With his deep, gravelly voice and dark eyes, he quickly became the man every woman wanted—which currently made me the woman they hated. Not that anyone would find out about us. We both knew this was nothing more than sex. He had a girlfriend back home. An actress or model or something. He called me when he was in town, and I accepted if nothing better came along. I didn’t even know his real name. Panick Slade was so obviously a stage name.
That worked for me. He thought my name was Silvia.
The Rock God stirred and opened his eyes. He smiled, despite the fact that he had to be hurting as much as I was. The empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the bedside table behind him was the work of both of us.
“Mornin’, sexy.” He slid closer and trailed a hand down my side, circling his finger on my hip and back up my stomach before cupping a breast. “Last night was incredible.”
“Of course it was.” I pried his hand off me, recoiling at the stench of whiskey mingled with something sour on his breath. “This is me we’re talking about.”
Not at all taking the hint, he reached over me and grabbed my ass, pulling me close enough that I could feel he’d woken up in a very good mood. “We managed four times last night. Wanna make it five?”
Despite the fancy hotel sheets and the way he obviously wanted me, I couldn’t shake the nightmare. I needed to scrub myself clean before considering getting dirty again.
I reached under the blankets and gave him a gentle squeeze. He moaned and closed his eyes. “How about this?” I asked, stroking him. “I’ll go start the shower. You brush your teeth and get rid of last night’s breath. Then you can join me.”
Much to his disappointment, I released him and stood, trying to ignore the way my head protested and how the room tilted. I let the blankets fall, revealing every ounce of myself to him. He hummed his approval.
The carpet squished between my toes as I tiptoed to the bathroom, keeping as steady as possible so as not to anger my head further.
Panick—or whatever his actual name was—always stayed in the Royal Suite at the Four Seasons. It was one of my favorite hotels in the city. Not only were the rooms huge and decorated in classic grays and beiges that reeked of money, but the bathroom was bigger than most apartments, furnished floor to ceiling in white marble.
I slipped behind the clear door of the shower and turned on the water. The hot droplets pricked my skin like bursts of lava, washing away the hangover and the nightmare. I used the fancy hotel shampoo and body wash to cover myself in strawberry-scented suds.
Outside the shower door came the squeak of the sink faucets turning on. There was a splash of water and the deep growl of Panick gargling.
Then the glass slid open and the Rock God joined me for the next round. He was a vision without the blanket to cover him up. The tattoos were a veritable amusement park map, leading me to the most fun rides on his body. I trailed a soapy finger through the designs and Panick groaned. He kissed me with a peppermint mouth and pressed me into the cold marble wall.
To hell with five.
We made it to six.
• • •
I rented a small office space downtown for my business. Although I got my clients through word of mouth and didn’t advertise, the space gave me the opportunity to meet potential clients without having them come to my place or me trekking to wherever they lived.
I didn’t maintain typical office hours, nor did I advertise my number. Clients received my card to pass on to someone who might be in need of my services, and the interested party had to show up when I happened to be in the office if they needed my help.
Sure, it wasn’t the most efficient way to run a business, but I made more than enough from clients. I usually only needed to work with one at a time, and this let me keep my anonymity. Besides, I certainly wasn’t going to go out of my way for some poor sap who missed his girlfriend or needed to impress his boss. They could come to me. Some of these jobs required planning and a lot of my time and dedication. Finding me was their first step in proving their commitment.
I strolled into the office, flicking a switch and bathing the single room in yellow light. The space was small, with bare white walls and an oak desk. A square window with an impressive view of the city took up one side of the room, and the desk filled the other. I wished I could’ve gotten something a little more impressive, but space in downtown DC was hard to find, and location was more important than size.
Sitting in the creaky desk chair, I opened my laptop and completed my daily perusal of Hollywood gossip. Heartthrob Gavin Hartley’s television show, Viking Moon, had been green-lit for a third season. The show pulled in number one ratings every week, and had created legions of superfans around the world. A picture of Gavin and his girlfriend, Elise, flickered across my screen and my stomach lurched. They held hands on the red carpet, their eyes only on each other. Her left hand sported one of the biggest rocks I’d ever seen. Well. Someone had been promoted from girlfriend to fiancée.
“Well, good for them.”
I switched away from the television section and moved to music news, amusing myself with pictures of Panick Slade posing half-naked on the cover of GQ. His abs glistened more than they had in the shower that morning. Mmm . . . I let out a sigh as I leaned back in my seat and remembered how the water sluiced down our bodies as he traced the droplets on my skin. That man was good with his hands.
A squawking from the window jolted me from my delicious reverie. The sound pierced through my skull and drilled into my brain. Dammit. The stupid crow was back. He liked to sit outside my office and screech like a banshee for hours on end. The fact that my head still pounded from six Jack and Diet Cokes the night before meant there was no way I was listening to that crap all day.
