The Bad Boy Wants Me: A Bad Boy Romance

by Georgia Le Carre

  The last one penetrated my fog of fury.

  I stopped and took a hold of myself. I had no right to be angry. Ivan and I were getting married, but it was a fake marriage. He didn’t belong to me. Besides, it was my idea to not drag sex into the equation. So really he could sleep with as many slutty Chloe clones as he wanted. I heard a noise behind me and whirled around.

  Chloe was standing at the door, well posing, actually.

  ‘Found it,’ she announced with a smile and waved something in the air. ‘My butt plug.’

  My expression must have betrayed my thoughts because she frowned and came towards me.

  ‘I know you. Don’t get ideas about Ivan. He’s no Robert Maxwell. He’s a man who needs things you know nothing about. You haven’t got the slightest clue how to keep him satisfied. Do you know how I met him? I met him in a club called The Dirty Aristocrat. Do you know what he was doing? He was finger-fucking a random woman on the dance floor.’

  My mouth dropped open.

  ‘Yeah, I thought so. He’s wild. Like me.’

  I snapped my mouth shut.

  ‘So here’s some good advice. Stay away from him. He’s mine.’

  My skin bristled and the hairs on my body stood on end. I felt like one of those cats you see with their backs arched, their fur ruffled, their heads thrust forward, and their mouths opened in a threatening hiss. Then she made her first big mistake. She reached out and poked me in the chest with her forefinger. I forgot to say, I’m a bit fussy about who touches me.

  I grabbed her finger so suddenly her head snapped back. I turned it upwards while I watched her eyes widen with shock and her mouth open in an inelegant (but extremely satisfying for me) grimace of pain. She tried to pull her finger out of my grasp, but I was the stronger of the two of us and I had no problem holding on.

  ‘Listen, honey,’ I said quietly. ‘I didn’t go to finishing school to learn how to eat a fourteen course meal in the proper way, but where I come from girls like me eat bitches like you for breakfast. Let this be your first and last warning. If you touch me again, it won’t be a butt plug being stuffed up your skinny ass, but my rolling pin.’

  Her eyes bulged with fear. Her mama had obviously not told her to never corner someone meaner than herself.

  I let go of her finger. ‘Now get out of my sight.’

  She clasped both her hands together and took an unsteady step back from me.

  ‘What are you doing here, Chloe?’ Ivan asked from the doorway of the kitchen.

  We were so engrossed in our little spat we had not heard Ivan come in the door. He had addressed her but he was looking at me with an odd expression on his face.

  ‘Chloe came for her butt plug,’ I said sweetly.

  Ivan’s eyebrows flew upwards, and I swear, the beginning of an irritating smirk was starting to curve his mouth as he turned his eyes on her.

  ‘Oh good, you’re here. I was actually hoping to catch you,’ Chloe said, her voice quivering with relief.

  ‘Well, come into the living room then,’ he said, and turned his body sideways to make space for her. She practically ran out of the kitchen.

  He looked at me. ‘I won’t be too long,’ he said, and followed her wriggling plug-hungry butt.

  I curled my fists into balls of frustration. Ugh! What the hell was I doing living in his house and being forced to endure such humiliating scenes? It was intolerable. I was so glad I was going off to the sun in a couple of days.

  I switched on the oven and dialed it to 400 degrees. Next: melt the butter. I dumped the butter into a bowl and stuck it into the microwave. I found my fingers tapping the countertop as I waited. I forced my fingers to stop. I looked at my watch. Three minutes had passed since they went into the living room and closed the door.

  Is that not enough time to fit a plug into an itchy bitch?

  Obviously not.

  I took the bowl of melted butter out and thumped it on the island surface to cool. A little bit slopped out of the sides and puddled on the granite.

  Next: DIY Buttermilk. I put three teaspoons of white vinegar into a cup and added whole milk into it. Unlike me, that was going to need five minutes to sour. I greased a round pan, then stopped, and listened. There were no sounds at all coming from the living room. I glanced at my watch. Honestly.

  I began measuring the dry ingredients. Indian head stone ground yellow cornmeal, flour, baking powder, salt. Next job: whisking the cooled butter, brown sugar and honey. I whisked the mixture so hard it began to froth. I poured in the buttermilk.

