Sultry in Stilettos

by Nana Malone

  "Because..."

  "You can’t just waltz in and give me the Mills treatment. I'm not one of your hoards. I'm your friend. You text me when you’re having a bad day, when your horrid brother gives you shit. When you have a shitty date or you've got a stage nine clinger. Now you ruined that. Hell, I'm not even your type."

  "Ricca."

  “Not good enough, Beckett.”

  Beckett started to pace. Ricca stared at him. All she needed was an answer, and she’d go home. Then she’d forget Beckett Mills. Even the fantasies? A little panicked voice from her subconscious nagged.

  No, definitely not. She’d still have her fantasies, but no real world stuff. Way too sticky.

  “Ricca, I don’t have any answers for you. Truth is, it just happened. It shouldn’t have, but it did. You said we’d be okay.”

  She frowned. “I think I lied.” Tears pricked her lids. She blinked at him through the salty liquid. "Beckett." Her stomach rolled, then clenched as if someone had just kicked her in the gut. She straightened. “Oh no.” Her stomach clenched once, then again. Before she knew it, vomit and bile made an appearance at Beckett’s feet.

  ****

  Beckett tried to pull his brain from his memory of Ricca storming into his place asking him why he’d kissed her. He’d wanted to kiss her again. His dick stood at instant attention at the thought.

  His body was in no mood to listen.

  After he’d cleaned himself up and taken her home, there’d been the dilemma of how to get her cleaned up and into bed. In her incapacitated state, she’d been no help. He’d managed to dump her in the shower fully clothed to help wake her up, but she’d needed help standing up so he’d climbed in with her—which had been the mistake of a lifetime. Hot, wet Ricca was the last thing he needed. But as torture went, he could have done worse.

  He never knew Ricca had such a way with curse words. Beckett smirked at the memory. Ricca howling as the warm water hit them. How she blissfully groaned and leaned back against him while he washed her hair. She had so much hair that he’d had to wash it twice to make sure it was clean. As he’d massaged her scalp, she’d groaned in appreciation.

  When he’d turned off the water and gotten her out, he’d been treated to the only fantasy he’d ever have for the rest of his life. Ricca in a wet T-shirt. The water had plastered her T-shirt to her lush breasts. He’d done his best not to look, but more than once, genetics won out over chivalry. Shit, he was a guy after all. He literally couldn’t help himself. The woman was stacked, with breasts so gorgeous a blind man would take notice. Thankfully, she’d been coherent enough by that point to change her own clothes. Well, at least to get them off.

  With a herculean feat of averting his eyes, he’d managed to get her dressed in a T-shirt and underwear. And he changed into sweats he’d left over there after their last fantasy and crashed in the guest room. Unfortunately for him, sleep had not been on the menu. The sheets had constricted his legs, and the warmth from the heater clung to him like a muggy, stifling cloak. He’d finally slept fitfully, tormented by erotic dreams of Ricca, wet and moaning against him, writhing with need in his arms.

  When he’d woken up on Saturday, she was still passed out asleep. He’d called twice to check on her on Sunday, but she hadn’t picked up. Nor had she returned any of his texts. It wasn’t like her to go into full avoidance mode. To be fair, she had a few fantasies she had to plan for, so she might have been meeting with vendors.

  When she'd come in this morning she’d gone right to her office and shut her door. He’d even tried poking his head in to check on her, but she hadn’t been in the mood for a chat. Not meeting his gaze she whispered, "I need a couple of days to get over my hangover and embarrassment. Make that a week.”

  “You’re okay though?” He frowned. “You remember anything?”

  Her eyes went wide, and she immediately winced. “Oh, God. What did I do? Only thing I remember is Kentucky bourbon, then really needing to talk to you, then you dumping me in bed. I’ve got some blank spots." She grimaced, and her tongue peaked out to moisten her bottom lip. “Did I, um, say anything?”

  He shook his head. It was really better for both of them if she didn’t remember. “Nope, just said you wanted to ask me something. Then you proceeded to pass out. I took you home.” He swallowed the bitter taste of the lie. She’d only feel worse if she knew what happened.

  “Seems you’re in the running for sainthood.”

