by Vivian Arend
She had wreathed the words in a carefully casual tone, but Ford wasn’t stupid. They were a warning, pure and simple. “So what do we need to do?”
“Make her feel welcome. Make her feel valued.” Her jaw tightened, a tiny physical clue to the sudden fury in her eyes. “And if that disgusting excuse for a patron shows up in the sector looking for her, find an excuse to kill him.”
Ford rose, drawing himself up to his full, considerable height. “This is Sector Four,” he said grimly. “I don’t need a fucking excuse.”
Ford had gotten her a new chair.
Mia eyed it as she set her thermos down on the edge of the massive desk. It wasn’t fancy, but it was sturdy and padded. Ford didn’t say anything about it—he didn’t even look up from whatever he was writing—so Mia let herself smile. “Good morning.”
He grunted.
Poor, grumpy Ford. Schooling her features into a mask of cheerful innocence, Mia unbuttoned her coat. “Do you like my new hat? My landlady was waiting with it when I left this morning. I think she was up all night knitting it.”
“Must have figured out who you worked for.” He finally lifted his head, only to tap his pen on the desk. “You need a new coat, too. When it warms up, we’ll go to the market.”
Not would you like a new coat?, and no acknowledgment of how her landlady had come by that knowledge. She was starting to get the measure of him now, even if it formed an inexplicable picture. What sort of man wasted time and effort on a woman without wanting appreciation and gratitude in return?
A wounded one. Her chest aching with sympathy, she hung up her jacket and tried to keep her voice light. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. There are about five people on my walk home who are already considering robbing me for this one.”
He turned his attention back to his writing. “Not after we make a big production of parading around the marketplace, there won’t be.”
In his world maybe it really was that simple. A woman only had to be seen with him once to be safe throughout the sector, and that was seductive in dangerous ways. Power was attractive for a reason. You could curl up close to it and bask in security, in the warmth and safety...
Until it went wrong. And then no one could help you. No one dared.
Mia tugged her new chair closer to the desk and sank into it. “It’s sweet of you to offer, but that’s not what I plan to spend my first week’s wages on. And you can’t go buying me any more presents.”
“Don’t argue with me. And it’s not a gift. Consider it a job benefit.”
Maybe she wasn’t a smart girl after all, because anyone with wits would have fallen into obedient silence. This was the job of a damn lifetime. Good pay, constant gifts, spending her days staring at a beautiful, brooding hulk of a man. She should be wary of him. Respectful.
She shouldn’t want to keep poking just to see if he’d snap. But Vaughn had been oblivious to her presence, even staring right at her. The only emotion she’d ever stirred in him had been self-loathing. He hadn’t wanted to find her desirable, and he’d hated her for holding that power over him.
Ford’s attention—his focus—prickled over her skin, though he’d done his best to ignore her.
The silence had stretched on too long. She almost let it go, but the urge was too strong to resist. Leaning across the desk, she lowered her voice to a whisper. “I think you like it when I argue with you.”
He froze, his gaze slowly tracking up until his eyes locked with hers. “I’ve been through worse.”
Goose bumps rose in a shivering wave, and she found herself studying his lips. They were firm, wide. She’d never kissed a man before, but she hadn’t thought it would be much different from kissing women. Maybe it wasn’t, always, but kissing him would be. His stubble would rasp against her chin, her cheeks. It would rasp against any sensitive place his lips wandered.
If they wandered. He might be abrupt and hurried, hoisting her onto the desk and working into her with a need that would curl her toes.
Her cheeks felt warm. Her voice, when it came, was almost breathless. “Do you always win arguments?”
The corner of his mouth twitched up. “Sure I do, buttercup. Because I don’t have them.”
“That’s not winning. That’s cheating.”
“It gets the job done.”
Her heart did a funny kick in her chest, and the next words that spilled out weren’t idle flirtation, but raw, vulnerable bafflement. “Why do you care if I have a new coat?”
