2. Lavender
“Wants me to what?”Honestly, if my brows get any lower, they’ll be a mustache.
“He’s under the impression I was wagering you.”
The space between us falls silent before it fills with my bark of a laugh.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Tod. You can’t bet people—you can’t own people. Not in this century.”
But Tod isn’t laughing. In fact, he looks in pain.
“He’s expecting me to hand you over. Like, right now.”
“Hand me…” I blink heavily as Tod’s explanation and its meaning sink in. “I’m not a fucking pizza!” I bellow, hurling my champagne glass across the room.
“I know,” he says as he ducks. But if I’d been aiming for him, he’d be picking glass out of his hair by now. “I know, and I’m sorry!”
“You’re sorry?” My voice is so shrill, I wouldn’t be surprised to find myself surrounded by barking dogs. Closing the space between us, I stomp across the room without giving a flying fart for the sway of my dress as I swing it out of the way. “What you are is a fucking ingrate. After everything I’ve done for you! I’m not your posh Patek Phillipe,” I say, poking him in the chest, “because I’m not fake!”
“I lost that already.”
“I’m not a piece of art you can sell or trade!”
“I tried that—ow! Ned, you punched me.” His tone is full of reproach as he rubs his injured shoulder.
“It wasn’t an accident.” As one of seven siblings, four of them brothers, I know how to scrap—fight outside of polite lines. But I suppose the funny thing about that is, the one time I needed my fight club skills, they deserted me. I froze. But not now. Because now I think I might just pulverize Tod. “I’m going to do it again, only much harder and somewhere much more sensitive if you don’t tell me exactly, immediately, what the fuckery you’re talking about.”
“I didn’t mean—”
I raise my fist, but it seems my scowl is frightening enough as he brings up his hands in a show of surrender.
“I just meant you’d bail me out,” he blurts. “Not that I thought you’d need to—I swear I thought I had a winning hand!”
“Well, that makes me feel so much better.”
“I didn’t for one minute think I was offering you up as… as…”
“Collateral?” I sound like the queen. The angrier I get, the posher my accent becomes.
“But then I lost, and he said that wasn’t the deal. I argued, Ned. I really did!”
“My hero,” I deadpan.
“But then he sort of loomed over me.” His eyes dip to where my foot taps against the wooden floor. “And I…”
“Decided selling me into sexual slavery suited you better?” As the words spill from my mouth, my stomach turns inside out.Suddenly, my thigh-split slinky dress and heels don’t feel so sophisticated.
“He didn’t say that.”
“Don’t be such a floppy cock,” I snap. “He’s not expecting me to pop around and mow his lawn or put out his recycling.” Not for the money Tod’s suggesting.
Who thinks sex is worth that kind of money?
Not me. I can live without it. And I do.
Oh God. What if he’s into weird stuff?
Screwing my eyes tight, I give my head an adamant shake. I’m not having sex with a stranger, kinky or otherwise, for Tod’s stupid mistake.
“I’m s—”
“If you say you’re sorry once more, I’m going to knee you in the nuts.”
“I—okay.”
This whole thing sounds like the plot to a steamy romance novel, especially when you throw in a name like Raif Deveraux. But he’s unlikely to be the romance hero type. He’s probably some seedy old codger who can only get sex by manipulation. I expect he has to swallow a mouthful of pills before he gets his kicks from humiliating women.
Well, I’m going to teach him a lesson.
“Good. That’s good.”
“What?” My gaze slices up, and I realize I’m chewing my thumbnail. Nasty habit from the past.
“You’re pulling your angry face. As the second most frightening person I know, I reckon you could make him not want you.”
“Flattering, Tod. Very flattering.”
“You know what I mean.”
But I do. And I think Tod might just be onto something.
Fucking Tod, I think with a harrumph.
My heels beat like a war drum as I make my way out of the door and along a dimly lit hall. I am calm, collected, and kick-arse mad. And obviously ignoring the nervous gnawing in the pit of my stomach. Mind over matter because this… tool will be more inclined to have sex with a cactus by the time I finish with him!
Yet for all my angry thoughts, I can’t help but think there must be some mistake. That Tod has somehow gotten it wrong. It’s just too fantastical. This is leafy Chelsea, not some crack house in Brixton. Not that I know what goes on in a crack house. My vices these days extend to the occasional Belvedere vodka and men who don’t seem to like me as much as I do them.
