Dangerous Exes (Liars, Inc. Book 2)

by Rachel Van Dyken

And I only felt slightly guilty about it, mainly because it was an invasion of privacy and I knew I’d clearly lost my mind if I was planning my day around driving her insane and making sure she knew I wasn’t going to back down.

  For one minute.

  I’d second-guessed myself.

  And then I’d stupidly turned on the TV to see news of my old charity’s annual holiday gala.

  And the anger returned tenfold.

  Had she never taken my ex on as a client, embarrassed the living hell out of her, and basically used entrapment—I wouldn’t be sitting on my couch upset over my life’s work getting stripped from me based on rumors and bad publicity.

  Blaire was in on it too.

  But for some reason I blamed Isla more.

  Isla had made me feel like she genuinely liked me. She made me think she was real, that our friendship was real, not just a way to get at me in order to expose something that wasn’t even true.

  A falsehood.

  She’d thrown our friendship, or whatever the hell it was, away for a paycheck.

  And I wasn’t sure I would ever forgive her for that.

  For giving me a taste of what it could be like. What it should be like.

  And ripping it the hell away.

  I checked my watch and smiled when her Lexus pulled up. “Right on time.”

  Part of me had to respect the rigorous schedule she kept, another part of me was horrified that there was another human being on the planet as punctual as me.

  The woman probably only had sex in one position and preferred the lights off.

  I scowled.

  Where had that errant thought come from?

  She jumped out of her car and grabbed a black duffel bag. Her leggings hugged every inch of skin like she was poured into them, and her bright-pink shirt only made me stare longer than necessary at the expansive cleavage getting pushed up by her pink-and-black-striped sports bra.

  Maybe this was a bad idea.

  Or the best idea I’d ever had?

  I snuck in behind her and winked at the receptionist I’d bribed, then casually strolled right into the hot yoga studio.

  The doors closed with finality behind me.

  I cringed.

  The last time I did yoga I couldn’t walk for weeks.

  But the receptionist had convinced me this was a beginners class, that I’d be just fine as long as I had no health issues. I almost felt the need to remind her who she was talking to but didn’t want to come across like a jackass.

  If I can stay in the NFL for eleven years as a star quarterback, pretty sure I can handle an hour of hot yoga.

  I eyed Isla, grabbed my mat, and then rolled it out right next to hers. “Hey, neighbor.”

  “Son of a bitch,” she hissed under her breath, knocking her water over in the process of trying to scurry away from me.

  I grinned at her horrified expression. “You miss me?”

  “Like I miss my braces and feathered bangs.”

  “You? Feathered bangs?” I reached out to touch her silky black hair, but my hand was slapped away with a burning sting.

  “Stop that.” She scooted to the edge of her mat and sat with her legs crossed. “You’re taking your creepy stalking to a whole other level if you’re following me to yoga class, you psycho.”

  “Psycho.” I rolled the word around in my mouth and grinned. “Kind of has a nice ring to it, also maybe next time you should say that while looking in the mirror since you’re the one who basically moved in with me.”

  “I did not move in with you.” Her cheeks flashed pink. “I merely saw an opportunity to drive you insane and took it.”

  “And yet here we are.” I spread my arms wide. “In yoga class.”

  “You gonna go to my gyno appointment with me Monday too?” she snapped, then regained her composure just as fast as she’d let the mask slip.

  Gotcha.

  I smirked. “It’s a dentist appointment, and though I’d love to watch you get your teeth cleaned and mouth tortured, I think I’ll take a hard pass, I hate the dentist, don’t even like walking into the office.”

  Her eyes widened in fear as she hissed, “How the hell did you get my schedule?”

  I just looked her body slowly up and down, then shrugged casually, as if to say I had to use different means, like my sexuality, to get it.

  It was a lie.

  I knew it.

  She knew it.

  And her blush, damn it, her blush was worth every lie I told.

