Spectacular Rascal: A Sexy Flirty Dirty Standalone Romance (4 page)

“Someone who’s a little bit dangerous?” The words hit me in a different way now that I know who said them. I cross my arms on top of the wooden table and lean closer. “Surely you know better than that, Beth.”

“Cat, please,” she says. “My full name is Catherine Elizabeth, but I’ve always gone by Cat.”

Cat.
I nod. It fits her so much better than a sweet, old-fashioned name like Beth. It’s light, playful, and mischievous, like the girl I used to know, the girl who is still there inside the woman she’s become, though she looks every bit the high-powered attorney. From her shining auburn hair without a strand out of place, to her French manicure and designer dress, Cat looks like a million dollars and change.

It’s hard to believe this is the same girl I saw covered in mud and sweating buckets on a regular basis. Looking at her now, I wouldn’t believe she’s ever sweat a drop in her life, let alone had meaningful interactions with dirt.

“So, Cat…” I shift uncomfortably in my chair as I realize we’re as mismatched as I expected us to be when Beth Jones was just a name on a file. “I may have put on some muscle, but the scary stuff is all an act. The beef tartare lunch special is more dangerous than I am.”

She lifts a perfectly plucked brow. “Is that right?”

I lower my voice so as not to offend the cranky French chef who makes my favorite
Pain Suisse
in the city. “I don’t care how careful they are with the cutting and handling, eating raw meat is a bad idea. Put a raw egg on top and you’re asking for date with E. coli. But me? I’m harmless. You know that.”

She holds my gaze, unblinking. “You really believe that, don’t you?”

“I do.” I start to smile, but her serious expression cuts my grin off at the pass. “You don’t?”

“No, I don’t.” She mimics my lean across the table, meeting me halfway, until there are only a few inches between our faces, and the familiar lemongrass and ginger smell of her pricks at my nose. “Because I know you, Aidan. I might not have known your name until a few days ago, but I know that you’re fearless and boundary-less and give so few shits about what people think of you that you’re about two subway stops away from being a sociopath.”

The furrow between my brow deepens into a canyon, but she pushes on before I can insist that I’m way more pussycat than psychopath.

“And that’s why I need you.” She swallows, her pale throat working, making it clear this speech isn’t coming easy for her. “I was recently involved with a man who is also fearless and boundary-less. But it turns out he isn’t two subway stops away from being dangerous. He’s riding the crazy train all the way to the last station, and he wants me in the seat next to him.” She blinks faster before continuing in a hushed voice, “And if I’m not where he wants me to be, he would rather I not be anywhere at all. If you get my drift.”

I nod, hating the man who put the fear in her eyes, wishing there was a way to turn back time and keep her from getting involved with a nut job in the first place.

“The only way he’s letting me go is if I can convince him that I’ve hooked up with someone not even he wants to mess with,” she continues, holding my gaze. “Someone who has nothing to lose and no reason not to take a fight farther than Nico wants it to go.”

I shake my head. “I don’t know where you got the idea that I have nothing to lose. I own a business, but even if I didn’t I can’t—”

“But you’re not an attorney working for some of the most affluent sleazebags in New York,” she cuts in smoothly. “You’re not planning a mayoral campaign, or scheming how fast you can clear a path to the White House. Aside from making sure no one gets an infection from a dirty tattoo gun on your watch, you don’t have to worry about your reputation.”

The thought makes my hands curl into fists on top of the table. “Don’t even mention dirty tattoo guns and my shop in the same sentence. You could perform surgery in my chairs. They’re that clean.”

Her lips curve again, but only for a moment. “I’m sure they are. But you know what I mean. You don’t have to be election-ready careful.”

Her hand reaches out to cover mine, sending a shot of heat spreading through my body, making me wonder when the last time such a simple touch made me feel warm all over. “That’s why you’re perfect for this job. We just have to figure out how to stage our fake relationship so that Nico gets the message as quickly and painlessly as possible. For everyone involved.”

I pull my hand away from Cat’s and lift it into the air, signaling to the waitress headed our way that we need more time. There’s no point in ordering. I won’t be around long enough to drink a cup of coffee, let alone to settle in for the lengthy brunch orientation I had planned.

Despite what Red thinks, I’m
not
perfect for this job, and no matter how much I want to help an old friend, getting involved with Panties would break too many rules. I promised Bash I would keep things professional with our clients. And I promised myself I wouldn’t get involved with women who are too vulnerable to hold up their end of a grown-up relationship, the kind that ends amicably, with no drama or hard feelings when one party is no longer having a good time.

Ten minutes into this thing with Red and there is already drama. She’s insulted my sanity, my profession, and even my abs. But no matter how bothered I am by being called a sociopath, I’m also interested in her in a way I shouldn’t be interested in a client.

The past eleven years have been good to her. She’s still long and lean with sculpted runner’s legs emerging from the short hemline of her dress, but she’s also filled out in all the right places. Her features have fleshed out into a softer, prettier version of the face I remember, and from what I can see I’m guessing her ass is even more fucking phenomenal than it used to be.

There were days, back when the Dashers would go on conditioning runs after class, when Panties’s round, firm, biteable, spankable, squeezable ass was the only thing that kept me going through miles four and five. Even when we were friends and only friends, I couldn’t help indulging in the occasional fantasy about that ass and the girl attached to it.

About what it would be like to dig my fingers into her firm flesh while we kissed, to mold my palms to her incomparable ass as I took her from behind, to turn her over my knee and redden her pretty backside until she couldn’t think of a single smartass thing to say. Until her blood was pumping hard and fast, pooling between her thighs, making her squirm and moan and beg for me to slip my fingers between her legs and take care of her.

Take care of her.

