by Maria Luis
Her mouth curls up in a wry grin. “If that’s the case, then why are you guys still bullshitting around the issue? Cut to the chase.”
“All right, all right,” Max says. “Let me make this short.”
“Do you know how to make something short?” Claire quips, still tugging at her sweatshirt. She’s tucked one ankle behind the other now, but all the position does is show off her enticing legs.
“He doesn’t—”
Max cuts off Devin with a pointed finger. “No lewd jokes. We’re in the presence of a lady.”
“Jake,” Claire murmurs, “do you smell the bullshit all the time around these two? Or is today just my lucky day?”
I start to grin, but it fades pretty quick. “They want to pay you to date one of our clients—just for one night.”
To her credit, she hides her shock well. “How much?”
I don’t particularly like the way she immediately cuts to the topic of money. “Don’t you want to know the circumstances first?”
Flatly, she mutters, “I have rent due, in addition to other bills this week. Am I pretending to be a hooker or something?”
“Fuck no.”
The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, and she nods slowly. “I didn’t think so. I’ve done everything pretty much once, but I have my standards. How much?”
“Two thousand,” Devin says. “It’s for a gala next week. At the Met.”
This time, her stone-faced expression wavers. “The . . . Met?”
Devin nods. “Our client, Carl Lipton, needs a date. His ex-wife will be there and he’s feeling the need to overcompensate by not going alone.”
“Wait,” Claire says, lifting a hand. “Wait. You’re talking about Carl Lipton? The Kings’ GM who got caught with his lover?”
We all shift uncomfortably in our seats, me most of all. “I told them this wasn’t a good idea,” I say, bringing my balled fist to my right thigh. “You don’t need to have your name tied to a shitshow case like Carl. It’s not worth it. Seriously, Claire, it’s not.”
She bites down on her lower lip, gaze falling to the carpeted floor. “So, I’d just have to spend the evening with him?”
My ears ring. “Did you hear what I said? It’s not worth it.”
“Five grand.”
My fingers twitch at the thought of her waltzing around a ballroom on the arm of a man like Carl. “Claire.”
Her chin lifts. “Six grand.”
Fuck it.
I rise to my feet and move to her couch. I watch her dark eyes lift past the belt buckle of my slacks, to my shirt, and then finally to my face. She’s got a stubborn tilt to her chin. I know she’s pushing me. “I need to talk to you. Not in here.”
Her arms come over her chest. “There’s nowhere else to talk.”
“Really?” I lift a brow. “No kitchen, no bedroom . . . not even a bathroom?”
“Maybe I don’t want to talk to you.”
It’s like no one else is in the room, she holds my full focus. “Correction,” I say softly, “you don’t want to be alone with me. Scared I’ll do something that you’ve been dreaming about?”
All she says is “seven grand.”
I’m both amused at her impertinence and turned on by it. “C’mon, Claire. Give me five minutes.”
“Haven’t I heard that before,” Devin says, chuckling.
“Jake’s a quick one,” Max jumps in.
Much as I want to wring their necks, I don’t let their trash talk distract me from my purpose.
Mainly, getting Claire alone. Leave her here with my law partners and they’ll have her convinced that the Met is a good idea in no time. It’s not. She’s clearly not thinking straight.
“I’m not interested,” she tells me, shaking her head. “Sorry.”
My eyes narrow. I didn’t want to play dirty, but if that’s what she wants . . . “I dare you.”
Dark eyes jump to my face. “What?”
“I dare you to step out of this room and talk to me one-on-one. No restaurant to worry about. No chicken suit. Me and you, Claire.” I pause, letting that sink into her pretty head, before adding, “Unless you can’t handle me?”
I see the moment I’ve won.
Her fingers push away the hem of her sweatshirt and she comes to her feet, her breathing a little unsteady. With a two-fingered shove at my chest, she sidesteps me.
“Five minutes,” she states. “That’s it. Five minutes, and we are not having this conversation in my bedroom, Jake.”