  An instructor in nothing but a black sports bra and black yoga pants turned on some weird new-age music and smiled at the class, spreading her arms wide like she was gathering our souls to her bosom before sacrificing them on the sweaty altar of hot yoga. She started rocking back and forth from foot to foot like she was doing a mating dance, her braid swung with her.

  “What the hell is she doing?” I said under my breath.

  Isla was gaping at me. “Then how do you have such nice teeth?”

  “I think I’m lost.”

  “The dentist. You refuse to walk into the building.”

  “Does she always do that?” I pointed to the instructor.

  “I mean they’re really white.” She leaned in like she was seconds away from asking me to open up so she could inspect.

  The instructor inhaled deeply through her nose. “She seems really into this.”

  Isla elbowed me. “Are you ignoring me on purpose? And she’s getting rid of all the bad energy.”

  “Bad energy,” I repeated. “You’re kidding.” I panicked as I watched the students start mimicking her movements like there was literally bad air and energy in the room. They moved their arms and legs, and then shut their eyes. What. The. Hell. Finally my lust seemed to cool a bit, so I answered, “I have a friend who’s a dentist, he makes house calls.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Of course you do. And no, not kidding, this is yoga, we don’t really lift heavy things and expect someone to clap for us or pay us millions of dollars when we can throw a stupid ball.”

  “Twenty-eight million, actually,” I corrected with a wink. “A year.”

  She scowled and returned her attention to the instructor. “No wonder your dentist makes house visits, do you even grocery shop on your own?”

  “Isn’t that what Amazon is for?”

  “Unbelievable,” Isla said through clenched teeth. “You know what? This isn’t even about me anymore, is it? You’re just so bored and I’m the easiest target in a sick scheme to find some sort of meaning in your life outside of football!”

  “Bored?” I repeated, hating how it actually made me feel like less of a man when she pointed out one of the things I had struggled with until finding the charity. “Nah, just . . . angry. Very. Very. Angry. So. Fucking. Angry. That the one thing I had to hold on to was ripped out of my fingers by a bitter, selfish woman and her ignorance.”

  “So I’m ignorant?”

  “No.” I gritted my teeth.

  Her eyes flashed with hurt and anger.

  “No!” the instructor shouted in my direction. “We leave our anger at the door.”

  Isla leaned in, her eyes wild with rage. “She means literally.”

  “Go on,” the instructor said in a fake soothing voice. “Walk over to the door and just . . .” She rolled her shoulders back and forth as if my anger was weighing them down. “Leave”—she let her arms go limp—“all the anger.”

  “Just like that, huh?” I said in disbelief as I stood and walked over to the door, then made a dropping motion with my hands. “All gone.”

  “Don’t you feel better?” She smiled wide.

  No, actually, if anything, I just collected everyone else’s anger that they’d supposedly left at the door and carried it back with me to my mat, where a grinning Isla was waiting.

  “Yup,” I said quickly.

  “Good.” She rubbed her hands together. “Shall we get started, class?”

  I sat down on my mat while Isla laughed soft
ly next to me.

  I may have scooted as close as physically possible to her.

  She stopped laughing.

  And I stopped thinking altogether as the room filled with a sickening heat, and as beads of sweat started rolling down her toned arms.

  I just . . . watched.

  Appreciated.

  And then entered into actual hell when the instructor called out movements that I’d seen but never performed.

  “And back into cobra.” Sweat pooled from my arms to my fingers. “And hero pose!”

  I stole a glance at Isla, who was seamlessly moving her body into each pose like she was born in yoga pants chanting ooohhhm.

  My foot slipped.

  My face collided with the mat with a loud thunk.

  “You alright, big guy?” Isla smirked at me in her perfect pose, sweat slid down her cheeks and onto the mat. My eyes zeroed in on the moisture collecting on her lips. I licked mine instinctively, only to have her mimic me as her breathing picked up.

  I may want to destroy her.

  But I was still a guy.

  A guy who knew how damn tempting she was, especially when the next pose was called out and her ass went straight into the air.

