by Stacy Gail
“Shit, you’re serious,” he muttered, looking like he didn’t know whether to swear or laugh. “You actually think this is a problem.”
“It’s only a problem when you discover I’m not what you want.”
That made his brows slam together. “Careful now, lady. You don’t get to tell me what the hell I want and don’t want. I know my own fucking mind.”
“That’s not an answer, and I’m not telling you anything that can’t be seen with the naked eye. You need to know who I am before you wind up wasting your time on someone who’s never going to fit your princessy fantasies.” There. As much as it hurt to cut off a potentially amazing relationship—and it would have been amazing, considering how her body reacted every time he touched her—it had to be done. This was who she was, and she wasn’t going to pretend otherwise.
“Okay.” He nodded after a moment, as if he’d taken the time to chew over her words. “I’ll admit I’ve got high standards when it comes to the women I want decorating my arm. They’re pedigreed, they’re pampered and so damn polished you can almost believe their shit doesn’t stink. I like that, because I come from Slag Valley, and you don’t get much shittier than that pit. When I was a kid on the streets and dreaming of what I wanted out of life, you can bet I never pictured myself with some neighborhood skank who made an art out of chain-smoking, and spread her legs for any dumbass who bought her a beer. Instead I pictured myself fucking high society princesses, because I was determined to be king of all I surveyed. I’m not apologizing for wanting the best, because I goddamn pushed myself to be the best.”
“Of course.” She found her hand had come to rest on his chest without her even being aware of how it got there. He felt warm and rock-solid under her touch, and it took all her strength not to roam that hand around and explore that fabulously muscled terrain to her heart’s content. “You should be applauded for all that you’ve accomplished in life. I’m simply telling you that I’m not the kind of woman you pictured having.”
“There you go again, telling me what I want.”
Arrrrgh. “I’m telling you that I’m not Francesca Osterhaus, with her never-ending trust fund and complete lack of humanity.”
“Thank fucking Christ.”
She tried again. “Nor am I Vivienne Romilly, who actually once said you’re not living unless you’re spending a thousand dollars a day, or Mimi Weissman with her weird obsession with skiing every slope in Gstaad. I’m also not—”
“You know what you are? You’re the woman who’s gonna shut up now.” With that, he pulled her against him and lowered his mouth to hers.
Joelle's faint gasp echoed in her head as his lips fused—fused!—to hers. For one irrational moment she even wondered how they would ever be able to separate again, that fusing was so complete. Then the sensation of having her mouth thoroughly conquered pulled her under, and all she could do was sink into a growing, perfect bliss.
The most overwhelming sensation was his sheer intensity, like his life depended on creating the world's most perfect kiss with her. And it was just about the most perfect kiss she’d ever experienced; the silk-covered steel of his lips opened on hers to tempt her tongue into an exploratory, erotic dance that was like sex itself, while the back of her head was cradled in the bowl-sized palm of his hand. He held her to the pressure of his kiss like he feared she wanted to escape it, but that was beyond laughable. The last thing she ever wanted to do was have this kiss end. She’d just about sell her soul to freeze this moment in time, so she could live within it forever.
Just as that delightful thought passed through her consciousness, Gus lifted his head. His gaze burned down into hers until her heart skipped and stumbled, but there was no help for it. No one had ever looked at her like he would kill to have her naked under his hands. No one.
Until now.
“I can't fucking wait for you to start babbling some more,” he said, his voice such a sexy velvet purr it sparked an achy need deep inside her. “I absolutely love how I shut you up.”
“Stifling my First Amendment rights isn't a good excuse to kiss me,” she managed, belatedly realizing she held on to his shoulders like she was afraid the floor would give out from under her. The floor wouldn't, but she wasn't so sure about her knees. “You should probably just go ahead and kiss me anytime you feel like it. I wouldn't want to be the excuse you use to indulge in any latent tyrannical tendencies.”