I follow her out of the living room, ignoring my friends’ snickering. Five minutes is something I can work with. My gaze follows the curves of her legs.
Might be time to start praying, though, because damn it if this sharp-tongued woman doesn’t make me breathless with lust.
5
Claire
Do you remember those cartoons, like Donald Duck or Elmer Fudd, where steam blows out of their ears as they levitate off the ground? That’s me right now. Steam is blowing, my feet are itching to fly, and I’m so ticked off that I could eagerly kick something and not feel any sort of remorse.
I feel the weight of Jake’s heavy stare on my back as I lead him into the kitchen. My apartment is big compared to Manhattan standards, but still quite small compared to the Connecticut house I grew up in. I’ve lived here for so long, though, that the neighbors think I own the place. My roommates come and go—marriage, moves across the country, life just in general—but like Groundhog Day, I’ve been stuck here for six years now.
Thank God for rent control.
Sunlight filters in through the window over the sink. The dishwasher is still open since I abandoned it to answer the door, and I quickly snap it shut.
“Your place is nice,” Jake says casually, like he didn’t just pull the alpha move on me in front of his business partners. “For some reason I didn’t picture you in a house like this.”
Another insult? How un-lovely. Grinding my teeth, I mutter, “Yeah? Where’d you picture me living? A slum? The forest? Central Park?”
His mouth curls into a grin that I wish I didn’t find so appealing. “A fairy princess living in the forest?” He blatantly skims his gaze down my body. I’m all too aware that my legs are on open display, and so I drag the hem of my sweatshirt down as far as it will stretch. “Maybe if you were blonde still . . .”
I know he’s just trying to get a rise out of me, but, dammit, I fall for it anyway. “Blondes don’t always have more fun,” I say stiffly.
“You sound a little defensive.” Tipping his head to the side, he studies me with sharp blue eyes.
“I’m not.” Him telling me that I’m defensive puts me on the defensive track. “I like my hair just the way it is.”
“I agree. Brunette looks good on you.”
My mouth opens and then clamps shut as his words finally register. Does he really mean that? Not that I should care, right? We’ve shared one kiss in six weeks and I’m not delusional—it had nothing to do with pent-up lust on his end. His lips had met mine as a lesson in pushing him too far.
Does he kiss every woman that annoys the crap out of him?
The thought alone has me glaring in his direction, even though I know I have no reason to be angry about who or what he’s kissing.
Jake hooks his fingers around one of the kitchen chairs. Smoothly, he drags it out, twists it around so that the rungs face me, and sits down with his legs straddling the back. Just like that, my mouth waters. He’s dressed to impress today—crisp black button-down shirt open at the collar, black slacks, black leather shoes. But with his legs casually spread, and his forearms resting on the back of the chair … he looks like the devil incarnate, sent here to Astoria to tempt women to sin with him.
I need to get a hold of myself—ASAP.
I twist away at the same time he starts off with, “So, this gala thing.”
Right. The gala. That’s why he’s here—not because he wants to sin with me but because his partners want me to do thei
r bidding. Normally, I’d just say no. Normally, I’d tell them to go to hell. But I need the cash. I don’t have the luxury of turning my nose up at it, though I’m not particularly fond of the idea of hanging out with Carl Lipton for the evening.
Swallowing my pride, I lift my chin. “I’m taking the gig.”
His lips thin. “You’re not.”
“You can’t just—” I forcibly unclench my hands at my sides. “You can’t tell me what to do, Jake. You don’t have that right.”
“Maybe not,” he tells me, “but the fact remains—you’re not going.”
I stare at him openly. “Did you not hear what I just said?”
“Did you not hear what I just said?” He pushes his sleeves up to his elbows and leans back, hands gripping the chair. His forearms flex with the movement, corded muscles bunching and releasing as he rises to his feet. “I get it, Claire. You want the money. You need the money. But do you even understand what signing up for this means?”
Confession: with each step he takes toward me, my knees wobble a little more. I wish it had to do with my nerves. It doesn’t. It’s all anticipation, even as I back up at his approach. My ass hits the cupboards, halting my escape.
