Spectacular Rascal: A Sexy Flirty Dirty Standalone Romance (9 page)

But now it’s too late so we’ll just have to get through this the best we can.

Bash: What?! What kind of history? Who is this woman?

Aidan: It doesn’t matter. What matters is that this is your fault, Bash, which means the ball is in my court.

If you make the mess, you don’t get to tell me how to clean it up.

Bash: Now hold on a fucking second

Aidan: Don’t bother texting again. I’m turning off my phone. I’ll touch base when Catherine and I have a game plan in place.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Red puts up a good fight, stalling by riding the 1 train all the way into the Bronx and back again, and then trying to ditch me in Times Square as we move between trains. But I remain stubbornly glued to her side, ignoring her protests that me spending the night at her place is the dumbest idea ever conceived by man.

Finally, around seven o’clock, she gives up, disembarks at the 14
th
Street Station, and leads me out into the muted evening light aboveground.

We emerge at the edges of a quiet Chelsea neighborhood and turn left along a tree-lined street, moving away from the hum of traffic on the Avenue and the hot dog and gyro vendors selling a quick evening meal to people headed home from work.

“You want a hot dog?” I jab a thumb over my shoulder. “I can run back and get a few. I’m not expecting you to feed me.”

“I’d rather fish something out of the garbage,” she says, her voice rough after hours of raising it to be heard over the roar of the trains underground.

“Delivery it is.” I smile, pulling in a deep breath of the cooling air. “I see you lied about the Lower Manhattan Dashers being too far for you to travel. I’m starting to think I can’t trust a word out of your mouth.”

“Again, I was lying to protect you,” she says wearily. “I didn’t want you to feel obligated to invite me into your club and then have it be weird. I was trying to keep your safe place safe, jackass.”

“Well, that was a nice reason for a lie, at least,” I say, enjoying the way the late evening light warms the stones of the red brick homes lining the street. “Nice neighborhood. You lived here long?”

“Three years.” She sighs heavily, clearly determined not to make small talk easy for me.

“I’ve been in my place five. It’s crazy that we haven’t run into each other before. I jog through here all the time after I finish running the High Line.”

“Speaking of crazy…” She stops beside a planter overflowing with petunias on a stoop filled with so many flowerpots there’s barely room to climb the steps. “One last time, I have to repeat that I think this is a bad idea. Can we please, please, please meet up tomorrow morning instead? We can spend the night brainstorming and start fresh with coffee and bagels. My treat.”

I stuff my hands in my pockets and tilt my head back, admiring the antique molding around the windows, answering her pleas the way I have the past sixteen times she’s asked me to go home—by changing the subject. “What floor are you?” My gaze tracks back and forth from the sixth floor to the first. “I’m going to guess first or…third.”

“Why’s that?” Her shoulders slump in defeat as she fishes her keys out of her purse.

“You seem like the white, gauzy curtains type.” I follow her up the steps. “Though I guess I could see you with blue flowers, or that who-cares-what-my-windows-look-like shade of beige. But not the superheroes, unless there’s something else you’re not telling me.”

“The superheroes belong to Milo, who is seven and adorable. And you, my friend, are wrong, wrong, and wrong.” A smirk curves her lips as she fits her key into the lock. “I’m the second floor.”

My brows lift. “No curtains.”

“No curtains.” She cocks her head, looking up at me through half-closed lids. “I like to walk around naked after my shower and give the firefighters who live across the street a free show. I feel it’s the least I can do to show my appreciation for Ladder Twelve.”

I swallow, trying not to imagine Cat naked and fresh from the shower, and failing miserably. Spending the past few hours riding the subway and waging a battle of wills with the most stubborn woman in the universe, I’d managed to push the attraction I feel for her to the back of my mind. Now, it comes rushing back again, hitting me hard enough to make my blood rush and my head feel light for reasons that have nothing to do with missing my afternoon snack.