A corner of his mouth curled, and she had the strangest sense of a predator smiling at his prey. “Thing is, I am a tyrant about some things. For instance, I like keeping what I see as mine all to myself. You're not seeing anyone besides me from now on.”
Joelle waited a beat for him to pose that as a question. When he didn't, she tilted her head, more out of curiosity than anything. “Are you telling me or asking me? To be honest, I'm much too busy with work to do much dating, so I currently don't have anyone in my life—”
“You do now, and you're not going to be too busy for me. We are seeing each other exclusively, and that's all there is to it. Say yes.”
“What I'll say is that I'm learning you're quite the overwhelming steamroller.” A fluttery breath escaped her, and she couldn't stop herself from pressing a hand against her wildly thrumming heart. “That, and your penchant for princesses is pretty much the only thing I know about you, so I'm not about to commit to any exclusivity yet.”
“You want to know about me? The real me? Fine. Only you won't find it here in a fancy glass house full of delicate fucking flowers.”
That piqued her interest. “Where will I find the real you?”
“Come with me and see.”
She stared up into those deep russet-tinged brown eyes and felt herself falling. “Okay.”
Chapter Four
Taking Joelle Fielding of the Chicago Fieldings to Gillooly’s Bar and Billiards Hall was something Gus hadn’t seen coming. But there they were.
This definitely wasn’t his usual kind of date.
Then again, Joelle didn’t seem to be the usual kind of socialite.
Not that she was officially a socialite anymore. Thanks to the digging he’d done—which went far beyond scrolling through hundreds of YouTube videos—he’d discovered she’d been painfully truthful about her social standing. The Fieldings had once been one of Chicago’s most influential families, but they’d ultimately gone bust about half a decade ago. Just as clearly, Joelle had taken advantage of her top-shelf education and was doing more than all right in keeping her head above water.
He hadn’t been kidding when he’d called her an online personality. The woman was everywhere. She’d written articles for half a dozen fashion mags and had several lucrative sponsors—everything from shoe and purse companies, to makeup and hair products, and everything in between. Her latest deal was with Triggered, an in-your-face apparel company that specialized in clothing that could be individualized online by the customer, so that no two dresses, pants or shirts were exactly alike.
He checked Triggered sales numbers before they’d thrown in with Joelle and saw only mediocre returns. After she’d started touting them six months ago, however, their sales had gone up over seven hundred percent, and were currently in the process of adding another manufacturing site. Already they were talking about going public, and after studying their domestic business model—which had an eye on international growth—he had it bookmarked to go all in on once they did.
As long as they kept Joelle under contract, they couldn’t lose.
Taking her to the bar of his youth, however, was another story.
“Ooh, check it out. Love the retro atmosphere.” Beside him, Joelle looked around the room, eyes wide like she wanted to take everything in all at once. Looking around himself, Gus tried to see the run-down old watering hole on the edge of South Deering through her eyes. Ceiling fans that whirled overhead even in the winter, yellowish lighting that made everyone look jaundiced, a bunch of round tables in no set pattern with wobbly, mismatched chairs
, and a scarred-up bar that had probably gleamed back in the day, but now looked as tired as the squat, single-story cinderblock building was. “Don’t you just love those old jukeboxes? Wow, I wonder how hard it was to find one that still plays real vinyl records?”
“Not too hard. It’s been here since I was a boy scrounging in their garbage looking for recyclables. Hey, Casey,” he nodded at the man tending bar, shocked all over again at how easily he found himself sharing bits and pieces of himself with this woman. That was new. Unlike all the Francesca Osterhauses he’d dated, it was almost like he trusted Joelle to not judge him for his humble beginnings. “What’s new?”
“I’ll tell you what’s new.” Casey Gillooly looked just like his old man, the original Gillooly. With his double chin, salt-and-pepper hair thinning to an almost-textbook diagram of male pattern baldness, and massive beer gut hanging over his belt, looking at him made Gus feel like he’d stepped back in time. “You, showing up with a pretty lady. Usually you fly solo when you roll up in here.” Tossing a couple ragged cardboard coasters onto the bar, he shifted his beady eyes to Joelle. “What’ll ya have, pretty lady?”
