by Cathryn Fox
His gregarious personality was enough to project a homing beacon, and the room was decidedly absent of it. Most people were split into couples or foursomes—all save for one man. Her breath caught, a peculiar awareness taking hold.
He sat at a table beside the glass wall. A great seat from which to enjoy the far-reaching cityscape below, although his eyes showed no interest in the vista. No, they were well and truly pinned on her, projecting an intensity that had her skin prickling with such thrill.
Hell, she wanted to stride straight over—the urge was almost making her do just that—but sense prevailed. Tony wanted to see her. Hopefully he could explain away his crazy behaviour, and put her mind at rest over the future.
Giving a small sigh, she headed for the bar. A drink—that was what she needed. Anything to take the edge off.
Slipping onto a bar stool, she crossed her legs and replaced her clutch with the leather-clad drinks menu.
‘Good evening, Miss Hayes, what can I get you?’
She looked up to find Darren, the head bartender, approaching with a smile, his hands busy drying off a glass. She returned his smile easily and scanned the list, honing in on a vodka martini and figuring that had to be strong enough.
He cocked an eyebrow when she made her request. ‘Shaken, not stirred, madame?’
His Scottish-accented Bond impression had her laughing, and the sound was alien to her ears. It had to be weeks—months, even—since she’d had a proper giggle. Maybe she was the one in need of a good shake, never mind the drink.
‘However you recommend it.’
‘You sure?’ He raised both brows. ‘It’s pretty strong.’
He knew her too well. She didn’t do spirits. A spritzer was her usual drink of choice. But a spritzer just wasn’t going to cut it. Not tonight. It wasn’t just Tony, it was her increasing concern over her mother too. She was getting worse and there was nothing Jennifer could do to stop it.
Her heart fluttered painfully and she pushed the thought aside. Not now.
‘Sounds perfect,’ she said, flipping open her clutch and retrieving her mobile to check if Tony had at least messaged. But she’d not even lit the screen before her eyes sidled away, drawn to the brooding silhouette not twelve feet away.
He was tall—she could tell that even with his body folded into the deep bucket seat. The ankle of one leg casually rested atop the knee of the other. The designer cut of his dark suit and tan leather shoes spoke of money, although whether he had any was an entirely different matter. She’d learned that quickly enough in the city. People only had to dress to impress and it attracted wealth like bees to honey.
But there was something in the broad set of his shoulders, accentuated as they were by his tailored jacket, and the confident air in his relaxed poise that had her certain he wasn’t all about the front.
And what a front...
Her eyes drifted upwards. The crisp white shirt sat smoothly over his torso, no hint of spread. Then they drifted higher, to the last fastened button of his open collar and the hint of dark hair curling there.
Her pulse skipped, her mouth watered and her eyes snapped back to her phone. Not now!
Seriously, what was wrong with her? Was she that desperate to get laid? That fed up with her trusty vibrator that her body was putting up a fight? Truth was, there was no time in her life for that complication. Mr Dildo didn’t talk back, didn’t require care and affection. He didn’t require time that she didn’t have.
Between her office and dashing back and forth between London and Yorkshire each weekend to be with her family she was all out of that.
But one night, though. Think of the possibilities...
Heat simmered low in her belly as she activated her phone screen. No notifications. She fired off a brief Where are you? message and placed the device back on the bar, her heightened awareness picking up on movement from the man’s direction. She watched him crook his finger to the blonde waitress hovering nearby and an inexplicable pull ripped through her.
Christ, he was reeling her in too.
She nibbled the inside of her lip, drinking in his rakishly long dark hair, the chiselled set to his jaw that softened delectably with his easy grin. And then there were his eyes—so compelling. She couldn’t make out the colour, but there was something about them, something deliciously sinful...
Her tummy contracted with a barrage of heat, and in that second she knew she wanted to leave with him. That she wanted one night of crazy. No names, no real talk, just wild, no-holds-barred sex.
Could she do it? Hell, would he?
