House Of Payne: Scout (7 page)

“Then…” To her shock, her heart thundered so hard it stole her breath, something that had never happened to her while not running on a treadmill. Then again, she’d never been told that she made a man burn. “Why the hasty retreat to your car?”

He gave her a look that told her he didn’t know whether to be baffled by the question or impatient. “How else am I to get us to the nearest bed, which would be my place? I was hoping you would follow me there.”

Relief flowed through her so hard it nearly doubled her over. Instead she laughed and put a hand to her brow. “So… oh, geez Louise, you really
are
too sophisticated for parking lot sex. I should’ve known.”

There was a beat of silence. “Do you expect me to fuck a magnificent work of art like you right
here
, as if you were nothing more than a cheap piece of ass bought off the street?”

Surprised delight swelled inside her until she could barely breathe. “Um… kind of.”

He shook his head as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You need to get to know me better, I think. Banging you in a parking lot is unworthy of both of us. Unless,” he added with a sudden, interested edge to his voice, “this is what you want? I am open, always, to expanding my horizons when it comes to new experiences.”

“Spontaneity is usually a good thing.” For right now, though, all she wanted to do was bask in the glow of knowing he believed she was worthy of first-class treatment. “I think you’re right. I do need to get to know you better before we take that next step. I’m apparently having lunch with Sass tomorrow, but I’m free after that if you’re interested in exploring that next step.”

“Sass. Scout. Trouble.” He shook his head, then frowned as if a thought just occurred to him. “So a nickname in your world is a term of endearment, not an insult, yes?”

“Of course it’s a term of endearment.” She sucked in a sharp breath, horrified he’d thought she’d been insulting him when she called him Trouble. Then her brain did a quick double-take, and she examined his words more closely. “Wait. Who was it who made you think a nickname should be thought of as an insult?”

His eyes went that familiar blank so quickly it made her blink. “It was just confusion on my part,
ma fleur
. I have difficulty translating some Americanisms in my head. I am pleased you chose to gift me with a term of endearment.”

“If it bothers you—”

“I like it, because it comes from you.” And the warm smile he gave her, free of any kind of camouflage, convinced her that he was telling the truth. “Do not make any plans with your friend Sass after lunch tomorrow, my Scout. I will allow her to have you for an hour, but one hour only. After that, you are
mine
.”

Chapter Seven

Ivar’s scowl was as black as his mood as he pushed through the door to his apartment. He tried to blame the rage churning in his chest on unfulfilled lust. His cock still throbbed and his balls felt swollen to the point where every step was an opportunity to wince. That would put anyone in a vicious mood. But deep down he knew that wasn’t what had him so pissed off.

God, he fucking
hated
his monstrous self. Hated, because he hadn’t told her everything the moment he saw her this evening, like he’d planned. One second, he was headed toward Scout, gearing himself up to lay it all out before her and let the chips fall where they may. The next, he was Shanghaied into going to some party.

And the next moment after that, he was dooming himself with the greatest kiss he’d ever known.

It had all happened so fast, his head was still swimming.

Tight-lipped, he tossed his keys into a bowl beside the door, trying to find calm in the monotony of routine. But routine couldn’t wipe out what he’d just experienced. What he’d
done
. He’d come to Chicago for one purpose only—to find answers. Nothing more. He hadn’t come to live a lie. His life seemed to be full of lies already and he wanted no part of that disgusting game.

And he sure as hell hadn’t come to Chicago to seduce anyone, much less Scout Upton. From the moment Marcel Dubois mentioned her name in connection with Frank Bournival, all he’d wanted to do was use his ability of reading a person’s eyes to see what he was dealing with. That was all. In his mind, the plan had been so simple—look into her eyes to see if she was a hardcore mercenary who had no moral hang-ups about fucking a dying old man just so she could gain monetarily from it. Then, if necessary, appeal to that mercenary part of her by paying whatever the fuck she wanted so he could get his hands on whatever papers Frank Bournival had left behind, if any.

Before he’d hit Chicago, it had seemed so simple.

Then he’d seen her in that tight purple skirt that made her ass look like it had antigravity properties, and he’d gone right the fuck downhill.

To an extent, he’d achieved his goal of getting a read on Scout, because he’d learned about her life. If he looked objectively at the deprived, awful existence of her childhood, he could easily understand how she’d want to grab for all the material stability she could. God knew he couldn’t blame her for it. He’d come from much the same background and had whored himself countless times to get where he was. It had been a matter of survival, and hell, he’d even enjoyed aspects of it. The possibility of Scout doing the same thing to land in the penthouse wouldn’t have made him think twice if it weren’t for Marcel Dubois insisting she held the key to all the answers he was looking for.