“I don’t suppose you have an assortment of Malbec wines? I know that’s usually an Argentinian grape and not all that well-known, but there’s a stunning Malbec wine out of Tilted Windmill Vineyards in Napa Valley that I’m beyond crazy about right now. Honestly, it’s so amazing it makes your taste buds dance with joy with every sip.” When Casey simply stared at her—no surprise there—Jo slid onto a stool and gave Casey what had to be the most brilliant smile Gillooly’s had ever seen. “Or a Guinness. Either the original or extra stout, I’m not picky.”
“Uh-huh.” Casey reached for a glass and glanced at Gus with eyes that fairly bugged out at him in astonishment. “How ‘bout you, man?”
“Whatever’s on tap, as long as it’s not lite.”
“One Miller, one Guinness original.” In a few seconds he had the drinks in front of them. “By the way, your order’s total shit, dude. Your lady’s way more interesting than you.”
“So what else is new? Thanks, Case.” Tossing some bills onto the counter, Gus snagged up his drink and tilted his head toward the back. “Come on. I want to show you where I spent a good portion of my youth.”
“I wondered if there was more to Gus Bloch’s backstory than scrounging around in Gillooly’s trash for recyclables.” Clearly delighted at the prospect of going on an adventure, she slid off the stool, grabbed up her drink and coaster—shit, she actually made sure she brought the fucking coaster—and sashayed along with him to the back. Two pool tables were spotlighted under cheap-ass lights sporting logos for various beers, and she went to one of the taller tables ringing the room to set her drink down. “Well, well, well, look what we have here. Let me guess—you made a good amount of walking-around money as a pool shark?”
“It’s a fair statement to say that shooting pool is a survival skill in South Deering.”
“I can just picture you, running the table with unsuspecting marks. Don’t you just love the sound of a good, solid break? So satisfying.”
That surprised him. “You play pool?”
“Oh goodness, it’s been a while.” She scrunched her perfect little doll’s nose while her sky-blue eyes smiled up at him. “My father had a billiards table in the drawing room. And before you say it, yes, we actually had a drawing room. I can’t tell you how absurdly huge the old Fielding house was where I grew up. I’m so glad it’s been repurposed and is now an upscale convalescent home. They’re putting it to much better use than we ever did, that’s for sure.”
“So you don’t miss it?” he asked curiously, pulling a couple cue sticks from the rack on the wall and handing one to her. “All that grandeur?”
“God, no. Trying to hold on to all that stuff turned my father into a bitter old man before his time, and probably even shortened his life. Same with my mother, who died a couple years later. It was a hard lesson to learn that material possessions aren’t all that important in the grand scheme of things, but I’m glad I learned it. People are what matter to me. Money, not so much.”
“Ah, but you’ve never been without it.” He racked up the billiard balls and walked around to the other end of the table to fish out the cue ball. “I can tell.”
“Oh, really?” Those perfectly arched brows of hers went up, and she couldn’t have looked more like a queen questioning a peasant if she’d tried. “How can you tell, exactly?”
“Because you just said money doesn’t matter. If you’d ever wondered with genuine fear in your heart where your next meal was coming from, or worried the lights were going to go out because the bill hadn’t been paid, you’d know one thing—money matters one helluva lot. You wanna break, or should I?”
“I’ll have a go.” A vaguely conciliatory expression softened her elegantly sculpted face as she bent over the table and lined up her shot like she knew what she was about. “That’s a fair point you just made. My idea of being broke is probably a little…off. For instance, when my father declared bankruptcy a few months before he died, I had to trade my BMW Roadster in for a Nissan Altima. I thought that meant we were flat broke, but of course now that I pay my own bills, I realize that wasn’t the case. And I do pay my own bills,” she added firmly, then took a moment to shoot. The cue ball made solid contact, and a ball rolled into the corner pocket. “I wasn’t kidding when I said I don’t touch my trust fund. Someday that’ll go to my children. Was that a solid ball that went in?”
