by Scott, Ada
Still a Bad Boy: A New Adult Romantic Suspense
Ada Scott
Published by Ada Scott
Copyright 2015 Ada Scott
Cover Design: Kevin McGrath
http://www.kevindoesart.com/
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License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Disclaimer
All characters and events are entirely fictional and any resemblances to persons living or dead and circumstances are purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
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Chapter 1
Kendall
I didn’t dare move for fear of breaking something. If I did, I’d probably have to declare bankruptcy. It was only a waiting room, but I’d never seen such lavish attention to detail before.
If I wasn’t mistaken, that was a real Van Achthoven painting on the wall. Even the receptionist’s desk looked like something the President might have to save up for.
All glass, it seemed to be custom made to show off her long legs from all angles. She had them crossed, making her short skirt ride high as she tapped away on the keyboard in front of her, sometimes pressing the button on the wireless headset to answer calls.
Back home in Woodville I felt small. When I moved to the city, I felt tiny. Now, especially under her occasional disdainful glance, I felt positively microscopic.
I wrung my hands in my lap, second-guessing myself for the millionth time about the big move. I’d thought I’d show my family that I could be something, but I’d been here for months and I was still just an intern at The Weekly Enquirer.
My funds were evaporating fast. If my boss, Mr. Kinsley, didn’t give me the actual job he’d promised me soon, I’d have to go home with my tail between my legs.
So why did he send me to interview Jace Barlow, the mysterious man who took his one hundred and eighty million dollar lottery winnings and quickly turned it into an empire pushing at a billion dollar valuation?
Was it because he liked my “moxie,” as he liked to say to the people he actually paid to work? Because he saw some untapped potential in me? No.
As Mr. Kinsley said in the meeting room in front of everybody, as if I wasn’t even there, Jace Barlow had scheduled and cancelled meetings with every major publication you could think of dozens of times. It was like a joke to the new multi-millionaire to screw with the media.
So send me to the appointment, and then when Barlow cancels again, at least nobody important will have wasted their time.
The receptionist’s headset beeped and she pressed the button. “Yes sir? Of course, sir. Yes I’ll tell her. One moment.”
This was it. I looked over at the tall blonde as she unhooked the headset from her ear and stood up, smoothing her skirt. Was she going to escort me all the way to the elevator?
“Miss Brookes?” she asked.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Barlow will see you now.”
I had to let that set in for a moment as my heart seemed to say “Right, I’m outta here” and tried to make good its escape via my throat. Swallowing hard, I managed to get it back down.
“What?”
“Mr. Barlow will see you. Now. You’ll have to hand over your phone, and do you have any recording devices?”
I fumbled at my little handbag. “Uh… I’ve got a…” My mind went blank looking for the word. “Dictaphone!” I blurted out.
You could almost see the concentration in the receptionist’s face as she tried not to roll her eyes at a so-called journalist who couldn’t remember what a Dictaphone was. With shaking hands, I opened my handbag and took out the offending items.
The receptionist walked around her desk with a supermodel sashay and reached out for them. “I’ll keep them in a secure container until your meeting is finished.”
This couldn’t be happening. A nobody like me doesn’t interview the most elusive man in the city. Mr. Kinsley didn’t even give me a questionnaire, he was that sure this was going to be a bust. I had nothing prepared to ask him and I was about to walk into an interview that famous journalists would kill their own mothers to conduct.
She confiscated the forbidden electronics and put them in a drawer before beckoning me through the door behind her desk. Once on the other side, I could see that the horizontal strips of mirror on the wall of frosted glass were actually one-way, so you could see into the waiting room like you were peeking out from a bunker without being seen.
There was no time to contemplate that though, as I was led at a brisk pace down a long hallway. At the end was a door, flanked by two men wearing suits and looking for all the world like Secret Service agents. One of them told me to hold my arms out to my sides as he waved a metal detector over me, while the other inspected my handbag for contraband.
I felt like it was a pretty thorough inspection before walking the plank. What would they do to me back at work when they heard I actually made it into Jace Barlow’s office? I racked my brain trying to think of everything I’d heard about him, trying to come up with something halfway relevant to ask.
About a year before I would have been ready, the security men were apparently satisfied that I wasn’t an assassin, and gave me the all clear. The receptionist knocked on the door and opened it, ushering me through before standing at my side.
If I thought the waiting room was expensively decorated, it had nothing on Jace Barlow’s office. Everywhere I looked were sleek, sophisticated lines, fine furniture and tasteful art.