  “Come find me if you remember what you wanted to ask me.” And maybe this time you’ll get a different answer.

  “Yeah, okay.” She licked her lip again, and his dick strained against his jeans. Shit.

  He went back to his office sporting a massive hard-on. Every time he even caught hint of her perfume, his whole body went rigid. So. Would. Not. Work. But it had to. No matter how he felt about her, he knew himself, he’d fuck it up eventually, and there’d be no going back to friendship. She actually mattered to him. Not to mention Braedon would flip his lid. His brother was an ass, but Braedon was the only family Beckett gave a shit about. He couldn’t hurt him.

  If he ignored the attraction long enough, it would just go away, and he'd learn to deal. Just like before.

  It didn’t matter if he wanted to taste every inch of her.

  His phone rang, and he snatched it up without checking the caller ID. "Mills."

  "What’s up, asshole?"

  Fuck. All traces of desire vanished. He did not need this conversation today. "What’s up, Braedon?"

  “You don’t sound happy to hear from me, baby bro.”

  “That’s because I know you’ll insist on calling me baby bro.” Not because I was just ogling your ex, wanting to make her come in my office.

  “Well birth order is a bitch. Okay, so listen. I have a couple architects for us to see this week, if you have the time. You still working on the bank for the additional loan?”

  Beckett nodded his head. “Yeah. I’m working on them. They rejected my last proposal. But I’ve got another one I’m pulling together and the possibility of a pretty big job promotion, so that could change things.”

  Braedon whistled. “Okay, now you’re talking. Any idea of salary?”

  “Well, it’s a VP job, so I expect over 150k.”

  “Nice.” Braedon cleared his throat. “You know, you could always ask the old man for a loan.”

  Beckett clenched his teeth. Like hell he’d ever ask the old man for anything. “You still have faith in him. He’s not going to give me a loan unless I come to heel. And there’s no way I’m going to work for him.”

  “And you’re sure you don’t want to consider that? You could come on for six months. Then once we are up and running, you can leave. At least you tried.”

  Beckett clicked his jaw, trying not to grind his teeth. It was an old argument. Braedon had gone into the family law practice. Beckett hadn’t. His father had earned his money from playing in the NFL, but had gotten injured and gone into law. Jackson Mills had been so pissed he couldn’t make Beckett come to heel that he’d frozen Beckett’s trust fund. Fine by him—he didn’t need the old man’s money. “Not going to happen, Braedon.”

  It had never been about the money for Beckett. He didn’t need that trust fund. Well, that wasn’t entirely true, but he certainly wasn’t going to beg for it. He knew that restoring that old gym would make a difference in the community and give other kids like him an opportunity to train and maybe hide out for a few hours doing something they were good at. Everyone needed a safe haven where they were free from people’s judgments or disapproving glares.

  Besides, Dear Old Dad had never supported him in anything. He’d never been to a single swim meet, not even the Olympic Trials. Once Beckett had chosen swimming over football, that was it for his father. Disappointment number one in a long line of disappointments. And his father had made it a point to tell Beckett how deficient he was at every turn. When his mother had still been alive, it was easier. She’d made up for the old man
wherever she could.

  Braedon sighed. “Okay, fine. Let me know when you’ve drafted the new proposal. I’ll contact your assistant for your schedule.” His brother paused before adding. “So, uh, how is Ricca? She doing okay?”

  A fist of dread squeezed around Beckett’s heart. He still hadn’t told Braedon about the kiss at the Gala. “Yeah, you know. She’s good.” There, nice and evasive.

  “She still dating that asshole?”

  Braedon had never gotten over her, despite the fact that he’d been the one to cheat on her. He’d always described his cheating as just a little something he’d needed on the side. But like their father, Braedon liked the ladies. His cheating had been more than one indiscretion.

  Ricca knew about the one incident but not about the rest. It had killed Beckett not to tell her, but Braedon was his brother. What the hell was he supposed to say? “Hey, my brother was a serial cheating asshole.” The day he’d found out what happened, Beckett had almost killed Braedon for hurting Ricca like that. For being so callous. But despite what had happened, Braedon always asked about her.

