Dirty Sexy Saint (Dirty Sexy #1)

by Carly Phillips

  So for now, she took things one day at a time. And right now, it was all about delivering her latest tasty treat to Clay for him to sample, which was one of her favorite parts of the afternoon. He’d take a break from whatever work he was doing, and while he indulged in a few of her confections, they’d talk about inconsequential things and hang out for a while. No matter how much she desired a deeper conversation and connection, he was keeping her at a distance.

  So today, it was time for her to talk to him about her plans for a job that would help her achieve her dreams, and the fact that it was time for her to find a new place to live. She couldn’t deny she was excited about reaching for her dreams, but she was equally nervous about how he’d react when she mentioned moving out. Her heart wanted him to rebel against the notion and ask her to stay, but her head warned her against getting her hopes up. This was Clay, the man who was still emotionally shut down, and in all likelihood he’d let her go as planned.

  Her stomach churned with nerves as she picked up the plate of cookies and headed downstairs. So far, she hadn’t baked the same thing twice, and any leftovers she had, she put in the break room for the employees to try each night. The treats were usually gone within the hour, and everyone wanted more, which she took as a good sign for her future.

  Usually, she found Clay in his office, but today he was behind the bar. There were a few racks of various glasses on the counter, and he was writing something down on a notepad. It amazed her how much time and work he put into Kincaid’s, but she supposed for him it was a labor of love. Sort of how she felt about the idea of becoming a pastry chef.

  Hearing her approach, he glanced up at her and smiled. And yes, her heart literally fluttered in her chest. He was so damned hot and sexy, his T-shirt stretching across his broad chest and toned torso. She’d enjoy him better out of the shirt and naked, but for now, she behaved, knowing they had to talk first.

  “What are you doing behind the bar?” she asked curiously as she set the plate on the counter.

  “Doing a quick check and reorder on the glasses. I do it every few months since they break and I always want to be sure we’re well stocked.” Setting down his note pad and pen, he came around to her side and eyed the treats on the tray. “What do you have for me today?”

  She settled onto a barstool and watched him pick up one of the pastries and look at it with interest. “This is a caramel fleur de sel French macaron.”

  Clay rolled his eyes, which was what he did whenever she used what he considered a fancy name. “Layman’s term, please.”

  She shook her head and grinned. “In words that you can understand, it’s two sweet, meringue-based cookies that are light and chewy, with a whipped caramel cream sandwiched in the center.”

  “Meringue?” he repeated, raising a brow. “There you go again, using those big words.”

  “Just try the damn thing,” she said, laughing and enjoying the light banter between them, which had become their norm.

  Grinning back at her, he took a bite and chewed, then groaned in appreciation. She loved that sound—it was the same sound he made when he was buried deep inside of her, an open expression of pleasure, and it made her happy to be the one to provide that gratification, in whatever form.

  “Every day you bake something new. And every day I swear it’s my favorite dessert,” he said in amusement. “But this macaron thing is like a little bit of heaven in my mouth.”

  He slipped a hand around the nape of her neck and tipped her head up toward his. “After you, of course,” he murmured, eyes twinkling wickedly as he sealed his lips against hers and kissed her. Slowly. Leisurely. Thoroughly.

  She shivered as his mouth moved over hers seductively, and his tongue tangled lazily with hers until she was breathless and aroused and on the verge of ripping his clothes off and having her way with him right here and now.

  But she’d come down today with a purpose, and she needed to follow through on her plan. With a hand pressed to his chest, she gently pushed him back and met his dark, heated gaze that was so very hard to resist.

  “I need to talk to you,” she said with determination, and wasn’t surprised when his entire body language shifted.

  He visibly tensed and stepped back, the word “talk” obviously making him wary.

  “Talking is overrated,” he said in a surprisingly light tone. “Wouldn’t you rather go upstairs and have me use my mouth for other things?” he asked in a teasing, sensual tone that contradicted the guarded look in his eyes.

  “How about after we talk?” She bit down on her lower lip, knowing she couldn’t let him deter her. “It’s about something that’s important to me,” she added softly.

  That last part seemingly made all the difference to him, because he gave her a nod and sat down on the chair next to hers so they were facing one another. “What’s up?”

  “First of all, thank you for letting me use your laptop the last couple of days,” she said, wanting to ease into the conversation.

  He frowned, obviously not expecting such a casual comment. “Of course. I have my desktop in my office that I use, so it’s not a problem. But that can’t be what’s so urgent.”

  “No.” She folded her hands in her lap to keep them from fidgeting. “I’ve spent the past week doing a lot of thinking and considering all my options. How do I move forward as a pastry chef? How does someone without experience get a job? And where? And what kind of work environment am I looking for? And I realized that I don’t want to work in a restaurant. What I’d like to do is work for a French bakery.”

  The decision wasn’t one she’d come to lightly. She’d really weighed all her options, considering not just the realities but the emotions involved. This was the first time in her life she’d be making her own decision, and she wanted to get it right. And she liked the creativity that came with making tarts and pies and specialty desserts, instead of baking and decorating just cakes.

