Dare to Lie

by Jen McLaughlin

  I licked my lips, feeling a little bit ridiculous standing there in my bra and panties, getting lectured about my brother, when all I wanted was Scotty. “He’s not that scary.”

  Scotty stared at me.

  Just stared.

  It was unnerving, to say the least. His ability to say so much without a word was a talent I wished I had. He effectively shut me down without even opening his mouth.

  So much for letting my whimsical side take control for once.

  Look where it had gotten me. Exposed and in a bedroom with a man who clearly didn’t want me, because of who I was. Or, more accurately, who my brother was. I’d hoped a little bit of naked skin would change his stance on that subject, but clearly I’d overestimated my sexual appeal. My cheeks heated, and I wished—God, I wished—I was anywhere but here.

  Laughing nervously, I raised my arms to my chest, crossing them over my breasts. “I get it. No more words needed. Sorry for . . . well . . .” I glanced down at my body. “. . . this. Thanks for taking my dress off for me, and for letting me stay here. I’ll be gone first thing in the morning, and I promise I won’t tell my brother I spent the night here.”

  Scotty’s nostrils flared, but he didn’t move. “You shouldn’t cover yourself in shame, and you shouldn’t avoid my eyes. You’re goddamned beautiful, sugar. You’re . . . you . . . shit. I shouldn’t still be in this room with you, but damned if I can stop myself from standing here, staring at you . . .”

  My cheeks got even hotter, but for an entirely different reason. “Do you feel it, too?”

  “Feel what?” he asked immediately.

  “The pull.” I lifted my chin, feeling stupid, but I wasn’t the type of girl to beat around the bush. Life was too short, too uncertain, to waste time with hesitancy. Either he felt it or he didn’t, and I needed to know. “When you first touched me, it was like something was screaming at me that you were the one who could give me everything I needed, and even things I didn’t know I needed. Like . . . like . . .”

  He took a step closer. “Like you knew me somehow, on some level you don’t fully understand?”

  “Yes.” I stepped closer to him. “Do you feel it?”

  He stared at me, pressed his lips together, then released them. “It doesn’t matter if I do or not. It won’t change a damn thing. I’m not the man for you, sugar. You’re gonna have to trust me on this.”

  “Because of my brother.” I took another step toward him. Now there were only about six inches between us. I could smell his musky cologne, and hear his breaths. “Or, let me guess, because you’re not a good guy.”

  “I’m not,” he agreed.

  “Liar.”

  He dragged his hand through his hair, laughing a little. “Not everyone is what they seem, Sky. Not everyone is so easily figured out.” He shrugged out of his coat, tossing it on the floor. “Just because you think you’re good at reading people doesn’t mean you are.”

  I licked my lips, watching as he undid the top button of his shirt. “What are you doing?”

  “Showing you how wrong you are about me.” His fingers moved over the buttons deftly, his green gaze locked on me the whole time. He undid the last button and shrugged his shirt off.

  Slowly, I lowered my head, and sucked in a deep breath, not releasing it.

  Under his suit, he’d been hiding a torso of tattoos. He had more ink than skin showing from his shoulders down to the waistband of his trousers. There were dragons, and geometric shapes, a Sacred Heart, and a portrait of a woman. They covered his upper chest, shoulders, and arms . . . all done in black ink. There wasn’t a hint of color to be seen on his skin. There was so much to look at, and not enough time to do so. I’d never seen so much ink on one person before.

  And the muscles . . . holy freaking crap.

  He stared me down. “See the one on my inner arm?”

  I forced my attention where he told me to look. I’d been too busy admiring his six-pack, because hot damn, the man had one. They actually existed in real life. I’d always thought they were like unicorns, something people talked about wistfully, but that didn’t really exist.

  But they did. God, they did.

  “Skylar. Focus.”

  I snapped myself back to attention. “Huh?”

