Dirty Scoundrel

by Jessica Clare

  If he wanted my attention, though, I’m sure Clay would say something. He’s not the type to let me slide. After all, he made me kiss him five minutes after getting into the car. I can only imagine what the rest of our time together is going to be like.

  And then I squeeze my thighs tightly together, because my imagination is going to some pretty torrid places.

  I’m almost relieved when the limo pulls into the parking lot of the mall, because that means that it’s a change of scenery. I’ll be able to get away from Clay for a brief time while I find a dress, and that’ll let me get back into the right headspace for this. When the limo parks, I grab my purse and look over at Clay. “I promise I won’t take long and I’ll bring back a receipt. Any particular color I should keep in mind? How formal is the event?”

  His brows furrow together as he gazes at me. “Just . . . fancy. I dunno.”

  Well, that’s no help. “All right, then. I’ll go conservative.” The driver is at my door, so I get out, squinting into the sunshine. It only takes me about two seconds to realize that Clay’s right behind me, though. “What are you doing?”

  Clay puts a hand to the small of my back, moving into step next to me. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m going in to get a dress,” I say pointedly. “At a women’s store.”

  “I know. I can go with you.” He glances around, as if making sure no car is going to run me over, and then continues to lead me forward in a rather protective sort of manner.

  “Uh, Clay, it’s a fat-lady store. Most men wouldn’t be seen dead in one of those.”

  He scowls at me. “You gonna keep talking shit about yourself? Because I’m gonna have to change the contract if you do. That ain’t allowed.”

  I stick my tongue out at him. “I’m just saying the truth. My butt can’t fit into a normal size anymore.”

  “Your butt is pretty tasty if you ask me, normal or not.” The hand on my back slides down to caress the curve of my ass.

  I yelp in surprise, stumbling forward on the sidewalk.

  Clay only chuckles.

  Face burning, I clutch my purse against my side and head into the mall. Clay moves back to my side again and I march through the shopping center, looking for the store I know will carry the size I need. I’ve always felt a little weird shopping in here in the past, but with a guy at my side? I feel really, really out of place.

  I pretend to ignore Clay as I head to the back of the store, looking for cocktail dresses. Everything’s spangled and looks like something my grandmother would wear, but I suppose they would fall under “demure.” I find one in my size and turn toward the attendant. “Can I have a fitting room?”

  “For that?” Clay drawls loudly, rubbing at his beard.

  I can feel my cheeks burn with humiliation. “What’s wrong with this dress?”

  He doesn’t answer me and instead turns to the sales clerk. “You got something with a bit more cleavage? And color?”

  She looks at me, then at Clay. Her nose wrinkles slightly at him, as if she’s disgusted that this big, bearded guy is in her store, asking for cleavage. And for some reason, that irritates me. What, she thinks she’s too good for Clay because he’s got messy hair and a beard (despite an expensive suit)? She’s selling old-lady dresses. “No, those are our only plus-size formal dresses. You might go to the Nordstrom at the end of the mall.”

  “This one’s fine, thank you.”

  Clay gives me a surprised look. “We can go to Nordstrom. That’s fancier than here, right?”

  “And probably more expensive,” I warn him. I haven’t shopped anywhere like that since my father started having money trouble. I’ve learned to be frugal. If we had time, I’d have preferred a secondhand store, or a thrift shop, if I could find one that carried clothes in my size, of course.

  He just rolls his eyes and takes the plain dress out of my hands and puts it back on the rack. “Let’s get you something that doesn’t look like my granny got buried in it.”

  And even though I should be offended, it takes everything I have to stifle my horrified giggle. “It’s hard to find plus-size stuff that’s sexy unless you shop online,” I admit to him as we leave the store.

  “That’s fuckin’ stupid. You’re just as pretty now as you were when you were smaller.”

  I glance up at him as we weave through the people in the mall. He’s got his hand on my back again, his stance protective and attentive at the same time, and he’s not looking over at me as he says it. It doesn’t sound like a line to him. It sounds like, well, he actually believes it. “I don’t know if you noticed,” I venture, “but I’m not the same size I was in high school.”

