Samantha’s head felt as though it was going to explode. The pressure, the pounding, the slightest movement increased the throbbing against her skull. With a soft groan, she pried her eyelids open and squinted in the too-bright room. She didn’t recognize her surroundings, and panic rushed through her, kicking up her heart rate.
As she glanced around, hazy memories of last night finally filtered through her brain, giving her a semblance of relief, which didn’t last long as mortification swept through her aching body. Not only had she had way too many drinks, she’d flirted outrageously with a gorgeous stranger, and had to admit that it’d felt damn good to be a little bad.
She groaned out loud, only to be caught up by a harsher recollection. Her father had completely and t
otally cut her off, just as he’d said he would. The pounding in her skull increased to epic proportions.
Unfortunately, her humiliation wasn’t finished yet. Not only hadn’t she been able to pay her bar bill, she’d burst into tears in front of The Gorgeous One, blabbered about her personal woes, then vomited in spectacular fashion, missing the toilet completely. Then there was the shower, where her savior had stepped in along with her, helping her clean herself up and dress again after. Her utter mortification was complete.
Careful not to jostle her head too much, she gently rolled to her back and slung her arm over her eyes to shield them from the shaft of daylight coming in through the window. She definitely needed a few more minutes to gain her bearings before she attempted to get out of bed. Which gave her too much time to think about her behavior the evening before.
Getting drunk, on any occasion, so wasn’t her. She’d never been a party girl, and she knew her limits when it came to alcohol—one cocktail and no more. Last night, she’d consumed more shots of liquor than she could remember, but they’d all tasted so good, and she’d secretly loved the fact that each drink had a dirty name. At the time, indulging in a few Royal Fucks, Screaming Orgasms, and Blow Jobs had been a fun and harmless way to thumb her nose at all the rules and social norms her parents had placed on her for so long.
But her bold act of rebellion had come at a steep price, because now she had no money, no job, no car, and no place to live. She literally had nothing. She was twenty-six years old and ashamed to admit that everything she owned had been given to her in one form or another. She’d accepted each and every item without complaint, but with her lifestyle came certain expectations that, up to this point, she’d fulfilled like a good, obedient daughter.
She couldn’t live that way anymore. Tucking her tail between her legs like a bad puppy and going back home wasn’t an option. Samantha knew exactly who and what was waiting for her there. More enforced decorum and etiquette, and chastisement and punishment for her defiance. No, thank you. Now that she’d had a small taste of freedom, she wanted to experience more. She wanted to live life on her terms, without restrictions, and she wanted to make her own decisions and mistakes along the way.
She didn’t fool herself into believing that starting over with nothing would be easy, but somehow, she’d find a way to be independent and successful, without her parents’ financial support. She needed to find herself—the woman she was without the confinements and restrictions of home.
But before she could do any of those things, she needed to haul her ass out of bed and face the day. And the hot, sexy man who’d been her savior last night. She might be mortified, but she damn well knew that without him and his kindness, she had no idea where she would have woken up this morning or what might have happened to her in the state she’d gotten herself into.
With effort, she sat up on the edge of the mattress and waited a few seconds for her head to stop spinning. Her queasy stomach growled, reminding her that she was empty inside, and her mouth tasted like… Um, no, she didn’t even want to think about it.
Catching sight of her pearls and wristwatch on the nightstand, she once again counted herself lucky a decent guy had come to her rescue. She checked the time, shocked to realize that it was nearly eleven a.m. She dragged a hand through her hair and winced as her fingers snagged on the tangled strands. Obviously, The Gorgeous One hadn’t used conditioner when he’d scrubbed her hair in the shower, but she was grateful that she at least smelled clean—and quite masculine, considering her skin held traces of a citrusy-fragranced body wash.