  The bastard.

  I whisked again. The door to the living room opened.

  ‘Bye, Tawny,’ the shameless slut called out in a fake-happy voice.

  I didn’t answer.

  Calm down, Tawny, I told myself as I mixed the dry and wet ingredients with a lot more violence than necessary.

  Ivan arrived at the door. I glanced up indifferently. He seemed very indifferent too. I didn’t comment on the lipstick staining his cheek and squashed the urge to straighten his skewed tie. I even managed to ignore the smell of her perfume.

  He walked to the fridge and took out a beer.

  ‘What are you making?’

  Oh! the cheek of the man. ‘Cornbread.’ My voice sounded vinegary.

  I threw a sideways glance at him and the sorry ass actually looked amused. I felt like smacking his head against the fridge.

  He sat on one of the stools on the other side of the island. ‘I’ve never tried cornbread,’ he said conversationally.

  ‘No, I wouldn’t have expected you to.’

  ‘Are you mad about something?’ he asked innocently, and I swear he was trying not to laugh.

  ‘No, whatever makes you think that?’

  ‘I don’t know. It could be the dark cloud over your head.’

  I walked past him, picked up the greased pan, and on my way back to the bowl managed to accidentally purposely whack the side of his head with it. Hard. There was a satisfyingly hollow metal-meeting-skull thud.

  ‘Ow,’ he exclaimed.

  There! That sure wiped the smug look off his face. ‘Oh, sorry. Did I hurt you?’ I purred.

  He rubbed the side of his head and looked at me sheepishly. ‘What are you so furious about?’

  ‘Nothing.’ I flashed him my fakest smile.

  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘Chloe is not my girlfriend, OK? I don’t do girlfriends. I’ve had longer relationships with the cartons of milk in my refrigerator.’

  ‘Oh, is that why she smelt so off,’ I fumed.

  ‘You don’t believe me?’ He seemed shocked.

  ‘Do you want your answer in one word or two?’

  ‘Go ahead be a devil. Use two,’ he taunted.

  ‘FUCK NO,’ I yelled.

  Those incredible silver eyes fixed me in a deadly stare. ‘You go ahead and believe what you want. I didn’t mislead her and that’s the fucking truth. She knew exactly what she was getting with me. She just came by to piss you off. For your information she won’t be coming around again, and if she does, please don’t let her in.’

  I poured the batter into the tin and clunked it on the table surface to even it off, before I looked up at him. ‘Piss me off? I thought she came for her butt plug.’

  ‘Tawny,’ he sighed, his voice exasperated. ‘I don’t have to explain myself to you, but I’ll do it this time and only this time. I’m a man and I have needs. Since you’re not planning to take care of them there are going to be other women, probably lots, in my life. However, none of them will come around to wherever we are staying.’

  I put the tin in the oven and banged the door shut. I crossed my arms over my chest. ‘You’re absolutely right. I agree with you. I won’t bring my sexual partners around to wherever we’re living either.’

  He jumped out of his chair and crossed the room so freaking fast I gasped with astonishment when he grabbed my upper arms. His face was tight with barely leashed fury and his eyes were glowing. Oh my god! He could pierce someone
’s soul with those wolf eyes. My mouth dropped open and I stared at him, shocked.

  The air between us crackled with tension. He opened his mouth to say something, then he appeared to remember himself. His breath came out in a rush. He let go of my arms and stepped back. His hands hung by the sides of his body, but they were hard fists.

  I stood rooted to the spot staring at him. It was amazing how suddenly and violently his mood had changed. One moment he was relaxed and placatory, even amused, and the next he was charging at me like some thunder god.

  I was startled by the lightning change in him, but even more shocking and confusing was the way my traitorous body was still reacting to him. My eyes couldn’t help staring at his broad chest, the way it rose and fell with every breath he took, the snug fit of his trousers over his lean hips.

  What was wrong with me?

  How could I be aware of his innate sexiness and his primal virility when we were slap bang in the middle of a slanging match?

  He took another step away as if I was something that was dangerous to him, his eyes were hooded and guarded.