“I don’t.” But his sudden, soft smile contradicted his claim. Then he reached up, touched her cheek, and she knew he was lying. And she didn’t want to move, because nothing had ever felt as full of heavy, beautiful promise as those roughened fingertips brushing over her skin.
“Okay,” she breathed, not breaking eye contact. “Okay, I’ll take the coat. Thank you.”
“Good.” His touch vanished as he sat back in his chair. “Your hair is dry this morning. I approve.”
It wasn’t fair to feel the loss of his fingers on her skin so profoundly. So she hid it, straightening in her chair. “Yes, the heater makes things much more comfortable. If you can figure out how to get me enough hot water for a nice long bath, life would be downright cozy.”
“I’ll work on it.” He dropped his pen and stood. “No scanning or filing today. You want to know what the O’Kanes are all about? Time for you to see.”
Excitement surged, all flirting forgotten. This was what she needed more than new clothes and idle touches—a chance to learn enough to prove herself. “You mean the liquor? Because that’s what’s slowing down my data analysis. I don’t understand more than the vague details of how it’s made, or how the ingredients impact quality and price.”
He walked around the desk, his limp barely noticeable as he strode toward the coat rack by the door. He lifted a battered, soft-looking leather jacket and slid his arms into it. “I don’t know how much of that you can glean from a simple tour, but you’ve got to start somewhere.”
“No knowledge is wasted knowledge,” she said lightly, rising to retrieve her own jacket.
The words echoed in her head as she followed him out the door. No knowledge is wasted knowledge. Not her trainer’s voice this time, but Jade’s. An unusual sentiment for someone trained as a Rose instead of an Orchid, but there had been nothing usual about the woman Cerys had chosen to exert Sector Two’s influence over one of the most prominent councilmen in Eden.
There’d been nothing usual about Jade’s spectacular retirement, either. Gossip had raced through Sector Two, claims that her oh-so-important patron was dead and she was missing—and, beneath the gossip, the quiet whispers traded from girl to girl. Whispers that Cerys had allowed the councilman to addict Jade to a drug that made her malleable and would kill her if withheld. That her life had been in danger, and her house had turned a blind eye.
The softest whispers of all passed from Orchid to Orchid, sometimes with condemnation, sometimes with hope, but always with awe. Jade’s house had turned a blind eye...but Lex Parrino hadn’t.
No wonder Cerys hated the queen of Sector Four. Knowing that Lex existed had given Mia the courage to run.
Ford led her slowly down the stairs. He took them one at a time, setting both feet on each stair before moving on to the next. He gripped the handrail, white-knuckled and careful, but he didn’t tremble, and he didn’t falter.
He had to be in agony, but she bit her lip and said nothing.
On the first floor, he released a breath and waved her toward a door. “The main room,” he supplied as she pushed through it. “The Broken Circle. Aside from exporting liquor, this is Dallas’s biggest moneymaker.”
It was still early, barely past nine, but the bar wasn’t empty. A gorgeous redhead leaned against the bar, checking off notes on a datapad, while a pretty brunette with a familiar face pulled chairs off tables. She turned as the door opened and smiled widely. “Ford! Are you here for breakfast? We have some toast and eggs left.
”
He shook his head. “Girls, this is Mia. Mia…” He waved a hand toward the bar.
The redhead grinned. “You’re especially chipper this morning, Ford. It’s a good look for you.”
He ignored her in favor of sliding onto a stool at the bar. “Mia’s here to get a feel for things.”
Mia shot the brunette a furtive glance as she took the stool next to Ford, trying to picture her without the tattoos, heavy eyeliner, and leather.
Noelle Cunningham had been in all the news vids over the summer, the headline of scandalized stories detailing her fall from Eden royalty, but the pictures they’d flashed of a sweet, demure councilman’s daughter had been washed out and pale compared to the vibrant woman who leaned against the bar beside Mia.