  “I noticed.”

  I can feel the shame creeping over me.

  “Like your tits a lot more now, though.”

  That . . . wasn’t the answer I was expecting to hear. But my pitiful, wounded self-esteem decides it has a little fight in it, after all. “Just my tits, huh?”

  He glances over at me, and his white teeth flash in a grin. “Already told you that your ass was amazin’. Or do I need to shout it to a few people?” He cups a hand to his mouth.

  Just as quickly, I grab his hand and haul it away. “Clay!”

  He chuckles at me, shaking his head. “So prim and proper. That hasn’t changed.”

  I guess not.

  Clay moves closer to me as we enter the far pricier department store. He looks just as out of place here as he did at the smaller boutique, but you wouldn’t know it by the way he carries himself. He doesn’t seem to care that he’s getting a few stares from sales staff, or that shoppers are discreetly moving away from him. I study him as he steps ahead of me when the aisle grows narrow. There’s no denying that Clay hasn’t exactly put much care into his appearance. While his suit is impressive, his hair has always been a bit too long and right now it curls and waves around his ears and neck. His beard is long and thick and hides most of his face. He looks . . . mismatched. But there’s no denying that he’s handsome. Underneath all that, he’s tanned, built, and moves with a lithe grace that I’m envious of. If we weren’t in this ridiculous deal, I’d still be crazy over him.

  It’s just that this deal changes everything, sadly.

  Clay flags down a passing saleswoman and gestures at me. “We need a dress for my girl. Somethin’ sexy.”

  “What’s your price range?” She asks immediately, all ears.

  “Don’t got one,” he tells her, and pulls out his wallet, offering a black credit card. “I want her to have somethin’ with cleavage.”

  She looks at me, then at the card, and a beaming smile crosses her face. “Won’t you both follow me?”

  I’m of half a mind to tell Clay that we shouldn’t shop here, either. That these people are giving him funny looks and I don’t like it. But Clay looks back and winks at me. “Gotta love it when they work on commission.”

  I lean in toward him. “I don’t like the way she was treating you—”

  His eyes sparkle with amusement. “Which is what makes her change of heart twice as amusin’, now.”

  I’m a little surprised by this. He knows he doesn’t fit in . . . and he just doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter to him what others think. I get a flashback of the boy I dated in high school, who didn’t care that everyone thought I was a snob. He was so secure in his own skin that he didn’t need the validation of others. Clay Price never did anything he didn’t want to.

  My heart gives a funny little squeeze at that.

  When we get to the dresses, there’s more than just one tiny rack situated in the back of the store. There are tons of racks of fancy, sparkly dresses, all of them beautiful and elegant—and twice as expensive as the last store. I know Clay has money, but I still feel a little anxious when I flip over the price tag on a pretty maroon sheath. Is all of this being carefully added to my tab?

  As if he can read my thoughts, Clay leans in, voice a bare whisper. “Anything over five hundred and the anal’s back on the ta
ble.”

  I give a startled choke of laughter and slap at his shoulder. “You’re terrible.”

  He just grins at me.

  “Now,” the saleswoman says. “You wanted cleavage, right?” She gestures at a rack of black and red dresses. “I think something like this will look fantastic, and it comes in a variety of sizes.”

  * * *

  A short time later, I step out of the fitting room in a tight black bodycon dress with spaghetti straps in place of sleeves, and a built in girdle. I have to admit that I look pretty damn good, even if I’m showing more skin than I normally do. I spin around in the mirror, checking everything, before I head out to the cash register.

  I can tell by the way Clay’s eyes gleam at the sight of me that it looks exactly like he wanted. I’m feeling pretty sexy, though, and I give my hair a little toss. “This meet your approval?”

  “Fuck yeah.” He looks me up and down again with a hungry gaze that makes me shiver. “If it was any better, I’d cancel dinner and tell Fred he’s on his own.”

