Her Bad Boy

by Carolyn Faulkner

  He had the audacity to wink at her. "I'm too tall for anything to leave me short, Miss Barstow."

  That got her rolling her eyes at him and him laughing, which she decided was altogether too nice a sound.

  "Besides, I always carry two. You never know. I got into the habit during my lean and hungry high school years—when I actually did have two tires go on the beltway outside D.C., during rush hour. Not pretty." He took something else from the trunk, then closed it. "Purell?" he offered.

  That was it. She was impressed. "I'm fine, thank you—thanks to you."

  He stared down at her for a second, then said, "You know, if you wanted to say thanks, there's a great hole in the wall burger joint not too far from here. I don't think you've had dinner yet, either, and I know I haven't. I would even be willing to show great restraint and not even bankrupt you when I order, even though that place has the best burgers and the freshest fries you've ever tasted in your life." Lucas could see that she was debating, so just in case it helped, he added, "No one will know us, no one will see us."

  "The best, huh?"

  He just stood there, grinning back at her.

  What was she thinking?! Was she actually going to go on a date with him? She couldn't! It would be professional suicide! Even just letting him help her as he had was iffy, at best! Was she going to throw away her whole career on a man who she had no doubt had killed several people in cold blood for perceived insults to his honor, or getting in his way, or stepping on his toes or whatever other completely unacceptable, criminal reason?

  He could see how torn she was, not liking how tense she was getting about it, so he put his hands up. "I retract the suggestion. You don't owe me anything. A good deed is its own reward, although I'm sure, as you know, it's a drop in the proverbial bucket. You have a nice evening, Miss Barstow. I hope you don't mind, but I'm going to wait in my car while you get in, then probably follow you a little way down the road once we're out of here to make sure that everything's all right with your tire, but I'll peel off after a few minutes, I assure you."

  He'd already turned towards his car when she said, so quietly that he almost missed it, "But those burgers and fries sound awfully good."

  As soon as she said it, she knew she was going to regret it—but now wasn't the time for that, and the rest of their time together wasn't looking good for that, either. She had never done anything like that in her life. She was—as he quickly became fond of calling her—as if reminding her of her fallen status—a good girl.

  But that first date was pretty magical, at least at first—she had worried that it might be awkward to be with him, but it turned out that he was delightfully gentlemanly and observed all of the old-world courtesies she knew she shouldn't like or want but did. He didn't just bring her there, he escorted her, complete with door opening, offering her his arm as they walked from the parking lot, seating her first before taking his own and even—she thought—the slight touch of his hand on her back as she preceded him into the restaurant.

  And they quickly found that they had a tremendous number of things in common and the evening flew by, accompanied by exactly what he'd said it would be—incredible build your own, full fat, in-house ground burgers—none of that lean shit, served up unapologetically with shoestring fries cooked fresh for every order in lard, and with plenty of salt, vinegar, mustard, ketchup and even mayo on the table to go with them.

  He held to his word and didn't really bankrupt her, but it was close! Damn, the man could put away food like nobody's business! He had three huge burgers to her one-half pounder that she only ate half of, and he ordered endless fries—which he jealously protected against marauders—so even though she was full, she could still sneak the occasional one from his plate.

  Not that he didn't extract a price for each one. At first, it was just a raised eyebrow. Then two raised eyebrows. Then a loud, scolding, "tsk."

  Eventually, that escalated into a look very much like the one he'd given her when she'd tried to pay him earlier. But it only stopped her for a short time, although he was on his third burger by then and slowing down, so he noticed her little forays into his stash more often, and the next one got the back of her hand slapped smartly.

  "Ow!"

  But she held onto that fry and ate it with relish—or rather, ketchup—right in front of him.

  But then he laced his fingers together on the table before him and leaned towards her a bit, his tone entirely too intimate for her comfort. "You'd better enjoy that one, because I'd be willing to bet I can make it your last," he challenged.

  "Oh yeah, big man? What're you going to do if I filch another one?" she taunted, pinching her fingers together near his plate threateningly as if she was going to do it right this second, right under his nose.

  His answer was completely unexpected, delivered in a low, husky whisper with such absolute sincerity that she didn't doubt a single word as each one sent her further and further into sub space, right then, right there. "If you take another fry from my plate, young lady, you're going to find yourself lifted up out of your seat and draped over my knee, where I will paddle your impudent little behind until I think you've learned your lesson."

  All of the breath left Allie's lungs in a whoosh, and she plastered her back against the cushion of the booth as her entire body literally contracted at what he'd just said. And she couldn't even come back with the usual, highly indignant, "You wouldn't dare!" because she knew like she knew the sun was going to come up in the east tomorrow morning that he absolutely did dare!

  While she did her best to pretend that what he'd said meant absolutely nothing to her—all the while knowing that he saw through her badly contrived, barely there cover up—all he did was sit there and grin at her as if he'd just won the lottery.