Answers she might not want to give to him if she knew he had a connection to her benefactor, the deceased Frank Bournival.

Without conscious thought, he found himself at the balcony’s sliding door, Nikon in hand, the telephoto lens attached. Lifting it, he scanned the lofty roofline of the high-rise further up the lakeshore with practiced ease. As always, he found the darkened windows of Scout’s penthouse after only a few seconds, and knew it wouldn’t be long before the lights flared on. If she’d followed him to his place, they would no doubt already be working their way toward the bedroom. Or maybe not even that, since she’d been ready to wrap those long legs around him right there in a parking lot.

No, he decided, adjusting the focus on her darkened windows. They wouldn’t have made it to the bedroom if she were there with him now. They’d be on the floor at this very moment. Clothes would be strewn in a trail behind them as he buried himself into her wet heat, losing himself in the sensation of her tight depths squeezing him until he shattered…

The heaviness in his balls reached painful levels, and he had to bend over slightly to relieve the pressure. But he didn’t stop looking for a glimpse of her from the lens.

Idiot.

He shouldn’t have kissed her. The situation was complicated enough. Throwing in a hot and heavy kiss on top of everything else was like throwing a match into an open vat of gasoline. It was counterproductive—not to mention stupid as fuck—to seduce a woman while being in her life under false pretenses. That was no way to win her trust, and it sure as hell was no way to get what he wanted.

And that was another problem right there. The focus of what he wanted had now shifted. Instead of concentrating on what brought him to Chicago in the first place, what he wanted more than anything at that moment was another kiss from Scout.

No.

That was a lie.

What he
really
wanted was to find out if fucking her was as mind-blowing as kissing her. And instead of wanting to tell her his story from start to finish, like he’d planned to do earlier that evening, he was now fine with her never knowing that a lie had brought him into her life.

For a moment he closed her eyes. His grandmother was right. He really was a monster.

“
Bon soir
, Ivar.”

“Maceio.” Ivar didn’t jump, or drop the camera from his face. His assistant had seen him watching Scout countless times these past several weeks, so getting caught now was no big deal. “I thought I made it clear that you didn’t have to hang out here tonight.”

“I was up, so I thought I’d come over and keep you company.”

Maceio’s French carried the Moroccan accent of his homeland, giving it an exotic flair to Ivar’s ears. In all honesty, he hadn’t really wanted his assistant along for the ride of this highly personal mission he was on. Maceio, however, had insisted he needed all the support he could get. While Ivar was grateful for the show of unity, at the moment all he wanted was to be alone and relive a kiss that shouldn’t have happened.

“She’s not home yet.” He did the mental math and narrowed his eyes at the dark windows, trying to will the lights to come on. “She should be home by now. Maybe I should call her. You know, to see if everything’s okay.”

He heard Maceio move closer. “I’ve been thinking about this. Instead of focusing on Frank Bournival—a man who’s dead, for God’s sake—wouldn’t it make more sense to simply approach your mother for answers?”

“I can’t, Maceio. How many times must I tell you this?”

“But, so much time has passed—”

“The last time I tried to see Eliane Fournier, that act alone was enough to make her try to kill herself—and she nearly succeeded.” He forced himself to say the words, the shameful truth that sickened him all the way to his soul. “In her eyes, I’m an abomination. That’s never going to change, no matter how much time passes.”

“You didn’t ask to be born.”

“So what? That doesn’t change the fact that I
was
born, and born a monster. But I refuse to act like one and once again try to force my existence on that broken woman. Thankfully I don’t have to, now that there’s another way to get to the truth.”

“Through Scout Upton.”

“Yes. Through Scout Upton.” Light suddenly bloomed in the penthouse, and he saw Scout sashay into view in that hot, skintight dress that made him hard all over again. “Ah, yes. There she is. About damn time. I was beginning to worry.”

“Were you?” Maceio came to stand directly behind him, and as he watched Scout reach for the dress’s zipper at her back, he was damn glad he was the only one with a telephoto lens. “You’re not beginning to care for this woman, are you?”

He didn’t care for the hint of accusation in the other man’s tone. “I never had a mother while growing up. Maceio. I sure as hell don’t need one now.”

“From what Bournival’s assistant told you, that Upton woman is nothing but a cutthroat gold-digger,” his assistant said, ignoring him. “If she even thinks you might be after something of Bournival’s, she’ll do one of two things—either cover up everything she did to get her hands on Bournival’s property, ensuring that you’ll never get anything from her. Or she’ll hold whatever items of Bournival’s she might have for ransom, like the mercenary she is. She could bleed you dry if she gets even a hint of how desperate you are for answers.”