I should’ve stayed in my pajamas, curled on the sofa with a mug of tea and a book. Haven’t I already learned that going out only leads to trouble? To drunken arguments, recriminations, and bricks flying through my exes’ windows? Yet against my better judgment, I’d let Tod convince me that tonight would be good for the gallery.
“New people,”he’d said. “Ones with deep pockets. You’ll be charming, and they’ll be eating out of your hand.”
This is not quite the picture he’d painted.
“Bloody men,” I mutter to myself. They’re only good on paper—their spines belong in books! Well, I’m going to enlighten this… Raif what’s-his-face because he’s seriously deranged if he thinks for a single minute that any woman would fall for this.
Then, I’m going to strangle Tod. And not in the fun, sexy breath play way.
I take a left and another, ignoring how I feel about the made-for-TV goons trailing me. Shoulders as wide as doorways and shoe sizes for IQs. Ignoring them mainly because I’m slightly terrified. When I’d opened the door after tearing strips off Tod, I seriously didn’t expect them to be standing there. But they were. It made the situation a lot more real.
I slow to a stop in front of the last door in this hallway. I raise my chin and glance back at them. “Is this—”
The wider of the two interrupts my flow by leaning around me and pushing open the door. I glide into the darkened interior of the room like I haven’t a care in the world. Or knees that are knocking.
A red-toned tribal carpet muffles my footsteps as the door clicks closed. A soft and low light illuminates the stylish room. A black marble fireplace dominates the wall to the right, French windows ahead overlooking a garden and a dark London sky beyond.
My gaze draws left to a built-in bar and a man’s long, lean silhouette. My steps begin to slow as my heart continues to gallop.
“I’ve been expecting you.”
“You know what they say about expectation.”
“What is it they say?” His deep voice bears a hint of amusement as he lifts a bottle of liquor, making no attempt to turn. Probably because he has a face like a sheep’s bum. As well as the pleasantly deep voice, he has an accent—American—but with a vaguely European lilt.
“That expectation so often leads to disappointment,” I announce as ice cubes bounce against the bottom of his glass.
The man gives a soft, surprised-sounding chuckle.
I sigh inwardly. Men are so easily amused. My nerves begin to settle, and I’m just about to follow up with something a lot less amusing when he turns and robs me of words.
“You.” My eyes narrow as I take in a magnificence that’s not a stranger to me. Not a complete stranger, anyway. RaifDeveraux, apparently.
“Last time I looked.”
“What?”
“Last time I looked, I was me.”
“Do you spend a lot of time looking at yourself?” He has good reason to look, I decided. His face is striking, all angles and shadows in the muted light. He has dark, almost feline-shaped eyes and sharply chiseled lips that look like they might’ve been made for cruelty but chose sensuality instead.
Meanwhile, I’ve resorted to winged liner and a swipe of pump-it-up-gloss that promised a full pout but only made my lips feel like they’d been attacked by a swarm of wasps. It’s so unfair.
His hair is dark, though much darker than mine, slightly too long, and sprinkled with salt at the temples. I’ve never found gray hair sexy before. Never had a thing for men in posh suits, either. Not that he’s so formally attired. His jacket lies abandoned on a nearby stool, his shirtsleeves rolled to mid-forearm and opened at the neck. The silky strings of his bowtie lie open like a gift unwrapping interrupted.
“Hello, Lavender,” he says, leaning back on his elbow. “You’re a lot feistier than I remember.”
“In the gallery. Where I work.” I let the implication speak for itself. I’m always nice in the gallery, especially when there’s a chance I might make a sale.
As I recall, he was looking for something a little more traditional than what we stock, but it didn’t stop him from studying the pieces on display. He’d made astute observations and asked intelligent questions. Then he’d spoiled it all by asking me out.
“You let me down gently, that’s for sure.” As he lifts his glass to his lips, it somehow highlights the smile lurking there.
I don’t encourage the punters. I need their business more than I need wining and dining because most art galleries fail before their third anniversary.
Especially ones existing on a shoestring like mine.
Besides, if I said yes every time I got hit on, I’d never get any work done. Men and sometimes women seem to judge me by my age and promptly assume I’m a gallery assistant, one of those posh girls looking for someone wealthy to keep them in style.
No one thought I was serious when I said I wanted to open an art gallery. None of the usual banks would entertain my business plan, thanks to my lack of capital and experience. But I suppose that’s one good thing about having a wealthy banker for a brother. Not that he made it easy for me. I had to produce a solid business plan and profit projections out the wazoo. I also downgraded my dreams for an illustrious address to a repurposed shipping container in Shoreditch.
