by Kira Graham
“You know, it’s freaking weird that he starts getting all weepy whenever she’s not super sweet to him all the time,” a male voice drawls, surprising me before I curse and fall back, hating myself for not checking the damn caller ID.
“Didn’t I tell you to fuck off like an hour ago?” I mutter, smiling when he grunts and I hear the shuffling of paper.
“Yeah, but I have little to no shame, and I’m oblivious to your undeserved scorn. I’m bored,” Zeus mumbles, though I hear the rapid clicking of keys and assume that he’s on his computer.
“Don’t lie. You’re doing all the work right now that Adonis usually does, which basically means that you’re single-handedly running the company. You love it.”
“Eh, like I said—bored. These graphs and contracts and freaking analysis reports are child’s play. All I have to do is read them.”
“In other words, you’re elbow deep in contracts, and all that other bullshit that Adonis uses to make decisions, and you’re just dying to distract yourself.”
“Nope. I’m elbow deep in contracts, reading enough risk analyses to prove that Adonis is a paranoid schizo who shouldn’t be a millionaire, considering the way that his cheap ass refuses to spend money to make money, and trying to butter you up because I need a date to a dinner tonight, and if you don’t say yes, Ma’s going to make me take Mindy Marcy, her new best friend ever since your mom dragged her to church with her last Sunday. Don’t make me go with that chipmunk, Rosetta. I’m begging you,” he pleads, distracting me enough that I forget that I wanted to ask him how he knew about my phone call with Cleo.
“I dunno. I could totally be okay with knowing that you have to spend hours with that baking, airheaded freak with the high-pitched voice,” I reply, wondering if Mindy has an off switch, and where exactly it might be located.
Tee keeps saying that it’s her skull, and that she’d be more than okay with taking a sledgehammer to it, but then again, Tee’s just not right in the head.
“We’re friends. As my friend, you should want to help me.”
“We are not friends.”
“Are too. We’ve already discussed this, Rosetta. We call each other and talk almost every day. We send each other memes, and you help me survive Honey’s fortnightly dinners. Face it, lady, we’re pals—and as my pal, I think that you should be kind enough to rescue me from having to date that giggling goat,” he tells me, hitting all my buttons at once.
First of all, I despise Mindy, and not in a “I sort of try to avoid her” kind of way. Nuh-uh. What I feel for her is more of a “my mom sits on the outside pew so that she can stop me from tackling Mindy when I see her” kind of loathing. I hate her smiling, always chipper face, along with her perfect white teeth and her chirpy voice. I despise the way that she doesn’t seem to understand insults, and that anything I say flies way over her head, completely negating the fact that I want to argue with her. Even more than that, though, I just get a creepy feeling from that chick, and I’d like nothing more than to smack her face for making me actually fear being anywhere near her.
Cleo is constantly telling me to lay off the woman, and don’t even get me started on what goes down if Tee goes to church because, as Father Oats once told Mom, “That one isn’t right with the Lord.”
Whatever. The fact is, having Zeus badmouth the kind, soft-spoken, always happy Mindy is like having a man actually find my clit during sex. Freaking golden.
“Fine, but you’re going to owe me. Big time. I hate those dinners, and with my luck, I’ll probably have to see one of the guys from Donald and Donaldson,” I mutter, though right now, I actually seriously want to.
I haven’t hit anyone in so long that I literally hurt with the need to do it. All I’d have to do is bide my time, watch for cameras, and then ambush one of them.
“You’re not hitting anyone, Rose.”
“Aw, man!”
“I’m serious. I have to go to this thing to make contact with the CEO of a company that Adonis is dying to acquire. We’ve failed to get a meeting with this guy for months now, so if I get the chance, I can’t have you needing me to bury someone.”
“Pfft! Like I’d ask you! Cleo is my bury buddy,” I sniff, although I’m starting to think that maybe she’s swapped me out for Adonis.
The freaking traitor.
“She’s tagged Addy for that already, and, to be fair to her, that’s just smart. He’s muscle. I could be your muscle,” Zeus wheedles.