  “Actually, they broke up.”

  Braedon was silent for two heartbeats.

  “Maybe I should call her. Say hi or something.”

  Red hot fury made Beckett’s skin prickle. “No.” He tempered his tone. “Not a good idea. She still hates you.”

  “C’mon, man, I thought you were going to put a good word in for me. Tell her I’m reformed or something.”

  “Are you?”

  “Depends on if she’s still vanilla or not. You know, I’m surprised—she’s from the islands. I thought she’d be spicier. But—”

  “I’m hanging up now.” Beckett ground out as he put the phone down. Sometimes his brother was such an asshole.

  One thing was certain. He would rather cut off his favorite appendage than put in a good word for Braedon.

  Chapter Five

  As nightmares went, Ricca was stuck in a total screamer. The first planning meeting of the Master Fantasy package was going exactly as she’d expected—like a tornado had just landed in downtown San Diego. Combine that with her killer headache, and Ricca was seriously considering death. Combine that with the gaps in her memory of Saturday night, and she was in no mood.

  The real fun started when Angel looked at the rest of the brigade and said, "Okay, what says romance?"

  Ricca shifted uncomfortably in her seat. If her name was going to be attached to this thing, she wanted it to go well. But at the same time, she wanted to have some fun watching Angel and crew stumble around in the dark. For now, she’d just forge on and clamp her mouth shut. Even if she did offer up suggestions, the Bitch Brigade would shoot them down, then use them as their own ideas later. Best to just let them get there on their own. Still, she itched to tell them how it was done.

  Next to her, she could feel Beckett's heat with every swivel of his chair and every brush of his arm. He was there, in her face. Closing her eyes, she tried to steady her heart rate, but instead, an image of Beckett peeling off her underwear flashed in her memory. Oh shit. Her eyes snapped to his.

  His brows furrowed in confusion. “What?” he mouthed.

  She shook her head. Maybe she was imagining the whole thing. Except—the image flashed again, and this time, she noticed her cookie monster pajamas on the floor of her bathroom. Shit, what the hell had she done?

  In quick succession, the memories of the other night flooded her brain, and her stomach rolled. Her botched attempt at getting Beckett to admit why he’d kissed her. His refusal. Her throwing up all over the both of them. Oh God. Ricca’s breath hitched, and no matter what she tried, she couldn’t get enough air into her lungs.

  Beckett nudged her chair and whispered. “Hey, you okay? You look a little green.”

  Frantically, she nodded her head. This was so totally worse than when Beckett had picked her up off the floor after Braedon told her he’d cheated on her.

  Beckett had beaten Braedon to a pulp that night. His own brother, and he’d beat the crap out of him. Then he’d taken care of her along with Micha and Jaya. Between the three of them, they’d made sure she didn’t drown herself in cookies and cream. Now this. Like a gentleman, he hadn’t said anything.

  She dropped her forehead into her hand. What the hell had possessed her to go over to his place in the middle of the night? Oh yeah—half a bottle of bourbon and the need to know why he’d kissed her. Oh. Fuck. Me.

  With every near brush of contact with Beckett, she relived kissing him at the Gala and replayed Friday night. As torture went, it was all kinds of effective. Why now, after all these years, were her feelings coming back up? Talk about all kinds of inconvenient. Confusion wove its way through the desire and embarrassment, making for a slinky fabric she didn’t like to wear out in public.

  She nearly jumped up out of her seat when Beckett muttered, "We're doomed."

  She kept her eyes on her notebook and wrote a little message in the corner. Tell me about it.

  She felt, rather than saw, him nod as he scribbled on his notepad. I'm going to talk to Serena. This is a little ridiculous.

  Don't bother. She won’t change her mind.

  We have to try. If I’m hitching my train to Angel's wagon, I want to make sure the thing is structurally sound.

  We both know it's not. Then, feeling vindictive, Ricca scribbled on her notepad again. What says romance?

  Beckett muffled a choked laugh, and she bit back a grin. Maybe, just maybe, things were getting sort of back to normal.

  After an hour listening to Angel, Emily, and Megan fumble around what to do as heads of a fantasy plan, Ricca and Beckett made their escape. Automatically, she turned to Beckett. "Coffee run—rock, paper, scissors?"