  “The tattoo right here.” He lifted a hard, veined arm and pointed at the ink, in case I wasn’t smart enough to figure it out, even though it stood out with clarity. It was a picture of two guns crossed over each other, with cursive black ink that said Sons of Steel Row.

  The connotations of that tattoo, and what it meant, hit me hard.

  That meant . . .

  God. I was going to kill him.

  Forcing a bland expression, I blinked. “Yeah . . . and? I already knew you were from Steel Row. Am I supposed to be shocked you got it inked on you? I happen to find tattoos sexy.”

  Or, at least, I did now.

  Because hot damn.

  He made a frustrated sound. “Do you recognize the name?”

  “No.” I blinked again, heart racing. “Should I?”

  “It’s a gang.”

  I frowned. “Why do you have the name of a gang on your . . . ?”

  “You know why.”

  Uneasily, I looked at it again. The guns stood out with heartbreaking clarity. “You’re . . . in a . . . gang?”

  “Do you really think Tate would hire an active gang member?”

  “Oh.” My head was spinning, and I had no idea if he was telling me the truth or not. “I . . . see.”

  The idea of him being the type of guy who pulled a trigger on another person was horrifying. Even worse, if he was still in a gang, people would be pulling the trigger on him.

  There was no denying that ink, or what it meant.

  “I’ve done things. Bad things. I’m still the same man who joined the gang, the one who did that stuff. People don’t change, Sky. When they’re bad, they’re bad.”

  My heart pounded against my ribs. I had no idea what to say, or how I felt about this, but suddenly his certainty that Tate would kill him if he touched me made perfect sense. Tate expected me to end up with a man who was as clean as he pretended to be—not a gang member, former or otherwise. He would never accept Scotty, with his dark past. “I know.”

  “I don’t think you do. Just because a man is wearing a suit doesn’t mean he’s a good guy, sugar.” He shrugged his shirt back on, leaving it unbuttoned, offering glimpses of untouched skin and dark ink. He looked even sexier like that, so if he was attempting to ward me off, he failed. Big- time. Picking up his jacket, he draped it over my shoulders gently, covering my body, tugging it closed at the neck. “You need to remember that, before you misjudge another man. One who won’t hesitate to take what you have to offer, even though you deserve so much more.”

  He was so close, too close, and despite all his warnings and my common sense that screamed at me to listen to him, to keep my stupid hands to myself, I reached up, touching his jaw with the backs of my knuckles. He stiffened, nostrils flaring, and drew in a ragged breath.

  And there it was again.

  That attraction that told me no matter how bad he was for me, he was mine.

  “Do I?” I asked quietly, slipping my hand under his shirt, over his racing heart. I was right. He was harder than a rock, or a brick wall, or cold hard logic. And no matter what he said, or how much he pushed me away, the truth was there, in his heart, and in the way he stared down at my mouth like he was a dying man and I was his only chance at survival. He wanted me just as badly as I wanted him, and he felt it, too. That undeniable pull. “But, you see, I want you. Not someone else, not a guy who is a gentleman, or ‘suitable,’ or without a dark past. I want you. And I’m not too scared to admit it.”

  He stared at me, looking half a second from . . . something.

  I had no idea what
.

  “You’re right. You’re way too much like your brother. You refuse to back down from a challenge, even when it’s clear you’re going to lose,” he said, his voice raspy.

  “I don’t see you as a challenge.” I skimmed my fingers over his skin, marveling at the way his chest hair felt against my fingers. I thought it would be coarse, but it wasn’t. It was soft, and inviting. “I see you as a reward.”

  Call it stupidity, call it destiny, call it whatever you wanted, all I knew was this man needed me—and I needed him. I’d never been much of a believer in kismet, or soul mates, or even love at first sight. I wasn’t even sure if love really existed—not the kind they showed in the movies, anyway. Not that life-shattering, soul-changing, I must have you or die way. So it wasn’t like I thought I loved him or anything.

  I just needed him.