I
can’t
take care of her. Not in any of the ways I’d like to. It’s not my place. It never has been and never will be, and the best thing I can do for Red is to put a swift, painless end to this meeting and direct her to someone who might actually be able to help her.

“Listen, I want to help,” I begin, my jaw tight. “I really do, but—”

“No. No buts.” She shakes her head, sending her silky red hair sliding over one shoulder. “You can’t back out. We have a contract, and I’ve already paid an insanely large deposit.”

“And if Bash isn’t available to handle your case, your deposit will be returned in full.” I push my chair away from the table, needing physical distance to resist the pleading look in her eyes. “But I’m sure once I explain to him that I have a conflict of interest, he’ll be happy to—”

“What conflict of interest?” Her palms flip to face the ceiling, fingers spread wide. “You mean because we almost had sex eleven years ago? When we were both practically children?”

I clear my throat, more flustered by her frank assessment of the situation than I expect to be.

“That’s crazy, Aidan,” she hurries on. “You turned me down and left the country the next day. Nothing even happened.”

My jaw tightens. “That’s not the way I remember it.”

The way I remember it, she came on my hand and then somehow we ended up on the ground, me on my back in the leaves and her on top, grinding her slickness against the length of my cock, begging me to take her. And if our friend, Empty Tool Box, hadn’t shouted for me to come help him put out the bonfire before it burned down the entire forest, I would have.

I would have fucked her bare there in the dirt because I was so out of my mind with wanting her. I was beyond worrying about finding a condom, or the responsibility of taking her virginity, or anything but how desperately I needed to be inside of her. Balls-deep, buried in her sweet, tight body, stroking hard until she made more sexy, coming sounds while her pussy milked my cock dry.

Red, who is thankfully oblivious to the X-rated memories dancing through my head, huffs in irritation. “Well, then your memory is impaired. Nothing happened, and nothing is going to happen, except that we’ll work well together, the way we always have.”

She threads her fingers together into a double fist, and her tone takes on a vulnerable quality that makes me feel even shittier for getting turned on while I’m turning her down. “We were a good team back in school, Aidan. You have to admit that. We watched out for each other and cared about each other and—”

“We did, but—”

“And this is no different than laying a killer trail or making sure no one gets kicked out of school for fighting on campus,” she insists. “We’ll get the job done, you’ll get paid, I’ll get my life back—everyone wins. Right?”

My mental wheels turn, searching for the right words to get out of here without hurting her. But before I can promise to go to bat for her with Bash and do everything I can to convince him to take her case—no matter how little I like the idea of my best friend working his fake love magic on this particular woman—she stands with a hard sniff.

“Fine.” She fumbles in her purse, pulling out a few crumpled bills that she tosses on the table. “I get it. I’ll call your boss and cancel the contract and…figure something else out. No worries.”

“Wait, Cat. Don’t you want to at least meet with Bash?” I pull my wallet out and toss another ten on the table by way of apology for causing a scene and stand to face her. “I know he’s not exactly what you had in mind, but he’s very good at—”

“Don’t. Just…don’t.” She pauses halfway around the table to pin me with a look that makes my breath catch. She’s angry, but it isn’t her anger that gets me. It’s the fear, the terror, lurking behind her pretty eyes that hits me like a fist in the gut.

“I’m sorry,” I say softly. “I don’t want to—”

“Do you know how hard it was for me to ask you for help?”

My lips part, but she doesn’t wait for my answer.

“Insanely hard. I was so ashamed for you to know how messed up my life is, but I came to this meeting anyway. I showed up because I truly believe that you’re the only person who can help me.” She pulls in a breath, pressing her lips together. “But maybe you’re right. Maybe you aren’t the man for the job.”

She holds my gaze with an intensity that makes me feel like she’s looking straight through me, drawing my attention to unpleasant things lurking beneath the surface. It reminds me of the look my stepmom used to shoot me from the door to my bedroom, the one that cleared the teenage head-fog and made me realize that my man cave was two steps away from becoming a toxic waste dump.

“You always did run when things got heavy,” she continues. “I don’t know why I thought this would be any different.”

I reach out to take her arm, to hold her close long enough to get it through her thick skull that comments like that are the reason why I can’t be her knight in shining armor—we have baggage, and a past that’s clearly weighing on both our minds—but she’s as fast as she ever was. Before my fingers can capture her elbow, she’s slipped away and fled the restaurant. She bursts out onto the sidewalk, setting the bells above the door to jangling and sending a puff of warm, garbage-scented air oozing in to mingle with the smells of toasting bread and herbed omelets bubbling in cast-iron skillets.

It’s starting to smell like summer in New York. By the start of July, the stench will be so bad anyone with someplace better to be will have fled the city to spend weekends with relatives upstate or down at the Jersey shore.

For a moment, I wonder where Cat spends her long summer weekends and how having a psycho ex-boyfriend will affect her plans. And then I think about Kayla, my first client, a dancer who came to Bash for help after her ex-boyfriend ambushed her in her apartment and tied her to a bed for nearly a week.

By the time she escaped, she’d pulled at the ropes binding her to the frame so hard they’d cut into her skin. The burns around her ankles got infected and she had to take time off from her dance company, losing her first soloist role. But it wasn’t losing the gig that convinced Kayla that drastic measures had to be taken to get her ex out of the picture; it was his promise to cut off her feet the next time she tried to leave him, ensuring that she would never dance again.

There are men like that. Men who are prepared to destroy the women they claim to care about, all to ensure that they won’t be named losers in the game of love. They want control, and they want it bad enough to burn down the world to rule the pile of ash left behind.

And one of those men has decided Cat belongs to him, and he’s going to do whatever it takes to get her under his thumb, or die trying.

No, he’s not going to die.

But
she
might.