Feeling the tug of a smile, she gingerly stood up. The men’s shirt she was wearing fell to mid-thigh, but it was the caress of cool air on her bare sex that brought forth another memory, of being stripped out of her wet bra and panties by very large, warm, capable hands. The man had been nothing short of a gentleman the entire evening, despite the fact she’d draped herself all over him and given him every signal imaginable that she’d be up for more. He hadn’t taken advantage, and for that she was grateful.
She couldn’t remember ever being so flirtatious and shameless with a man, but the alcohol had loosened her inhibitions, and her strong attraction to him, aided by her newfound confidence, had bolstered her courage and encouraged her brazen behavior. Well, the night was over, and she had no choice but to face him, she thought, and made her way to the adjoining bathroom to freshen up.
Considering what she remembered happening in this room the night before, everything was now clean and orderly. She used the facilities, and when she washed her hands, she noticed a brand new toothbrush in its original packaging sitting by the sink. Grateful for his thoughtfulness, she vigorously brushed the fuzziness from her teeth and gargled with the mouthwash on the vanity. When she finally looked in the mirror, the reflection staring back startled the hell out of her.
She looked like the hot mess he’d called her last night. Her normally straight blonde hair was wavy and disheveled—a far cry from the smooth, sleek, silky style that her mother insisted she wear. Any trace of makeup was gone, and her face was scrubbed clean except for the smudge of liner around her eyes.
She had a few makeup items in her handbag, but she had no idea where her purse was. Or her clothes, for that matter, though she did find her bra and panties hanging over the shower rod. They were dry to the touch, and she slipped on her underwear, feeling much better about greeting her white knight while wearing panties. With a deep, fortifying breath to calm the sudden flutter of nervous butterflies in her stomach, she opened the bedroom door, which led directly into a small living room and attached kitchen. The place was incredibly compact and sparsely furnished, and she found him quite easily.
Sitting at a small dining table with four chairs, he was hard to miss. Not because of his size—though he was tall and well built everywhere—but because of his commanding presence that made her very aware of him physically. He watched her from across the room, a speculative look in his gaze. His hair was a rich chocolate brown, his eyes equally dark and intense. Not to mention shrewd and perceptive.
Even from a distance, his discerning gaze made her shiver. Her skin prickled, and her entire body flushed with heat, rendering her breathless. A deep inhale of much-needed oxygen, and her breasts rose beneath the cotton T-shirt she wore. Her sensitive nipples rasped across the material, puckering them into tight, hard points that beaded against the fabric.
Even in the light of day, without the interference of any liquor, her attraction to him was instantaneous and undeniable. Thrilling and unlike anything she’d ever felt or experienced with Harrison…or any other man, for that matter. A sizzling heat settled deep in her belly, and a sudden aching need coiled between her thighs.
Oh, yeah, he was still freakin’ hot.
Judging by the way his gaze lowered ever so slightly and the nearly negligible clench of his jaw, he’d noticed her body’s response. Closing the open laptop on the table in front of him, he lifted his eyes back up to her face, his expression carefully composed.
“Morning,” he murmured in a low, deep voice that was sexier than she remembered. Combined with the dark, rugged scruff on his chiseled jaw, the man was a woman’s sinful fantasy come to life. He had a bit of a bad-boy edge to him that tempted the good girl in her to take a walk on the wild side.
The thought was incredibly inviting.
She tugged absently on the hem of the shirt. “Hi,” she replied as she forced herself to move toward him. She smiled, suddenly feeling shy because the man had literally seen her at her worst.
“Have a seat.” He gestured to the chair across the table from him.
She had no idea what to expect of him, but at least he wasn’t kicking her out right away. When she was settled, he stood up and walked into the kitchen. With his back to her—God, he had a great ass in those soft, worn jeans—he filled a glass of water, then shook out a few pills from a bottle before heading back toward her.
“How are you feeling this morn
ing?” he asked, but considering he set the water and ibuprofen on the table in front of her, he knew exactly how badly she was suffering.
“Better than last night,” she admitted sheepishly. “But my pounding head and sore body are clearly protesting all those drinks I indulged in.”
