by Meghan March
I stood and headed for the door of the break room. Time to meet my newest walk-in.
If I had to tattoo one more “YOLO” on some idiot kid, I might hang up my tattoo machine and call it a day. Thoughts like that made me feel older than thirty-one.
I scanned the shop, looking for my next client. If I hadn’t learned a hell of a long time ago how to lock down my reactions, I might’ve missed a step.
It was no kid.
And if she wanted YOLO tattooed on that body, it’d be a crime against nature. Anger flared within me at the sight of her. I might not remember the night we’d spent together, but I sure as hell remembered the morning after when I’d interrupted her escape from my bedroom. We’d thrown words like grenades, and it was a miracle we’d both walked away without bloodshed. Even with that memory vividly replaying in my head, I still had to tell my dick to calm the fuck down.
Vanessa Fucking Frost was still out of my league. Hell, out of my fucking universe. She’d been too good for me in high school, she’d been too good for me two years ago, and as sure as she was standing in my shop today, she was still too damn good for me. And I bet she’d be the first person to say it. I still couldn’t figure out how she’d ended up in my bed that night. Not because my bed didn’t see action with rich chicks—it saw plenty—but not like her. Classic elegance like Grace Kelly. Joy Leahy used to make me watch To Catch a Thief with her, and that’s exactly who Vanessa reminded me of.
Her platinum blond hair was twisted up into some fancy-ass bun, and her tan skirt suit clung to her curves in all the right places. One perfectly manicured hand toyed with the gold bracelet on her wrist. My jeans tightened uncomfortably at the peek of a lacy pink bra from beneath her pink silk blouse.
My reaction to her pissed me off.
Do you know what it’s like to finally get something you’ve always wanted, but not remember a single fucking detail?
It ate away at me. The not knowing. Part of me wanted to tell her to get the hell out of my shop, but the other part of me wanted to drag her upstairs, strip her naked, and tie her to my bed so this time she couldn’t leave until I was damn good and ready. Which might be never. And that thought—that weakness—infuriated me.
“Never thought I’d see you darken my doorway again. What can I do for you, princess?” A mocking edge colored my words.
Her nervous twirling of her bracelet halted, and her blue eyes, several shades lighter and more vibrant than my own, met mine. Her pink tongue darted out over her perfectly plump bottom lip slicked with gloss. This nervous, off-balance look of hers raised all my red flags. I was used to the quiet, sexy-as-all-hell confidence that had always drawn me in. At least until she’d opened her mouth that infamous morning and told me what she’d really thought of me.
“I need a few moments of your time.”
I raised an eyebrow. Now that was a new development. She’d never sought me out.
“Is that so?”
“Yes, if you could spare me five minutes.”
Some of her words from that morning, which I might as well have tattooed on my skin, came back to me: Do this again? Are you crazy? I must have been insane to do this the first time. This can never happen again. And no one can ever know. No one.
And now she wanted a favor?
“In this shop, the only way a woman gets my time is if she’s getting a tattoo, or is on her knees or her back.” I knew my answer was crude, but that was what she undoubtedly expected from me. And I hated to disappoint.
A flush of color hit her cheekbones, and I wondered for a brief second whether she was remembering what it had been like to be on her knees in front of me. Fuck. I wish I remembered. Then I could just fucking move on.
I waited for the clipped go to hell and an abrupt exit. But instead of turning and walking out, she surprised me.
“A tattoo it is, then.”
My eyebrows hit my hairline.
“Really? Of what?” The disbelief was evident in my tone.
She hesitated a moment before answering, “A fleur de lis.” She held up her fingers to indicate the size. “Right here.” She pointed to her hipbone.
“No shit?”
“No shit.” A grin tugged at the corner of my mouth when she echoed me, but I beat it back. She was here because she wanted something from me. Badly enough that she was willing to let me get her partially naked and under my tattoo machine to accomplish it.
Interesting.
“Then follow me, sweetheart.” I led her back to my room and pulled the door shut.
She moved to sit, but I stopped her. I wanted to see just how committed she was to whatever the hell had brought her here. “Drop your skirt first.”
Her head jerked up. Yeah, I figured that’d get your attention, princess. “Are you serious?”
“You expect me to give you a tat through your clothes? Even I’m not that good.”
Those vivid blue eyes turned to ice. “Fine. But you have to listen to what I have to say.”
“Fair enough. You lose the skirt, I’ll listen.” Didn’t mean she’d get what she came for, but I could at least listen if it got her clothes off. Jesus, I’m pathetic. Bargaining for her to get naked? With most other women, all I had to say was strip, and the clothes hit the floor right before the female in question hit her knees. I wasn’t vain, but even I knew that being six-four, covered in tats, and built like a brawler had an effect on the ladies.
I forced myself to turn away and grab my gear. The rest of the blood in my head went south with the delicate hiss of her zipper. Fractured images of her naked and bent over my bed, ass blushing red from where I hadn’t been able to stop myself from smacking it, rushed through me. I just didn’t know if they were memories or fantasies.
Fuck. I’d never be able to give her this tat with a hard-on the size of a goddamn redwood.