“Not smart,” I say, gruffly, covering the flash of awareness with irritation. “Considering you’re being stalked by a creep with a camera, curtains would probably be a good idea.”

“Relax, I’m kidding.” She rolls her eyes as she opens the door. “I have blinds. I put them down at night or when I’m home and want privacy, but I leave everything open during the day. Fang likes to jump up on the couch and keep an eye on what’s happening on the street.”

“Fang?” I follow her through a tidy entryway where a folded stroller leans against one wall, making me think Milo isn’t the only kid in the building.

“My guard dog,” she says as we climb the narrow stairwell. “He’s pretty vicious. In fact, you’d better let me go in first and get him calmed down before you make an entrance.”

“And give you the chance to lock me out?” I shift around her to lean against her door. “No, thanks. I’ll take my chances with Fang.”

Her mouth puckers. “You think you’re pretty smart, don’t you?”

“Nah,” I say, with a shrug. “Just smart enough, I guess.”

“Well, if your smart ass gets bitten, don’t come crying to me. I’ve been training Fang to attack on command.” Her eyes narrow dangerously. “Sometimes he waits for the command; sometimes he doesn’t.”

I nod. “Got it. No crying to you. But I’m good with dogs. I’m sure Fang and I will get along just fine.”

She mumbles something unintelligible beneath her breath, and then, with one final sigh of resignation, she unlocks the door and swings it wide. “Fang! I’m home!” she shouts as she reaches over to push a code into the security system panel on the wall.

Her words are answered by high-pitched yapping and the light scrabble of claws on hardwood. A second later, a honey brown Chihuahua skids around the corner into the entry hall with a big smile on its face, its pencil-thin legs churning as it struggles to change directions on the slick floor.

A moment later, the terrifying guard dog collides with his mistress’s feet and begins full-body wagging hard enough to lift his paws off the floor.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The dog probably weighs about eight pounds soaking wet and, aside from a quick sniff of my shoes and a lick at the hem of my jeans, seems to have zero interest in protecting his mama from the stranger who just breezed into his house.

“Fang, I presume,” I say dryly, closing the door behind me.

“Fearsome Fang, actually.” Cat drops to her knees to scoop the blissed-out pup into her arms. “Fifi for short.”

“He’s terrifying.”

“He’s a she,” she says. “There’s a way to tell boys from girls, Aidan. We can talk about it later, after the puppy’s gone to bed, if you want. I’m waiting to talk to her about the birds and the bees until after she’s been fixed.”

“Thanks, I appreciate that. Do you need to walk Killer?” I meet her smartass with more bone dry, motioning toward the leash and tiny red leather harness hanging on the coatrack inside the door. “And, FYI, if I’d known you had an animal waiting at home that needed to go out, I would have insisted you get over your stubborn streak sooner.”

“Fang is fine.” She glares at me as she scratches Fifi’s scruff until the dog’s tongue lolls out in pleasure. “I have friends who walk her at noon and five during the week while I’m at work. I would
never
let my dog suffer because some big idiot is insisting he knows how to handle my life better than I do.”

My jaw clenches, her words getting under my skin in a way they haven’t all day. But then even the patron saint of patience probably had a breaking point.

“You came to me for help,” I say, voice so low it vibrates through my ribs. “I assume that meant you had some faith in my judgment.”

“How can you judge anything when you won’t even listen to what I’m saying?” she asks, brows drawing together. “You used to listen.”

“I did listen.” I step closer, summoning a soft growl from Fang that’s about as scary as a box full of cupcakes. “And I evaluated your apprehensions against my own concern for your welfare, and I made a judgment call.”

Her lips part, but I cut her off before she can start arguing with me again.

“And that’s the way it’s going to be for the rest of our working relationship. I will listen to and respect your opinion, but in the end I’m going to choose the course of action that’s most likely to result in you remaining in one piece. That’s the job you hired me to do, and I’m going to do it.”