The faintest hint of amusement twitched the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, you’re definitely a cupcake.”
She recalled him using the term with her a few times. “Why do you keep calling me that?” she asked, right before she tossed all four tablets into her mouth and washed them down with most of the water, which tasted delicious sliding along her parched throat.
“Because you’re a lightweight and can’t handle your liquor.”
She couldn’t even be offended by his statement, because it was the truth.
He grabbed the mug from his end of the table and returned to the kitchen. “Want some coffee?” he asked as he refilled his own cup.
She wasn’t sure that coffee would help her hangover, but hopefully the caffeine would give her a much-needed jolt of energy to figure out her next plan of action. “Sure. With cream if you have it.”
He moved around the kitchen for a few minutes, and something to Samantha’s left caught her attention. She glanced over and found a gray-striped cat sitting on the nearby windowsill, lazily licking its paw and cleaning its face. At first she thought one of its eyes was closed, then realized that the socket had been sealed shut and the feline was missing an eye.
“Here you go,” he said, placing the mug down, along with a plate with dry toast on it. “You need something in your stomach.”
He sounded and acted as though he’d done this a time or two, or more. “Thank you…” Her words trailed off because they’d never been formally introduced. “I don’t even know your name.” Though he somehow knew hers, because he’d used it last night.
“It’s Clay.” He leaned back in his seat and took a drink of his steaming coffee. “Clay Kincaid.”
Kincaid matched the name of the place the cab driver had dropped her off at. “So, the bar is yours?”
“Yes.”
He wasn’t much of a conversationalist, but what did she expect? It wasn’t as though they had some kind of relationship and he’d invited her to spend the night. She picked at her toast and took small bites while searching for something to fill the awkward silence between them.
“How did your cat lose its eye?” she asked curiously.
“I found her behind the bar when she was just a kitten,” he said as he glanced at the feline with a fond smile. “She was scrawny as hell, full of fleas and mites and eating bugs to survive, and her left eye was badly infected. I’m not sure what caused the wound, but I took her to the vet, and they had no choice but to remove the eye and stitch it shut.”
The fact that this man had rescued such a helpless creature made Samantha even more infatuated with him. “And you kept her.”
“She needed a home.”
He shrugged as if it were no big deal, but she knew he could have taken the cat to a shelter and not spent the money on an expensive operation to save the weak and defenseless animal. But she was quickly coming to realize that Clay Kincaid was a man who took care of people, and things—just as he’d come to her rescue last night.
“What’s her name?” she asked, and took a drink of her coffee.
“Xena.”
Samantha grinned. “Because she’s a warrior?”
He nodded. “And a survivor.”
As if the cat knew they were talking about her, she jumped down from the windowsill and scampered over to Clay’s chair and meowed. Without hesitating, he reached down, scooped her up, and settled the feline on his lap. Xena rubbed up against his chest affectionately, and shamelessly head-butted his hand for him to pet her, which Clay did. Within seconds, the cat was purring contentedly.
Samantha ate the last of her toast as she watched Clay’s big, strong hand stroke along Xena’s spine in a slow, soft caress that made her jealous of the cat and made her wonder what it would feel like to have Clay’s palm sliding over her body and his fingers touching her so attentively. The seductive image in her mind made her shift restlessly in her seat, and she forced her thoughts to a much safer topic. Like apologizing for her uncharacteristic behavior the evening before.
She cleared her throat, which caused him to shift his attention from Xena to Samantha’s face. His dark gaze focused on her mouth longer than was polite or casual, then lifted to her eyes. There was enough heat in the depths of those brown orbs to tell her that this crazy fascination she felt toward him was mutual, even if he was better at keeping his attraction under control.
Samantha absently licked her bottom lip and spoke while she still had his attention. “Clay…I’m really sorry about last night.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Which part?”
She couldn’t tell if he was teasing or not, he was that good at keeping his emotions concealed. “All of it, but especially about getting sick, and you having to deal with me staying here at your place because I had nowhere else to go.”
