Chapter Two
Lincoln
Ilinger outside of Book of Love for a long moment, trying to calm my racing heart and will my dick to stand down. The hard bastard is relentless. It's odd. He never takes an interest in anything, but as soon as he saw Lilah Davis, he stood at attention like he was trying to salute her.
I don't really blame him. She's stunning, with wild cornflower blue eyes, a heart-shaped face, and lips I'm dying to taste. The way her jeans molded to her ass will be playing in my dreams tonight. So will the hard little nipples she thought she could hide behind crossed arms and hostility.
I almost regret buying her building out from underneath her.
Almost. But downtown Santa Maria is dying.
Aside from quirky little shops like hers, a few bars, and random offices, there's nothing left to hold the area together.
It's not walkable. It's not attractive. The largest buildings have been vacant for years.
Those that are in use are old and riddled with problems. Frankly, it's a shitshow that'll be a ghost town in the next few years without significant improvements.
I'm the improvement. The city hired Hanover Group to revitalize the area.
By the time we're finished, downtown will be a hub of activity, generating millions in revenue each year.
But I need Lilah's building to do it. It's right in the center of the block that will soon house a four-floor apartment complex.
If she wants to chain herself to something, my bed is an option.
"Jesus Christ," I mutter, shaking my head like that'll dislodge the thought.
Spoiler Alert: It doesn't. Her fiery attitude should piss me off.
No one talks to me the way she did. They're too goddamn scared to tell me what they really think about me and my company.
When you have as much power as I do, no one ever steps out of line. They lack the balls to do it.
Not Lilah. Listening to her insult me didn't piss me off at all. In fact, it had the exact opposite effect. The more she talked, the more I wanted to bend her over the purple sofa in her store. I bet she'd be a little hellcat in bed.
Not that I'll ever find out. If she didn't hate me to begin with, she definitely does now.
I mutter a curse, stomping toward the blacked-out SUV waiting for me on the curb.
Jackson Foster turns to me as soon as I slide into the passenger seat, one brow arched. "How'd it go?"
"Fine," I lie, flicking a look back at the store. Lilah's standing in the window, glowering at the SUV like she wants to set it on fire. Or maybe it's me she wants to set on fire. Fuck. "I need you to look into the owner, Lilah Davis. Find out everything you can."
"Any particular reason?" Jackson asks, pulling away from the curb.
"She's going to put up a fight."
"Ah." His lips curve into an amused smirk. "It's been a while since anyone tried that."
I grunt instead of responding, but he's right.
Aside from the usual protests and complaints that always come when we're hired to make improvements, it has been a while since anyone actually fought us.
Most people don't bother. If you throw enough money at a problem, it stops being a problem.
Even those who don't want to sell usually roll over when the price is right.
Her landlord certainly jumped at my offer.
If they didn't have an agreement that gives her the right of first refusal, Gary Brady would have happily kicked her to the curb to take my money.
The prick had dollar signs in his eyes like some fucking cartoon character when I made the offer.
The building isn't worth what I'm willing to pay.
But the block will be worth fifty times that when I'm finished.
"You want to bury her?" Jackson asks.
"No," I growl, a little too quickly. His brows climb. Shit. "I just want to know her story. Who she is, where she came from, her family." I pause. "Who she's associated with."
"Right," he says, smirking. "And by associated with, I assume you mean, you want to know who she's fucking."
I shoot him a dark look, but he just chuckles in response, unbothered. Nothing ever gets to Jackson. He's been my right-hand man since I started Hanover Group. We roomed together all four years at UCLA. In the beginning, we were just two broke scholarship kids, surviving on Ramen and dreams.
I used every penny I saved working two jobs in college to buy and flip my first house during our junior year.
I purchased two more with the profits that year, and three the next.
By the time we graduated, I wasn't a broke college kid anymore.
Hanover Group was officially real, and Jackson was my first hire.
Two decades later, I own the largest real estate development group in the state.
We no longer flip houses. Our projects are more highbrow now.
And Jackson is still right by my side, handling all the shit I don't want to deal with.
When shit gets messy or complicated, Jackson steps in. My hands are clean because his aren't.
"I just want the facts," I tell him. "Nothing else."
"You like her."
I growl wordlessly.
"You do."
"Maybe," I relent, staring out the window. "She has spirit. She basically told me to go fuck myself before she threatened to chain herself to her store and then kicked me out."
His loud laughter booms around the car. "It's been even longer since anyone told you to fuck off."
"No kidding." I smile despite myself. "She's interesting. They were dancing around, chanting about sex toys like they were summoning a goddamn orgy when I got there."
Jackson cracks up again. "You're fucking kidding me."
"I'm not."
"Jesus Christ. Now I'm curious as a motherfucker, too."
I shoot him a withering look, but he just chuckles again. "Yeah, you fucking like her."
I do, but it doesn't matter. As far as she's concerned, I'm the enemy. We're on opposite sides of this thing. But part of me almost hopes she does come up with the money to make an offer on the building. As Jackson said, it's been a long damn time since anyone fought back.
I want her to fight.
