WickedTakeover (2 page)

“Have I what?”

“Had your tongue tattooed? Or are the ones on your arms all
that you have?”

His smile broadened. He spoke conspiratorially. “I have
another, though not on my tongue.”

Uh-huh. Lauren wondered if he’d inked his balls and cock,
hoping he hadn’t. His equipment had to be as awesome as the rest of him. No way
could anyone improve on nature’s perfection.

She sighed.

He regarded her thoughtfully, really taking in her short
blonde hair, clothes and finally her features, including the small mole near
the side of her mouth. There, he lingered, as though he liked the beauty mark.

Are you nuts? A guy like him? Get real.

He continued to study her mouth.

A wave of desire and embarrassment rushed through Lauren so
quickly, her throat and cheeks got hot.

He smiled softly this time, as though he felt bad for making
her uncomfortable. Lightly touching her arm, he murmured, “Let me get those
binders so you can look through them.”

“No, don’t. Please. That’s not why I’m here.”

His dark eyebrows lifted a bit. “You’re selling something?”
His attention went to her purse as though her product line was in there.

“Uh, no. I’m here to take over.”

“Take over?”

“Uh-huh.”

He looked lost. “As in what?”

“This place.” At his continuing confusion, she blurted, “I
own this place and everything in it, including you.”

His eyes widened in what appeared to be surprise that
matched Lauren’s. She hadn’t meant to say that last part about him and wasn’t
certain why she had. When it came to hunks, no woman—not even a wife—really had
full possession of them. Men like him always had too many options, countless
females wanting a moment of attention, willing to do whatever was necessary to
get it.

Lauren couldn’t blame those ladies. His amazing looks kept
tightening her nipples and creaming her pussy. However, it was his easy manner
and effortless smile that called to the person she was, lonely and wanting for
too long, making her yearn for closeness she’d rarely known. He seemed like a
truly decent guy who’d be fun to talk to, work with, get to know. At least in
her fantasies.

Remembering reality and why she was here, Lauren pulled
herself together and explained, “What I meant is, I’m your boss, at least until
I can get rid of this place, which I will. As quickly as possible.” She stuck
out her hand. “Lauren Simms, and you’re…”

Dante didn’t say and considered asking her for ID.

She was Frank’s little girl? He’d expected the man’s
daughter to eventually show up and claim her inheritance. However, Dante hadn’t
been prepared for anyone like Lauren.

She and her dad looked nothing alike, not even within the
same family tree or forest. Frank had been short for a man, no more than
five-five and painfully thin even before his heart started giving him trouble.
His hair had been curly and red, his features on the homely side given his big
nose and protruding teeth.

Lauren’s mouth was exceptionally nice. Plush lips tinted a
delicate rose, further enhanced by a tiny mole to the side.

Dante studied her beauty mark as he had earlier. Again,
something shifted inside him. Ignoring the pleasant sensation, he took in her
delicate features that were sweet and pretty rather than sensual. Her deep-blue
eyes went really well with her honey-blonde hair. Styled shorter than his, a
few of the strands brushed her cheeks.

A part of him thought about easing them back. Good sense
warned Dante against it. The way he was staring at her seemed more than enough.

Lauren’s complexion pinked up as it had earlier, which gave
her some color. Despite living in Florida, she was as pale as a corpse and
dressed like a modern-day version of a nun. Without thinking, Dante leaned
closer and inhaled deeply, catching her scent once more. Subtle and floral with
a hint of musk.

A rush of blood pooled in his groin.

Lauren blinked rapidly at his proximity, her face lifting,
her lips not all that far from his. For a woman, she was tallish, probably
five-seven, five-eight, without her heels.

She finally stepped back. He resisted the urge to follow and
took her in instead.

Even with the clothes she wore, Dante could tell she had a
lush, womanly figure, her breasts, hips and ass giving a guy something to do
with his mouth and hands. Like running his fingers over her ripe boobs, feeling
her nipples peak as they pressed against his palms, licking the long tips and
tight areolas. Were they pink or brown? He figured they’d be as rosy as her
velvety folds when they were plump with desire.

Dante wondered if she was into carnal games. Not the
hardcore BDSM stuff—whips, corset, ball gags—but playful dominance, submission
and an occasional spanking. Damn. With that in the mix, there’d be endless
stuff to enjoy.

His balls pulled up into his body. He edged closer, then
looked down as the tips of her fingers touched his abs.

Not to stroke him. She still wanted him to shake her hand.

At last, he took it. Her fingers were soft and moist, a
delight to hold. He squeezed them gently.

More color flooded her face and throat.

Dante liked that. “So, you’re Frank’s little girl.”

Offense quickly crossed her face. “We’re related,” she said
coolly. “Or were.”

Her reaction didn’t surprise Dante. Frank had told him what
had happened long ago. Stuff he wasn’t about to bring up now or pry. Not his
place. Calling himself a fool for saying what he had, Dante nodded.

“And you are?” she asked again.