He continued to pet Xena, who was now curled on his lap, with her furry tail wrapped around his wrist. “Where are you going to go this morning?”
“I…I don’t know,” she replied honestly. She hadn’t thought beyond leaving her parents’ estate and escaping their rules and expectations, and she didn’t feel any differently this morning. “But I’m not going back home.”
A frown formed, and concern flashed in his eyes. “Samantha, are you in some kind of trouble?” His voice was low and deep and direct. “Last night you said something about your father cutting you off, and that you got rid of your cell phone because you didn’t want him to find you.”
She cringed. Yeah, that sounded bad. Really bad. She wasn’t in a dangerous kind of trouble, but considering everything Clay had done for her this far, she owed him the truth. She wanted him to know the truth, because she desperately needed to talk to someone about her predicament. She had a few girlfriends, but none of them would understand her reasons for leaving home and turning her back on such a luxurious life, and they would criticize her for refusing to marry a successful man like Harrison even though they didn’t love one another. She’d learned last night that love didn’t factor into business mergers.
The life Samantha had walked away from was so superficial and one-dimensional, and it wasn’t a world in which she wanted to live in any longer. It was a scary thought, being alone and on her own, in a rougher part of the city, without any money or a place to live, but there was no doubt in her mind that the alternative—heading home and accepting Harrison’s proposal—would eventually destroy her.
Which meant she needed Clay’s help.
Patience wasn’t one of Clay’s strongest traits, but persistence was. Right now, he was straddling the line between the two as he waited for Samantha to answer the question he’d asked about her being in some kind of trouble, because that was his main concern. If she was facing some kind of threat, he’d make sure she had help and support. His brother Levi was a cop, and sometimes having a sibling in law enforcement came in handy. Though Mason, the delinquent in the family who’d spent most of his youth breaking the law, would beg to differ.
From across the table, he continued to watch Samantha struggle with some kind of internal battle, and quietly let her sort things out in her head. She’d trusted him with her welfare and care last night, although, in truth, she’d been too drunk to do much of anything except let him have his way. He clenched his jaw at the thought of what could have happened to her if anyone but him had found her in such an inebriated, defenseless state. Still, he hoped she’d come to the conclusion that she could trust him now, so he could make sure she remained safe.
After a few more moments, she exhaled a deep breath, met his gaze, and spoke. “I’m not running from trouble, and I’m not in any danger. But it’s true that I don’t want my father to find me.”
It was a start, at least. “Why not?”
“Have you ever heard of Jamieson Global?” she asked quietly.
He nodded. Jamieson Global was a huge conglomerate and one of the biggest, most well-known investment firms in Chicago. He didn’t know the business on a personal level, but the name was familiar enough to most people who lived in or near the city.
In the next second, realization dawned as he made the connection…Samantha Jamieson.
Fuck. He stared at her in shock, feeling as though someone had just punked him. Even Xena, sensing the sudden tension stiffening his body, jumped off his lap.
The moment he’d seen Samantha in the bar, he’d suspected that she came from an affluent family, but holy shit, this propelled her into another stratosphere of wealth. The kind that was untouchable and way out his realm and the modest life he lived. A woman like her had absolutely no business being on his side of town.
“Yes, that Jamieson,” she confirmed, taking advantage of his stunned silence. “I found out last night that my father expects me to marry the man I’ve been dating for the past eight months. His name is Harrison Blackwell III, and my father has been grooming him for the CEO position, which apparently comes with the stipulation that Harrison marries me so the company stays in the family.”
Her blue eyes blazed with indignant anger, though Clay wasn’t sure what, exactly, the issue was, considering she’d been seeing the guy for a good length of time. It wasn’t as though the dude was a stranger. “Are you upset that he’ll be marrying you for the promotion and to keep your father’s company in the family?” he guessed.