  His grip tightened, and he lowered his face to mine. I rose on tiptoe, breath coming fast and hard, body straining toward his. As his lips came closer, I felt his breath on my mouth, and he slid his hand upward, creeping up my ribs toward my breast and leaving a trail of fire in his wake.

  I let out a tiny, nearly nonexistent moan.

  Apparently, it was enough to snap him out of it.

  He froze, fisting his jacket, and splayed his hand across my torso, one finger resting under the edge of my bra. “Shit.”

  “Scotty . . .” I started.

  He let me go and ran his hands down his face. I missed the feel of them on my skin immediately, but I could still feel the heat where his touch had been. He’d made up his mind—it was written all over his face. I’d lost the fight. “We both drank too much. All of this, everything we said, is bullshit. In the morning, you’ll come to your senses, and you’ll thank me.”

  I shook my head, hugging his jacket closed over me. “If you say so.”

  “Good night, Sky.”

  Without looking back, or even a hint of hesitation, he walked out of the room, leaving me standing there alone, half naked, filled with longing . . .

  And with so much sexual frustration I could explode.

  CHAPTER 7

  SCOTTY

  There was not enough coffee in the world to make me feel ready to face this day. No matter how hard I tried to drink her away, all night long I could feel Skylar’s hands on my body, tempting me, teasing me, killing me. I don’t know what she did to me, but I’d never lusted after a woman so damn hard, or lost sleep over one before. Then again, I’d never denied myself one before.

  If I wanted a woman, I pursued her.

  No games. No hesitation.

  Hell, why would I hesitate? Sex was sex. If both parties consented, there was no reason not to engage. But then I met Skylar, and all that changed. Even though I resisted her mainly because of Tate, I did have other reasons that went a hell of a lot deeper than who her brother was.

  I glanced down at the text my boss had sent me yesterday. Not Tate. Agent Torres. When I told him about Skylar, and that Tate had asked me take his place in the auction, Torres was very clear in his instructions. Instructions that didn’t sit well with me at all.

  Use this to get closer to her. She might have intel we can use.

  And that right there?

  That was why I really refused to touch her.

  I’d played lots of parts in this life, and told lots of lies, but seducing a woman for information was not one of them . . . and it never would be.

  There were lines drawn in the sand—unbreakable, uncrossable lines that weren’t meant to be breached—and this was one of them. The second Agent Torres assigned her to me, she became a case, not a woman I’d like to get to know better. She’d already given me information that I could pass on to my boss, leverage on Tate Daniels. Leverage the agency would use. I’d told her that I’d been in a gang because my ink told the story for me. And if I was going to gain her trust, be her “friend,” I needed to let her think she was right about me.

  Not fucking her last night had been the first step.

  Continuing not to fuck her would be the next.

  I might not want to use her against her brother, but I’d do it anyway. Just not in the bedroom. My thumb hovered over the screen, my temples ached, and my heart twisted as I typed: What kind of intel are you looking for, sir?

  Whatever you can get.

  My gut clenched, and I ground my teeth together. Yes, sir.

  Footsteps approached, and I tucked my personal phone into my pocket, running my hands through my hair to make it stand up a bit. I’d perfected the part of charming rascal over the last five years, and I played it well. It was all about appearance. A little bit of scruff. Hair that had recently had fingers running through it. A carefree, sardonic smile.

  Sometimes, I forgot how to be me.

  I wasn’t sure I even knew who I really was anymore.

  She came around the corner, holding the unzipped top of her dress against her chest, her soft hair wavy and messy around her beautiful face, her cheeks flushed pink naturally with sleep. I’d never seen a woman look so damn sexy fresh outta bed before. She looked so innocently seductive, like she wasn’t even trying to look as tempting as she did, and I was pretty sure it wasn’t an act.

  She was just fresh, pretty, and naïve.

  And I was supposed to use that against her.

  When she saw me standing in my kitchen, she stopped walking, and tightened her grip on her dress. “Hi.”