Right. He still hadn’t told her. “Dante Avana. Your dad
hired me on as manager, though I do my share of piercings and tats.”

Lauren’s attention fell to the one on his left biceps. She
got a dreamy look on her face as though she liked the design or his arm.
Possibly both. He ran his thumb over hers.

Noticing, she looked down. After a moment, Lauren pulled
back her hand and glanced around, taking in the parlor not him.

Before their silence grew too uncomfortable for her, he
asked, “Want me to show you everything you own?”

Lauren slanted him a look.

“Furniture, equipment, computers,” he clarified and smiled.

Her expression got all soft and feminine again then hardened
just as quickly, as though she’d flipped some kind of internal switch.

Dante had seen that kind of transformation before in others
and wondered if she worked as an attorney.

“Can I ask you something?” she said.

He hoped it wouldn’t be about her dad given the history
Frank had revealed. “Shoot.”

“Would you be interested in buying this place? I wouldn’t
ask,” she added quickly, “but I really need the money. I’ve been out of work
since December even though I’ve sent out hundreds of resumes. No one’s offered
me a job. My benefits are going to end soon and my savings are nearly gone. I’m
kind of tapped out, you know?”

Dante understood perfectly. He’d had trouble with his last
career, which had led him to this place. Good times. Few hassles. Just what
he’d needed, and she apparently wanted to avoid. “At this point, I couldn’t
handle the expense.”

“The payments wouldn’t be that bad. I’d make them
reasonable.”

“Sorry, I can’t.”

Her shoulders slumped.

Dante’s heart twisted at how hopeless and weary she looked.
“Hey.” He touched her arm. “It’ll be okay. Everything will turn out. If you
want, I could lend you a couple of hundred to help.”

Surprise flickered across her face. “You’d do that for
someone you don’t know?”

It was only money. A truth Dante had learned a few years
back when everything had changed in his life. “We’re all family here,” he
explained. “You own the place. That is, if you are who you claim to be. Should
I ask for identification?”

Lauren smiled. “Ask all you want, you’re not seeing my
driver’s license.”

“Picture’s that bad, huh?”

Her cheeks flamed again with his teasing. “Maybe.” She cleared
her throat as though she didn’t approve of how nicely husky her voice had been.
“Do you mind if I look around by myself? Can you show me where the books are?”

Dante leaned close, catching another whiff of her fragrance.
His body hummed. “I’ll show you whatever you want.”

Her expression grew even more heated, her worries about her
financial situation forgotten for the moment.
Good.
Dante wanted her to
feel at home here, not only because he and Frank had been close, but because
she seemed so alone.

He knew she wasn’t married. No wedding ring. He sensed she
wasn’t dating anyone special either, given how she kept blushing at his
attention, as though she wasn’t use to that from a man. At least one who worked
in a tattoo parlor. “Before you go over the books though, you probably should
meet the rest of the staff first. So they understand why you’re here and what
you’re doing.”

Lauren glanced at the front door. “The young woman who left
a few minutes ago, she works here?”

“If you’re talking about Jasmina, then yeah. Started about
eight months ago. She answers the phone, books appointments, takes payments,
runs out and gets our lunches, stuff like that. That’s where she is now,
picking up takeout.”

“She’s gorgeous. Is she the girl in the mural on the front
door?”

Dante smiled. “The same. You like it?”

“Oh yeah. Did my—” Lauren stopped then said, “Did Frank do
it, or is that your work?”

Dante pretended not to notice her hurt when she’d said her
father’s name. “Neither of us. Your dad could ink simple designs, same as me.
Van Gogh’s our resident artist.”

She smiled. “Seriously? That’s his—or her—real name?”

“His.” Dante lowered his voice. “At least that’s the name he
goes by. Trained to be a painter, just like his namesake. Couldn’t sell enough
of his stuff to pay rent and eat, so he’s inking here until he gets his break.
By the way, if you call him Cory, he’ll cry.”

Lauren worked her mouth, clearly fighting another smile.
“Sure.”

“See for yourself. Hey, Van Gogh,” Dante called out. “Can
you come up front? Someone wants to see your best work.”

“In the binders or on me?” he shouted from his workstation.

“On you.”

“What’s he talking about?” Lauren asked.

“You’ll see. Don’t close your eyes.”

Her attention shot to the photo of the guy who’d gotten his
nuts and cock inked.

“Don’t worry,” Dante assured then teased, “Van Gogh will be
decent, for the most part.”

Reluctantly, she turned to the hall as Van Gogh shuffled
down it, naked to the waist, and joined them. He was a scrawny kid who’d just
turned twenty-two, had shaved his head and wore a scraggly goatee.

Dante doubted Lauren had noticed Van Gogh’s facial hair or
bald noggin. Her hand went to her throat as she stared at his tats. The skin on
Van Gogh’s narrow chest looked as though he’d ripped it away to show his heart,
ribs and guts beneath. Gunshot wound designs covered his arms. Bright-red blood
seemed to seep from the holes. All of the art in glorious 3-D, amazingly
realistic.

“Oh my god,” she whispered.