She sat up straighter, her pretty pink lips pursed in exasperation. “No, I’m furious that my father is demanding I marry a man I don’t love!”
“Demanding?” The notion seemed so archaic to him, and he couldn’t tell if she was being dramatic or not.
“Yes, demanding. As in, not giving me a choice in the matter and expecting me to fall in line with his wishes and do as I’m told,” she said, her chin jutting out stubbornly. “Being the daughter of Conrad Jamieson comes with certain obligations, and one of them is obviously an arranged marriage I have no desire to be a part of.”
Her chest heaved with frustration, and Clay couldn’t say that he minded the slight trembling of her unbound breasts beneath the T-shirt. She had great tits, generous and full enough to squeeze in his hands or cushion his thick cock as he tunneled his shaft between that soft flesh. Yeah, he’d spent the better part of last night tossing and turning on his couch, fantasizing about all the dirty, filthy ways he’d like to fuck her. The way her nipples would taste in his mouth, the feel of her long, gorgeous legs clutching around his hips as she came on a soft, sweet moan…
“I won’t let anyone dictate who I spend the rest of my life with,” she said, clearing those distracting thoughts from Clay’s mind. “Especially not my father.”
He forced his gaze to remain on her face. “So, you ran away from home?” he said, his tone light and teasing.
“Yes,” she said, suddenly looking defeated. “I’m twenty-six years old, and that sounds so…juvenile. And yet it’s one hundred percent accurate.” Sighing, she combed her fingers through her wavy hair and winced as they caught on the still-tangled strands. “I’m embarrassed to admit that I’ve relied on my parents for everything.” She didn’t meet his gaze. “Honestly, I should have left a long time ago, and I hate that I’ve let them run my life for this long.”
His coffee had gone cold, and he absently traced a finger around the rim of his cup. “So, now that you’ve left home, what do you intend to do?”
“I didn’t have a plan beyond getting away,” she admitted, then worried her teeth along her lower lip as her serious gaze met and held his. “I still don’t. And I know this is more than I have a right to ask…but can I stay here until I can figure things out?” she asked quickly, the words tumbling from her lush lips. “I won’t be in your way. I can sleep on the couch, and I swear you won’t even know I’m around.”
Oh, fuck no. This woman was already wreaking havoc on his self-control. He couldn’t imagine her crashing in this tiny apartment, filling it with her scent, using his shower, tempting him with her mere presence.
But before he could nix her idea, she quickly continued on.
“My father did cut me off. Completely. I have no money, no place to stay, and I can’t even pay for a hotel room or a meal.” She winced in embarrassment, and her hands fidgeted in her lap before she set them back on the table. “Obviously, I didn’t think things through last night, but I don’t regret leaving home, and I’m determined to make it on my own. I can work at your bar to make some money until I save enough to find a place of my own, which shouldn’t take long. Please?” She raised those big eyes to him.
Was she fucking kidding? No, the look in her wide blue eyes was completely serious and so damned determined. A part of him admired that fortitude of hers, but one look at her perfectly manicured fingernails and the soft skin on her pampered hands, and he knew she was the last person he’d ever hire to work in his bar. Within a few hours, her hands would be chapped and dry, her nails chipped, and her uncalloused feet would be screaming for relief.
She’d be an entertaining novelty to all his regular customers, and with all that wavy blonde hair, those big, guileless blue eyes, and her killer curves, she’d pose a major distraction to every man who entered the bar. As the new girl, she’d be the focus of rude comments and bold, assertive hands that wouldn’t hesitate to test her limits.
The younger crowd at Kincaid’s was rowdy, mouthy, and after a few drinks too many, they were assholes who didn’t give a shit that Clay had a hands-off policy when it came to the women who worked for him. Tara and his other bar waitresses could handle the more aggressive advances. But Samantha? She’d be like fresh, tasty meat to a tank full of hungry sharks. She’d never survive.