  Lucas couldn't remember the last time he'd been so attracted to a woman—and one who was apparently—despite the fact that she might not like to admit it—into spanking, too. But she was starting to get that trapped, nervous, anxious look again around the edges, so he drained his soda and hollered, "Cheryl, can you get us a couple of milkshakes, please?" Then he reached over and took her hand—the one that had been stealing all his fries—holding it gently. "The shakes are better than the fries or the burgers. Whole milk, whole cream homemade ice cream, with homemade whipped cream on top. I'd be willing to bet that you like vanilla, don't you?"

  She nodded, still pretty stunned by her own body's reaction to him.

  "What kind?" their waitress hollered back.

  "Vanilla and make mine chocolate," he answered, staring straight at her as he said, "I knew it, even though you're not vanilla at all, are you, Miss Barstow, beneath all of that prim properness?"

  Allie had never felt so discombobulated in all her life. She didn't have much experience with men—she'd never wanted much. She'd just wanted to go to school and live her life and not get mixed up in all of that kind of stuff.

  But she was far from asexual, and the man sitting across from her was far from a socially awkward damned near virgin. He knew exactly what he was about, and suddenly, the enormity of what she'd done—of where she was—what he'd said and how it had made her feel made the world try to slip away from her, as if it was happening somewhere in the distance, away from her.

  "I have to go."

  She tried to bolt out of the booth, but someone was still holding onto her hand and didn't seem at all interested in letting her go.

  "Hold on. Wait just a minute."

  "Let go of my hand," she ground out, wishing her voice wasn't trembling so, but adrenaline was warring with the need to either faint or throw up, and as much as she did want to get away from him, she wasn't sure that she'd be able to remain standing once she got up.

  She looked alarmingly pale, and Lucas released her hand immediately, noting that it was clammy. "Allie, wait," he commanded sharply, adding, "please," very belatedly.

  And, to his surprise—and delight, he would realize later—she stopped her frantic flight.
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  "Now, I know what I said upset you and I'm sorry for that. But you look as if you're going to drop any minute. You're perfectly safe, I promise you. Please take a moment and take a deep breath. I won't touch you again, but I will take you back to your car and follow you home."

  He was as good as his word—foregoing the courtesies she had liked originally on the way in—some of them because she had dashed ahead of him to the car despite how he had yelled after her to wait for him. Allie couldn't even worry about the fact that he had ended up paying for a meal that she had owed him. She just wanted to get home. This man was much too potent for someone who was essentially a beginner. If she ever became involved with someone again—and she highly doubted that she would—he would need to come with training wheels, not rocket fuel.

  When they had made it to the parking lot where her condo was, she got stopped by a nosy neighbor, but he pulled into her second spot and got out to wait for her as if he'd been there a thousand times.

  That was another alarming thing he'd done.

  "H-how did you know where I live?" she asked, walking slowly up the stairs of her stoop.

  Lucas merely smiled in a manner that was almost—but not quite—benign, answering her question with one of his own, "Do you know where I live?"

  Allie tried not to look shocked, not caring this time that she failed miserably.

  As soon as she'd put her key in her lock and opened her door, she heard him say, with no trace of sarcasm in his tone, "Thank you for a wonderful evening, Miss Barstow."

  And then he was gone, and she was left there, trying not to let him see her peeping out her window at him as he drove away, feeling excited and scared and elated and deflated at the same time, then realizing—starkly—that it would be much better for her health in so many ways if she didn't feel any of those things.

  Not about him, anyway.

  Chapter 4

  It didn't help that she had to see him every day, although he was just as courteous as he always had been and never made her feel uncomfortable—just the opposite. At one point, she'd come in extra early and found her favorite coffee—just the way she liked it—sitting at her spot, with no one around. And, in what was a monumental shift in her consciousness, instead of throwing it away, as tainted by him and everything he represented, erring on the side of extreme caution in regards to ethics as she might have done mere days ago—she drank it.

  But the case itself ended up being dismissed on a technicality and, along with it, her hopes of becoming first assistant D.A., he faded—slowly—back into that box again.

  Until her birthday.

  Laura had encouraged her to go out to celebrate—which she didn't usually do. She'd had parties and gifts while her parents were alive—she was, after all, a doted on, only child. But since they were gone, she'd more often spent the day working than anything else.

  This time, though, Laura got her to actually take a day off—which Perry was only too happy to agree to, since she had almost enough leave accumulated to take an entire year off, if she wanted to—to do whatever she wanted. Laura had planned some things—a massage, Mani Pedi, etc.—but the rest of it was Allie's choice. They went to a couple of small museums she'd always wanted to see, stopped by a shop that sold folk art, had an outrageously caloric lunch of just appetizers and dessert at one of their favorite local restaurants where they'd always said they were going to do just that but then they always got sidetracked by the delicious entrees. Then, they caught a movie, eating an enormous tub of buttered popcorn—at a place that actually used real butter—into which they'd thrown a handful of milk duds, making it a chocolaty, decadent, salty, buttery mess of pure, unadulterated bliss.

  Friends and coworkers met them at a very nice restaurant relatively early that evening for dinner and drinks, and Allie actually allowed herself to be talked into having a drink. Her friends looked at her as if she'd brought out a crack pipe and begun smoking in front of them when she'd ordered a Moscow mule, and then they'd proceeded to drink most of it under the guise of tasting it, which, of course, necessitated the ordering of another.