“In your dreams! I have a dolly to transport everything to the trunk. Dad bought it for me as a gag gift. Little does he know that I actually added it to my kit. Now, shut up and let me try to find my good side,” I say grouchily, breathing deeply because promising to behave is like asking Mom to cook something edible. Almost impossible.
“What do I get out of this?”
“A night with me.”
“Big fucking deal. “
“You’re mean—you know that?” he asks, huffing when I titter and preen, because that’s like a freaking compliment to me. “Fine. I’ll give you the skinny on Achilles.”
“Would that be something along the lines of him and Alex having some sort of weird love-hate affair that’s had the guy practically green and crying in his soup? Because that, I already know. And I applaud her for it. Freaking tease.”
“Rosetta.”
“Fine! I won’t say mean things about him to you, but just so you know, I am always thinking them. All the time. Just yesterday, I sent him a package of Trojan’s ass offerings,” I confess.
I puked like six times, twice in my mouth, while collecting it, but it was worth it. Adonis told Cleo—who told me—that the idiot hurled all over his fancy suit because he shoved his hand into the packaging without checking it.
Rookie mistake.
“I was there. He ran at me when it happened. Thank God he’s a klutz and tripped over his own feet. Ended up slamming face-first into his palm, which precipitated another round of hurling. And then he passed out. I laughed the whole time that Ares was cleaning him up and trying to revive him. As funny as it is, though, I am asking you, babe, to please stop with the ‘gifts.’ Something is definitely going on with Chilli, and he’s not looking good.”
Part of me, like the healthy human part that cares about other people’s feelings, wants to let it all drop. But I really thought that I was in love with the man, and then, after months of leading me on, he turns around and tells me that he has the hots for my cousin. My own cousin.
Do you have any idea how that made me feel? I’ll tell you! Like hell. And ugly. For, like, less than a minute, because I may not be vain, but I’m not blind. I’m freaking hot, and that’s all there is to it. Blame Mom and Dad: they made me perfect.
In any case, not spiting Chilli is something that I don’t think my other half is capable of promising. Not that I want to hurt him or anything. At least, not much. I just really enjoy hearing him scream—and seeing him run. For a hot guy who’s built like a linebacker, Chilli Hart is as clumsy as hell, and seeing him run is like rolling the dice on his life. You just never know what’s going to happen.
“Rosetta!”
“Fine! Jeezus, Z, you’re like a broken record already. ‘Don’t send my brother any grenades,’” I drone in a low voice meant to mock him.
“You know that that was insane and wrong. Where the hell did you get that thing, anyway?”
“From an old client who owed me a favor. And don’t lecture me again—he removed that detonator thingy that would have made it go kaboom.”
“You didn’t know that!”
No, I didn’t, but then where would the fun have been in sending him a dud, knowing for sure that it was a dud?
“Are you done yelling at me? I’m having a hard day,” I whine, deciding that the sympathy card may as well make an appearance.
Unlike my sister and cousins, I don’t feel any shame for using people’s emotions against them. Sympathy sucks, but if I can use it to my advantage, I have absolutely no problem with ca
pitalizing on their weaknesses.
“What a crock. I bet you’re having the time of your life reorganizing your sock drawers or something like that.”
Shit. I really need to stop being so predictable.
“Rosetta, sweet thing, trust me, there is absolutely nothing predictable about you. You’re insane. That makes you a wild card!”
“That is an awesome name. Will you call me that?” I trill, images of Tom Cruise and that other guy from Top Gun flashing through my mind.
Maverick. I always liked that name, but when we do use nicknames, Cleo gets that one. People usually call me Ice, for obvious reasons, but I’ve been trying to replace it ever since I saw Val Kilmer in a new movie. Sheesh.
“Are you flirting with me? Oh, Wildcard, right there. Suck harder,” he groans, chuckling when I curse because day-um, that sounds really good.
And also because I am attracted to Zeus Hart, and it won’t serve me well to forget that fact. We shouldn’t even be friends, what with my vagina so pathetically needy that it’s practically going into convulsions at the sound of Z’s voice.