It wasn’t in her nature, it wasn’t like her, but being ‘like her’ was hard fucking work and she needed this...needed him.
Mentally, she undressed him, button by button, stroke by stroke, her thighs clenching tight in their folded position.
‘One vodka martini.’
‘Huh?’ Her eyes snapped to the bar, to Darren placing a mat and glass before her.
‘Your drink.’ He smiled teasingly. ‘Distracted, much?’
‘Quite.’ And that was an understatement.
Warmth fed her cheeks as she took hold of the olive stick propped inside her glass and began to stir with it, her focus on the mini-whirlpool she created while she set her thoughts to chill.
Get the meeting with Tony out of the way first.
Raising her drink, she sampled it, a small hum of appreciation escaping her as the chilly temperature contrasted with the burn of alcohol in a strangely pleasing way. She took another sip and felt her shoulders start to ease, her posture soften.
Ah, Tony, maybe you’ve done me a favour, dragging me out.
She rolled her head on her shoulders, her eyes seeking him once more—Fuck. Their gazes collided, the invitation in his sending lust tearing through her.
To hell with Tony, and to hell with doing what was right all the time!
Just give him twenty minutes...
Gah—She forced her attention to her phone and issued him a text that said as much.
Five minutes later, fizzing over with the prolonged wait, she caved and beckoned Darren over.
There was no harm in putting things in motion.
‘You’re not ready for another?’
She grinned, high on the thrill. ‘Please...’
He chuckled. ‘Okay.’
Placing a fancy tray of bar snacks in front of her, he set about making her drink.
She eyed the food, her tummy growling. She’d missed dinner again. Taking up a few snacks, she savoured one before asking, ‘Do you know what Mr Distraction is drinking?’
He sent her a knowing look. ‘You wanting to send him one?’
‘Maybe...’ Playfully, she popped in another snack, chewing over it and relishing the instant hit of salt. ‘So, come on—do you know?’
He smiled as he worked, his eyes flicking briefly to the man in question. ‘He’s a J&B man.’
She licked her lips clean, her eyes flitting to Smoking Hot Guy, and then to his bottle of choice on the shelf. Hot Wealthy Guy... J&B... An image of the hottie in American Psycho flashed before her eyes and she swallowed, hard.
Okay, Okay...yes, you want a night of crazy, but maybe you should know something about him first.
‘What’s got you looking so serious?’ Darren asked, picking up on her shift in mood.
‘I was just wondering...’ Her voice trailed off as she considered the talented bartender. Darren knew everyone that came and went. ‘What do you know of him?’
‘Can’t tell you much.’ He strained the liquid into a fresh glass. ‘I’ve not seen him before, but there were some guys at the bar talking about him earlier. Recognised him from some article or other.’
Her ears pricked up. ‘An article?’
‘Yeah, you know the sort—one of those professional mags, I reckon.’ He p
opped an olive in the glass and placed it before her. ‘He’s a CEO in the technology field.’
She sucked on the inside of her lip, suppressing the surge of excitement. No CEO was going to turn out to be a nutcase.
‘Well, fancy that...’
‘You sure do.’
She grinned and plucked the olive from the glass, popping it between her lips as her eyes hit Smoking Hot Guy’s.
Damn sure I do!
Copyright © 2019 by Rachael Stewart
Keep reading for an excerpt from Down & Dirty by Rhenna Morgan, available now from Carina Press!
Down & Dirty
by Rhenna Morgan
CHAPTER ONE
RINGING EARS, A RAW throat and throbbing feet. Every pleasure had its price. A consequence to be paid after the indulgence was over. But for Lizzy, that cost was not only worth it, but necessary. Especially since the bulk of paying her bills came from abandoning herself to the thing she loved most.
Nothing beat sharing her music with a live crowd. Absolutely nothing. There was a connection behind it. A raw energy fueled by the emotions of those around her that flooded her insides and smothered all the day-to-day minutia. All that was left in its wake was pure bliss. An indescribable aliveness akin to fantastic sex—only without the vulnerability and risk of heartbreak.
