When She's Bad
Copyright © 2003 by Leanne Banks
Excerpt from
Trouble in High Heels
copyright © 2003 by Leanne Banks All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant
Cover photograph by Jethro Soudant
Book design by Giorgetta B. McRee
Warner Books, Inc.,
Hachette Book Group,
237 Park Avenue,
New York, NY 10017
Visit our Web site at
www.HachetteBookGroup.com
ISBN: 978-0-446-54836-6
First eBook Edition: December 2008
YOU KNOW YOU’RE BAD WHEN:
• Your idea of dressing for success calls for a short skirt, killer heels, and a thong.
• Your next-door neighbor is off-limits, and all you can think about is having your way with him.
• You greet a man at his door wearing nothing but a smile.
• You can’t resist temptation … especially when it comes in a buff package.
• Your prescription for your downtrodden assistant: Take one stud-muffin and call me in the morning.
BUT WHAT CAN YOU DO WHEN BEING BAD FEELS SO GOOD!
“WHEN SHE’S BAD is a perfect romp! Leanne Banks writes smart and sexy.”
—Patricia Rice
ACCLAIM FOR LEANNE BANKS’S PREVIOUS NOVEL,
SOME GIRLS DO
“Lively writing, appealing, well-drawn characters, and a wealth of insightful, often hilarious, pithy quotes courtesy of the heroine’s late mother add sparkle to this story.”
—
Library Journal
“An engaging road story. … Banks gives us a funny, alluring romance with just the right amount of sizzle for a summer read.”
—
Oakland Press
“A witty, feel-good read with charming characters and a page-turning plot.”
—
Booklist
A
LSO BY
L
EANNE
B
ANKS
Some Girls Do
This book is for all you wonderful readers
who told me you loved SOME GIRLS DO
and wanted to read Delilah’s story
and for us sometimes-bad-girls who know
that being a little bad can be a lot of fun!
Special thanks and acknowledgments to the amazing Karen Kosztolnyik for continued guidance, Michele Bidelspach for terrific responsiveness, and to Diane Luger for creating the best cover art on earth. Thank you to Tony and Alisa for enduring deadlines and picking up take-out meals. Thank you also to some special people in my life who continue to encourage and inspire me: Cindy Gerard, Donna Kauffman, Pamela Britton, Millie Criswell, Marilyn Puett, my creative consultant and Mom and Dad. I am so blessed.
Deathbed promises are a pain in the butt.
—D
ELILAH’S
D
ICTUM
T
onight’s the night.
Full of hope and anticipation, she told herself that tonight would be filled with lazy, sensual pleasure that would sate her body and soul. A night that would provide release from the frustration that had built to unbearable levels during the last two weeks.
Restless hunger burned inside her, building with each passing moment. Her need had risen to fever pitch and it pounded inside her like a primitive drumbeat. She slid her hand over her body with a comforting stroke. Soon, she told herself. She wore cotton, the fabric of babies, but this lover wouldn’t mind the absence of silk and satin. She would seduce this lover in other ways. In fact, she had already begun with a champagne cocktail, a long, warm scented bath surrounded by candles, and now with secret, expectant darkness.
What she wanted was a satisfaction as old as time.
What she wanted was a freakin’ full night of sleep.
More than anything, all Delilah Montague craved was a peaceful, uninterrupted night of sleep. She needed it to forget for just a little while that her best friend in the world had died one month ago. She needed sleep to ease the ache in her heart and head. She needed to pretend that eventually everything would work out and she wouldn’t always be the object of disdain and distaste. She needed it so she could keep a razor-sharp clear head in the morning, especially since she’d inherited a large interest in the spa.
She’d been told she had a smile that opened doors and a body that made men want to empty their pockets and lower their zippers. With a father who was a fire-and-brimstone preacher and a mother who had won more wet T-shirt contests than all the Baywatch babes combined, Delilah had a lot to live up to … or live down, depending on one’s perspective. She knew she wasn’t a good candidate for marriage or motherhood, so it was easy to focus on her career. She hadn’t, however, grown accustomed to the new responsibility Howard “Cash” Bradford had bequeathed her yet.
Delilah would trade her most treasured possessions for one night’s sleep; designer shoes, a perfectly mixed champagne cocktail, perhaps even her secret stash of M&Ms. She would even trade her body except her poor body was too tired for anything more than intimately melding itself with her mattress.
“It’s not too much to ask, is it?” she muttered to the sleep gods as she flipped her pillow over to press her cheek against cool Egyptian cotton. Her mattress was the perfect degree of firmness, a far cry from the cot in the homeless shelter where she’d slept a few years ago. Her duvet provided the exact weight and warmth to ease her trip into Lala-land.
A professional interior decorator had furnished her boudoir as a sanctuary of peace from the harsh outside world. She kept waiting for the day when
she
felt comfortable in her own condo. Until now, she’d felt as if she were walking on eggshells, afraid of messing up the white carpet and ivory leather furniture, afraid of messing up everything and ending back on the streets.
Her heart raced at her thoughts and she tried to take a calming breath. As director of Spa DeMay, the most elite spa in Texas, she worked in an environment where she pulled knives out of her back on a daily basis. No one believed she truly had a lick of business sense. No one thought she would last more than a month after her mentor Howard Bradford died. Everyone believed she had achieved her present position by lying on her back for Howard Bradford. Only she knew the real truth, and it was her job to keep the truth a secret.
