by Kim Karr
“Keen,” Maggie says with a start, as if I caught her with her hand in the cookie jar.
And you know what? I think that is exactly what I did.
She shouts over the music, “This is Elliot Harding.”
Biting my tongue to stop from hissing at him, I extend a hand, and so does he. “Keen Masters.”
“Nice to meet you,” he says.
“He owns Elliot’s, a men’s denim shop a few storefronts down from Simon Warren on Melrose. He wanted to congratulate Jordan, so he decided to join us,” Maggie tells me with a quiver in her voice.
She’s nervous.
Good.
She should be.
This is a work event, for fuck’s sake.
Not an orgy.
“Ready to go?” I ask with a slight curtness to my tone I probably should watch.
She glances at her wrist. “It’s only nine.”
“Yeah, I’m aware of how late it is. And we need to stop at the distribution center before heading back to Laguna.”
Maggie’s feathers are easily ruffled. And right now is no different. “Why? That is really out of the way.”
The denim-clad douchebag, who is already standing a little too close to her, has the nerve to whisper something into her ear.
I’m right here, fucker. I can hear you asking her if she’s staying at her mother’s house.
And no, she isn’t.
She came to work with me.
She’s leaving with me.
I’m her fucking boss—well, technically not yet, since I haven’t officially accepted this job. But if I do, then I will be, asswipe, so don’t be hitting on my girl—my employee, I mean—in front of me.
With a shake of her head toward Elliot—Elliot, who has a name like that anyway?—she glances over at me as if she is waiting for my answer.
At least she answered him with a no because if it would have been a yes, I think I just might have thrown her over my shoulder and hauled her out of this club.
Wouldn’t have been the best way to end my first day of a new job.
I raise a brow. “Not that I need to explain myself, but I need a copy of the spring catalog.”
She wrinkles her nose as if annoyed. “Just ask Jordan to have it couriered to the store in the morning.”
Impatience bites me hard. “I want it tonight. Now let’s go.”
Okay, so I sound like a thirteen-year-old girl having a tantrum. And I fully acknowledge at this point that it is my feathers that are ruffled.
There’s a look of uncertainty on her face, but it seems to clear up when I narrow my eyes at her and with a turn of my head, indicate the door.
“Elliot, I have to go. I’m sorry,” she says.
“It’s fine, I get it—duty calls,” the chump says and leans in to kiss her.
Duty?
Duty!
Is he for real?
My blood is on fire as I watch his lips pucker and I feel like I’m viewing a really crappy slow-motion video, every second more torturous than the last. Then relief flushes through me because she turns her head and his lips land somewhere between her ear and the back of her hair.
Sucker.
To avoid gloating, I turn around and stride through the dance floor.
Once I hit the main level, I turn around to see if she followed.
Sure enough, she’s hot on my heels, but the look she’s giving me tells me she isn’t any too happy.
Good…neither am I.
18
SPEAK NOW
Maggie
Forty-two minutes of nothing but hard rock. That’s 2,520 seconds of deafening noise.
And not one single word spoken. I’m ready to pull my hair out…or maybe his, which would be a freaking shame considering how nearly perfect his is.
Finally, his Porsche 911 Turbo lets out a low cough as he decelerates in order to weave his way through the rows and rows of buildings in the Santa Monica Commerce Park.
Almost gleefully, I contain my chuckle because at night, you can’t read the signs on the doors and all the buildings look the same.
I think I’ll let him drive in circles for a while.
From out of nowhere, a dog runs in front of his car.
“Shit!” Keen nails the brakes hard and his arm goes flying across my chest.
The physical connection releases a coiled need deep between my thighs and I adamantly deny myself even a second of thinking about the pleasure that might unfurl if he touches me again.
Slamming the car in park, he gets out and looks around for the dog. It already ran off, though, and even with the dim glow of the overhead parking lights, the dog is nowhere to be seen.
Keen gets back in the car and shifts into drive. “You okay?” he asks, his voice sounding concerned and controlled at the same time.
“Yes, I’m fine. I didn’t take you for an animal lover.”
“I’m not,” he mutters under his breath, but I can tell he is—well, at least a dog lover.
“The building is over there.” I point for no other reason than I just want to get home and take these shoes off.
Really.
Just because I love dogs doesn’t mean he hit one of my soft spots or anything. In fact, the Metro Expo line opened this past spring and it is a straight line from Santa Monica to LA. I might just decide to stay at my mother’s after all.
Keen shoots forward and parallel-parks the car right between two trucks on his first try.
I’m so not impressed.
In fact, I’m rather bored.
Switching off the ignition, Keen gets out of the car. I kick my shoes off and take my phone from my purse.
Just as I click on the Candy Crush game, he opens my door. His eyes travel the length of my bare legs and land on my naked feet. “Aren’t you coming?” he huffs.
With my fingers moving in an attempt to match the three candy pieces, I don’t even look up. “I’ll wait in the car.”