There was nothing demure about her smile as she offered her hand. “I’m Noelle. She’s Trix. And Ford’s terrible at introductions.”
“I’m her boss, not her social director.”
Mia ignored him and clasped Noelle’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Have you eaten?” Noelle didn’t give her a chance to respond before pushing away to circle the bar. “Don’t take that girl out of here without letting me feed her, Ford!” she called as she disappeared through the swinging doors, and Mia hid a smile by pressing her lips together as hard as she could.
Trix stood there for a moment before taking a step back. “Right. I’m going to help her. Nice to meet you, Mia.”
The door swung lazily back into place after she vanished, and Mia snuck a peek at Ford, surprised his habitual frown hadn’t reappeared. Not that he was smiling or anything—God forbid—but he seemed mellow, even in the face of Noelle’s affectionate teasing.
Interesting. “So I’m starting to think cheating at arguments is an O’Kane thing.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “That’s the thing about being in a position of power, buttercup. You don’t have to fight if you don’t want to.”
“But she wasn’t even fighting with you.”
“Should she?”
Unless she didn’t have any power at all—or had just as much as he did. Hard to fathom a place where women shared the same easy authority as men, but Noelle and Trix had both had the same ink around their wrists as Lex and Ford. “Does she have power?”
“What are you really asking?” Ford reached over the bar, but instead of liquor he picked up a bottle of water. “Noelle is a member. She wears the ink, same as me. Same as anyone else.”
“Oh.” Only a man could say that as if it should have been obvious, as if it wasn’t close to incomprehensible.
Then, just when she thought he really didn’t understand how insane all this was, he glanced over at her. “You’ll get used to it.”
God, she hoped so.
Off balance and desperate to cover it, she rose on her elbows and peered over the bar, taking in the endless row of bottles with their artistic labels. “So this is the stuff you sell here?”
He inclined his head in a nod. “The finest liquor there is.”
It couldn’t all be fine. As meager as her apartment was, she was doing damn well compared to some of the people around her. Five or ten people often crowded into rooms the size of hers, and if they could afford O’Kane liquor, then some of it had to be dirt cheap.
She picked up the nearest bottle and examined the label. It looked hand drawn, with the O’Kane emblem front and center and intricate lettering beneath declaring it a Broken Circle Exclusive. Not time-consuming to produce, if you had a chemical-reaction printer that could mass reproduce a drawing on paper. And the bottles could be recycled, if you could get people to bring them back. “Are the margins good?”
“On the moonshine and rotgut? Outstanding. Narrows a bit, the higher up the chain you go.”
Tucking that bit of knowledge away, she returned the bottle and picked up another. “Which one’s your favorite?”
“The O’Kane specialty—the whiskey.”
She had to shuffle through a few more bottles to find it. “Is this what you were drinking the other night?”
He grunted in confirmation. “Want to try it?”
There was something teasing under the words, maybe even a challenge. It was damned uncivilized to start drinking the hard stuff before ten in the morning, but wasn’t that the point of Sector Four? Vaughn’s obsession with civilized behavior had given her no reason to cling to the concept.
A row of clean shot glasses lined the bar, ready for use. She plucked up one and grinned at him. “You think I won’t?”
“I think you can’t handle it.”
Her pride prickled. “How many?”
Ford laughed. “How many what? Shots? Or seconds before you get all woozy and hit the floor?”
“Bet me.” She set down the glass and opened the bottle. “How many do I have to do to win?”
He rolled his eyes and blew out a breath, still chuckling. “I don’t know, three. Yeah, sure. Three shots.”
Three shots might set her to wobbling, but better to find out now, when she still had time to sober up before her walk home. “What do you want if you win?”
Ford braced a hand on the bar. The muscles in his arm and shoulder flexed as he pushed himself up, leaned over the bar, and snagged another shot glass. “What’ll you give me?”
