he’d singe the hair off my arms.
With one quick movement, he helps me up and accidentally, or not so accidentally, pulls me into his chest, once again leaving me breathless. My heart is beating so fast I may be having a heart attack, and the flush scorching my body is like we’ve tangled in the sheets for hours.
“Thank you,” I manage to get out.
“My pleasure,” he says, his hand not quite letting go of mine, leaving a scintillating wake of sexual entanglement. “I will see you around, Miss Diaz,” Mr. Waits says in a deep sultry voice that belongs in my bedroom, “and please call me Blake.” He saunters away and out through the revolving doors.
When I look at him, I see savage, sheet-clawing, headboard-banging fucking. His smile slips over me, and I have to turn my head away from him and walk in the opposite direction to catch my stolen breath while my heart still pounds.
I glance back to watch Mr. Waits slip into a Rolls Royce Phantom. He unbuttons his suit jacket and glances over his shoulder. He can’t possibly see through the building’s tinted windows, but his lingering gaze slides over me, and the power emitting from him blasts through the doors.
Slightly dazed, I press my hand to my forehead where the heat penetrates my palm. The slow, deliberate clapping of an audience startles me out of my reverie of the mouthwatering Mr. Waits.
I swivel around and almost slam into Shane O’Flannery—my nemesis and Nikita’s boyfriend for the past two years. He’s leaning against a column, chuckling at my tantalizing encounter with Mr. Right. He continues giving me that highly irritating ovation with those large, rough hands that feel like sandpaper against any woman’s delicate skin.
What do I expect from Shane? Grizzlies in the Alaskan wilds raised this Neanderthal. But after years of knowing him, I bet he’d get up in the middle of the night to care for a screaming infant and an exhausted nursing Nikita. They’re soon to be engaged, and I don’t like it.
What am I thinking? Nikita would never nurse a child, let alone have one.
I don’t know why he went out with her. At the career fair, I could’ve sworn he was interested in me. He’s had many opportunities to ask for my phone number but hasn’t and has brushed me off like unwanted cat hair. It was no surprise he went for the buxom blonde Nikita, and he told me he wasn’t interested in the Fay type. It still grates on me.
Much to my satisfaction, it took him a year to get Nikita to go out with him. After he slept with her the rumors started flying about how Shane had stabled Secretariat in his pants.
Hockey gave him the crook to his nose, and the garish scar slicing through the dimple on his chin was from a kid kicking him with his ice skates during a dog pile in a hockey game. He wouldn’t tell me about the slash on his throat, and Nikita doesn’t know either.
His body is diamond hard, and his ruggedness exudes weathered masculinity. Those coarse lips, however, gave me that one long, amazing kiss. It’s the only memorable kiss I’ve had…so far.
The sound of his hands slapping together echoes in the cavernous lobby. A few people, including the rude blonde, stop to stare at him. Shane’s formidable stature intimidates most, but not me. When my Porsche wouldn’t start, it wasn’t my boyfriend dirtying his hands under the hood. It was Shane, just like he found my mother. If only he’d gotten there sooner. I swallow my heartache.
Unfortunately, Shane is Mr. Wrong, no matter what Mom believed, and I can’t help it that I haven’t found any keepers. My philosophy has always been I have to kiss a lot of frogs to marry a prince—and frogs they have all been, including Shane, and I’ve gone through a lot of them. My mother would be appalled.
A twisted grin slashes Shane’s face. “That was quite the show you gave, Princess.”
“That nickname was cute when I was four, Shane, and only when my dad called me that.”
He knows I hate it. It’s bad enough that most of my friends call me Sin.
“But it suits you.” He leans down to whisper in my ear, “I see you’re still hunting for the prince in wolf’s clothing.”
“Look, Shane. I don’t need your bullshit. It’s giving me a migraine.”
“I bet you say that to all the guys.”
I smirk. If he knew how desperate I am to reach my goal of sexual satisfaction, he wouldn’t say that.
Wearing a crumpled suit he probably slept in, Shane laughs. His rumpled appearance is driving me crazy. If I stand here any longer, I’ll have to fix him.
He hasn’t shaved in a few days, so the rust color in his beard mixes with his black-Irish Catholic-heathen soul.
Shane leans down to me, and I’m not even short. “You’re drooling.”
“I am not.” I so am. My eyes dart to where Mr. Waits’ car was once parked.
“You have much in common with him, Princess,” he snarks, wiping off my chin with a heavily calloused finger. His touch combusts on my skin. “Don’t you want to hear what you and Mr. Tall, Dark, and Deadly have in common?”