  Because she was such a lightweight, Laura drove her home, and as soon as they turned into her parking lot, they could both see that there was something that was too big to be flowers or something like that waiting for her at her door, but Allie couldn't imagine what it might be.

  Turned out it was a large crate—the kind one might place in the trunk of one's car—that contained a bunch of wrapped presents, as well as a couple of "Happy Birthday" balloons. There was no note.

  Laura carried the crate in and put it between her friend's two rocker recliners.

  "Any idea who this stuff is from?"

  "None whatsoever," Allie replied, sinking into her chair.

  "Well, start opening. I'm dying of curiosity. Something in there is heavy as fuck."

  But Allie knew as soon as she'd unwrapped the first present both what was heavy and who had sent it. She had a good idea what the rest of the items were going to be, too, and she wasn't wrong. By the time she finished, the crate was full of an elaborate jump starter that did everything but windows, including inflate tires and charge her phone—although it weighed so much she wasn't sure she'd be able to lift it out of her trunk—a small, collapsible shovel, two yellow track things to help her get out if she got stuck, a tarp, safety blankets, and pretty much everything else she would ever need in case her car broke down.

  And she didn't have cell service. Or AAA. And no one was ever going to come by. And she couldn't walk to civilization.

  But it was a very thoughtful gift.

  The only thing she couldn't see a use for was the small bag of cheap kitty litter. She and Laura had looked at each other, but, having been born and raised in the South, neither could begin to come up with a use for it.

  "This is from him, isn't it?" Laura wasn't a co-worker, and she wasn't a lawyer—she was the CEO of her own small corporation that made handbags. But she had a good idea from how her friend talked about Lucas Bove just how enamored she was of him—and also how much she absolutely did not want to be, and she had more than an inkling that the feeling was mutual, and she wasn't sure whether that was a good or a bad thing. The jury was still out on that, and Laura wouldn't be at all surprised if it came back hung.

  "This is inappropriate, isn't it?" she asked when her friend had nodded slowly. "Are you going to give it back to him? And, I guess that begs the further question, are you going to survive giving it back to him, if you do?"

  Allie frowned at her friend. "Don't be melodramatic."

  "I'm not. You know you're in danger from him—you're trying to put him in prison! I don't even have any experience with them, but every mafia movie I've seen has taught me that the mob takes a pretty hard line against people who try to do that—like the permanent, six feet under kind of hard line."

  It wasn't as if Allie didn't know that. She just preferred not to think about that fact, especially in conjunction with one mobster in particular.

  "I don't sense a threat from him." She blushed. "Well, not the kind that's going to result in me taking a dirt nap, anyway." No, it was the kind that was going to result in her not being able to sit down comfortably for days on end, apparently.

  Laura, who had been on the receiving end of a panicked call the night after he had rescued her, knew exactly to what she was referring and gave her a doubtful look.

  "And I don't think I have a choice, anyway. I can't accept gifts from someone I'm trying to prosecute." She blithely discounted the coffee as a one-time thing. "It's not even like he has 'questionable connections'—he's the effing boss of the family!"

  "But how are you going to do that? I don't think this was done through FTD—they don't have a 'roadside bouquet'—like you could have them come and take it back or something. I think he did this himself—or had a lackey do it, then had said lackey drop it off."

  Allie sighed and slumped back into her chair. "Yup. I wouldn't be at all surprised."

>   "Too bad he's mobbed up," Laura commented almost wistfully as she gathered the wrapping paper. "He sounds like just what you need."

  Normally, Allie would have completely ignored a jibe like that, or pooh poohed it at least, not wanting to give it any credence at all. But instead—due to the booze, she imagined—she asked, "What do you mean?"

  Laura made her way into the kitchen and turned on the Keurig, figuring Allie could do with a strong cup of coffee. "Well, I know you have a hard time…bending the rules in any way. And you're very…" she searched for a term her friend wouldn't consider to be derogatory, and even when she spoke, she wasn't sure Allie wouldn't take offense "…pent up about sex in general. He spooked you a bit, because he was so spot on with some of his more sexual comments when you went out that time."

  "That's a severe understatement," Allie muttered, but not loud enough for her friend to hear, and refusing to ponder—at the moment—the rest of her friend's depressingly accurate statements about her.

  "But jeez, from what you've said about him—aside from, well, all the not good stuff—he's a dream! He's gorgeous and smart and went to really good schools and he's funny and you guys got along well, once you loosened up some around him. And his manners sound phenomenal! If you hadn't wigged out when he mentioned spanking you—which is something you know you definitely want, even if you're not willing to admit to yourself or, Heaven forbid, anyone else beyond me—you two could have been sleeping together by now. You could have been getting you some, which—as you know—is something I think you desperately need."

  As much as she loved her, Laura could be a terrible nag. She thought that most of what was wrong with Allie could be cured by a good, hard fuck.

  "I mean, the way you reacted, you would think that you were completely averse to the idea—"

  Trying for outrage, but not quite managing it, she replied, "I am averse to the idea—with him, at least!"

  "Please. You're against the idea of sex in general, so you've never let anyone get anywhere near to spanking you, even though you fantasize about it all the time."