They both knew the only thing of value she had to offer was her body and the use of it, but not even his gorgeous, perfectly formed muscles would make her wager that. If she ever put her hands on Derek Ford, she wanted them both to know she was making a choice, not fulfilling an obligation.
So something else. Something that would make him smile. “Less backtalk. Or, you know, if you’d miss it...more backtalk.”
He seemed to consider that. “A raise,” he said finally. “So you can find a better place to live.”
Her heart kicked again, harder this time. It made her chest squeeze so tight she couldn’t draw a full breath. “That’s what you want if you win?”
“Sure.” He splashed whiskey into both glasses.
She could ask why he cared, but she already suspected the answer. I don’t, he’d say, with some touch or smile that would flip her stomach inside out and make her wish she was just another girl, a normal one. Someone with innocence or experience, but not this painful, unnatural mixture of both.
“I know what I want if I win,” she heard herself say, and the words that would have been so innocent a few moments ago felt suddenly suggestive—because they were. “A long, hot bath.”
“Deal.” He knocked back one shot and pushed the other over to her.
Remembering her ungraceful sputtering the first night, Mia braced herself. That had been only a tiny sip. This was more, burning down her throat like liquid flame. Heat bloomed in her chest and spiraled wider. Her cheeks grew warm. Her nipples felt tight, sensitive, though maybe that came from watching Ford.
His gaze flickered down to her chest. He turned away immediately to pour two more shots, but not before she saw the flash of fire in his eyes. “Drink up, buttercup.”
She was going to lose. She could feel it already in the fuzzy anticipation as she lifted the second shot, in the way it didn’t burn nearly as much on its way down. She was going to lose, and she should be ecstatic at the idea of higher pay and a new place to live.
Too bad she was stuck on the fantasy of sliding into a hot bath with him.
CHAPTER FIVE
Little Miss Mia couldn’t hold her liquor.
Ford laid a hand at the small of her back and winced as she swayed dangerously on the stairs. For a while, he’d thought he might have to carry her, and he’d been relieved when she managed to walk on her own. That relief would be shot to hell if she fell—and took him with her.
She straightened, and he breathed a sigh. “Steady, buttercup. You’re almost there.”
“I made a mistake.” She gripped the railing and navigated the next steps with precise concentration. “I looked down. You can never look down. Or back.”
She shivered against him. “It was only three shots. Why am I this warm?”
“Because alcohol makes your capillaries swell—” Good, maybe if he talked about blood vessels, it would distract him from the definite and inconvenient swelling going on below his belt. “It flushes your skin. Makes it heat up.”
Only three more steps, but she managed to rub the sweet curves of her ass against him on every damn one of them. “You should have given me whiskey instead of a heater.”
He gritted his teeth. “The warming effect is temporary. When it wears off, you’ll be colder than ever.” Cold, and passed out in his office.
Or his bed.
Ford shoved the thought away and led her to the couch along the wall adjacent to his desk. “Time to sleep it off, Mia.”
“But it’s not even lunchtime.” She tumbled to the cushions, adorably disheveled, and stared up at him. “I can’t sleep if you’re going to give me a raise. I need to do something brilliant.”
“You’re welcome to get up and try, but I think you’re better off staying put.”
“Do you always get your way?”
A simple question, not a challenge. “Usually. I’ve learned to pick my battles, buttercup. I fight the ones I can win.”
“That’s smart.” She closed her eyes and tilted her head back. “I didn’t have a choice. I didn’t think I’d win, but I had to fight.”
A lock of hair fell across her face, and Ford brushed it away. “Shows what you know, then. You’re here, aren’t you?”
“I’m here.” She turned into his touch, chasing it with her cheek. “I’m not miserable, you know. I don’t care if I live in a closet with no hot water and no lights. I don’t care if you growl and snarl and snap at me. It’s magic. All of it’s magic, because I’m here.”
She really was beautiful—full lips, big eyes, and delicate bones under smooth, dark skin. And he’d been treating her like shit, taking out his frustrations and thwarted desires on her.