I glanced over my shoulder, unable to resist getting a look at what she’d uncovered. But the slice of skin exposed between her skirt and jacket wasn’t the nakedness I’d envisioned.
And the words that came next doused my libido.
“I need you to donate a piece of property you own, through your parents’ trust, to the L.R. Bennett Foundation.”
I crushed my fist closed around the alcohol prep pads to keep them from scattering to the floor. So that’s what brought her here. Should’ve figured. Think Bill Gates’ foundation, and then scale it back a few billion, and you had the L.R. Bennett Foundation. The top of the heap of New Orleans do-gooders. And founded and run by Vanessa’s mother’s people.
My anger, which had already been steadily bubbling since she’d walked through the door, rose hot and fast.
“You came here to ask me for money.” I needed to hear her say it again.
She shook her head, and not a single strand of hair moved from her perfect style. That perfection was like fuel to the fire.
“No, not money. Land. Your parents’ trust owns a piece of property next to several lots owned by the foundation. But there was some sort of legal mistake in our deed, and it says the foundation owns part of your lot as well. It’s never been an issue before, because all the buildings there are empty. But, as you might have heard, the foundation is launching a building project there for our new headquarters and a nonprofit incubator. The architect designed the plans assuming we owned all the property and not just part of it.” She stared at her clasped hands as she explained.
“If it’s a legal problem, then get a lawyer.”
Vanessa looked up at me. “I don’t have time to go through the proper channels. That would take months. I already have a demolition scheduled.”
“So make me an offer to buy it.”
She bit her lip. “I’ll blow my budget. Just like I’ll blow my budget if the architect has to redraw the plans.” Frustration tinged every word when she added, “Trust me, I wouldn’t be here asking for your help if I’d been able to come up with an alternative.”
At least she’s honest, I thought. “And you think
I’d help you out… why?”
She stiffened as though readying herself to deliver a rehearsed speech. Which probably wasn’t far off the mark.
“Because, despite your reputation, I think you actually care about the wellbeing of this community, and our building project is going to help propel New Orleans. Forget the headquarters part for a minute. The section of the building that extends onto your lot is going to be used to house new nonprofit organizations that are getting off the ground. We’re doing this to make a difference. Right now, you’ve got a run-down building that’s going to cost you money to rehab or demolish, and this is a chance for you to donate it, take the tax write-off, lose the headache, and, here’s the bonus, you’ll know you’ve helped your community.”
Gritting my teeth, I reeled in my temper, which was about to jump its chain. “You’ve got balls of steel coming in here to ask me this. And not just because I could easily sell it to a developer for six figures.”
She broke our stare to look at the ground for a beat. “It’s not like this is easy for me, Con.” She glanced back up at me. “I need this, or my entire project is screwed.”
“And this should make me want to help you because…?”
She pushed off the seat and stood. “This was pointless. I don’t know what I was thinking, coming here.”
I leaned back against the wall. “Then why did you?”
She slid her zipper up and straightened her suit jacket. Once again, she was prim and proper and too damn far out of my reach.
“This is my one shot to prove I’m capable of running the foundation. So basically, I’d do anything to make this project a success. Including throw myself on your mercy.”
She crossed the small room and laid a hand on the door. A perverse part of me didn’t want to see her walk away without some promise of seeing her again. I liked this dynamic—the one where she needed something from me and I had the upper hand. It was an unexpected gift I wasn’t about to throw away.
“Anything?” I asked.
She paused, slowly turning back toward me. Her expression was guarded.
What? Did she think I was going to demand she drop to her knees and suck my dick to get what she wanted? For a fleeting second, with that image firmly in my mind, I wondered if she would. No. I wouldn’t let her whore herself out for this, even if she were willing. And she better fucking not be. She was better than that, and surprisingly, so was I.
“You ever get your hands dirty in the projects that your little foundation funds? Or do you just sit up there in your ivory tower and write checks and let other people do everything you take credit for?”
Her shoulders visibly stiffened. “I do a lot more than sit in an ivory tower and write checks.”
“Prove it.”
“How?”
I grabbed a business card off my counter and scribbled an address on the back before I held it out to her.
“Be at this address tomorrow at three o’clock.” I looked at her suit and blouse. “And wear something you ain’t afraid to get dirty.”
She took the card by the edges, as though scared to handle something I’d touched.
“You think you can manage that, princess?”
She didn’t answer, just spun and shoved open the door, as if she couldn’t wait to get away from me.
I wondered if she’d show up tomorrow. My gut said she would. But I’d just have to wait and see.
Chapter 2
Vanessa
The words a deal with the devil came to mind as I sat in my car outside the deserted warehouse. I checked the address on the back of the Voodoo Ink business card for the fifth time. Surprisingly, Con’s handwriting was completely legible—almost artsy, even. Far better than my own. Which meant there was no mistaking the address. This was where I was supposed to be. No other cars were parked along the road, and I wondered if, in this neighborhood, my Mercedes would still be here when I came back out.
At this point, I was willing to sacrifice just about anything I owned if it would get me what I needed.