  In a move practiced over years of friendship and working together, he put out his right palm. His paper beat out her rock, so her turn. She hustled to the elevator with a small crowd of employees. She needed fresh air to think. And she needed to find Micha and kill her for the bourbon introduction.

  Several people got out on the tenth floor. A few more exited on the seventh. The hair on Ricca's neck prickled in warning. Like someone was staring at her. One more person got out on five. Unable to keep still, she glanced around the elevator.

  An impeccably dressed woman in her mid-to-late twenties stood silently behind her. Ricca admired her put together look—starched, navy, Diane Von Furstenberg shirt-dress and Stuart Wiseman ballet flats. She also had the latest Hermes bag slung over her shoulder. Great outfit, if it had some color. Her straight, light brown hair hung to her shoulders, and her face was devoid of makeup. But she met Ricca’s gaze and smiled. The smile transformed her face into something engaging, and Ricca had to smile back.

  A voice to her right startled Ricca. "I'm surprised you’re in the mood to go for coffee breaks, given what happened with Charles. You’re so brave, Ricca. I mean if my boyfriend dumped me for a former model, I’d take to eating whole cakes in my depression."

  Ricca gritted her teeth. Angel. She should have waited for another elevator car. Damn. How the hell did Angel know what happened with Charles?

  “I mean, I saw your man yesterday in Old Town with some slinky model. I think she’s VP at Ernst and Young downtown. When did you guys break up, anyway?” Angel asked with an evil gleam in her eye. “I could have sworn I saw you guys together at the Westhorpe Gala.”

  Ricca opened her mouth, and then thought better of it. For now, she was stuck with Angel. And there wasn’t much she could do about it. Angel was in essence her boss for the duration of the project, so the way to deal was to bite her tongue, 'cause she sure as shit couldn't find anything nice to say.

  All she could think to mutter was, “His loss." Then she narrowed her eyes at Angel. "Are you okay? I know how hard it is coming up with fresh ideas and angles with everyone watching and judging you.” Angel wasn’t the only one who could rattle cages.

  Angel made a rapid exit on the second floor.

  "I
s everyone really judging her?” The thin brunette in the DVF dress asked.

  Ricca smirked at the question. "Not sure about everyone, but I certainly am."

  The woman smiled again, showing off perfect teeth. "Good for you. She was a real piece of work."

  "Yeah, tell me about it. I get to work with that ball of sunshine every day."

  They hit the bottom floor and exited. "Sorry to hear." The brunette gave her a more somber smile. "About your bitch of a co-worker and about the breakup."

  Ricca shrugged it off. "Truth be told, I was more pissed that he beat me to the punch."

  "Ugh, isn't that the worst?" The woman cocked her head and stuck out her hand. "By the way, I'm Lila."

  "Ricca. Are you new here?” Most of the floors were occupied by Fantasies, but there were some smaller businesses, and she'd seen just about everyone at least once or twice before.

  "Oh no. I had a client meeting. I’m trying to surprise my husband.”

  “Good surprise or bad?” There was a divorce attorney on the floor right above Fantasies.

  “Ha. Good. A crazy anniversary gift."

  “Well, if you’re looking for some good ideas, you can check out Fantasies, Inc. upstairs. We specialize in over the top fantasies and surprises.”

  Lila smiled. “Oh, I was just up there! But I’m not sure about budget. The blonde I met with wasn’t too friendly.”

  “I’m sorry about that. If you want to come up at any time, I can walk you through some ideas to fit your budget.”

  Lila’s smile brightened. “You’d do that?”

  “Yeah. Why not?” She liked Lila. She was kind and unassuming.

  “Wow, thanks.”

  Suddenly the brunette's gaze shifted, and her brows furrowed. Ricca caught sight of Serena talking to a man, who registered a ten on the drop-dead handsome, knock-your-best-friend-out-of-the-way-so-you-can-have-him meter. He was tall, like Beckett, but not as broad. By the way Serena was touching him on the arm and gazing up at him, she was in full flirt mode. What the hell was going on there? Did Zach have some competition?