All of a sudden his hard chest is reaching across my body and all I can smell is his delicious clean, fresh scent. Cartier. He’s wearing Cartier, the same cologne he wore that night, and it smells just as good. So much so that I consider the possibility of licking his neck, but then decide against it. I need to seal the new cracks in my armor very soon.
By the way, what is he doing?
When the engine starts, it becomes obvious. He’s probably worried I might suffocate in his car and disposing of my body would be a big inconvenience. Not to say the horrific impact my funeral costs might have on the bottom line.
“I won’t be long. Hit the lock button,” he commands, and then closes my door.
“Yes sir,” I murmur under my breath.
Now he can’t possibly hear me, but I swear he turns and gives me a look like he did.
Not really interested in the game after a few minutes, I go to tuck my phone back in my purse, but it slips from my hands.
Turning on the interior lights, I twist around and search the tiny backseat, which is loaded with the hottest spring and fall looks from Simon Warren. You might as well get the crash cart ready now because when I see Keen wearing these, I think I might just have a heart attack.
Carefully moving the garments so they don’t wrinkle, my hands land on something smooth and shiny. Running my palms over it, it feels an awful lot like a catalog.
No, it can’t be.
Yanking it out, sure enough in big, black bold letters the cover reads, “Simon Warren Fall Collection.”
Switching off the car, I take the keys and the catalog and get out.
That son of a bitch!
What the hell is he up to?
19
BAD BLOOD
Maggie
“A wolf in sheep’s clothing” is an idiom of biblical origin used to describe a person playing a role contrary to his or her real character, with whom contact is dangerous.
I know this because I Googled it this morning during one of the at least half dozen times Keen Masters walked a
way from me in mid-sentence.
The thing I realized is that he isn’t playing any role contrary to his real character. He is simply just a wolf.
An arrogant, cocky one at that.
The hallway is dark as I make my way down it, and then up the stairs. Moonlight from the windows on the top landing illuminates a path along the linoleum steps, which feel cool under my bare feet.
Yanking open the door, which leads to the workroom and Jordan’s office, I come face-to-face with Keen for the second time today.
Startled, I jump back.
He reaches to grab me and yanks me forward before the door slams in my face.
Irritated by his constant chivalry since it deeply contrasts with his arrogant attitude, I quickly thank him and then hold the catalog up for him to see. “Looking for this?”
He looks at me blankly. “Where did you find that?”
“In your car!” I shout, losing all cool.
With his hand sizzling against the bare flesh of my back, he reaches for the door with his other hand as if to leave. “Obviously I was unaware. Jordan must have put it in there when he loaded the car.”
Uh…wait one minute! I hold my hand up, palm facing out to stop him. “You’re lying. Admit it. Admit you knew it was there the whole time. Admit that you just wanted to get me away from Elliot. To make me leave the club for some twisted reason I can’t even begin to figure out.”
“I don’t lie,” Keen hisses.
“No, you just disappear!”
Resignation riddles his face. “I tried to explain myself more than once. I won’t do it again, Maggie. It wasn’t about you. But you can’t accept that, and I’m sorry that I can’t make you. Now let’s go.”
I have fire in my blood and there is no way I am letting him tell me one more goddamn thing to do. Brushing past him in my bare feet, I march down the hall in the opposite direction of the exit.
“Where are you going?” he asks incredulously.
The air around me crackles dangerously. “To the bathroom. You can just wait for me right there,” I order, or huff might be a better word.
This man…he infuriates me. Gets under my skin. And turns me on at the same time. How can that be? He disappeared on me. Left me. No one has done that to me before, not anyone that I cared about, anyway. Besides, he’s so bossy. And I do not take bossy well. I prefer to be the one giving the commands. I do not take orders—from anyone.
You know, the only-child thing.
No father.
They go hand-in-hand—somehow.
Once inside the ladies’ room, I flick the light on and force myself to take my time to let my beating heart settle. After washing my hands, I soak a paper towel with cold water and hop up on the counter, kicking my feet a little as I remember what he said. Maggie, I can’t make you.
It sounded so heartfelt.
So real.
I’m not heartless. I get that he went through something, but I don’t know if I can, or want to, forgive him.
I just don’t know.
Gah!
Thoughts of him confuse me, and for some reason it seems to be a million degrees in here. I can actually feel myself starting to sweat.
Someone must have turned the heat up before leaving and forgot to turn it down. I draw my hair over one shoulder and hold the towel to the nape of my neck to cool myself down. Rivulets trickle down my bare back, and I ignore the memory of when it was his fingers there and not the drops of water.
When too much time has passed, I hop down, and after tossing the wet paper towel away, I pull on the door and flick the light off.
The hallway is dark, with the emergency lights the only source of illumination. I can’t remember if the lights were on or off before I went into the bathroom.
My hands go to my hips and I can feel my scowl forming. “Keen,” I call.
No answer.
There doesn’t appear to be anyone at the end of the hallway. He didn’t stay where I told him to stay.
Did Keen leave me here?
If he did, so help me God—
Just as I pass Jordan’s office, the door opens and a hand clamps around my waist. And then in a split second, I’m spun face-first against the wall.