“Oh, shut up,” I grumble, practically glaring at my hand because, in its mind, this is phone sex, and it wants to start doing things it shouldn’t.
“Oh, Wildcard, you taste like—”
“I said shut up, Thunderbutt! That’s not funny. I have standards,” I hiss, getting super uncomfortable because apparently, my vagina isn’t that picky.
It wants that voice whispering all kinds of dirty things to me while he licks and sucks and—I need to get laid, I think frantically, when another bolt of desire throbs through my clit. Tonight. I’ll go as Z’s date, check out the market, and then get myself a quick doodle to take the edge off. Easy.
I do not like-like Zeus Hart, and I do not want to kiss his very full bottom lip and suck on it until it’s all I can taste, and I do not—absolutely do not—want to finally try that whole sixty-nine thing with him. Even if I can practically see it in my mind’s eye.
It’s not happening, Vagina! Do you hear me? We’ve been over this a million times when men have suggested it in the past. I told you, the mechanics are all wrong. My asshole would be too close to his—
“What the hell are you muttering about now?” Z cuts in, ripping me away from an internal lecture about the nose and anal bacteria.
It’s a lecture that I sorely need right now because, as much as I tell myself that I will not ever think about hot, nasty, totally illegal sex with Zeus Hart, my obsessive mind is now latched on, and oh Lord, the sick things that it’s making me want to do with…this Hart…
He’s a Hart. Don’t forget that!
“I promise not to hit anyone, but you’ll freaking owe me,” I say, the lie tripping off my tongue as easily as when Dad makes me compliment Mom’s food.
I will hit someone if they deserve it. Right now, for example, I’m thinking about ramming my head through the wall. See? I give myself equal opportunity in the Rosetta stakes.
“You’re coming with me. Go shave your armpits and put on something nice. Oh, and if you’re feeling really charitable towards me, you’ll wear that hot pink dress that you tried to wear to Thanksgiving,” he purrs, chuckling when I curse him.
“You go shave your nuts. Oh, wait, where would you carry them when your vagina’s so big?” I yell, ending the call with a satisfied cackle when his bark of disgust gets drowned out by the silence of a dropped call.
He’s not for you, Rosetta, I remind myself as I keep chuckling, sniff one of my armpits, and rear back, deciding that he’s right. I do need to shave my pits. Which means that I definitely won’t. I have to put obstacles in place here, and nothing will put me off sex with Zeus Hart more than the fact that I’ll have a bush of orange fuzz to display if he gets me horizontal.
I’ll just have to remember not to lift my arms while wearing that sleeveless pink sheath.
Dammit.
Chapter Five
Zeus
Everything is going off without a hitch, and with Adonis finally accepting the fact that the favor he owed me is more about making Rosetta happy than getting us all killed, it’s all going according to plan. Admittedly, I did not foresee Donald just firing her the way he did, but, as Ares told me when I stormed into the offices this afternoon, ready to kill and feeling as guilty as hell about my hand in it, as inadvertent as it was, Donald was just searching for a reason.
To fire my woman and hurt her feelings, I think, the anger returning so fiercely that I have to take a deep breath before exiting my car and walking into her building. The doorman there notices me but doesn’t so much as move to separate his ass from the chair behind the counter, and I make a mental note to do something about that.
My girl can’t live in a building where the security is half-asleep or stoned to the gills. Not when I’ve been thinking lately that the whole Cameron Black thing just doesn’t make sense.
Sure, the guy kidnapped Cleo and tried to kill her, which neatly seals up the whole deal with the stalking issues we had, and the risk factors we were all thinking about concerning our women. But here’s the thing: I don’t believe in coincidences, and I most definitely do not believe that the person stalking Cleo—or Adonis, or hell, whomever it is the stalker was after—was Cameron Black.
It’s just too coincidental that the man got a date with Cleo on the very night that Rosetta cut her hand on a glass at that charity event. It’s even more coincidental that Cleo went in search of a vending machine at the hospital, then went to the bathroom and was all alone for him to snatch, drug, shove in his car, and take off with.