  “Good morning,” I said in return, coming around the island. I wore a pair of jeans, and a versatile button-up shirt today, rolled up at the elbows. After I dropped her off at her home, I would meet up with Chris at the warehouse, do some business, head over to the Sons’ clubhouse for a meeting after that, go see Torres, and then write up a few reports. “Need help with that?”

  She nodded once, giving me her back. “Please,” she said, her voice carefully cordial.

  “Of course,” I said back, equally cordially. I gripped the bottom of the zipper, slowly pulling it up, letting my fingers trail over her bare skin as I went. She shivered, swaying closer to me unconsciously before she stiffened and stood straight. Every reaction she had to me was so obvious. So clear-cut. I had a feeling she didn’t have a duplicitous bone in her body. “Did you sleep well?”

  She nodded once. “Thank you for letting me crash here. I appreciate it.”

  “No problem,” I said, latching the little hook on the top of her dress. “Do we need to call someone to bring you your keys?”

  She spun and faced me, her cheeks even pinker. “Uh . . . no. Turns out I drank more than I thought last night. They were in the bottom of my purse the whole time.”

  I forced a bland expression to my face, even though she was a horrible liar. We both knew they’d been there all along. “Oh, good. Coffee?”

  “Sure.” She sat down on the stool at my island, tugging on her dress. “Thanks for the toothbrush, by the way.”

  I’d put a spare on the pillow next to her head. She’d looked so angelic, sleeping with her hands folded under her cheeks. I didn’t say anything, since she’d thanked me enough damn times already, and I didn’t deserve her thanks. Not with what I was planning to do to her. I’d always thought I was a good man, despite the horrible things I did, because it was for the greater good. It was all part of the grand scheme of making my city safer—kind of like Batman, but without the cool toys. But using a woman for information that would be used against her brother in the future . . . it wasn’t something good guys did.

  At what point did my actions stop being excusable?

  When I didn’t speak, she added, “I’ll call Tate to come get me in a few minutes.”

  “What—?”

  She let out a small laugh, holding her hands up. “Kidding, kidding. That was my poor attempt at cracking the ice in the room a little bit.”

  “It worked,” I mumbled, sliding
the coffee toward her. She caught it easily. As she wrapped her hands around it, I put a fresh croissant on a plate and placed it in front of her, too. I’d run out this morning to grab breakfast. “Hungry?”

  “Starving,” she admitted, setting the coffee aside and pinching a piece of the croissant off with two dainty fingers. “And a little hungover, too.”

  “I bet,” I said dryly. “Told you that you couldn’t keep up with me.”

  “Clearly,” she agreed, her cheeks pinkening.

  “I can drive you home, if you’d like.”

  “No, thanks. I’ll cab it.” She glanced out the window. The sun was shining and a car revved outside, followed by shouts. “You’ve done enough already.”

  A woman screamed obscenities as the car sped away, tires squealing. Skylar stared toward the noise, eyes wide as every curse known to man was screeched toward a guy who was long gone from the sound of it. Her cheeks flushed, and she lowered her head. She looked as out of place in my kitchen, in her designer dress, as I did at her country club.

  I picked up my coffee and took a sip, ignoring the furious woman outside. “Do you have a headache?”

  “A little one. I think a hot shower will fix that, though,” Skylar admitted, wincing and touching her temple. There was the sound of breaking glass and more screaming from outside. Sounded like the woman had found another way to take her anger out on my neighbor. He was always screwing around on his wife, so chances were he picked the wrong girl to bring home last night. Wouldn’t be the first time.

  “What’s going on out there?” she asked hesitantly.

  “Sounds like a woman is busting into my neighbor’s house.”

  She laughed uneasily. “Shouldn’t we . . . uh . . . call the cops?”

  “The Boys don’t come here.”

  “Oh. Right.” She tore off another piece of croissant. “I forgot.”

  I came around the side of the island, leaning on it directly next to her. More glass broke outside. “Regret coming here last night yet?”