I jumped out of my seat and pried the window open. Cool air that still held the scent of a morning rainfall crawled through the opening as I leaned out. The bird sat on the ledge, a few feet away, to my right. Ten floors below us, traffic honked and buzzed through the streets, unaware a demon had taken up residence outside my place of work.
“Get out of here, you stupid thing.”
The bird squawked again and blinked at me.
“Shoo.” I waved my hand at it. “Get the hell out of here. I’m not kidding. I am not in the mood for this.”
The bird hopped closer. I swiped at it again and it pecked my hand. Blood instantly dotted my skin.
“Ow! Fuck! Oh, that’s it, you little shit. I’m coming to get you.” I pushed myself farther out the window, reaching for the wretched beast so I could wring its neck.
All of a sudden, momentum pulled me forward, and my feet left my Manolos. My heart slammed into my throat as I started to fall from the window. I screamed and the bird took off, its taunting cry blowing behind it in the wind.
A pair of hands grabbed my bare feet and pulled. An arm wrapped around my waist and wrenched me back into the office. My feet landed on the floor, and I found myself pressed up against a strange man.
“What the hell?” I pushed him away and moved to the desk. “Who are you?”
“Wow,” the guy said. “I just saved your life. How about, ‘Thank you, kind stranger’?”
I gripped the edge of the desk, willing my body to stop shaking. My legs wobbled, almost dropping me to the floor, and the guy was instantly at my side. He wrapped an arm around me and eased me into the chair. “Are you okay? Do you need water or something?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “Just had the air knocked out of me. And I’m still a bit hungover.”
“You’re bleeding.”
He reached for my hand, but I snatched it out of his grasp and nodded at the window. “That dumbass bird bit me.”
“Probably because you were trying to kill it.”
“He started it. All I wanted was some peace and quiet.” I reached into the drawer of my desk and pulled out a container of aspir
in and a bottle of whiskey. I popped the pill in my mouth and chased it down with the booze straight from the bottle.
“Should you be doing that? I thought it was dangerous to combine pills and alcohol.”
“Are you my keeper? What do you care?” I sat back in my seat and studied him.
The guy was one of those nerdy-looking cute boys. He wore a white T-shirt and a cheap-looking brown suit jacket (with a freaking hole in the sleeve) he’d paired with blue jeans and Converse knock-offs. Brown, wavy hair he tried to keep neat with gel, but probably always looked a little messy. Gray eyes I’d mistaken for blue at first glance. He had a thin face and angled chin, with one of those mouths that always looks like it’s on the cusp of a smile—even now, as his eyes narrowed at me, the corners of his lips teased with laughter.
I hated him instantly and glared at him in a way that hopefully conveyed this feeling.
He completely missed the emotion flying in his direction. His eyes were locked on my hand. “You’re bleeding onto your desk.”
I followed his gaze to see he was right. The blood dripped from the wound down the back of my hand and puddled onto the oak, staining it red. Stupid-ass bird must’ve nicked a vein.
I covered my wound with the other hand. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.” He stepped closer, trying to peek under my palm. “You were bitten by a wild animal. You might need antibiotics and stitches. You should go to the hospital.”
“I don’t do hospitals. Some pressure, a Band-Aid, I’ll be good as new.”
“What about infection? Who knows what diseases the bird might’ve been carrying.”
I grabbed the open bottle of whiskey with my good hand. Before I could change my mind, I dumped it on the cut. The burning started slow, a simmering heat around the puncture that quickly became an unrelenting fire clawing up my arm.
“Son of a bitch!”
I slammed the bottle onto the desk, spilling more alcohol, but not caring. Tears pricked my eyes. I gritted my teeth, holding in the scream that desperately wanted to be released. No way was I wailing in front of a stranger. Again.
He rounded the table and dropped to his knees beside me, producing a handkerchief from his breast pocket. Without asking, he grabbed my hand and pressed the fabric to the wound.
“Holy shit,” he said. “That was insane. What is wrong with you? Are you all right?”
I nodded, releasing a breath as the searing finally eased. “I’m fine.” I pulled my hand back, ignoring the way the uninjured part of my hand had burned at his touch. Or how the gray in his eyes resembled storm clouds when he looked at me with such concern.
I pried the handkerchief off the wound. The bleeding had already slowed, and the wound looked small and clean. “See? No need for a hospital. You can go now. I think I’ll live.” I held out the bloody handkerchief. “Here. This is yours.”
“Keep it.” He stood, shaking his head. “You’re a piece of work, you know. My friend Scott said you were a bit cold, but I pull you out of a window and show a little concern for you, and you snap at me. I came here to ask for your help, but this was clearly a mistake.” He stooped in front of the window and picked up my shoes before placing them on the desk. “Here are your Manolo Blahniks. I hope you and they have a nice life together. Thanks to me.”
He headed to the door, and I fingered the moss-green velvet shoes. “Wait.”
He stopped and raised his eyebrows.
“How in the world do you know what Manolos are? Based on what you’re wearing, you couldn’t afford even the heel of one of these shoes.”