  “I can see you doing that,” he said, smiling in support. “Most of things you’ve made the past two weeks have been French pastries, right?”

  She nodded.

  “I especially liked that pastry thing you made the other day with the flaky layers of thin crust and vanilla custard,” he said.

  “The mille-feuille,” she replied, knowing exactly what dessert he was referring to.

  “Yeah, that one,” he said with another teasing eye roll. “Mason went into the break room that night—God only knows for what—and had some of it, too. After eating a slice, he told me that he was going to marry you just so he could keep you barefoot and in the kitchen making him nothing but pastries and pies.”

  She laughed out loud, because she could easily see Mason saying something outrageous like that. Over the past two weeks, Clay’s middle sibling had made it his mission to flirt with her, and she was pretty sure he only did it to annoy his brother. There was no attraction between the two of them, and she knew Mason’s personality well enough by now to know he took great pleasure in yanking Clay’s chain.

  “What did you say to that?” she asked curiously.

  “I told him over my fucking dead body,” he said without cracking a smile.

  The possessive tone of Clay’s voice made her insides quiver. That was yet another thing she’d noticed lately—that Clay was protective and territorial when it came to other men sniffing around her, even his joking brother. Clay was all alpha when it came to her, and she liked it. A lot.

  It was ironic that she was so desperate to break free from her parents’ hold and become independent, yet she didn’t mind when Clay exerted his authority and possessiveness over her. It made her feel warm and mushy inside…wanted…and in a strange way, loved. She shook her head and cleared that thought out of her mind. She liked Clay’s control in the bedroom and he liked to exert it. End of story, for him, anyway.

  “So, about the French bakery,” she continued, getting the conversation back on track. “I contacted someone my mother has hired a few times to make pastri
es and desserts for various parties at the house. The woman’s name is Adeline, and she owns her own French bakery and catering business in downtown Chicago. I did some research on her business and read reviews on the bakery and catering, all of which were nearly five-star ratings. She has a phenomenal reputation, so I gathered up the nerve and gave her a call.”

  The slightest of frowns gathered between his brows as he rested his forearm on the counter of the bar. “I had no idea you were looking around for a new job.”

  He sounded surprised, but whatever else he was feeling, he hid it well.

  “I really didn’t want to say anything until I knew something was more concrete. For all I knew, I’d hit a dead end. Anyway, when I called, Adeline remembered who I was”—admittedly, she recognized the Jamieson name first—“and she wants to interview me next week for a position as a baker.”

  “That’s great,” he said, and smiled, genuine happiness for her glimmering in his gaze. “It’s exactly what you want, though I have to admit, I’ll hate losing such a good cocktail waitress,” he said with a wink.

  Still, she could tell he was pleased she was following her dreams.

  “There’s something else I need to tell you.” Twisting her hands in her lap, she suddenly realized just how difficult this second part of the talk was going to be. Almost as hard as actually following through on her words.

  She swallowed hard and pushed the words past her throat. “I’m going to start looking around for a place of my own. I’ve taken advantage of your generosity longer than I should have, and though you’ve been great, it’s really past time.”

  A moment of shock flashed across his features, giving her hope he’d argue against it, but then he quickly schooled his expression into one she could no longer read. “It’s not a problem having you stay upstairs,” he said, a gruff edge to his voice. “But are you at the point where you can afford a place on your own?”

  She heard his doubt, which she understood. He was only thinking about her hourly pay and tips, and even though she had three weeks of savings, it wasn’t nearly enough for a first and last month’s rent to secure an apartment and still have money left over for living expenses.

  “Actually, yes, I can afford my own place.” She exhaled a deep breath and told him what she’d done. “I pawned my watch and necklace, so I have more than enough for rent and other necessities, as long as I budget carefully.” Budgeting was a new concept for her, but she didn’t mind if it meant being independent.

  He stared at her, the hand on the bar curling into a fist, and she could tell that another round of shock had just hit him and he was trying to process her admission.

  “You’ve been very busy,” he finally said, his tone flat.

  “I need to start thinking about my future,” she said, her throat suddenly thick with too much emotion. “I can’t stay here forever.”

  Their gazes locked, and she wanted him to respond with yes, you can so badly her heart ached. And she would stay with him if he asked, but that had never been, and probably never would be, an option. Not with a man like Clay, who believed he was meant to be alone. That his ugly past made him unworthy of loving and being loved.

  That couldn’t be further from the truth. There were so many things to love about Clay. His kindness and the way he took care of everyone around him. He was a decent and generous and selfless human being. He was a man who wouldn’t hesitate to slay dragons for the woman lucky enough to stand by his side.

  Samantha wished she could be that woman.

  The back door to the bar opened and closed, intruding on the emotional moment between them and putting an end to their conversation.

  Clay exhaled a harsh breath and ran his hand through his hair. “That must be the beer delivery I’m expecting,” he said. He moved off the stool and, without a backward glance, headed toward the storeroom.

  With an awful pain in her chest, she watched Clay walk away, already feeling him pulling back and retreating from her. And that hurt most of all.