Blake and I are both attracted to each other. That’s what we have in common. “No. Whatever it is we have in common I don’t need to hear it from you,” I say, sp
inning around and bolting for the exit to avoid any further humiliating conversation with Shane.
He securely snags my arm. “You’re hiding something.” He knows me too well, except for my sexual dysfunction. He’d laugh about that, so I won’t give him any ammunition.
God, he’s strong. I put my free hand on my hip. “What am I hiding?” Sometimes, I hate this uncouth, untamed, hard-bodied man. What a waste of raw animal magnetism this man by some miracle has harnessed. My body still quivers from his touch.
His fingers twirl in my long hair where the dark roots barely show. “Your Spanish heritage and that hot blooded temper of yours. I like your hair black by the way.”
“What do you know? And I don’t care what you like.” I smack his hand away.
He leans down to me, and I hate it. His self-assurance is highly irritating in him, yet perfect in Blake Waits because he’s a gentleman. “It’s a shame that he’s not really interested.”
I stab my finger at my eye and then his. “Did you not see the eye tag between us?” I couldn’t have imagined that. Could I? I hope not. I pray to my Savior for Mr. Waits’ undivided attention in the near future.
And how dare Shane dump a raincloud on me? “And what about your girlfriend?” I ask. “She loves you so much that she asked you to give me a lap dance for my birthday.”
Doubt casts infinite shadows on his expression but are gone in a flick of an eye. Cocky bastard. “She’s your sorority sister and loves you. Didn’t you enjoy it? I did my best, and don’t change the subject.”
“I…I…” Of course I enjoyed it. Who knew he could dance so erotically? And damn if I didn’t get excited and begged for another tongue-lock with this man.
Shane’s lips pucker to hold in his laughter. “Under that blue-blood persona, your new lust interest is probably gay or a serial killer.”
Doubt swells in my breast. How would he know? “No he’s not. He couldn’t be any more straight or perfect.”
“Any guy that perfectly coifed is straddling the fence or breaking his neck to jump off onto the other side.”
I wag my finger at Shane. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. How could you? You date a girl who uses a name more appropriate for a stripper.”
Mild irritation flashes in those green eyes. “Your latest infatuation reminds me of HH Holmes, good-looking, charming, piercing blue eyes, smells of money. And I like the name Nikita.”
I knuckle my hips. “Who the hell is HH Holmes?”
“The infamous serial killer at the Chicago World’s Fair who cut up people, threw some in acid, boiled others, and some he gassed and burned. The police believed the Devil in the White City killed hundreds. Surely you’ve heard of him.”
“No, but it does surprise me that you’ve read anything beyond Penthouse.”
“Playboy is the one with the articles.” He chuckles, checking his phone. “I used to before Niki, but I don’t need to anymore. I’d love to continue discussing your fixation with Mr. Scary, but I have a meeting to attend.”
“What could possibly be so important that you couldn’t dress up for?” I eye his rumpled suit, haphazardly hung tie, and wrinkled shirt. I can’t let this go. “Honestly, come here.”
I drag him by the tie into the women’s restroom, and he obediently follows. We’re alone, so I undo his tie and knot it in a full Windsor, tightening it up higher from its originally loosened position.
“You’re choking me,” he complains.
“Oh, stop whining.” I button the top button on his white dress shirt, tuck it in to lessen the wrinkles, which makes him suck in his abs made from tempered steel, and pull out my portable steamer iron from my tote.
“What the hell is that?” He looks into the deep realms of my Michael Kors. “You could fit a tank in that purse.”
“You’ll thank me later.” It instantaneously heats up and steams out the wrinkled appearance of his suit and shirt. “What’s so important?”
“I’ve had a significant offer for my company from the largest network carrier,” he boasts while appraising himself in the mirror. “Wow, I look good.” He tugs on his sleeves. “Thank you, Princess. I don’t mean to give you a hard time, but you should stay away from that man. He stinks of deceit.”
Like he could tell. He dates Nikita, the seductress of lies, and her grammar is atrocious. “Do you know him?” Shane could. He rents space in this building, and as hard as it is to believe, he’s successful with his startup firm. Niki bragged that it’s worth millions now.
“No. It’s just that he’s too flawless.” Shane looks me squarely in the eye. “You women go after men that are no good. You’re looking for some wealthy alpha asshole married to his money. You want a guy tailored to perfection and spewing money out his ass. That guy is not a manly man. He’s a girly man. Trust me.” He chuckles again. “Thanks again, Cyn, and I mean that.”
An insult and a compliment in one breathe. Obviously, his mother never taught him any manners.
I don’t know why Shane is jealous of Mr. Waits, other than he is everything Shane is not. What could possibly be wrong with Mr. Waits? He’s not scary at all, and I will not let Shane deter me from banging the hell out of this man while seeking physical relief and snaring him into marriage.