  ‘I came home early because my ever resourceful secretary managed to reduce the twenty-eight days of notice necessary at the Registry Office to six days. She made us an appointment for three days’ time. We’re getting married at 2.00 p.m. this coming Monday, and I was going to take you to dinner tonight to celebrate,’ he said softly.

  A strange silence crept in between us.

  He just stood there, his eyes steady on me. It was like we were at two ends of a bridge. We could see each other but we could not touch. Two much bad stuff lay between us. I felt the pressure to say something. Anything. I had to make it right. I had been a bitch. The rusty wheels in my brain turned round and round. Anything at all would be good, Tawny.

  ‘So take me out then,’ I said, my voice barely a whisper.

  ‘Do you like Japanese food?’ He said the words slowly.

  ‘Not to celebrate our wedding,’ I said.

  He smiled crookedly. ‘French?’

  ‘Nearly there.’

  He smiled. ‘Italian?’

  ‘You have one last try.’

  He cocked an eyebrow. ‘English?’

  I smiled. ‘I can live with that.’

  ‘Pick you up at your door at half-eight?’

  ‘Sounds like a fine plan to me.’

  He broke eye contact, nodded, and turning away disappeared into his study.

  I stood there looking at the empty doorway. What the hell just happened between us?

  It looked very much as if I was throwing away my best laid plans and going out on a date with Lord Ivan de Greystoke.

  Chapter 19

  Tawny Maxwell

  I washed my hair, dried it, and painstakingly put corkscrew curls in it. Then I painted my nails ice cream yellow, colored my eyes smoky and moody, glossed my lips, and got into the new black dress I bought at Liberty.

  Mama always said, it is better to be late than arrive ugly, but I was standing in front of my mirror by seven-thirty sharp, and nobody could have guessed I once ran barefoot and tangle-haired to the creek to swim naked.

  Ivan knocked on my door and I saw my eyes light up like a Christmas tree in the mirror. Girl, that’s a bad sign right there. Taking a deep breath, I walked over to the door and opened it.

  Oh my!

  Darkly urbane, radiating a wild, feverish excitement, he stood, dressed all in black except for a fabulously cut cream jacket. His blazing eyes lusted for me. It made my knees go weak but I smiled all sultry and sexy-like, and didn’t let on that I thought he was prettier than a glob of butter melting on a stack of pancakes.

  ‘Can I keep you?’ he teased.

  ‘Only if you keep me in a jar and give me lots of treats!’ I replied.

  He laughed. ‘Don’t worry there’ll be all kinds of lovely things in there for a good little girl like you to suck and swallow.’

  ‘‘You’d charm the dew right off the honeysuckle,’ I said sarcastically.

  ‘I settle for charming the dew right off you,’ he leered.

  ‘I’ll be darned. You managed to turn that old saying into something dirty.’

  ‘It’s a talent,’ he said with a filthy snigger.

  I batted my eyelashes the way that was more parody than sexy. ‘Do you think they’ll let me into The Dirty Aristocrat like this?’

  ‘The Dirty Aristocrat is a sex club,’ he said, his lips twisting upwards so sexily, and darn it to hell, but I wanted to lick that dirty smile right off his face. Men like him should be kept locked up in special places to be used purely for copulation purposes.

  ‘I know what it is,’ I said coolly. ‘I asked if they will let me in dressed like this.’

  His jaw twitched. ‘Baby, there isn’t a bouncer born who’s going to turn you away from anywhere.’

  ‘Good,’ I said calmly and walking to my bed, collected my coat from it. ‘Because we’re going there later.’

  His eyes glittered. ‘We are?’

  ‘Aren’t we?’ I asked innocently.

  ‘They don’t play country music there,’ he said, helping me into my coat.

  I tilted my head to one side as if I was processing the information. ‘They don’t?’

  I turned around and he shook his head gravely.

  I put on my best I’m-so-country-sticks-fall-out-every-time-I-open–my-mouth’ expression. ‘You mean to say nobody in England ever thought to have sex to Dolly Parton’s songs?’

  He kept his face straight. ‘Afraid not.’

  ‘It seems to me the English are missing out.’