The man himself was sitting behind his desk, and my breath caught in my throat. I’d seen pictures of him before, of course, usually with a woman who looked like this receptionist on his arm. So I knew he was handsome, but I never could have expected what it would feel like to have those eyes on me in person.
All the luxurious surroundings and art in the world couldn’t hide the fact that he wasn’t born with a silver spoon in his mouth. I could see the edges of tattoos on his neck and arms, lurking just under the Armani, like snakes waiting to ambush unwary prey. He looked like if he flexed his muscles the suit would explode off of him as if he was a bomb.
Behind those dark eyes, I swore I could see thoughts beneath the surface that contrasted just as starkly with the cool exterior. None of the guys back home ever looked at me
like that, and in this big city I was practically invisible. I almost felt naked in front of him.
It’s a shame that the more you try to stop a blush, the worse it gets. I hated standing next to this beautiful tall woman. It was impossible not to notice the contrast between the two of us. She looked a lot like my sisters, and that was one of the comparisons I’d been desperate to get away from my whole life.
A barrel-chested man with a shaved head had been standing next to Barlow’s desk, and now appeared to be leaving.
“Kendall Brookes, from The Weekly Enquirer, sir. Would you like coffee? Tea?” she asked me.
“No thank you,” I squeaked.
She smiled and stepped out of the way of the man who was leaving, holding the door for him and following him out of the room. I heard the click behind me and gulped.
“Take a seat, Miss. Brookes,” said the one and only, Jace Barlow.
Chapter 2
Jace
Something about her stopped me in my tracks. When I saw her sitting there in the waiting room through the one-way glass, I made the decision on the spot to break the rules and invite her into my office.
She wasn’t going to be getting a meaningful interview for The Weekly Whatever-the-fuck it was, she was going to be getting some hard cock. That’s all I was willing to give her.
I was sick to my stomach of the kind of girl that used to hang around with us, back in what I could only think of as the old days. Back then, I was hired muscle, working my way up the chain in the Picolli Crime Family’s organization.
Those bitches were barely one step above prostitutes, if that. Once I took over and put one foot into this world, this legitimate front, I was disappointed to find that they were all the same no matter where I went.
This one though, Kendall Brookes, she looked different. Her tits were small enough to be real, big enough that she’d have to hold on to them when I got to fucking her good and hard. A dainty little thing, she looked like she’d never been through the kinds of things I was going to do to her.
Fresh and innocent, I bet the guys in her world brought flowers and asked her father’s permission. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d asked permission for anything, except when I already knew what the answer was.
The way she was holding herself, I could tell she was terrified. Those little arms crossed over protectively in front, as if she could hide behind them or something.
With a visible gulp, she closed the distance between the door and the chair I’d directed her to, and I watched her intently. She really was petite. I bet she was tight as fuck.
I was already undressing her with my eyes, looking past the clothes that were on the old side, and probably hadn’t been worth much when they were new. She reminded me of one of those chicks from those movies in the nineties, where the ugly duckling had a superficial makeover and suddenly became the hottest girl in school.
The best part about it was that she obviously had no idea how sexy she was. Damned if she wasn’t making me hard already.
I tented my fingers in front of me as I leaned forward and waited for her to sit. Scenes of me circling around to the other side of my desk and forcing her to her knees to suck my cock flashed through my mind.
As she sat in the chair, she immediately dropped her handbag, the contents spilling at her feet. That blush deepened as she muttered an apology and bent down to pick her things up, giving me a quick flash down her top at those tantalizing curves of her breasts, before her luxurious dark brown hair obscured the view.
No. This one was too good to just fuck straight away. I was going to play it out, just a little, make her so wet that she’d be begging for my cock. Then I’d make her wait a little bit longer, and by the time I finally gave it to her, she’d be so desperate that she’d hardly notice that she’d never spread her legs for a man like me before. Not until it was too late and I was already taking everything I wanted from her perky little body.
“Sorry about that,” she said, sitting upright again and stuffing everything back in except for a notepad and pen.
“It’s fine. So what can I do for you, Miss Brookes?”
“Well… uh… first of all… um… thank you for, you know, making the time for me. I, and The Weekly Enquirer, really appreciate it.”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” I said.
She licked her lips and appeared to be desperately trying to think of something to say. I raised an eyebrow. Of all the journalists, reporters, and would-be documentary makers who had come running at the opportunity to interview me, only to fall victim to my long term plan to get them to fuck off, Kendall was easily the youngest.
“How old are you?” I asked.
“Me? I’m… I’m eighteen.”
Teen pussy. Just what the doctor ordered. The corner of my mouth rose in a smirk that would have cost me the game if we were playing poker. As it was, it only seemed to strengthen my advantage over her.