Her eyes flash, anger and something more intimate flickering in their green depths. “You just can’t stand to let anyone else take the lead, can you?”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “Give me a break, Red.”

“I would love to,” she snaps. “Go home. Take a break. Come back tomorrow. I’ll be in a better mood after not riding the subway for four hours.”

“That’s on you, Catherine.” I force a smile even though my jaw is so tight it feels like it’s about to snap in two. “If you hadn’t kept beating a dead horse, we could have been couching it with a beer hours ago and maybe making some real progress on solving your mobster problem.”

She makes a choked sound. “Was that a Godfather joke? Are you
joking
about this?”

“No, I’m not joking,” I snap. “I’m here to keep you alive, sweetheart, not to entertain you.”

Fang growls again, but this time I have a feeling it has more to do with Cat’s fingers digging into the dog’s tiny chest than me being too close for comfort.

I shoot her hand a pointed glance before lifting a brow. “You okay?”

“I’m fucking fantastic.” She leans down to set Fifi on the floor before stepping in close enough that the sharp toes of her sandals jab into the front of my shoes. “But don’t you dare call me sweetheart.
Ever.
I know all about your history with that word, and I want no part of it.”

“Are you sure?” I can’t resist the urge to rattle her cage, even though I know it’s not smart. I should be pacifying her and behaving professionally and getting us back on track to solving the Nico problem.

But damn it, she gets under my skin the way she always did. Like no other woman ever has. And she started us down this unprofessional road when she lied on her application and then gave me hours of shit for the sin of doing my damnedest to protect her. Now it’s my turn to be a pain in her ass.

I lift an arm, bracing my hand on the wall behind her, bringing my face closer to hers. “I’m not sure I believe you, Cat. You seemed pretty into it this morning, when I had you up against that limo and you couldn’t keep your hands off of me.”

“That was an act,” she says through gritted teeth. “Sadly, for you, that ship sailed eleven years ago.”

“Did it?” I lean even closer, continuing in a soft, husky voice. “So if I’d run my hand up your thigh this morning your panties wouldn’t have been wet? Not even a little bit?”

Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t respond. At least not verbally. But her breath comes faster, and her pupils dilate, giving me enough encouragement to continue in a whisper, “You weren’t wet, Red? For me? Because even though you should have been worried about the man following you, all you could think about was my hands on you and my mouth on you and how much you wanted more of all of the above?”

Her skin flushes a pink so deep it’s almost fuchsia, a color I’ve only ever seen on a redhead and only when he or she was deeply mortified.

But I know this particular redhead well enough to know this blush isn’t her embarrassed blush. It’s her “I’m about to take you down” blush. And damn it, a part of me hopes she goes for my throat. Right now, there are few things I would enjoy more than wrestling Red until we’re both hot and bothered.

Until I have her hands trapped over her head and her body pinned beneath mine and her legs wrapped around my waist squeezing so tight I can feel her pussy throbbing between her thighs. Feel her pulsing against my cock, letting me know she’s as turned on as I am.

And she
will
be turned on. She’s already turned on.

She can glare and huff and spit insults at me all she wants, but her nipples are tight beneath that sexy little dress, and her lips are parted, and every warm puff of her breath against my mouth is a challenge I’m dying to accept. I’m about to kiss her—willing to risk a fist in my face for another taste of her sweet mouth—when she holds up a hand between us and says, “I invoke Religious Advice,” and I have no choice but to stand down.

Once a Dasher, always a Dasher, and when a fellow member calls for Religious Advice, aka, a Top Secret, No Bullshit, Honest to a Fault meeting of the minds (usually involving at least a case of beer), there’s only one thing to do: get a drink in your hand and prepare to hear something your friend has never told someone else. Something so secret and scary she’s had to invoke sacred space to get it off of her chest.

As I stare down into Cat’s wide, troubled eyes I have a feeling I’m not going to like what she has to say.