“Yep. You’ve got a nice stroke.” She had a nice everything, and damn, when she leaned over the table, her off-the-shoulder sweater gapped so he could see those lush breasts of hers cradled in purple lace. Desire thrummed through his veins, until his skin felt too tight for his body. “You’re not thinking of hustling me, are you, my lady?”
“Me?” Keeping her gaze on the layout of the balls, she slowly circled the table. “Don’t be silly, Gus. Whoever heard of a girl who could play pool?”
“Holy shit,” he chuckled as he watched her zero in on a shot he’d already spied. A half second later, she sank another solid. “You’re totally fuckin’ hustling me.”
“It’s impossible to hustle you when we’re not betting on anything.”
“Then let’s bet on something.”
“Sounds fun.” Supremely confident and looking like she loved the whole world, Joelle beamed at him from across the table. “Name it. Seven in the side pocket, by the way.”
Now she was calling her shots. Holy hell. “If I win, you spend the night with me.”
She seemed to pause a half-second before she reached for some chalk. As she chalked up her cue stick, she gave him a long, considering look. “Deal. And if I win…”
“I’m waiting.”
“You spend the night with me—with a bonus of naked hot-tubbing.” She gave him another winning smile. “See? Everybody wins in the end. Isn’t life wonderful? Two in the corner.”
It took him a second to get his mind off how hard his dick was and focus on what the hell was going on around him. But that was tough to do when he had the sexiest, most playful little vixen trying to blow his fucking mind. “There’s no way you’re going to make that shot.”
“Well, I can’t with you standing in my way. Scoot.”
By damn, she was fun. “You’d better make it. I’m looking forward to the naked hot-tubbing.”
“Such pressure.” Her tone was pure cocktease, with a dash of posh little princess thrown in. He made room for her—barely—as she lined up her shot, her ass mere inches away from him as she leaned over the table. “Watch and be amazed.”
“Oh, I’m watching,” he assured her, his eyes glued to that firmly rounded backside of hers. Had there ever been a more perfect ass created anywhere, at any time? He was fucking blessed to be given such a view. “And I’m amazed.”
“I haven’t made the shot yet.”
“At this point, that’d just be the icing on top.”
&nb
sp; “Hm.” Coyly she looked back at him from over her shoulder, and the look she gave him told him straight up that she knew exactly what he was talking about. “So, are you going to tell me why you’ve never brought any of my fellow former debutantes to Gillooly’s?”
“Why, do you think they would’ve liked it?”
She seemed to give that some thought. “I think Mimi Weissman would have been happy to go anywhere, as long as you talked skiing with her.”
He couldn’t help but snort at that. “She’s kind of a weird duck, I’ll give you that. I’m thinking she’d be happier in the mountains somewhere.”
“But not at Gillooly’s?”
“Let’s just say I’m a quick read when it comes to character.”
“And when you read my character, you saw that I wouldn’t freak out at shooting a few games of pool at a South Deering watering hole?”
“I’m saying I’m good with sharing this small piece of my history with you because I knew you’d be okay with this part of me.” Holy shit. When the hell had Casey slipped truth serum into his beer? “You gonna take the shot, or what?”
“Perfection cannot be rushed.” But she turned her attention back to the table, where she clearly had every intention of banking the cue ball off other balls to sink the solid blue two ball. The angle looked pretty good, but…
She took her shot.
A solid, confident stroke.
Billiard balls clacked and scattered. The two-ball rolled…
And didn’t go in.
“Well, fuck,” she muttered, momentarily shocking him. Hearing an F-bomb dropping out of that perfect little cupid-bow mouth of hers was downright hilarious. Up to that point, he would’ve bet real money she’d never uttered that word before in her life. “I totally thought I had that one.”
“Too much clutter for it to get through.” Still grinning, and delighted at her disgruntled expression, he took his place at the table. “My turn, my lady.”
“Hmph. You’re just lucky I cleared things up for you.”