Fear bombards me, but not because I am afraid for my physical safety. No, I’m afraid for my emotional safety.
A callused palm clamps ever so lightly over my mouth. “I’m sorry, Maggie.”
My mind fills with images of his hands moving up and down my body. Images of his hands holding cards. Images of his hands holding my arms over my head. So many images that I can’t stop them.
Keen Masters.
Still, out of sheer pissed-off anger, I brace the wall with my hands and push back…into an iron-hard body. “I told you, I don’t want this.”
“I didn’t lie,” he softly whispers into my ear. Freeing my mouth, his warm breath cascades down my neck. “But to be honest, I knew there was a possibility that it was there; I just chose not to look.”
I inhale sharply. The air rushing through my nose carries with it the familiar scent of Cartier, and I can’t stop my knees from going weak. “Then why did you insist we leave?”
He presses his face into my hair, breathing hard, but says nothing.
Those pesky little butterfly wings feel like they’ve multiplied and are trying really hard to get free. Turning around, my hands land on his strong shoulders, and his big hands easily slide to my hips. “Why did you make me leave the club, Keen?”
Remorse blazes in his eyes. “I couldn’t stand to see you with another guy.”
My heart slams against my ribs like a bird in a cage, and no matter how hard I try to control my rapidly increasing breathing, I am completely unable to. I slide my hands down the bulge of his forearms to place them over his hands on my hips. “Why?” I ask, my voice soft, but knowing. Knowing that this push-and-pull between us is a sea of sexual tension that won’t end. Knowing that despite my vow to not let him in my bed again, I will. Knowing that I’m going to let him fuck me, right here, right now.
His voice is thick with tension. “You know why.”
With our eyes locked, our bodies touching, and the heat around us blazing like an inferno, I don’t feel like I have to hold anything back. “Because you were jealous.”
His nod is slow. “That, and because I want you. I haven’t stopped wanting you since I had you, Maggie.”
Maggie. Maggie. Maggie. My name on his lips is a sound I revel in, and I give myself up to him. “I want you too, Keen,” I whisper, “but I can’t—”
Before I can finish telling him I can’t go through what happened before again, he crushes his mouth over mine, swallowing my gasp of excitement. His lips are soft but the kiss is hard, punishing, brutal.
A silent demand for me to open my mouth, which I do.
A silent demand that I meet his tongue thrust for thrust, which I do.
A silent demand that I surrender, which I also do.
There is no way I can’t.
And just like that, all the bricks of anger I spent the past months stacking come tumbling down.
I’m too overwhelmed to stop it from happening. Overwhelmed by his scent, the heat of his skin, and the taste of him, hot and sharp…just like I remember, and at the same time so much more.
More intense.
More passionate.
More sensual.
Gripping the back of my neck with one hand, he slides his other hand down my stomach. His slide so much softer than his grip.
Hard and soft.
He’s hard and soft.
Nipping at my lip, tasting me, devouring me, he eases his hand from my stomach down to my hip and then wraps it around my bare thigh. “Tell me you want this.”
With a shudder, I kiss him back harder, wondering if I might draw blood, and this time hoping I do. Hoping I can mark him in some small way. All the while I kiss him, I cling to him like I’ve never clung to a man before. “I want this.”
His gr
owl does funny things to my stomach and when he tugs my thigh up so he can press himself deeper between my legs, my skirt rides up, revealing my skimpy lace thong.
For a moment he freezes, and I start to worry he’s going to end this, but then he crushes me harder against the wall, grinding his erection into me.
Oh, God.
My belly squeezes and then, as if the butterflies have freed themselves, a ripple of arousal shoots through my entire body from head to toe.
His lips start moving again and although I wouldn’t have thought it was possible, they grow even more demanding.
I don’t think I’ve ever been this turned on from just kissing.
Ever.
We are both panting when he pulls back and whirls me around.
Facing the wall, I whirl back to look at him and grab his face, yanking him to my mouth for an earth-shaking kiss.
His fingertips slowly skim the silk of my top, stopping to thumb my nipple. The moan that escapes my throat isn’t intentional and the minute he swallows it, he turns me back around. “I want you. Now,” he growls into my ear.
I suck in a breath and then slowly exhale, as the adrenaline rush caused by his need for me races through my body.
This time I don’t turn back around.
Instead, for only the second time in my life, I allow a man to take command. Allow his rough need and tight control to take me to that place only he has taken me.
He nips the sensitive rim of my earlobe and whispers, “You’re beautiful, do you know that?”
I shake my head, uncertain of anything but how good his hands feel on my body.
“You are,” he rasps in my ear, causing a bolt of hot lust to shoot through me.
Trembling, I stand still for him as he pushes my panties down my thighs, and then goes to work on the button of his trousers.
Sensations zing through me as his knuckles brush against the soft, rounded flesh of my bottom.
And when he urges my thighs apart to make room for himself, the lace of my panties strains against the quivering muscles of my legs.
Without conscious thought, I arch my back and tilt my hips toward him.