do nothing to dull the irritation searing the nape of my neck.
Doesn’t matter. I’m not smoking to calm down, I’m smoking to procrastinate. Wiping mist from my jaw, I suck in a lungful of chemicals no worse for me than a red-head moaning into my palm, and exhale them toward the denim horizon.
I’m annoyed for a million reasons, only half of them rational, and only one that needs my immediate attention.
I tug Blake’s cheap wallet out of my back pocket, flick it open, and sneer at his driver’s license photo. It was lying at the bottom of the spiral staircase, no doubt from where Penelope tossed it. There was nothing left in it except a prepaid credit card and a condom.
As I flick it into the sea, the impulsive thought simmering at the back of my brain still lingers: I should throw him in with it. That’s why I’m going after Penelope and not him right now. Embarrassingly enough, I can’t say I wouldn’t shove my Glock in his slimy-ass mouth if I did.
Images of Penelope on her fucking tippy-toes, gazing up at my newest recruit like laying one on him was at the very top of her bucket list, burns bright behind my retinas. The way my hand had twitched toward my gun was wild, and for a moment, I had a glimpse of what it must be like living in Angelo or Gabe’s head, where violence follows impulsion and consequences are a foreign concept.
I already knew she was a dirty little thief, but now I know it’s worse than I thought—she’s good at it. Well-seasoned. If I was in my early twenties and still chased trouble, I’d be losing my mind at the sight of it. And although I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little impressed, and more than a little turned on, I’m running a business, not a juvenile detention center.
I drop my head against the side of the yacht. Slide another cigarette out of the carton and bring my Zippo to the tip.
No. I snuff out the flame with a flick of my wrist. If I smoke one more cigarette, she might have put her dress back on.
Below deck, the faint hum of a hairdryer seeps under the locker room door. Galvanizing my self-control, I push it open and stride down the row of lockers toward the sinks.
I slow to a stop. Drag my hand over my throat. Greasy burgers, weed, Sunday morning lie-ins. Just because I crave things that are bad for me, it doesn’t mean I give in to them. I should have applied the same hard-and-fast rule to seeing Penelope in her underwear and tights, because that’s the epitome of bad for me. As I slow to a stop behind her, the weight of a bad decision throbs inside my slacks.
Christ. The last time I saw her like this, I went on to sit behind my desk with a rock-solid erection I refused to relieve, and almost managed to convince myself that it simply wasn’t real. That nine whiskeys had romanticized my memory of her next-to-naked.
Unfortunately, as I roll a heavy gaze over the curve of her ass, the paleness of her skin, and the outline of her thong shaded by her tights, I realize it was wishful thinking. She doesn’t flinch when I enter the room and it both turns me on and pisses me off. I wonder; would she still stand there in her panties with that indifference carved into her face if it was one of my men who’d strolled in here?
I steal another glance at her ass. Confirmed: she wears thongs. Unconfirmed: whether they’re lacy like her bra. Whether I could rip them off with my teeth.
The buzz of the hairdryer stops. I lift my attention to the spotlights in the ceiling and run a finger over my pin collar. A slow, deep breath, and only then can I feign enough nonchalance not to look like a pervert.
She meets my gaze in the mirror. “You know, in a conventional workplace, a boss following their employee into the locker room would be considered sexual harassment.”
My dry laugh doesn’t tilt my lips. “In case you haven’t noticed, this isn’t a conventional workplace.”
Her eyes spark with amusement. “Do you pay taxes?”
I glance at the bills peeking out of her bra cup. “Do you?”
When she laughs, a delicate flush stains her neck, and despite the fact that both the sight and the sound of her hum like a live wire down the length of my dick, I don’t return her smile.
Draping her dress over her arm, she pushes off the sink and saunters toward the cubicles behind me. “Touché, boss.”
Impulsion. Violence. Her sass falls off a cliff because I can’t stop myself shooting out a hand and hooking a finger into the waistband of her tights. She wobbles to a stop, and her next breath fizzles through the part of her mouth.
My cock pulsates to the rhythm of a dripping shower head.
“What did I tell you about calling me boss when half-naked, Penelope?”
Her gulp stokes the flames of my annoyance. Only when I’d acted on it, did I realize the sight of her was pissing me off. Bending over the counter, prancing around with a bounce in her step. She knew exactly what she was doing and has made it near-impossible to be serious with her.
I’m a dirty hypocrite; I know. I purposely smoked a single cigarette to make sure I caught her half-dressed. Besides, deep down I’m more pissed with myself than with her, because if I’m fooled by the way her body moves and the way her laugh sounds, then I’m no better than my lackey.
Despite the heat of her soft hip burning between my first and second knuckles, I regain enough composure to look at her. “Tell me, where did you learn to be such a dirty little thief?”
Her eyes widen. “What?”
“I saw what you did to Blake. What did I tell you, Penelope? You want to work here, you have to be a lady. I said no more grifting, no more stolen dresses. I’d have added no more stealing wallets to that list if I’d known you were into that shit.” My mood darkens a shade. “What are you, feral?”