Too easy, my mind tells me, as it sorts through the data that I have of the stalker. Stepping into the elevator, I let the facts fill my head and pick through them as methodically as I pick through contracts and legalese in my position as chief counsel at Hart Inc.
What I know about Cleo’s stalker is that the guy is methodical and smart, and that he calculated every move before making it. Taking out security cameras and erasing footage aren’t easy things to do. Even harder would have been getting into Adonis’s apartment while he was there with Cleo.
My brother may be vain, uptight, and a fucking pain in the ass with his control issues, but it’s those very traits that make him so anal about security. Whoever got into his place wasn’t sloppy, and that makes Cameron Black a non-contender to me.
Which brings me right back to the point at hand, I think, as I step off the elevator and make my way to Rosetta’s door. He’s still out there. Still free, and probably watching. That means that we all still need to be on high alert, though you’d never know it from the way that the Sweet girls keep on just living their lives. The only one of them who even knows, and who accepts the security that Adonis has on them all, is Cleo.
But that’s really only because she loves her security guys and would “get lonely” if they weren’t there every day to keep her company. I’d bet one of my balls that if Rosetta ever finds out that I have an ex-Marine installed in the apartment next door to hers, she’ll try to kill me.
Ahhh, foreplay.
“Don’t say anything,” I hear, as I raise a hand to knock and the door flies open. “This was the only dress I own that was recently dry-cleaned. I wore it because I like being clean, not because you told me to. And don’t get any freaking ideas about this date, Zeus. We’re just barely friends,” Rosetta snarls, looking so damn cute that I have to bite a hole in my cheek to stop from grabbing her up into a kiss.
Hell, what is it about this woman? I ask myself, taking in the way she’s got her arms welded to her sides, the flush along her cheeks, and the barely discernable discomfort that she’s trying to hide. Not that she’s doing a bad job of it, because if there’s one thing about Rosetta Sweet that you can bet on, it’s that she’s determined.
I love that indomitable spirit of hers and the way that she never bows to anyone. Even me.
“We’re best friends.”
“I wouldn’t say best. Not in front
of Sin or Alex,” she mumbles, her lips twitching. “But I guess that we are sort of, kind of, friends,” she agrees, stepping out and closing the door behind her.
“’Sort of, kind of’ aren’t exactly the words I’d use to describe our relationship, Rosie. We have midnight talks and share our problems,” I point out, laying a hand at the small of her back as I guide her towards the elevator.
Hearing a door open behind us, I take a second to glance back and nod to Heath, the Marine who not only guards my baby, but also spends countless hours watching the building’s security footage for possible suspects.
“You have problems, Z—deep-seated and possibly certifiable ones. I, on the other hand, have ‘life hiccups’ that I resolve by being an awesome person of near-superhero proportions,” she sniffs, smiling when I grunt and nudge her into the elevator.
I take heart in the fact that the sharp-minded woman doesn’t reject the word ‘relationship,’ and feel a near-pathetic joy at the small victory, reminding myself that nothing worth having is ever easy. She’s a challenge, and one that I am particularly enjoying, I think, leaning back against the wall to take her in. She’s decked out in a simple, floor-length pink sheath that cups her breasts and falls to the floor in soft waves.
Rosetta looks innocent and spectacular, and the fact that she isn’t wearing any jewelry except for a pair of diamond-encrusted hoops totally does it for me in a way that has my dick going semi-hard behind my fly. Her neck is completely bare, and, from the lack of any overpowering scent, I assume that I could lick that alabaster, swanlike expanse without getting a mouthful of perfume.
She’s also completely smooth, all the way down from her neck to the luscious swell of her breasts, with not one freckle marring her creamy skin, though God knows that I’ve indulged in more than one fantasy of mapping every cinnamon freckle on her, if she has any. God, I hope she does. I want to lick and suck and nip at her flesh and memorize every mark on her, along with the ones that I intend to leave on her later. It sounds pathetic, but for the first time in my life, I have the insane need to leave a hickey on a woman, and that woman is standing in front of me, glaring at me as I blatantly check her out.