  A sharp intake of breath had me nearly choking on my tongue as I tried to focus on making it through the next—holy shit, it had only been ten minutes.

  “And chaturanga.” The instructor moved to a plank position.

  That I could do.

  I let out a groan of pleasure as my muscles stretched and flexed, my shirt glued to my body. In frustration I tugged it over my head before going back into the pose.

  Isla scowled next to me. “Do you even eat fat? Cookies? Ice cream?”

  “What?” I grinned at the way she refused to look at any part of my body except my face. Hell, the woman wasn’t even blinking. “Of course I enjoy the finer things in life . . .” I lowered my voice. “Wine, chocolate, anything I can lick . . .”

  She gulped, her eyes fluttered to my ass before meeting my gaze again. “I prefer something I can sink my teeth into instead . . .”

  My cock hardened.

  She bit down on her lower lip.

  I swear I could almost feel those lips wrapped around me, sucking, toying.

  “Don’t put down a good licking, Isla,” I whispered. We both moved into different positions, our bodies completely in sync, as I tried to hide the situation under my thin joggers. “I mean biting’s good, but a good lingering lick? A deep pulsing lick . . .” Her body flinched as she shut her eyes and gave her head a shake. “Perfection.”

  “I’ll just take your word for it.” She looked away, completely shutting me down. I wasn’t used to being ignored, and I just realized something very vital.

  She may appear controlled.

  But the woman’s body burned for touch. It was in the way she eyed me, the way her body leaned in when her brain told her not to.

  So I touched.

  I ran the back of my fingertips across her thigh, and when we changed to yet another position, I grazed her ribs, lingering near her breasts only to pull away.

  “Pity,” I whispered.

  Her neck craned. “What’s a pity?”

  “That you’re taking my word for it.” I eyed her mouth one last time before turning my attention back to the instructor.

  I painfully ignored her the rest of the class.

  And was still in such dire straits that I knew if I stood up when class ended she’d see just how much I wanted to lick her dry.

  Isla didn’t move.

  People walked around us.

  She laid back against the mat while the instructor gave us a wink and closed the doors behind her. A clinking sound burst through the air like a bomb, a very loud, angry, sexually tormented bomb.

  “Those didn’t lock, did they?” I wondered out loud as Isla made a beeline to the doors and gave them a pull.

  Nothing.

  They didn’t budge.

  How the fuck was I supposed to stay in here without mauling her? Already my body was prepping, jumping with joy that we were alone.

  “When’s the next class?” I asked in desperation.

  Isla turned to me slowly. “One hour.”

  “One hour,” I repeated, voice hoarse.

  “Sixty minutes.” She nodded slowly.

  “Thirty-six hundred seconds.” I hung my head then grabbed a nearby towel and slowly ran it down my chest.

  Isla’s eyes bulged before she banged on the doors with both fists.

  Chapter Eleven

  ISLA

  “Hello!” I slammed my fists against the doors, then rattled them hard in the vain hope they’d magically open. “We’re stuck in here!”

  I was a woman crazed.

  Horny.

  Sweaty.

  And desperate.

  I could feel his testosterone pulsing to the rhythm of my estrogen, our hormones dancing around each other, flirting, lingering, toying.

  No!

  “Help!” I screamed again.

  And then a very hard male body was pressed up against me from behind, sliding his hands over my grip on the handles. He gave a tug, and my body jerked back against his.

  I sucked in a breath. Sweet. Crackers.

  Did yoga normally do it for guys?

  Send all the blood rushing to a giant . . .

  Huge.

  I gave my head a shake.

  No more adjectives.

  I needed out.

  Otherwise I was going to crumple beneath the temptation of a six-pack, blinding white smile, and triceps.

  Hot damn, those triceps.

  Enemy. Enemy. Enemy.

  Jessie gave the doors another shake. I was too lost in my lust to think to keep holding on to the handles, so I fell back against him.

  All of him.

  For a second time.