  “Don’t do that,” I blurt out. I forgot that “sexy” means things move ahead that much faster.

  He just gives me a wink.

  “Oh, but you need shoes,” she coos at us. “There are the cutest Louboutins that would look perfect with that.”

  I’ll bet there are. They probably cost twice as much as my dress, though. Before I can protest, Clay nods. “We want ’em. Add it to the card.”

  And ten minutes later, I slip a spike-heeled pair of black, peep-toe Louboutins on my feet. When I stand up, I feel beautiful and powerful, like I’m the one in control. I can tell from Clay’s expression that he approves, and it just increases the heady sensation. He offers me his arm and I take it, and we leave the store—and the mall—like the world’s most conspicuous couple ever. When we get into the limo, I adjust my skirt, cross my feet at the ankles, and then glance over at him. “So when do you change?”

  “Hm?” He glances over at my face, then back down at my legs again.

  All right, even though I’m hating this contract, I’m not hating the fact that he’s so distracted at the sight of my legs. I feel prettier now than I have in years. Maybe ever. I slowly recross them just to watch his expression grow more intense. “Are we heading straight to dinner?”

  “Yup. We’ll be there soon.” He sounds distracted.

  I wonder if it’s impolite to ask if my date should brush his hair. Probably. My phone buzzes with an incoming text from Alice, and I pick it up, forgetting all about Clay. It’s a brief update on how dad is doing—she’s so thoughtful. She knows I’m nervous and is giving me updates every couple of hours just to keep me in the loop. Right now he’s napping and she’s letting me know what she has planned for his dinner. Even though I can’t be there, I’m beyond thrilled with how conscientious and attentive she is so far. I’m starting to relax about leaving my father alone with them. A little.

  But when the limo stops for a second time, we’re in front of a steakhouse. A . . . chain steakhouse. I look over at Clay in surprise as the driver gets out. “Are we making another temporary stop?”

  “Nah. This is where we’re having dinner.” He gives me another lazy, heart-stopping grin and I can’t decide if I want to kiss him or punch him in the face.

  “I’m wearing a cocktail dress for The Sizzlin’ Skillet? Are you serious?” I stare at him, aghast. “I thought you said this was a business dinner.”

  “It is. My buddy Fred’s meetin’ us there and we’re gonna talk business.”

  “I didn’t need a three-hundred-dollar dress and eight-hundred-dollar shoes for The Sizzlin’ Skillet!”

  “You did if I wanted you to have ’em.” The look in his eyes grows heated. “I wanted to look at you dressed up. And I felt like showin’ you off. So that’s what I’m gonna do.”

  I just gaze at him blankly. I can’t believe this. “It’s a huge waste of money.”

  Clay laughs. “Like I give a shit about that? I have money to burn for days.”

  “It’s wasteful.”

  “Not to me. Not when I get what I want.”

  Chapter Nine

  Natalie

  Dinner is . . . well, the nicest word I can think for it is “weird.”

  It’s not that it’s bad. The food is great, and when I order a salad, Clay makes a face and orders me a steak, just like everyone else at the table is having. The business partner, Fred, turns out to be an older gentleman in a cowboy hat and bolo tie, and with a wife as round as I am. She’s the happiest, giggliest person, and I spend most of dinner smiling because they’re just such a sweet couple to be around. I’m the only one dressed up, and even though a couple of people give me funny looks, after a while, I don’t notice it anymore.

  I’m quiet through dinner, listening as the two men discuss things like camouflage, hunting seasons, and then “responsive fibers.” From what it sounds like, Clay’s product is a camouflage that will respond to the environment, which seems pretty smart to me. I’m even more impressed when he begins discussing how to make it affordable for troops overseas. Fred wants to sell it to the military, but Clay isn’t having any of that. He wants it made cheap enough so that families can buy it for their sons serving overseas. He’s heard stories about soldiers having to have body armor sent to them and wants to do one better with the cheap camo. I’m impressed at his altruism, though I don’t point out that it’d be easier for him to just send body armor to the soldiers overseas if he wants to spend his money. There’s clearly enthusiasm for the project, and since I don’t know much about it—or the business—I just sip my glass of iced tea and listen politely.