Delilah pushed the hated plugs into her ears as protection from her neighbor, whom she was convinced had been hatched from some alien species which didn’t require sleep. That was the only explanation she could think of for doing renovations in the wee hours of the morning.
Sighing, she closed her eyes and began to count backward from two thousand.
One thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine. One thousand nine hundred and ninety-eight …
Howard lay in his large bed, a cigar in one hand, a glass of scotch in the other, his heart medication on his bedside table.
Tsk
ing in disapproval, Delilah took the cigar and scotch away.
“Hey! Give that back!” he protested. “I’m a dying man. You shouldn’t deny me my meager pleasures.”
“You wouldn’t be dying if you didn’t indulge your pleasures so much. You just had your third heart catheterization and I know the doctor didn’t recommend scotch and a Cuban as part of your recovery.”
Howard sighed, but smiled his wily winning grin. “You know I’m in love with you, Delilah.”
“Me and fifty others,” she said. Delilah couldn’t resist smiling in return at the ornery multi-millionaire, but she tried not to show that he scared her to death. His complexion was gray and she didn’t want him to die. She wanted Howard Bradford to live forever. He had transformed her life when he’d taken her on as arm candy. She’d expected to become his lover, and for a time, she had wanted that, but then she’d learned the truth Howard was determined to hide. Howard might be one of the most wealthy and powerful men in Houston, but he couldn’t quite, shall we say, lift his crane. His sexual difficulties were such an embarrassment to him that he made it a practice to keep a young woman on his arm at every public opportunity.
He’d showered Delilah with gifts, clothing, an informal education and the opportunity to prove herself. She’d gone from shampoo girl to executive director of Spa DeMay, and she had “Cash” to thank for it. He’d introduced her to the arts and she’d introduced him to the World Wrestling Federation.
For all their playful arguments, both he and Delilah knew there wasn’t anything she wouldn’t do for him.
He coughed and his grin fell. His eyes turned serious. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
She offered him a sip of water and sat on the edge of the bed. “You should rest instead of talk.”
“You’re a bossy woman.”
She cracked a sassy grin. “You helped make me that way.”
He laughed and absently rubbed his chest. “So I did.” He sighed. “I need you to do something for me.”
“Anything except the cigar, scotch and Viagra,” she said, knowing none of the three mixed well with his heart condition.
“The evil trinity,” he said wryly, then turned serious again. “If something happens to me—”
Delilah’s heart contracted. “It won’t.”
“Don’t be a sissy about this,” he said with an edge to his voice. “I’m surrounded by enough hysterical idiots. I’m counting on you to be sensible.”
Delilah stiffened her lip. “Okay, what can I do?”
“If I die, I’d rather you not tell anyone the truth about my, uh—” He cleared his throat. “My condition.”
Realization hit her. Male pride, one of the strongest forces in the universe. Even in the face of death, Cash was concerned about his image. “If anyone asks me, my response will be that you were so virile I couldn’t keep up with you.”
Cash chuckled. “Whatever happens, Lilly needs to be protected. I want you to keep an eye on her.”
“She may not like that.”
“I’ll talk to her,” he said.
“I’m not sure that will help,” she said, suspecting that Howard’s daughter, Lilly, wasn’t overly fond of her.
“Let me handle it. There’s something else, though, that’s very important to me. It’s not a small request and it won’t be easy for you.”
Delilah wrinkled her brow in confusion. “What—”
A knock sounded on the door, interrupting them. Miguel, Howard’s longtime housekeeper, stepped into the room. “Sorry to interrupt, Señor Bradford, but Señorita Lilly is on the phone.”
Howard’s eyes lit up. “I’ll take it, Miguel. I must have forgotten to turn the ringer back on,” he said, picking up the receiver. He covered the mouthpiece. “We’ll talk tomorrow. Okay, darlin’?”
Still worried, Delilah forced a smile and kissed his forehead. “Sure thing,” she whispered, wondering what he had intended to tell her. “Get some rest after you talk to Lilly.”
Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow …
A buzzing sound permeated her brain. Delilah frowned. She covered her ears, but it felt like a bee was buzzing inside her head. She desperately tried to go back to sleep. If she stayed asleep, maybe Howard would tell her what he wanted her to do.
Tomorrow had never come for him. He had passed away in his sleep.
Refusing to open her eyes, afraid of looking at the clock, she buried her head under her pillow.
The buzzing continued.
Her heart sank.
Not again!
She peeked out from under the pillow at her alarm clock and scowled. The luminescent numbers mocked her. 2:37
A.M.
Frustration and impotent fury raced through her. She threw the pillow against the wall. “Stop!”
The buzzing continued.
Not certain whether to cry or scream, Delilah pulled the remaining earplug out of her ear. Who knew where the other plug had gone? The buzzing sound reminded her of a trip to the dentist. Pushing back the covers on her bed, she stomped to the wall she shared with her neighbor. “I’m in hell,” she muttered to herself. “That guy Cash told me about, what’s his name? Danny, Dan, Dante? He left out a level of hell and I am in it.”
She’d tried to keep her exchanges with her mystery neighbor civil up until now. She’d left polite little notes at his door, but she couldn’t handle another night of sleep deprivation. She pounded on the wall. “Stop it! For God’s sake, stop it, stop it, stop it!”
The buzzing miraculously ceased. Delilah slumped in relief.
“Did I wake you?” called a muffled male voice from the other side of the wall.
Delilah rolled her eyes.
Only every night for the last eighteen days
. “Yes. Please stop,” she called back.
“Sorry. I didn’t know you could hear me,” he yelled.