“Aren’t you a little… green, to be handed an interview like this? You wouldn’t believe how many fuckin’ calls Violet out there fields every day about this very thing.”
Kendall flinched at my swearing, and my smirk grew. After all the shit I’d been dealing with all morning, karma had handed me Kendall. Not only was she a tight little package, she was a good girl too, whose idea of hard sex was probably missionary position with socks on and lights out.
“I… I…” she stammered.
I waved it away. “Don’t worry about it. You’re doing really well.”
“Oh. Um. Thanks. So, Mr. Barlow, you won a hundred and eighty million dollars in the state lottery. Most people seem to throw their winnings away, or retire. Nobody ever did what you did. Why didn’t you take your winnings and live out your life on a beach?”
I almost laughed at the understatement. Damn right nobody ever did what I did. This girl, man, she had no idea. She’d never been shot at, never killed a man, probably never even been in a fight.
I’d been doing all those things as long as I could remember. Every skull I cracked was one more step in my grand scheme, but I never could have planned to buy a lottery ticket on a whim, win, and fast-forward my plans by ten or twenty years.
Leaning back in my chair, I rested one foot on the opposite knee and laced my fingers together over my stomach. Fixing her with a look that had melted the panties off women far more wary than her, I gave her an answer that meant precisely fuck-all.
“Well. I had work to do.”
Chapter 3
Kendall
There was no way I was going to end the day without losing my job. This interview was going less successfully than skydiving with an anvil for a parachute. So he had work to do, he liked baseball, he grew up in a group home, he recommended a healthy breakfast. What else?
“Um… do you like art?” I pointed at the paintings on the wall and the sculpture in the corner.
“It’s OK.”
With dogged determination, I wrote down “Art -> OK” in my little notepad, and when I looked up again, I swore I saw his eyes roaming over my body. I could almost feel them like fingers lightly tracing along my skin, and a shiver of misplaced excitement travelled down my spine.
Men didn’t look at me like that, not really. Certainly not men like Jace Barlow, who could have a harem at his disposal at the snap of his fingers. According to some rumors, he’d gone backstage at a fashion show in Milan and afterwards some of the models were walking noticeably bowlegged on the catwalk.
Still, it was an illusion I rarely had a chance to entertain, so I let myself bask in it for a few seconds. How often had I dreamed that some nice guy would look at me, like what he saw, and take me off the shelf?
I was about to ask him about his tattoos when his cell started ringing. He held up his finger to silence me and brought his phone to his ear.
“Go ahead,” he said and paused to listen. “Yes… What? Where? OK, keep him… uh.” He glanced at me. “Occupied until I can get there… I’ll get there whenever the fuck I’m
ready, don’t forget who you’re talking to… Yeah, yeah... Bye.”
“So, Mr. Barlow, I was going to ask you about…”
“Sorry, Kendall, something’s come up, we’re going to have to cut this short.”
My heart sank. I’d known from the moment I walked in the room that the interview would be a disaster, what with my zero preparation and all, but I was enjoying my little fantasy.
“Oh. Alright,” I said, packing my pen and pad away.
Barlow stood and I did the same. Even from across the desk it was impossible to not note the incredible presence he had. It was more than just how much bigger than me he was, it was like an aura that radiated off of him.
He leaned over and extended his hand in my direction, and I approached his desk to do the same. It was so surreal, I was about to shake hands with a man who could probably buy my hometown and turn it into a theme park.
My heart fluttered when our hands touched, partly from sheer awe and the rest coming from the same silly parts of my mind the little fantasy had. What if he brought my hand to his lips and kissed it? I would faint!
“Thank you for coming to see me today. I’ll want a copy of that article when you publish it.”
You’re so hot!
“You’re so… I mean, you’re welcome. Yes, of course. Uh… goodbye then.”
I started to turn away, but his grip on my hand tightened and he pulled me back. Slowly, I turned back to him, and my eyes travelled from where our hands were still together, up to his eyes, where he was fixing me with a look that made me want to start taking off my clothes. Was my daydream coming true?
“Tell you what. We should extend this interview over dinner. Tonight, at Luc Monette’s. Be there at seven.”
My jaw dropped in a way I thought only happened in the movies. Jace Barlow, tall, muscular, multi-millionaire, was asking me, Kendall Brookes, a small-town nobody, out to dinner. That shiver went down my spine again and settled somewhere around my stomach, a buzzing little ball of excitement, but I did my best to keep a grasp on reality.
“Dinner. Just for the interview?” I asked.