  It’s also clear to me that Fred and his wife think that I’m Clay’s girlfriend instead of his paid assistant. I can see why they’d think that, given I’m dressed up in heels and a slinky dress . . . and because Clay keeps his hand on my knee or around my shoulders at all times. Actually, he pretty much insists on touching me in some way all through the evening. Not in a creepy, grabby sort of way. Just as if he needs to reassure himself that I’m there. Like I’m a touchstone of some kind. It’s interesting.

  I should hate it, but instead . . . it makes me feel like I did back when I was seventeen, and my world revolved around Clay Price and how good he made me feel. It’s completely different now, I remind myself. And yet . . .

  It doesn’t feel all that different. I’m bigger around and Clay’s grown a big bushy beard and gotten a tan, but . . . those things don’t matter, I guess. Not when it’s the same person underneath.

  Tonight, as he puts his hand on my knee and rubs it for what feels like the tenth time in a row, it does feel like the same person. It’s not the awful, brutal Clay of the past few days that’s made terrible deals and expected me to jump running. When he throws his head back and laughs, it makes me smile, and reminds me of the boy from high school, the one with the infectious smile that everyone returned. The boy who’d never met a stranger or made an enemy. I’d loved him so much.

  Right up until he’d wanted me to stay home and be his little wife. Or at least, I’d thought that was what he wanted. If it was anything like tonight, it’d be something that sounds terrible in theory, but the reality would be cozy dinners together, laughing among friends with Clay’s hand on my knee . . . and kisses like the one we’d shared in the limo.

  Somehow, I don’t think marrying Clay and being his “little wife” would have been so bad, after all.

  The thought makes me sad. Why was I so angry when my dad brought it up? Why had he made it sound so terrible? I should have talked to Clay more instead of lashing out at him. But I can’t go back and change the past, just like I can’t go back and prevent my dad from having his stroke and turning my life upside down. I can’t go back and tell my dad not to spend his fortune.

  I can’t go back and tell Clay Price that I would have loved to have been his wife.

  That ship has sailed and it left without me. All I get now is to be his paid mistress.

>   Clay

  Having Nat at my side’s like a dream. Being able to touch her whenever I want? Hearing her quiet laughter, seeing her pretty smile slowly cross her face. God. I wish I’d thought of this years ago. I don’t care that I had to buy Natalie to get her back. I love having her here. I feel complete. She’s mine now for as long as I want her. I glance down at my hand, but the R there—or was it an S?—has been completely rubbed away from washing my hands and then just the vagaries of the day.

  Maybe that’s a sign that I don’t need revenge.

  Nah.

  As the night wears on, though, Natalie grows quieter. She’s always been a bit shy in social situations. One on one, she’s as charming as anything, but put her in a room full of people, and she clams up. I’ve always known that about her and thought it was kinda cute—how the prettiest, most attractive girl I ever met gets tongue-tied around strangers. Doesn’t seem right to me. Tonight it’s just four of us—me and her, and Fred and his wife, Irma. Nat’s gracious and pleasant to them, but she listens a lot more than she talks, and as the night goes on, her smiles grow less and less frequent. She’s got a sad look in her eyes that makes me wonder what she’s worryin’ about.

  Probably her dad, I realize.

  The thought makes me burn with jealousy. I hate that she’s with me and even now, she’s focused on that old man. That even if I pay Natalie to be with me—really be with me—her thoughts still aren’t here. Even now, Chap Weston’s pushin’ in between us, like the destroyer that he is.

  It sours my mood, too. I keep up the act for Fred and Irma, though. They don’t need to know that I’m seething inside. Business talks wind up going nowhere, but that’s okay. I know Fred’ll work with me. Always knew that. Tonight was just to establish a bond between us and to show Natalie off a little. I’m proud of how sexy she is, even if I did have to buy her. That don’t matter to me.