  A third would probably cause a spontaneous orgasm.

  That’s what men like Jessie did to a woman with a pulse. Too bad he had that nasty habit of wanting to destroy my life. I could almost get on board.

  “No luck,” Jessie said, still not moving.

  “Doesn’t look like it.” Great, and now I was breathless. “I guess we just wait.”

  “Yup.” He still didn’t move.

  The tension between our bodies was this swirling, thick, pulsing creature, and the more silent we were, the more it fed.

  It fed on our inability to flee.

  I was the first to move.

  And he was the first to grab my wrist and stop me. Slowly, he turned me around so that we were chest to chest. Skin to skin, sweat to sweat. Something very hard and ready pressed against me.

  “Isla—” He lowered his head.

  I met him halfway.

  And the doors magically opened with us in that exact position.

  Along with enough camera phones to put the paparazzi to shame.

  Chapter Twelve

  ISLA

  “What the hell were you thinking?” Blaire paced in front of me. “Never mind, you clearly weren’t thinking! We’ve had paparazzi outside the building since the news broke an hour ago—people are wondering if you guys were dating while we tried to prove his infidelity. You kissed! Isla, this is bad, I need you to know how bad this is!” Blaire dug into the licorice tub and pulled three ropes free, chomping each of them down before facing me again. “It hurts our credibility. He was the ex of a client!”

  “I know.” I held out my hands like I was trying to protect myself. “Let me just think, I can fix this. I know I can.” Everything was spiraling out of control, and my normally calm demeanor was shattered thanks to Jessie. Nothing was helping me regain my composure, not the pacing, not even the yoga breathing.

  Jessie chose that moment to stroll right into our office, freshly showered, scowl still in place. “Question, do you ruin people’s lives on purpose? Or is it just a happy accident?”

  “You!” Blaire pointed at Jessie like he was getting scolded in the princip
al’s office. “Sit.”

  Colin, her boyfriend, walked in moments later, smirked at both of us, and then kissed Blaire on the mouth. “Haven’t been so excited to watch the news in years. Hey, Jessie, maybe next time wear something other than joggers.”

  “Fuck.” Jessie hung his head in his hands while I tried not to laugh from hysteria.

  “And you”—Colin pointed at Isla—“with the headlights on, hell, a blind person could take a look at you two and know exactly what you were doing behind closed doors.”

  “Nothing happened,” Jessie said quickly.

  It stung a bit, that he’d so casually deny what was about to happen, what would have happened had the doors stayed closed ten seconds longer than they did.

  “Like I said”—I sent him a seething glare—“I can fix this, the company’s rep, our reps. It’s what I do. I fix marriages—”

  “Do you, though?” Jessie just had to add.

  I shot him a look that would have made a lesser man cower in the corner and suck his thumb. “Every problem has a solution, give me a few minutes to come up with something—anything.”

  “Fact.” Colin crossed his arms. “You girls could easily lose your company if the masses assume you were double dipping—dating the very guy you were supposed to be investigating. It doesn’t matter that it’s not true, what matters is it looks damning.”

  Blaire hung her head. “It’s what we were afraid would happen last year when all of this started.” Jessie’s wife at the time (our client) threatened to go to the media with text messages between Jessie and Blaire, even though she was flirting with him as part of the job. Our fear then was, again, the public perception. And we’d never had a client turn on us like that . . . then again, we’d never dealt with Satan before.

  “Idea, let’s just blame Vanessa?” Jessie joked.

  Just kidding, Satan was sitting across from me.

  “We need a story,” I finally said, my rusty mind working double time, mentally oiling the gears so it would work faster. “A believable story.”

  Blaire’s eyes narrowed. “Isla, the only story you have is the truth, and nobody’s going to believe it, not after seeing you and Jessie in a yoga studio looking ready to sex each other up. Not after pictures of you guys kissing at The Ivy and the news of Jessie donating his time at your aunt’s retirement home. Not after you decided to rent his guesthouse.”