“For what it’s worth, my fiancée—ex-fiancée—was a fashion designer. I learned about the fashion industry through her. Like, I know your dress is Donna Karan. I also know it’s from last year’s line. Funny, you don’t strike me as a last-year’s-line kind of girl.”
I flinched. Panick had given me the pastel-green, formfitting dress that morning. He’d said the green reminded him of St. Patrick’s Day, which sounded kind of like his name (his exact words). Also, it was his favorite day because people got drunk. Despite his moronic reasoning, I’d appreciated the worth of the gift—and I knew the exact worth, since Panick had left the price tag on. But now I understood: The dress had never been a gift for me. He’d bought it last year for his girlfriend and she’d probably decided to give it to Goodwill or something after never having worn it.
Oh hell, I was a rock star’s girlfriend’s charity case. And it was this stranger’s fault I now felt like it.
The guy took another step toward the exit. “Now, if you’re through interrogating me about my fashion knowledge, I’m going to head out. Coming here was a mistake.”
I stood. “Before you go, Mr. . . .”
“Linton. Baxter Linton.”
“Baxter?” I bit my tongue to suppress a giggle. “Is that seriously your name? I grew up with friends who had dogs with that name. I didn’t know humans could have it, too.”
He blinked. “Wow. Well, okay, on that note, I hope you have a pleasant day, Rachel. Take care.”
“Wait. Before you go, you can at least tell me why you’re here. You mentioned Scott referred you to me. Is this about a job?”
He planted his arms on either side of the open doorway. His silhouette revealed his leanness beneath the jacket, and the white T-shirt strained against a toned stomach.
Not bad for a good boy.
Baxter studied me for a moment, then shrugged. “You know what? Forget it. This would never work. And you are definitely not the one to help with this. I can tell.” He tossed a crumpled square of paper I recognized as my card onto the desk. “I won’t be needing this. Give it to someone who has time to put up with this nonsense. See ya, Rachel. Try not to fall out of any more windows.” He winked.
I opened my mouth to retort, but my tongue corkscrewed between my teeth and he disappeared before I had time to form a comeback.
Hurling myself back into my chair, I played with the handkerchief around my hand. It was probably for the best. He obviously couldn’t afford my services, anyway. The hole in his sleeve was a dead giveaway.
My phone beeped as I took another swig from the whiskey bottle, and I smiled at the text. A favorite client of mine needed me again. See? I didn’t need the Baxter Lintons of the world. I made a perfectly good living without guys who pulled perfect strangers out of windows and offered them their obviously only decent handkerchief to sop up their bloody wounds.
Fiddling with the fabric, I started as some blue thread in the corner caught my eye. Hmmm . . . Interesting. My phone blared again as I studied the sewing up close.
“Fine, fine, I hear you,” I said to the phone. I typed a quick reply, giving up on trying to figure out what was on the handkerchief. It didn’t matter, anyway. I was pretty sure Baxter would never be back in my office to retrieve it. Whatever it meant, the answer had disappeared along with him.
I gritted my teeth against the sting of my hand as I put my stuff away and locked up the office. I had a quick stop to make at one of my favorite clothing stores, and then it was back to my loft to get ready. My client needed me.
Bax
The bass from the speakers in the corner filled the club with a pounding that thundered like an elephant’s heartbeat in my ears. After walking out of Rachel’s office earlier, I’d been welcomed home by a dozen e-mails turning down or rescheduling meetings with me, so I called Brittani with an i and asked her out. I figured one more rejection couldn’t hurt.
To my shock, she’d accepted my invitation—as long as we could go to this new club, Iyce. Brittani pulled her flame-red hair into a high ponytail and wore the right amount of clothing (aka very little) to convince the bouncer to wave us into the club. He eyed my jeans and white button-down, but my date pulled me inside before the bear of a man could stop me from ruining the ambience of the popular nightspot.
I swallowed hard at the memory, then took a sip of whatever fruity drink Brittani had asked me to hold for her. Coconut and pineapple blended on my tongue and calmed some of the heat growing in my pants.
After getting a good eyeful of Rachel that morning, I’d done the right thing and backed into the hallway to give her some privacy. Once she fixed herself after her fight with what sounded like a bird, I’d planned to walk in and pretend I hadn’t seen a thing. At least the poor girl could have her dignity.
Her scream changed all that.
I’d pulled her from the window, trying not to be distracted by her slight curves and how they molded under my fingers. Or by the fact that she smelled like a field of strawberries. I’d almost fallen out the window myself when she finally looked at me.
Framed by jet-black hair that fell to her shoulders and shimmered in the light, her face was straight out of one of Clare’s fashion magazines: all angles and symmetry. A perky nose that sat between high cheekbones and glistened with a hint of moisture from the effort of trying to pull herself back up. The deepest of emerald eyes reflected the nearness of death as they darted from me to the desk to the window.
She’d trembled in my arms like a cornered rabbit, and I’d wanted to pull her to me and stroke her strawberry-scented hair and tell her it would be fine.
Dealing in Deception Page 3