Chapter Six
Cyn
It only took one month for Blake Waits to propose to me at his parents’ lavish home and another two months to plan the wedding. His proposal was perfect. He got down on one knee while holding a box from Tiffany’s. When I think about it, tingles sweep over my body and a tear escapes my eyes.
My organza-wedding gown swishes and trails behind me as I sashay linked arm-and-arm to my father behind my niece spreading rose petals in front of her. At my mother’s request years ago, Vera Wang herself tailored the dress for me. The lace accentuates my thin waist, and my tanned shoulders stand out against the downy white, strapless gown.
Under the arbor overlooking Mom's rose gardens, Blake stands by the priest and his cadre of gorgeous groomsmen. Gina and Christine lead my brigade of bridesmaids in frothy peach gowns. Blake’s delectable lips curl into a seductive grin that reaches his silver-blue eyes. The tux molds to his perfectly erect body that’s full of confidence and manliness.
Shane knows nothing about men, even if he is one. I know from firsthand that Blake is 100 percent straight and completely into me.
Daddy’s locked arm releases mine to hand me off to Blake, who is so succulent I could lick him right now. Daddy gives me one last smile before sitting proudly in his Ralph Lauren tux in the front row by Fay and Willa.
I glance around at all our guests and wonder if Mom would’ve been happy, especially given the Mexican cartel, including Daddy’s crazy brother, resting their plump behinds on our side of the guests. It’s mostly the perfect wedding—sit down prime rib dinner, open bar, and enough gifted cash to put a down payment on our first home.
I feel the magnetic pull of Blake, and edgy energy fills me. I’m a bundle of nerves while he is composed and completely at ease, self-assurance in every precise movement of his toned fight-ready body.
As he grasps my hand with his, warm, yet dry and firm, I lift my gaze toward his magnificently broad chest and upward to his strong jaw and straight nose.
The sudden ruckus causes me to look back though the crowd and scowl.
If Shane and Nikita weren’t at my wedding, I’d be the happiest girl on the planet. They’re fighting…again. They could at least keep it down so I can hear my vows. To maintain appearances, I unfortunately had to invite her along with all my other sorority sisters whom I actually love.
Two rows from the back of my 300-some odd wedding guests seated on the manicured lawn of my mother’s sprawling ranch, Nikita and Shane are sparring. Mother’s friends, the Bushes, yes, the Bushes, jerk around in their seats to shush them. If Mom saw them so near the back, she’d sit up in her grave and cry, but Dad had to make room for the drug lord, who would never sit in the back unless Dad wants heads t
o roll.
Shane’s voice rises while Nikita glares and shakes her fist at him.
This is my day. Do Shane and his pole dancer not get that? He is absolutely the worst. Everything is supposed to be perfect. Perfect man, perfect wedding dress, perfect bridesmaids. God, Shane ruins everything, even the perfect wedding.
And I still haven’t gotten over my freshman year at a party when a very inebriated Shane told Austin’s most eligible bachelors that he was sleeping with me. None of them dared approach me given the grizzly bear of a man hovering nearby, and he had the audacity to laugh about it the next day, telling me I was better off.
Shane catches me glaring at him. His pale-green eyes rage, and the red gossamers amidst his dark hair glint in the noonday sun. Even though it’s late October, heat scorches my face, which my makeup certainly doesn’t need in this unforgiving Texas heat and humidity. God, I should’ve worn my Ray-Bans to hide my rubbernecking, but sunglasses would ruin my wedding video.
To my horror, the videographer tapes Nikita and Shane’s blowout and not the gorgeous man I’m marrying. How could she possibly not get along with Shane? He sold that stupid company of his for a half billion, so he’s filthy rich now.
“Do you take this man?” the priest asks, raising his voice. “Cynthia Diaz, do you take this man?” He shakes the Bible at me.
“Don’t shake that thing at me,” I say, pushing the good book out of my face while glimpsing my older sister Fay giving me the slashing throat motion. Especially today given her hair swept up into a French twist, she resembles Mom and it hurts.
Willa sits up straight with her hands on her lap. She desperately wants to find her Prince Charming too, even though she has another half year of high school to go.
“Do you take—” the priest practically shouts.
“Heck yeah,” I say while clasping both of Blake’s hands. “I mean. I do.”
“You’re distracted,” Blake Waits, the sexiest man alive and now my husband, whispers into my ear, nuzzling it and setting it ablaze with a flick of his tongue.
“By you.” I give him my best sexy smile, and dammit, Shane O’Flannery stands up, knocking over his chair into Mrs. Bush’s lap.