  ‘It would seem so,’ said the slick weasel, hiding a smile. ‘Nevermind, you wouldn’t have liked it, anyway.’

  I looked up at him through my eyelashes. ‘Why honey, you’re so full of shit it’s surprising your eyes ain’t brown.’

  He grinned. ‘You’ll get on well with my mother.’

  ‘Good, it’s all settled then. The Dirty Aristocrat it is,’ I said.

  ‘This should be an interesting night,’ he said, a twinkle in his eye.

  I buttoned up my coat.

  ‘Shall we?’ he murmured.

  We went out into the street. It was only a little cold. I lifted my collar against the wind and snuggled down into the warmth of my coat. His car was parked down the road and we strolled down to it. He walked close enough for people to realize that we were together, and I immediately appreciated the fact that I loved being with Ivan. Every woman we passed looked at him with hungry eyes first, then at me with wishful envy.

  He drove us to a very exclusive restaurant. Stopping the car at the entrance he turned to me. ‘Here we are?’

  ‘Very fancy,’ I commented.

  ‘Like you wouldn’t believe,’ he replied and hit the button that worked the car’s wing doors.

  I swung my legs out and put them on the pavement, then someone held a gloved hand, palm up, so I could put my hand into it. As soon as I did, he gently and expertly tugged me so I floated upwards as if we were part of an immaculately choreographed dance.

  I thanked his impassively polite face and saw that Ivan was already waiting for me. I linked arms with him and we went up the stairs into a grand, green, marble foyer. Staff came to help us with our coats, and show us into a high ceilinged room. It was all white with recessed mirrors on the ceiling and eggplant leather seats. It was all very civilized. People in fine clothes and that deliberately languid air of very fat cats were seated at the white tables sipping at their drinks. It seemed as if some of them knew Ivan. There were waves and nods in our direction. The women reminded me of different versions of Chloe. Ugh.

  ‘Would you like a drink at the bar?’ Ivan asked me.

  ‘No, I’d like to go straight to the table, please,’ I said.

  ‘Of course, Madam,’ the courteous man hovering at our elbows said.

  He took us through a vibrantly emerald corridor hung with extraordinarily complicated and clever light-staircase chandeliers m
ade out of bronze plumbing pipes.

  The corridor opened out to a truly unique and marvelous dining area. A rectangular room sculptured out of a variety of materials to give you the impression that you had entered a glass box. It was decked out with hoop-shaped lights suspended from the ceiling, pink leather banquettes, and futuristic looking diagonal brushed steel panels with lighted butterflies on them.

  The waiter showed us to our table. I remembered reading that every restaurant had golden tables, ones that were kept for their best customers, their most famous, or their best-looking. Well, we were being seated at their golden table. It was actually elevated as if we were on a stage holding court.

  I looked at Ivan.

  ‘Is this table OK with you?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure,’ I said, and let the waiter pull a chair out and carefully push it back as I bent my knees so I was perfectly seated without having to pull my chair towards the table.

  They brought us menus, we made our selections, and they bowed, smiled, approved of our choices, and respectfully withdrew. There was no music in the place, only the subtle murmur of polite conversation. I looked up at Ivan and he was watching intently.

  ‘Do you come here often?’ I asked.

  He leaned back and put his wonderfully shaped hands on the table. ‘Sometimes. The food is generally superb.’

  A sommelier appeared with a bottle of wine. After the usual fluffing around that they inevitably do in fancy restaurants, he poured it out into our glasses.

  ‘To our wedding,’ Ivan said, holding his glass aloft.

  ‘To our wedding,’ I echoed and took a sip. It was dry with subtle tones that I was too nervous to note.

  Another waiter came to the table. He placed a plate with a selection of canapés in the middle of the table and started to explain what they were, but his accent was so thick I only picked up random words, tomato, snow crab puree, caramelized onion …’

  Satisfied that he had done his job, he bowed from the neck and made himself scarce.

  I leaned forward, my hand accidentally pushed one of the knives: it clattered onto the glass-like floor. Without music the noise of its landing was exaggerated and heads turned in our direction. I felt myself flush.

  ‘Sorry,’ I apologized awkwardly, and I was about to bend and pick up the knife when he leaned forward and caught my hand.