This project was my baby. My one shot at proving to the board and the outgoing executive director that I was capable of taking the reins when he retired at the end of the year.
As the last remaining descendant of the Bennett family, I should have been the presumptive choice for the position, but the board was increasingly skeptical that a thirty-year-old woman should take the helm. My great uncle, Archer Bennett, was the current executive director, and was also open to the idea of considering outside candidates for the position. His one concession to the fact that I was family: he’d given me a shot to prove myself by overseeing the fundraising, planning, and construction of the new headquarters.
If I couldn’t complete that project on schedule and on budget, I was as good as out of the running. It wouldn’t matter that this error on the deed was in no way my fault; it would only matter that I hadn’t caught it before the architect drew up the plans. In Archer Bennett’s eyes, shit didn’t roll downhill. Anything that went wrong on my watch was on me. I didn’t disagree with his outlook, but it also meant that if I didn’t get Con to donate the property, I was screwed.
God. When he’d asked if I’d do anything for this project, my entire body had frozen, as though waiting for his verdict. What would I have done if he’d told me he wanted a repeat of that night I still couldn’t get out of my head? It was easy to tell myself that it’d been a drunken mistake, but that didn’t stop the memories from coming back all too frequently. And dear Lord, did I remember.
Part of me wanted Con to throw down the challenge so I’d have an excuse to relive it. Because otherwise it would never happen. Even if my common sense didn’t stop me, my pride would keep me from going back. We were like oil and water. Although that night, to be cliché, we’d been like fire and gasoline. I still blushed at the things he’d done to me. The things I’d let him—no, begged him—to do. Forget blushing, my panties were in serious danger of needing a change when I thought about… I shook my head. I was clearly the only one remembering that night with any kind of longing, because from what I’d heard, Con needed a new bed frame to keep up with the notches he’d accumulated. Yesterday he’d had me in the perfect position to demand whatever he wanted from me. And he’d demanded… what exactly?
I stared at the warehouse again, and this time my imagination went wild. The possibilities were too ridiculous to even allow them space in my head. But seriously, I had no idea what I was walking into. Con had mentioned getting dirty. So I was probably going to be scrubbing floors or painting over graffiti. I was beyond embarrassed to admit I’d never done either.
The clock on my dash clicked over to three o’clock, and I climbed out of the car and locked it. Twenty-seven steps to the steel door. I knocked hesitantly and waited.
And waited.
Finally, a plate in the center slid open.
“What you want?”
Jesus H. Christ. It was like a speakeasy. Was there a password I was supposed to know?
Before I could gather my wits enough to say something, I heard a familiar voice. “It’s cool, Reggie. She’s with me.”
“You had your tail come here?”
“She ain’t tail; she’s here to help,” Con countered.
“Whatever, man. I’ll believe that when I see it.”
I was still processing their conversation about tail when the door creaked open to reveal a well-lit hallway with black and white checkered tile. And Con.
He lifted his chin in greeting.
“You came.”
“Did I have a choice?” I asked.
“You’ve always got a choice, princess.”
I glanced down at my jersey knit skirt and pink Fleurty Girl NOLA T-shirt. “Then it looks like I made mine.”
He examined my attire. “Don’t you own jeans?”
I looked pointedly at his basketball shorts. “I think even you can agree that it’s too damn hot to wear jeans this time of year. Besides, for all I know, I’ll b
e outside scrubbing sidewalks.”
“Fair enough.” He tossed a glance toward my car. “You probably want to park around back. That ride might not be here long, otherwise.”
I bit my lip. “Can you explain exactly where ‘around back’ is? Because I was lucky to even find this place.”
Con’s grim expression fell away, and he grinned. In that moment I was struck by how intensely gorgeous he was. Not that I wasn’t already keenly aware of that fact, but his smile brought it to the forefront of my mind. Unruly dark blond hair, dark blue eyes, over six feet of tattooed, muscled man. His jaw was covered in a few days’ worth of stubble, but that just made him even more ridiculously attractive. My panties were indeed a lost cause. “I’ll do you one better—I’ll show you.”
What the heck is he talking about? I’d completely checked out from the conversation we were having.
My eyebrows lifted as he plucked the keys from my limp fingers and strode toward my car.
“What are you are doing?”
“Showing you where to park. And since I don’t let chicks drive me around, you’re going to have to suck it up and get in the passenger seat.”
I followed him, my flip-flops making it easier to keep up than my normal pumps would have.
“Is that your version of asking for permission?” I felt like the token protest was necessary to preserve the rapidly deteriorating buffer zone between us.
Con stopped at the passenger door, opening it for me. The courtesy was surprising, but I didn’t get a chance to linger on it before he replied, “Honey, I’m not sure where you got the impression that I’m the kind of guy who asks for permission. I would’ve thought I’d made that clear two years ago.” He waited until I dragged my eyes up to meet his. “Or have you managed to block that night out?”
And the buffer zone just disintegrated completely.
My mouth went dry, and I tried frantically to come up with some sort of response. I didn’t think saying ‘no, I remember that night altogether too well for comfort, and those memories have given me more than a few dozen orgasms over the last two years’ was appropriate.