The Player's Club: Lincoln (5 page)

It was frustrating. She wasn’t giving up, she thought, but she was getting some more wine.

She figured he was rich, at least. His clothes looked expensive, if understated—the navy dress shirt was expensive linen, and the slacks were tailored. Even his shoes looked like Italian leather. Finn might’ve dressed like a college kid, but he was rolling in money. Was this a case of opposites attracting…or maybe something more sinister? Was Lincoln some kind of mooch or something, bleeding money from his richer friend?

As quickly as she thought of it, she rejected the idea. She conjured up a mental picture of Lincoln, rolling through their encounter at Agent Provocateur in her mind as if it had been a movie. Like his surname, he seemed as cold, hard and unforgiving as granite. She should’ve been put off by his high-handed attitude; she didn’t respect or enjoy guys who threw their weight around. But in his case, he wasn’t putting on a show. He came across as being somehow more wary than macho…overbearing, yes, but oddly protective, like a Secret Service agent or something.

It struck a chord in her. She knew most of her “friends” would probably throw her under the bus for profit or even occasionally out of boredom. The fact that he might be trying to protect Finn was intriguing.

He didn’t trust her, she thought, and he was right there. He suspected her. It hurt, but he wasn’t wrong, and he obviously wasn’t stupid. Another point in his favor, even if it screwed up her plans.

The fact that he also had piercing hazel eyes and a lean yet muscular build that made her wonder what he looked like naked only completed the package. She sighed, thinking about how she might’ve liked wearing that merry widow in front of him in different circumstances. He had great hands, she thought, caressing the keyboard. She wondered absently if he knew how to use them. And his mouth. When it wasn’t pulled into a stern scowl, what could he do with those surprisingly sensual lips?

Better, what could
she
do with them?

She got up, pacing across her thick, white carpeting. The upkeep for this place was killing her. She couldn’t afford to fantasize about some guy she’d just met. She needed to look at the bigger objective: get into the Player’s Club. Lock in a reality-show deal. Pay her bills.

Lincoln might be hotter than a Hawaiian volcano, but right now, he was simply an obstacle in her way.

Her phone rang, startling her, and she glanced at the number. She figured it was probably a drunken Carolyn, asking why she wasn’t out at the latest hot club or wild party. She’d already gotten a few text messages about going on George’s yacht. She groaned, thinking to shut it off. But she didn’t recognize the number, so, curious, she answered it.

“Hello?”

“It’s Lincoln,” he said, without preamble. Then, after a pause, she could actually hear a note of wry amusement in his tone. “I’m the guy you met this morning. When you were in your underwear.”

“Like that narrows it down,” she said in a breezy tone, even as her mind started to whir. Why in the world was he calling her now? “But as it happens, Mr. Stone, you are definitely memorable.”

“I think it’s safe to say the same. I’m in your lobby. Mind if I come up?”

She blanched. “My lobby?” she echoed, stunned. She’d guessed he’d gotten her number from Finn, but her address? “How do you know where I live?”

“I’ve got skills,” he said, and the smile in his voice was clear. “I know it’s late, but I’d like to see you, to discuss the club.”

“Really.” All her nerves tingled. Was he making an offer, then? What was he up to? “I don’t generally invite men up to my condo at one in the morning. Maybe we should reschedule.”

“I’ve already seen you half-naked,” he reminded her, his voice pitched low, rubbing over her skin like mink. “I assure you, if I didn’t threaten your virtue then, I won’t now.”

She shivered…then glanced down. She was wearing a ratty pair of yoga pants and a SpongeBob SquarePants tank top. She’d already washed her makeup off. Yeah, he probably wasn’t going to want to jump her in this state, she thought ruefully, and tried to remember the last time a man had seen her without cosmetics. “Point taken, but really, tomorrow morning’s early enough.”

“You’ve got one chance to get into the club,” he said. “And that means I need to talk to you in the next five minutes.”

“A man who plays hardball,” she murmured, irritated. “Well, then. I’m on the thirty-seventh floor. The elevators…”

“I see them,” he said. “I’ll be there in a moment.” Then he hung up.

“Okay, rude.” She shut her phone, then dashed to the bathroom. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Clothes first, or makeup? Makeup. She quickly dusted her face with some powder, fluffed peach blush over her cheeks and lids, slicked on the world’s quickest coat of lip gloss. She was just stripping out of her sweats when she heard his low, insistent knock on the door.

“Coming!” she called, cursing under her breath. She tore the tank over her head and grabbed the first handy garment she could find—a simple, slinky dress that was too simple to be dressy, but still a little too seductive to be casual. Feeling like an idiot, she forced herself to smile. She glanced through the peephole, and saw his tall, imposing figure through the tiny glass. Was it a distortion of the lens, she thought, or were his shoulders really that broad?

She opened the door. “What a surprise,” she murmured, gesturing him in. “You wanted to talk about the club?”

He nodded. “It should only take a few minutes.”

“Fine. Can I get you a glass of wine?”

“No, thank you.” Instead of sitting on the proffered couch, he walked to the windows. “Nice view.”

“I like it.” She felt nervous…and impatient. “So. What brings you to my doorstep at this hour, Lincoln?”

He turned to look at her.

“I want to know what you really want with the Player’s Club, Juliana,” he said softly. “And I’m not leaving until I’m satisfied.”