It’s not as bad as it sounds. The whole block is made from the stuff. The vibe is artsy, the cafés, bars, and eateries attracting the kind of clientele who might invest in art.
I’m still subject to a nit-picky quarterly meeting with Whit since I’m still in debt. He calls it keeping an eye on his investment, but I really think he’s just keeping an eye on me.
Not that I can blame him. He’s dragged me out of more trouble than we care to remember, which would be another reason to decline the hot punter’s invitation. Like attracts like, and I know trouble when I see it.
“You told me you had a boyfriend.” The corner of his mouth tilts, more sardonic than amused. “He can’t be much of a boyfriend.” His gaze dips to his glass as he swirls the ice.
I take another moment to study him. I did the right thing by turning him down. No girl wants to date a man hotter than she is. Seriously, stick him in a toga and shove a laurel wreath on his head, and I could pass him off as a piece of ancient Hellenistic statuary. I bet he’d look good in a toga, not that he doesn’t look good in a dress shirt. The way it stretches across his broad chest…
He lifts his head, revealing eyes the color of Turkish coffee. “Not when he was willing to sell you out.”
So we’re cutting to the chase.
“The way Tod explained it to me, he didn’t think he had.” I take another few swaying steps closer: you don’t scare me. Much.
Your goons outside, however…
“And the way Tod explained it to me, he didn’t think you had a boyfriend. Let alone that boyfriend was him.”
I give him a sultry smile and enjoy the way his gaze drifts lazily over me.
At least someone appreciates this dress.
“Is this some kind of a convoluted come-on?” I purr, coming to a stop close enough to get a hit of his heady aftershave.
“Would you like it to be?”
My insides flare like a struck match. I thought I was just flattered, but it would seem I’m more than that. My body’s enjoying this. Weird.
“What I would like is… a drink.” I reach out, and he allows me to lift the glass from his hand.
“That wasn’t an answer.”
“It was an answer to the question you should’ve been asking.” Raising the glass, I stare up at him from over the rim.
“The preliminaries?”
“Didn’t anyone ever teach you manners?” I sip at the cool yet fiery liquid before offering him it back.
Plucking it from my hand, he twists at the waist to set it behind him.
I gasp as I find myself suddenly pressed against him, the sensation like some sensory trip wire as my body floods with awareness. His body is hard to my soft, and everywhere we touch seems to burn. His fingers tighten on my bum, my own flexing where they’ve landed on his biceps.
“There were no manners where I grew up.” His low rumble should be frightening, but panic doesn’t flare for some reason. Instead, I find myself inhaling his complex scent—whiskey and shaving soap and a deliciously woody scent.
“How disappointing.” My body contradicts my answer, liquid pleasure flooding to places it has no business being. I almost laugh because, what do you know? I haven’t turned into a Barbie doll from the waist down after all! I’m flattered, interested, and turned on to the point I really ought to be making use of the long thigh split in my dress to knee him where it hurts.
“So says the thief.”
“Thief?”
“You get nothing for nothing in this house, princess.”
Something about the moniker makes my insides fizz. Princess is so much better than Ned or Lav. Or drama queen.
“What gets me a drink?”
Raif pulls back a little, allowing me to stare into those liquid dark eyes. “What have you got to trade?”
I laugh softly. “Aren’t I in deep enough?”
“No such thing.”
Desire drops inside me like a plumb line. This is crazy-pants ridiculous, but it seems I am here for it! I don’t remember the last time I felt this kind of attraction. Sexual attraction. I was beginning to wonder if I might be asexual.
“Sadly for you, I seem to have forgotten my purse.”
“Lavender.” My name feels like a brush of velvet against my skin. “You know I’m not interested in the contents of your wallet.”
How about the contents of my knickers, I think wickedly.
“How about you trade me a kiss for that drink.”
My tummy flips, a dark image flashing in my head of the last time I kissed a man. Before I can be sucked into that morass, my mouth is running ahead of my sense.
“How cute,” I find myself saying.
“I’m glad you think so.”
“It’s a bit like a trip down memory lane.” Liar. I thrust the thought away as his brows flicker, and I think for a moment that he heard that, too. “I once flashed my knickers for a packet of Rolos.”
Well, that’s true.
His low and husky chuckle is shiver-inducing. “Maybe I set the bar too low.”
I give my head a tiny shake. “My prices have gone up considerably since.”