“I don’t think she’s like what Marcel Dubois said she was.” He adjusted the focus, frustrated when things went fuzzy just as she shimmied her shoulders. Then the view crystallized as the wisp of white with cherries all over it fell to the floor.

Oh…
baby
.

“Ivar, Dubois approached you of his own free will, then refused to take money from you. To me, that makes his behavior above reproach. Why would Bournival’s assistant lie about the nasty piece of work that this Scout Upton is underneath her public façade?”

“Uh-huh. Public façade.” He was definitely underneath whatever façade she showed now, he thought as his flesh tightened so sweetly he had to bite his lip to keep from groaning. He’d photographed countless women in bathing suits, lingerie and in the nude, but none of them had the curves Scout had. Her nipped-in waist was emphasized by an old-fashioned lacy garter belt that clipped to honest-to-God stockings.

Who the hell wore stockings? His Scout, that’s who.

She wore them because she knew how to be a woman. She fucking
reveled
in it.

God, that was sexy.

“If you’re worrying about that woman’s wellbeing, then that means you’re starting to care about her. Considering what Dubois said she was, you might want to think about backing off.”

Her breasts were outstanding. Really, there was no other word that could be used. He’d thought that her best feature was her ass, but now he had to second-guess himself. Those voluptuous globes all but overflowed the push-up bra she wore, a sturdy creation that elevated all that lusciousness, so that the tops of her breasts pillowed out to create the world’s best cleavage.

If he didn’t get a chance to bury his face in all that feminine lushness, he’d lose his mind. He was sure of it.

As she bent to swipe the dress off the floor, he caught a glimpse of what he thought might be a dandelion decorating her ribs, but he couldn’t be sure. He’d have to get a much closer look to figure out what it was, but he wouldn’t be surprised. Dandelions were her first and favorite flower, and while the rest of the world loathed the common little weeds, she treasured them with her whole heart.

There was something deeply beautiful about that.

“All right, if you’re not going to pay attention to me on that subject, let’s try another. You have messages.”

At last, some of Maceio’s words trickled in. Probably because Scout was walking into the depths of the penthouse and out of view. With a mournful sigh, he lowered the camera to glance at his assistant. Maceio was arguably more beautiful to look at than any male model currently on the scene, but being put on display had never been his thing. He had a brain and a hunger to use it, and there was no doubt in Ivar’s mind that he would one day start up the greatest modeling agency the world would ever see. But for now, Maceio was content to learn every possible facet of the fashion world while getting paid a tidy sum for both his exclusivity and discretion. “What about messages?”

“You should know that there was one for me and several for you, including three from Estelle, and they seem to be the most urgent. Understandably she was reluctant to bother you when I told her that you had gone to see Scout Upton, and hadn’t returned.”

In the process of loosening his tie, Ivar stilled. “And
your
message?”

The contempt that curled Maceio’s mouth was impossible to miss. “Your grandmother is, as ever, a cold and bigoted snob. Somehow I thought her stroke would’ve changed her, but she’s still the same. Just a little harder to understand.”

“Evil never changes.”

“Sadly, Lady Albertine is living proof of that. She might be paying me a king’s ransom to spy on you, Ivar, but nothing is worth putting up with her poison.”

“Too bad that fucking stroke didn’t wipe her out, but you know what they say—only the good die young.” Ivar didn’t bother to stifle the bitter disgust. “For what it’s worth, I apologize for every offensive word that troll utters, Maceio. I thought when I hired you that you’d be the one assistant she wouldn’t try to buy off, as she loathes both gays and foreigners. But her hatred of me surpasses even her hatred of those she deems as beneath her station.”

“At least you warned me that the battle ax might approach me. I’m just proud I’m the one assistant you’ve trusted enough to keep, when so many others before me failed you.” Then he grimaced. “But you should know, I’m not sure things are going as well as they used to.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m starting to feel like Lady Albertine suspects we’re playing her.”

“What makes you say that?”

“It’s like… I don’t know.” Maceio shook his dark head, and a shadow of worry hovered just behind his eyes. “I’m getting a strange vibe from her, and I don’t think it’s because of her stroke. She doesn’t seem to be satisfied with the shit I’ve been feeding her like she has been in the past. For instance, she’s obsessed with wanting to know why you’ve made the move from New York to Chicago. She keeps harping on what compelled you to do it.”

That didn’t sound good. Whether she was at the chateau or in a luxury nursing home, when Baroness Albertine Bénédicte Emmanuelle Fournier turned her attention to anything, it was always for a reason. “Has she mentioned the Bournival name?”