HE’D TAKEN HER BY SURPRISE, which was the point. Lincoln sat on her couch, trying to remain focused. Still, he couldn’t help but stare at her, wearing a silky, skimpy little plum-colored dress. It looked too dressy to be a nightgown, too seductive to be worn outside the house.

Did she have company? He felt his body tense angrily at the thought, then scolded himself.
Why the hell do you care? It’s none of your business.

She was rebounding. It was one of the things he had to admire about her—she was quick on her feet. Her smile was minxlike and quick.

“Trust me, most of the men leaving my condo are satisfied,” she said, and she strode barefoot across the room, her burnt-honey waves tumbling around her bare shoulders, her silky dress whispering against her skin. He wanted to reach out, tug her down next to him on the couch. Pull her taut against him and just taste her. Just take her.

He shook his head. “I’m serious, Juliana.”

“I’m usually serious about satisfaction,” she shot back mischievously, sitting at an office chair and shutting the laptop. He frowned as he got a glance at the screen before she closed it.

“Looking me up on Google?”

“What?” she asked, trying for innocence, then shrugged.

“Don’t lie to me, Juliana,” he warned in a quiet voice.

She sighed, her expression of innocence blurring into one of gentle irritation. She got up, crossed her arms. “I was trying to find out who the hell you are, and what your problem is.” She tilted her head, violet eyes surveying him with frustration. “Apparently, you’re a frickin’ ghost.”

He smiled grimly, even as the thought of her researching him had his throat clenching. He kept his face passive, keeping the instinctive worry at bay. “I just like my privacy.”

“Unlike me, you mean.”

He’d heard plenty of men use the cliché “You’re beautiful when you’re angry,” on television or in movies. This was the first time it actually made sense to him. Her face was faintly flushed, dusting rose on the burnished gold of her skin; her eyes gleamed like amethysts in firelight, and her pupils dilated like a woman in the throes of sex. Her breasts heaved gently as her breathing quickened.

His body tightened uncomfortably as he wondered how difficult it would be to shift her energies from one form of passion to another.

“I wasn’t taking a shot at you,” he said, trying desperately to keep the thread of the conversation. “But since you mention it, I will point out that a woman routinely followed by the paparazzi is not a good candidate for our club—something that Finn should have remembered before he decided to volunteer you as a pledge.”

“I can keep a secret,” she said. “And besides, the paparazzi don’t stalk me. They take pictures of me at events, sometimes if I’m out shopping, but usually I need to give them a lead to do that.”

He frowned. “A lead?”

“You know. Call them, let them know where I am.”

“You actually want them to follow you?” he asked, appalled.

She shrugged, looking at him as though he was naive. It was a rare sensation. “It’s just business, Lincoln. It’s no big deal.”

The mere thought made his skin crawl. “You still haven’t told me why you want to join the Player’s Club,” he prompted.

She took a deep breath. Then she sat down next to him on the couch—not seductively close, and she had more of an expression of determination than enticement. She stared into his eyes, using her hands to punctuate her words.

“I’m bored with the whole socialite scene,” she said. “I’ve been doing parties since I graduated from high school, I’ve been running around with kids that were too rich to be smart. Hell, I’ve been just as dumb. But lately, it hasn’t been enough.”

She paused, and he could tell from her expression that she was wrestling with something—there was pain mixed in with the frustration, and he wondered if she even knew it was there.

“I’m trying to get my life back on track. I’ve had some problems—I’m working through them, but I need something else. And I think that something is the Player’s Club.”

She sounded sincere. There was an undercurrent of raw emotion in her voice. It made him want to hold her, stroke her satiny hair, kiss her until the pain went away. Do more than kiss her.

Down that path led madness, he realized. He also wasn’t entirely sure of his motives, as far as comforting her. He cleared his throat, but his voice still came out a little hoarse. “What did Finn tell you about the club?”

She looked down at the couch as she fiddled with a ring on her right hand. “He said that it changed his life. And that you’re never, ever bored.”

Lincoln laughed. “Well, that’s oversimplifying a bit.”

“I get the feeling you complicate things, Lincoln,” she said quietly, and she leaned a little closer—close enough that he could smell her perfume, a sweet, tantalizing scent, white clover shot through with citrus. It reminded him of a farm he’d visited once, a retreat for inner-city youths in trouble. She smelled like sunshine and summer.

She put a hand on his arm, a gentle stroke.

“I get the feeling you would be too complicated,” he said, moving a wisp of hair out of her eyes and tucking it behind her ear. “Even for me.”

She sent him a luscious smile. “That sounds like a compliment.”

“It’s supposed to be.”

She leaned a little closer, and he didn’t back off.

“Why don’t you want me in your club, Lincoln?” she breathed, her hand stroking his arm tentatively. “Don’t you like me?”

He took a deep breath. One good look at his lap ought to tell her just how fond he was of her at that moment. But that wasn’t the point. “I don’t like women who play games.”

Her eyes shone with amusement. “Maybe you just haven’t been playing the right games,” she suggested, with a sensual promise that curled his toes. “Or maybe you just haven’t been playing with the right women.”

He sent her a lazy smile. Then, without warning, he tugged her forward, kissing her hard and thoroughly.

He wasn’t quite sure what sparked the reaction—he certainly wasn’t the type to move too fast on anything, much less on a woman he barely knew. He liked to pursue, to finesse; he liked the slow give-and-take, easy and nonpressuring companionship. His relationships hadn’t lasted long, rarely ended in a way that was ugly, and never started without careful consideration.

Right this second, he didn’t care.