“It means seven grand,” I tell him, my fingers digging into the countertop behind me. “Seven grand more than I have in my bank account right now.”
He chuckles so softly it’s like a physical caress. “Seven grand was never on the table, Holloway. That’s a crap ton of money for what’ll ultimately be five hours of work.”
I bite my lip, then boldly meet his gaze. “I’m also charging for emotional distress.”
“Emotional dis—” This time, his rumbling laughter echoes off the kitchen walls. A lone dimple appears in his right cheek, proving once and for all that God spends too much time perfecting the assholes in this life.
“Emotional distress is real,” I say, hoping he won’t call my bluff, “and from what I’ve heard, a night spent with Carl Lipton is sure to give me a year’s worth of it.”
Jake shoved one hand through his brown hair. “Money aside, this gala is not a good decision. You want to tangle your reputation up with a man who’s had his torn through the shredder during the last year? Because if you go as his date, that’s what is going to happen. Your dreams of hitting it big as an actress are going to take a major hit.”
Let’s be honest here. I agree with him. I do. But I despise the way he acts as though he knows what’s best for me. Jake Matthews doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know where I’ve come from, and he certainly doesn’t know anything about my aspirations.
Pretending he does is like a slap to the face.
“Or,” I say, barely resisting the urge to scratch my nose with my middle finger, “it’ll be just the boost I need to get to the next step in my career. What’s that saying again?” I snap my fingers together. “Oh yes, all publicity is good publicity.”
From the way Jake’s expression darkens he doesn’t find any inspiration in the quote. Instead, his voice drops to a near growl when he says, “The man was caught fucking a blow-up doll.”
I give a little shrug. “To each his own.”
“To each his—” Again, Jake bites off the words. He pinches the bridge of his nose and lifts his face to the ceiling. Like he’s seeking hand-delivered patience from the big guy up in the sky.
Then, in perfectly imperfect harmony, we both speak at once:
“Fine. Four thousand, but that’s as low as I’ll go.”
“I’ll pay you.”
I blink. “What?”
He motions between us. “Exactly what I said. I’ll pay you not to go to the gala. You get your money. I ensure that my conscience is clear. Everyone’s happy.”
I have no words. None. Except for, “You’re out of your mind if you think I’ll just let you write me a check.”
His jaw clenches. “Why not?”
Why not? The steam is rapidly returning and I wiggle my toes in my running sneakers. “I can’t believe you’d ask that.”
Jake’s blue eyes harden. “Take the money, Claire.”
I jut my chin forward in defiance. “Don’t boss me around, Jake. Newsflash, I’m not living in some romance novel, okay? In real life, if a guy offers you money with nothing in return, it’s weird. A little stalkery.”
“Jesus, Claire. I’m not a stalker.”
I lift a brow. “You’re at my house, aren’t you? I’m an employee.”
His hands go to the back of his neck in frustration. Call me crazy, but I like him best when he’s like this. On edge. Ready to lose control. For as little time as I’ve known Jake Matthews, one thing has become abundantly clear: he hates it when he’s not holding the reins.
No doubt that’s why I drive him insane. I’m not the sort of girl to just roll over and submit. That’s not my style.
Me and Jake? We’re a match and tinder ready to combust into flames.
Releasing his neck, he ambles ever closer and I’m once again aware of the fact that I have nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide.
“Let’s play a game,” he says in a husky voice, just before his arms bracket me. His hands land on mine, where I’m still gripping the countertop for dear life. He’s close. So close that my nose brushes his soft shirt and I can feel his belt buckle digging into my stomach.
Problem is, he knows that I want whatever he’s about to deal. It’s our game. Our trademark back and forth style we’ve had going on for weeks now.
“What if I don’t like games?” I whisper. My chest rises with an indrawn breath, and grazes the hard planes of his. We both suck in a quick breath like the air has a good chance of being vacuumed from the kitchen at any second.
“We’ll call terms, then.”