Hopped up and fresh off the stage from her last set, she strode into the dingy ten-by-twenty storage room that doubled as the bar’s staging area, her bandmates hard on her heels.
“Lizzy, baby! That was fucking awesome!” Tony’s praise ricocheted off the once-white walls now stained with too many years of nicotine. At six-two with long-ish dirty blond hair, dreamy blue eyes and a wicked smile, he attracted female music lovers with little more than a crook of his finger. How the guy could pound the massive drum kit he set up for every show and still have this much energy five hours later, she’d never know, but it’d take him a good two more hours to come down.
She snagged her guitar case off the crude wooden shelf, laid it out along the third-or fourth-hand leather couch and flipped open the lid. “The place might be a dive, but they draw a hell of a crowd.”
“Ain’t the bar that draws the crowd,” Skeet said, following suit with Lizzy and stowing his Telecaster. His vibe was the polar opposite of Tony’s. More of a biker meets cowboy combination with the Marlboro raspy voice to go with it. He paused just before sliding the black-and-white beauty into its plush-lined case and eyeballed her over one shoulder. “It’s you.”
“Man, you keep that shit up, she’s gonna clam up on us again.” Ever the pragmatist, Dewayne—or Phat D as a recent reviewer had dubbed him—propped his Rickenbacker bass on the stand he’d left in the corner and dropped into the oversized black chair in the corner with a sigh. “She knows what she’s capable of. When she’s ready to make a move, she’ll make a move.”
“No shit, Skeet,” Tony said. “Don’t kill our buzz.”
“Not killin’ our buzz. Just drivin’ home my point.”
Said point being that it was time to start working their way into some of Dallas’ better gigs. Of course, to get those gigs you had to have connections and public relations wasn’t exactly her strong suit.
Actually, people in general weren’t her strong suit. “No point to drive home. I’m not sticking to dive bars on purpose. As soon as I can get a foot in the door at the better places, I’ll make a move.”
“You’ve had three promoters hit you up in as many weeks,” Skeet fired back. “You want a foot in the door, you’re gonna need to actually talk to them.”
“And I told you—Rex and I can handle it.”
“Rex is a good guy and a helluva friend, but he ain’t a promoter or a manager. He’s a welder and an artist.”
“He’s also trustworthy and doesn’t fuck us around.”
“Skeet.” D wasn’t the most charismatic of the group, but when he pulled that low grumbly voice, people shut up and paid attention. “Give it a rest.”
“Buzz. Kill,” Tony added.
Lizzy grinned and dug her phone out of her purse. For all Skeet’s hounding, she knew he meant well and wanted the same things she did. Hell, she wanted it about thirty times worse. While the rest of the guys had trade jobs to help pay their bills, ringing up groceries at the local Aldi didn’t exactly set her inspiration on fire. “It’s gonna take a lot more than Skeet pushing me for better gigs to kill tonight’s buzz.”
She glanced at her phone and the unread text message plastered on her home screen.
Rex: Stuck doing overtime. I’ll try to make it, but if I don’t, you’re gonna have to deal with Vic the Dick.
Now, that was a buzz kill.
She thumbed through her passcode and flipped directly to her text app.
Nope. Still the same shitty message.
“What?” Still gripping his sticks, Tony sidled closer and craned his head for a look at her phone.
Lizzy killed the screen, turned her back and tossed her phone back in her purse before he had a chance to read it. The only thing worse than Lizzy dealing with Vic the Dick—AKA the bar owner—was sending Skeet, Tony or D to collect their cash. God knew, they’d tried that approach a time or two and still couldn’t manage to book any return gigs as a result. “Nothing. Just gotta take care of some business.” She schooled her expression the best she could and faced them. “I’m going to go settle up with Vic.”
D snickered, stretched his long legs out in front of him and crossed his boot-shod feet at the ankles. “Guess that explains the look.”