She really needed to go home. “Samantha, I don’t think—”
“Clay, please,” she interrupted him before he could say no, her voice as soft and pleading as the look in her eyes. “I just need someone to give me the chance to prove myself.”
And she was asking for that someone to be him.
He scrubbed a hand down his face and along his taut jaw. Her words were an echo from Clay’s own past, hitting him where he was the most emotionally susceptible. Please, Jerry, just give me the chance to show you what a hard worker I am, a teenaged Clay had begged. I swear, you won’t be sorry.
Jerry had given him that chance, had believed in him—the bastard child of a known crack whore—when no one else would. And that one kind gesture had completely changed Clay’s, and his brothers’, lives.
He didn’t believe a job in his bar would alter Samantha’s life in quite the same way, but he understood how difficult it was to ask someone for help when you were at your lowest. And for Samantha, this was rock bottom.
His gut told him he was about to make a monumental mistake in aiding this woman, but considering how resolute she was, he didn’t doubt that if he made her leave, she’d try and find some kind of work elsewhere, and there was no telling who would try and take advantage of her. And where would she live with no money or credit cards that worked? No phone or vehicle? Who would make sure that she stayed safe in this rough area of town?
Fuck. His Goddamn conscience wouldn’t allow him to turn her away and leave her to her own devices. A woman like her, who’d grown up in the lap of luxury, hadn’t spent her youth honing her survival instincts like he and his two younger brothers had. She was too vulnerable, too defenseless, and too trusting. And there were too many people out in the world who wouldn’t think twice about exploiting her naiveté.
He was going to let her live in his apartment and work in the bar for the sole reason of being able to keep an eye on her so she stayed safe. There was no doubt in his mind that Samantha wouldn’t last long in this environment. Maybe a few days before she realized that this kind of life was tough and unglamorous, that working for a living was hard, strenuous, and exhausting, and marrying a wealthy CEO in her own social circle—love or no love—was exactly what she wanted, after all. In this case, she’d quickly discover that the grass was not greener on the other side of the city, and she’d be happy to return to her rich life.
“Okay,” he said evenly as he leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest. “Consider yourself hired as a bar waitress. You start tonight. And you can stay here until you save enough to get your own place.”
He took in the T-shirt she wore, reminding him that her soiled silk top and pants were still on his washing machine because they’d had a dry clean only tag inside each garment. She needed practical clothes, and jeans and comfortable shoes to work in since she’d be on her feet for hours.
“I’ll call my brother’s best friend, Katrina, who can take you shopping for some clothes and toiletries.”
The gratitude shining in her eyes was unmistakable. “I’ll pay you back. For everything.”
He wasn’t worried about being reimbursed. He had more money than he’d ever spend in his lifetime, thanks to Jerry. His only concern was putting Samantha to work, because the sooner she experienced hard labor, the sooner she’d be on her way back home and his life could get back to normal. Which would also put an end to the fascination she presented.
Figuring they were done, he stood up, grabbed his coffee mug, and walked into the kitchen. He heard her following behind him, her bare feet padding on the hardwood floor. She set her plate and cup in the sink, then turned to face him. She took a deliberate step closer, her tongue nervously dampening her bottom lip, and the attraction and sexual tension he’d managed to keep at bay all morning flared inside of him.
The appreciation in her gaze was now gone, replaced by a feminine curiosity, and something a whole lot more tempting. Daring, even. He stood sti
ll, unsure what she intended, but he didn’t have to wait long to find out. She splayed her hands on his chest, and even through the soft cotton of his shirt, her touch felt warm and far more confident than it should have.
Anticipation and heat saturated his senses, making rational thinking nearly impossible as his body responded to her slow, subtle seduction. A dangerous ache coiled between his legs, and if she shifted any closer, she was going to get acquainted with the stiffening length of his cock.
Her eyes held his as she stood up on her bare tiptoes, and with her lips less than an inch away from his, she whispered, “Thank you, Clay,” right before she brushed her mouth across his and kissed him.