What the hell is wrong with me? The Rolos incident happened when I was nine! It’s not even a good story because my brother Dan punched the kid I’d bargained with, made his nose bleed, then ate my sweets as punishment!
Men can’t be trusted, and I need to remember the circumstances that brought me to this room.
“Is that so?”
I dig in, raise the wattage of my smile, and engage my superpower. It doesn’t matter what’s going on inside, the outer Lavender is cool, collected, and in mutha-puckin’ control.
“Knicker flashes require the purchase of at least three full-priced artworks these days.”
“If only you’d said that in the gallery.”
“If only you hadn’t said you wanted to take me out.”
“Why? What would that have cost me?”
“Your sanity, probably.”
Wow. I made the hot, growly man laugh—really laugh. The fact delights me so much, I have to look away, flicking my gaze over my shoulder.
Is that a Hockney in an alcove by the fireplace?
“Given this is neither a date nor a gallery purchase,” I say, moving my hands to his wrists, “I think you’ve manhandled my bottom sufficiently, don’t you?”
“Still want that drink?” His gaze falls to my mouth, his head tilting as he makes his intentions clear.
My hands seem to forget their purpose, sliding up to curve around his shoulders. “If you’re willing to risk your sanity.”
We gravitate closer until our breaths mingle, and the attraction between us burns like an electric haze. It feels like perfection when our lips meet. I find myself sighing as I sink into it. Soft yet masterful, his mouth works in tandem with mine, pleasure spiraling through me at the tiniest brush of his tongue.
“Oh.”
That tiny sound seems to be a signal, our kiss deepening, tongues tangling. He kisses the corner of my mouth, my jaw, his touch beginning to slide down my neck.
“Like champagne.” He presses the rumbling words into the sensitive skin, his big hands squeezing and pressing me closer.
“Raif.” His name is more moan than reprimand because his lips on my neck and the thick, hot feel of him does something wonderfully horrible to my insides. “Oh God.” So good, but…
I’ve been here before. I’ve let a man control the situation and get the better of me. Why this time—why now?
Because he kisses so well? Or because he’s set this whole thing up to see me again?
“M-more like chardonnay,” I stutter, even as I turn my head to give him better access to the sensitive skin of my neck.
He makes an inquiring sound against my throat, but his mouth doesn’t stop.
“The s-stuff we serve at showings. In p-plastic cups!”
A lick, a graze of his teeth, and I spiral into sensory overload. What’s happening to me? I’m the one who controls the situation—the narrative. But right now, all I can do is take.
His hand slides up my back, anchoring it in my hair. My pleasure/pain receptors fire and snap, my hair follicles somehow hardwired to the place between my legs. But then his frown becomes the sudden focus of my vision.
“Did you say plastic cups?”
“Yes.” But he doesn’t seem to be paying attention because he’s kissing me again, taking my bottom lip between his teeth.
Weir—d.
Or maybe not as his tongue lushly follows.
I swallow, my breath tight, and my response husky. “The horrible, cheap stuff.”
He makes a sound like I just said something salacious as he gives my bum a thoroughly dirty squeeze.
“Oh…”
Dark and clever, his next kiss is a raid—a steal your livestock, burn down your village, pillage your existence kind of kiss. Raif kisses as though to consume, the charged air around a sudden explosion of need as fingers grasp, as lips slide and fuse, and tongues thrust.
I moan as my longing pours out of me, hunger making my fingers scrabble at his shoulders. If heaven or the angels try to intercede now, they’d clutch their pearls as I squeeze my hand between our bodies.
“Oh!” I guessed he was big—he has that energy—but that feels kind of immense.
“Fuck.” He gives a low, throaty growl, but before I can get any further, his hands slide down my body to scoop me up.
Then we’re moving, and it’s all such a blur as I’m suddenly deposited on the desk.
“You taste of champagne,” he rasps. “Where the fuck did the cheap chardonnay come from?”
“The wholesaler.” I wrap my hand around the back of his neck to bring his mouth back to mine before I burst from my skin.
“Oh. Oh.” The scruff on his jaw is a blaze of sensation across my shoulder, and my nipple hardens under his palm. His thick thigh comes between my knees, the silk of my dress parting at the split, giving him a knicker flash for free. The hard length of his cock nudges against my softest spot, and I arch against him. My nails dig into his back as I grind against him. “Yes!” I feel like I’m losing my mind.
“Sanity is overrated,” he growls.
Oh, that is so true…