“What do you mean by terms?” And why do I sound so excited by the prospect?
Silently, Jake takes my right hand, uncurls my fist, and presses it flat against his rock-hard abs. “I don’t want you going to the gala. My price is that I’m willing to pay you so that you’ll change your mind. You want to go to the gala. Offer me something and I’ll see if I can be swayed to your side of thinking.”
I take advantage of the situation, blatantly, unashamedly, with no remorse. “A kiss.”
His abdominal muscles bunch under my palm. “A kiss,” he repeats, his voice as gritty as gravel. “And why would this make me change my mind?”
“Because you’re jealous,” I whisper, going out on a limb here as I tiptoe my fingers up his forearm to his biceps. “Am I right? You don’t want me going to the gala as someone else’s date. You want me as your own.”
I don’t fail to notice his raggedly indrawn breath nor the way he clamps down his other hand on my waist. “So, what?” Those long fingers tighten, slide over, down to the hem of my sweatshirt before ducking underneath. “We kiss and . . . what?”
Focus, girl, focus.
“You kiss me. If I think it’s good enough, I’ll go to the gala as your date. No payment needed.” It’s my turn to suck in a breath when I feel his fingers dance across my naked back. Focus, focus, focus. “If I-I don’t think it’s good enough, my original terms still stand. I’ll go the gala as Carl Lipton’s date. You and your partners will pay me the original sum.”
“Which was?” he asks.
“Ten thousand.”
He chuckles. “Nice try, Holloway.”
His laughter fades as his gaze meets mine. And it’s the first time I realize that I may have made a grave error. Because there’s no humor tugging at his mouth or swirling in his blue eyes. None. He’s all business.
Hard. Cold. Business.
But then his lips land on mine and I realize that Jake isn’t cold at all—he’s determined. And hot. So damn hot.
This kiss, unlike the one we shared outside of his parent’s restaurant, takes no prisoners. His thigh shoves between mine like it’s his birthright. One hand cups the back of my head, keeping me close as he demands entrance to my mouth with a flick of his tongue against my bottom
lip. I give in without further prompting, and he proceeds to show me that every kiss I’ve ever had before this one was nothing but a sham.
I moan. I can’t help it.
And then my sweatshirt rides up and that metal belt buckle of his kisses my warm skin. It’s cold, freezing, and I squirm against it, hating the sensation while I continue to love the fact that it belongs to him. To Jake.
He doesn’t break our connection when his palms go to my ass, digging into the flesh as he lifts me to the countertop, my sweater resettling. He doesn’t break our connection when he winds my legs around his lean hips and plants his hands down on either side of me.
It’s me who breaks our connection on a whispered sigh. “Jake.”
“We’re not done yet,” he answers roughly, and that’s all it takes for the fire to rekindle.
I rub myself shamelessly against him as he fists my sweatshirt and tugs it up. Over my shorts. Over my stomach.
Over my—
I yank away from him. “Don’t.”
His lips are red, swollen, probably a pure mirror of mine. “Don’t what? Kiss you? It’s too late for that.”
My fingers wrestle with his for ownership of my sweater, and with a few incessant tugs, he lets go.
“I think that’s enough.” My voice quivers. It’s not enough. I remind myself that this man has seen me countless times in a chicken suit. It doesn’t help. I can feel his hard-on against my lower belly and it takes everything in my power not to wiggle against him. Swallowing, I add, “Your friends are probably wondering where you are.”
Dark brows knit together as he stares at me. “They know where I am.”
“Maybe they’re concerned since your five minutes are up.”
His lips brush the shell of my ear. “The only thing that’s up, Holloway, is my cock. So, assuming I’m reading the situation correctly and you’re done with me, maybe it’s time to let me go.”
Let him go?
My gaze shoots down and I realize . . . Oh, my God. Without even realizing it, I’ve worked my knuckles around his belt buckle so that I can keep him close.
How. Utterly. Embarrassing.
I release his belt so fast it’s as though I’ve been scalded. Which I guess I have been. “I don’t . . . I’m sorry.”