“What look?” She looked to Tony, then to Skeet. “I don’t have a look.”
“Yeah, you do,” Tony said. “Kind of like you’ve held a fart in too long and are gonna throat punch the next person who keeps you from getting somewhere private so you can let it out.”
“You got a shitty poker face, doll.” Skeet fired up a cigarette he wasn’t supposed to have lit in the building and exhaled a healthy amount of smoke on a chuckle. “You startin’ to see why someone with interpersonal skills might come in handy for us?”
“I’m starting to think the person I’m going to throat punch tonight is you.” She tried to make it come out like the badass she pretended to be on stage, but one corner of her mouth curled up in a smile she couldn’t hold back. Strolling past him, she punched him in the shoulder with an equally lame delivery. “If I’m not back in fifteen minutes, come see if I’m being hauled off in a cop car for attempted murder.”
All of three steps past the doorway, their laughter was swallowed up by the chaos of the lingering crowd and the requisite end-of-the-night strains of “Sweet Home Alabama.” As bars went, The Crow wasn’t the worst Lizzy had played. The single-story was a free-standing structure and big enough to hold a decent crowd—a necessity when a good chunk of your pay came from a cut of the door. That said, it was also the kind of place where the bouncers didn’t intervene unless more than two sets of fists were involved, and you definitely didn’t want to see the place with the house lights on. The scarred tables and floor stains highlighted by the neon beer signs showed plenty as it was, thank you very much.
Lizzy sidestepped a three-woman posse that’d circled a lone man left unprotected by his wing man—and almost tripped in her four-inch-heel boots.
Standing with his feet braced in a casual yet confident stance behind one of the many black pub tables was a man who turned the rest of the room’s predictability on its head. Dressed in tailored tan pants and a crisp white button-down with sleeves rolled up to show corded forearms, he looked like he’d just escaped long negotiations in a board room, and as tall and built as he was in the shoulders, every thread on him was probably custom-made. But where his clothes were the refined flip side to the rest of the room’s occupants, his long auburn hair and beard completely bucked the businessman stereotype, and his sharp features spoke of life experience learned
the hardest way possible.
A powerful man. One who commanded attention with nothing more than a look.
And every ounce of his attention was locked on her.
A whole different buzz fired beneath her skin, and her steps slowed, a sexual awareness she hadn’t felt in years fueling the sway in her hips as she worked her way through the people between her and the bar.
“The crowd’s light tonight.” Vic’s gruff yet petulant voice ripped her attention from the stranger just in time to keep her from slamming into a table directly in her path. It took her a second to tag him behind the bar, half hidden in the shadows of one corner and counting out twenties. “Didn’t help you were late starting up the last set. We lost five big tables waiting on you and your guys to get back to work.”
Light crowd her ass. Every single table had been full right up through their last song, and the waitresses had been hustling nonstop since Lizzy first fired up her amp. Then again, Vic was a sour fucker of the first order and always acted like the whole damned world was lined up and eager to screw him when, in fact, it was him plotting to screw everyone else.
She pushed the insanely hot guy out of her mind and closed what was left of the distance to the bar in what she hoped looked like a laid-back stride. “The only thing you lost tonight was about a hundred bucks worth of Fireballs.”
Vic paused in his counting and eyeballed her with one eyebrow cocked high.
For a second, Lizzy considered sliding onto a barstool in that ready-for-conversation way Rex always used, then remembered Skeet’s comment about her shitty poker face and ditched the idea. “Oh, come on. You slid any woman who talked to you for more than five minutes tonight a free one.”
One thing about Vic and his fragile ego—watching him puff up his chest like a disgruntled baboon while he huffed and puffed and grappled for a witty comeback was mighty entertaining. “Keeping women here is good for business. When my band can’t hold a crowd, I do what I’ve got to do.”
“Man, you can say a lot about tonight, but us holding a crowd isn’t one of ’em. Every table was full until after we walked off stage.”