She glances down at my hand, as if only now realizing I have her hooked like a fish on a line, and she didn’t stop by my side on her own accord.
When her blue eyes come back to mine, they’re wide and soft around the edges.
I’m more sadistic that I thought. Only the tiniest flare of vulnerability reminds me that she’s five-foot-nothing and wouldn’t make it farther than the lockers if I decided she wouldn’t. Just like she wouldn’t have made it out of the phone booth if I hadn’t stepped aside.
This girl may look the part, and my business might be falling to shit, but she could never be my Queen of Hearts. Her quick mouth, sticky hands, and hard stare are annoying, but they couldn’t bring me to my knees. I’d snuff the life out of her before I let them.
One day, she’ll play her games on a man that isn’t as…sportsmanlike as me, and they’ll do just that. The thought slides a sheet of unease under my skin.
“Answer my question.” My tone has lost its edge. “Where did you learn to pick a pocket like that?”
Hot, shallow breaths leave her lips and graze my throat. Curling my free hand into a fist around my poker chip in my slacks, I tear my gaze from hers in an attempt to thin the air. She’s too naked for this.
As I’m glaring at Laurie’s locker behind Penelope’s head, her soft voice touches my ears, its contents as unexpected as its tone.
“I’m trying,” she whispers.
My eyes skim to hers, and dammit, I wish I hadn’t looked, because I don’t find the sarcasm I was expecting. Instead, her face is flushed a pretty pink and her bottom lip sticks out. I shouldn’t know how it feels to run my thumb over it. Shouldn’t want to do it again, either.
“Trying?”
“To stop with the whole swindling thing. You were supposed to be my last…”
My eyes slant on hers as her sentence trails off. Gritting my teeth, I say coldly, “Call me a mark, Penelope, and it’ll be the last word that comes out of your mouth.”
She flashes me a lop-sided smirk. “Target, then.”
I snap the waistband of her tights, hard, in an attempt to shock her. More fool me—the moan that escapes her lips tugs on the tip of my cock. I dig my finger back in, deeper this time, a darkness filling me as my fingertip grazes the band of her thong.
Dead parents, bratty behavior. That’s a recipe for a sinner if I’ve ever seen one. What I’d do to sink my teeth into that dough-like skin and taste those sins of hers. To pull on her red ponytail and relish in every confession she makes against my pillow as I fuck her from behind.
Lust crawls under my skin like an itch I can’t scratch. I clear my throat, trying—and failing—to ignore the heat of her gaze shining up at me.
This is ridiculous. That’s what I thought earlier too, when I left the jet ski garage a hundred bucks lighter. This girl has a way of luring me into quiet places and sending me into so much of a spin I forget where the exit is.
Being a dick is the only way I know how to stand up straight around her.
“Try harder,” I grind out. I drag my finger out of her tights again, and the satisfying snap of elastic reminds me of the crack of a belt. “Keep your sticky fingers to yourself, Penelope.”
“Yes, boss—”
I grip her jaw rougher than I intend. I’m too worked up, too hot, to feel any regret. “Don’t get smart with me. Blake’s an easy target: dumb as a bag of rocks. You won’t get away so easily if you try that shit on anyone with half a brain and a Glock in their waistband.”
She frowns, her jaw muscle flexing against my thumb pad in defiance. “Bet I could.”
I stare at those lips a beat too long. Bet I could. Christ, I’ve known her for a week and she already knows what buzzwords will dig her red fingernails under my skin. Years of conditioning makes it instinctive to bite back with a wager, but, in the interest of being professional, I clamp my mouth shut and drag my hand away from her face.
I take a step back and flex my fist. Stride toward the exit. I don’t intend on stopping until I’m in the darkness of my office, where the heat of her skin and the scent of her strawberry shampoo can’t mar my restraint, but her voice comes in a low, sultry rasp, my name wrapped within it.
My stomach tightens. I turn and look at her face. Her stupid, pretty face, punctuated with features that make men do silly things, like follow her into locker rooms knowing she’ll be in pantyhose and lace.
“If Blake’s an easy target, what does that make you?” She pulls a wallet out from under her dress.
Son of a bitch.
She holds it up like a trophy, and the initials RV glint in gold under the spotlights. My own name, taunting me with how fucking complacent I’ve become.
With a lazy smirk, she flips open my wallet and peers inside. She tugs out a hundred-dollar bill and slides it into her bra.
“That’s for winning the bet.” She pulls out another hundred. “Plus VAT.” She cocks her head in thought, then pulls out another. “Plus tip.”
I watch in dark amusement as she tosses my wallet onto the bench and flashes me a sickly sweet smile. “Pleasure doing business with you, boss.”
She slinks off into a cubicle, leaving me with an unwanted thrill under my skin and the threat of a hard-on in my pants.
I bite out a laugh.
This girl isn’t the Queen of Hearts, but the Devil in disguise.
Unfortunately, I can’t say for sure I wouldn’t follow her into hell.