  Clay was halfway across the room when a man appeared from the back hallway, and he definitely wasn’t dressed like one of the uniformed delivery guys Clay was expecting. The stranger strode into the bar, his gait deliberately slow as he surveyed the area with great interest, his posture slouched in a way that made Samantha’s skin crawl. He reminded her more of a gangster or drug addict looking for his next fix than a patron or truck driver.

  Clay caught sight of him and came to an abrupt stop, his body stiffening, the muscles in his shoulders and arms bunched tight, as if bracing for a fight. Sudden tension filled the bar and slithered through Samantha, and a surge of fear raced through her, though she couldn’t say why.

  “Well, well, well,” the man with the dark, slicked-back hair drawled with unmistakable arrogance. “If it isn’t Clay Kincaid, all grown up with a bar of his very own.”

  “Get the fuck out of here,” Clay said in a low growl so vicious and mean Samantha couldn’t believe it had come from the man she knew.

  Her panic now justified, Samantha curled her hands round the edge of the bar, the hair on her arms standing on end. She’d never seen or heard this side of Clay before, and it frightened her beyond reason. She wasn’t scared of him, she was scared for him, she thought, watching the scene play out in front of her.

  The light in the hallway illuminated the other man’s ugly features, and there was absolutely nothing redeeming about his scary, intimidating expression. Greasy hair fell around his face, his nose was crooked, and a long, thick scar started at the corner of his left eye and ended just below his cheekbone. And when he gave Clay a malicious smile, she could see that he was missing teeth, and the ones he did have were dark in color, decaying disgustingly.

  Terror kept Samantha frozen on her seat, her insides quaking with fear.

  The scary man ran his index finger along that awful-looking scar. “Is that any way to greet an old friend?”

  “Get out now!” Clay roared, his entire body vibrating with barely suppressed rage.

  The other guy had balls of steel, because he didn’t so much as flinch. “Not until we have a little chat.”

  His seedy gaze deliberately slid past Clay and focused on her. He blatantly leered and licked his lips, and Samantha’s stomach roiled in disgust.

  “Nice piece of ass you got over there,” the man taunted.

  Lightning fast, Clay’s hands shot out, shoving so hard against the guy’s shoulder the man grunted and stumbled backward, nearly falling on his ass. He caught himself just in time and straightened. Clay stepped toward him to do more damage, but the other man drew a switchblade, and Clay stopped short.

  “You always were a stupid little fuck,” the man spat viciously, his eyes narrowed to slits. “Touch me again and I won’t hesitate to gut you, just as I should have done all those years ago. And your whore over there can watch you bleed out.”

  Samantha sucked in a breath, tears coming to her eyes, her throat full and burning. She’d never felt so helpless at the thought of anything happening to Clay.

  “Go upstairs, Samantha,” Clay ordered in a shockingly steady voice, though he never took his eyes off the knife-wielding man in front of him.

  Without hesitation, she jumped off the chair and did as she was told, hating that she was about to leave Clay alone with a man who was clearly an unstable monster.

  She had to walk past the standoff in order to head down the hallway to the stairs, and as she did, the nauseating scent of body order combined with whiskey and bad breath made her stomach lurch.

  Her eyes connected with the man’s, his gaze pitch-black, as if he had no soul. His smile was just as evil. “Don’t worry, I won’t stab lover boy unless he gives me a reason to,” he sneered at her as she rushed past.

  As soon as she reached the door heading up to the apartment, she wrenched it open, not trusting herself to glance back at Clay. Despite her legs feeling like Jell-O, she managed to run up the stairs, the tears she’d been holding back rushing for
ward, and she sobbed as she dug through her purse for her phone.

  With shaking hands, she called one of the very few people she’d put into her new contact list. Katrina.

  Samantha was a blubbering mess by the time the other woman answered her phone, much too cheerful when Samantha was falling apart. “Send Mason over to the bar immediately. There’s a man here who is threatening to kill Clay.”

  Then she disconnected the line and called the police.

  Chapter Twelve

  With Samantha gone and safe upstairs, Clay ignored the nausea churning in his stomach as he stared down his worst nightmare—the man who’d made his and his brothers’ childhood a living fucking hell. The vile piece of shit who’d kept their mother doped up on meth and pimped her out to any random stranger for cash and narcotics, until their mother was arrested and sent to prison for an eighteen-month sentence for drug possession and prostitution.

  That’s when the real horror had begun for Clay and his brothers.

  Wyatt Dawson was pure evil. A man without a conscience or morals, and that made him a dangerous son of a bitch. And he’d stopped by to talk, which Clay suspected meant he was here for one of two things: extortion or blackmail, because that’s how corrupt men like Wyatt operated.

  “You and I have nothing to talk about, asshole,” Clay said bitterly.

  “Oh, but I think we do.” Wyatt smiled insolently, but despite the man’s outward bravado, Clay caught a hint of desperation in his gaze. “I need some cash. Fifty grand, to be exact, and you’re going to provide it by the end of the week.”