Going up against her for a while would be a nice distraction from the monotony that's become my life.
"I've got that background report on Lilah Davis, and you're never going to believe it," Jackson says, stomping into my office in San Francisco with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his tie undone around his neck. He's got a file folder in his hand and a worried look on his face.
I sit forward in my chair, my heart leaping. If he tells me that she's married, I might start breaking shit. It's been two days since I asked him to look into her, and I've spent every spare second trying to talk myself out of heading back to Santa Maria just to see her again.
Burying myself in work isn't helping. Nothing is.
Every second thought is of the way she lit into me like I was a misogynistic asshole who'd prefer women barefoot and pregnant than reading.
I even dreamed about her last night. She was bent over my desk, telling me off while I drilled into her from behind.
Good times.
Jackson takes his sweet fucking time dropping into the chair across from my desk before he slides the folder across to me.
"Lilah Davis has a degree in library science and worked as a librarian in Nashville before moving here," he says, hitting the highlights.
"Her sister is married to Oliver Goodson, partial owner of Goodson Vineyards. "
"Shit," I mutter. The last thing I need is to have the Goodson family crawling up my ass. They have enough money to be a real problem if they decide to step in. Since their wines were prominently displayed in her store, that's a very real possibility.
"That's not the worst part," Jackson warns me.
"What?" I growl, my jaw ticking.
"Her father is Grant Davis, owner of Davis Financial Group."
"You're fucking kidding me."
"Nope."
"Jesus Christ." I scrub a hand through my hair, then flip open the folder and skim the report he compiled. Sure enough, Lilah Jean Davis is the oldest daughter of Grant and Lily Davis, the same Grant and Lily Davis who own the most prominent financial firm in the south.
Fuck my life. This is a problem. A big goddamn problem. Her dad is one of the wealthiest men in Tennessee, and her brother-in-law co-owns one of the most lucrative vineyards in California. One we do regular business with.
If anyone can afford to place a bid high enough to ensure I don't get the building, she can.
I drum my fingers on the desk, staring at the photo attached to the file. She's so fucking pretty. Her curves were made for my hands. I bet she's soft everywhere, just lush and ripe and…ah, goddammit. I'm hard again.
"You need to strike a deal with her," Jackson advises.
"Otherwise, this could get messy. If her father or brother-in-law gets involved, your reputation could take a hit.
The last thing you need is for them to spin this as you trying to bully a woman-owned business out of the building she leased fair and square. "
"Yeah, I know." I tug on my hair, trying to think. "Have Samson start looking for alternative locations for the complex. And have Deena draw up new building plans."
"She can't draw new plans without an idea of where the building will go," Jackson reminds me. "She needs measurements, topography, property lines, existing features…"
"She's drawing them for the current space, but with a carve-out for Lilah's shop. Tell her to make the whole bottom floor shop space built around Lilah's store."
Jackson's brows climb. "You're going to let her keep her building?"
Am I? A big part of me wants to walk away and let her have it, but investors may not agree. "We need options, just in case," I finally say, unwilling to settle on a course of action right now, not until I know which way the wind is blowing.
He nods, eyeing me sideways. "What are you going to do?"
"Try to talk her down."
"You mean seduce her." Is that disapproval in his voice? Maybe. We've always made it a point never to go after a woman-owned business, not because of the optics, but because it's just a shitty thing to do.
We were both raised by single moms hustling to keep a roof over our heads and food on the table. Most of the donations I make each year go to organizations and groups that support women and women-owned businesses, because that's what my mother would have wanted.
But…this is different. I'm not trying to force her out of business. I just need her to pick a different building. Any different building. I'll pay for the goddamn thing myself, just so long as she moves.
"I can tell by your lack of response that you're considering it," Jackson says with a heavy sigh. "Just…don't be stupid, man. You could sink this company."
"I'm aware," I snap, bristling. I don't need a reminder from him of what's at stake here.
The weight of responsibility rests on my shoulders, morning, noon, and night.
Which is precisely why I can't afford to sit back and hope for the best, not when it's now confirmed that she could easily afford to draw blood in this fight.
Too many jobs are at stake here. And, despite her opinion of me, I'm not an asshole. I don't want to cancel a project people are counting on to feed their families.
I flip her folder closed with a curse, not sure how to play this.
As tempting as seduction sounds—and believe me, it's tempting as hell—I doubt I stand a chance of coaxing her into my bed.
Even if I could, the thought of using sex to get what I want isn't appealing.
That's a line I've never crossed, and I don't intend to start now.
If she comes to my bed, I don't want it to be because I have ulterior motives. I want it to be because she's desperate to know what it feels like to have me all over her. I want it to be because she came of her own free will, not because I played some fucking game to get her there.
And that just isn't going to happen, not when I'm after the building she's willing to chain herself to just to keep.
Fuck my life.
I haul myself to my feet, snatching her folder off the desk. "I'm going to Santa Maria," I growl. "Clear my schedule. I won't be back for a few days."
"You want me to come?"
"Nah. I need you here."
He sighs and then nods. "Be careful, man. Real fucking careful."
"Plan to," I mutter, already stalking toward the door.