Van Gogh turned to Dante. “She gonna be okay?”

“I’m fine,” Lauren answered. She reached out to touch the
ribs and heart etched on his chest then dropped her hand as though she’d
thought better of it. “You actually tattooed yourself? Using both hands?”

“I’m ambidextrous. Long as I have a mirror, I’m good.”

“I’d say better than good.” She regarded the tats on his
arms. “What you’ve done is freaking amazing. It’s so gory and real.”

“Oh yeah?” Van Gogh puffed up. “Thanks. You want something
like this on you?”

Lauren stepped back. “Absolutely not.”

He seemed confused and spoke to Dante. “Why’s she here?”

“She’s Frank’s kid,” Dante said. “Owns this place and
everything in it, including you and me. Right, Lauren?”

She arched one pale eyebrow.

Dante smiled at how cute she looked.

Lauren got all soft as she had earlier, her gaze blurry with
what appeared to be need. His pulse started picking up again.

After a long moment, her eyes cleared. She’d clearly flipped
that damn internal switch again and spoke to Van Gogh. “I’m your boss until I
get rid of this place, which I will. As soon as I can.”

“You mean selling it to someone?” Van Gogh asked.

“Or shutting it down and liquidating its assets.”

The young man’s complexion went paler than hers.

Dante’s smile had already faded. Apparently, Lauren wasn’t
as soft as he’d thought.

Big changes were coming, and they didn’t look good.

Lauren figured her shitty financial situation had finally
fried her brain. She hadn’t meant to be so blunt. Hell, she hadn’t realized how
tactless she’d been until she caught Van Gogh’s expression. The poor guy looked
as though the bullethole tats on his arms were real, causing serious pain.

His lower lip trembled.

Oh crap, was he going to cry? She’d thought Dante had been
kidding about that.

Even if he hadn’t been, what was the matter with her? As a
human resources professional, Lauren knew she had to be careful when delivering
bad news to a staff member. She was supposed to be firm yet gentle, explaining
why the company was downsizing the department or division, assuring that there
would be severance, a letter of recommendation, a decent transition from being
employed to being thrown out like so much trash.

She recalled the afternoon she’d been let go from her job,
two days before Christmas. After work, she’d planned to go shopping at the mall
to get into the spirit of things, maybe have a nice dinner out then decorate
her condo while old holiday movies played. Sure, she’d be alone, but Lauren
understood that her work buddies had husbands, children, boyfriends or family
members to spend time with. She was happy for them.

Okay, she really envied what they had. Her mom had passed
away more than a year ago. Frank had been missing for decades. There wasn’t a
spouse or anyone remotely close to a boyfriend in her life. But hey, she’d have
fun even if it was by herself.

That dream had died when the CEO had called Lauren into his
office shortly after lunch. She’d thought it might be for a holiday bonus,
especially when she saw her supervisor in there, a sweet matronly woman who was
a vice-president. Next to her was a security officer.

That kind of threw Lauren. Still, she had hope, until the
CEO, a grim man, regarded her as though she were a particularly nasty specimen
he’d just viewed under a microscope.

For the first time ever, Lauren’s supervisor avoided her
gaze.

At that point, her heart started to pound. She sank into a
chair, her mind racing at what she might have done wrong. Before she could ask,
the CEO spoke.

“I’ll get straight to the point,” he’d said. “Your
position’s being eliminated. The company’s moving in a new direction. Today’s
your last…”

She’d seen his mouth move after that but hadn’t heard his
words, her ears were ringing too badly. The room kept lurching. The CEO pushed
papers at her that Lauren could barely read much less understand given her
shock. If she refused to sign the separation contract, the CEO warned, there’d
be no severance. He alluded to the fact that the company might even fight her
on unemployment benefits.

That got her to read faster than she would have liked. Her
hand had shaken so badly, her signature was illegible. The CEO had taken the
signed contract from her, handed it to Lauren’s former supervisor then said,
“That’s all.”

No have a nice day, Merry Christmas or go to hell.

Six years she’d given the company, working ten-hour days
most of the time, and the man had altered her future in less than fifteen
minutes without breaking a sweat. The security guard escorted Lauren to her
desk as though she were a convicted felon. He watched closely as she put her
few personal items into a box, which the company had graciously provided, then
escorted her to the elevator.

None of her work buddies had bothered to look up from their
computers as she and the security guard walked past their desks. No one had
said goodbye. She’d organized birthday parties for them, celebrated their
marriages and the births of their children.

Her tears had started when she was halfway home, making it
impossible for her to see. She had to pull into a strip mall. Holiday music
pumped from the storefronts. Kids bolted down the sidewalks, heading for the
toy and sports stores. Young couples strolled arm in arm window-shopping,
probably dreaming about Christmas Day.

She spent it in bed, curled in a fetal position, too
defeated to move.

Lauren wanted to tell Van Gogh that if it came to
liquidation, he’d get a decent severance. If she sold Wicked Brand, he’d have a
job with the new owner. Good god, anyone in his right mind would want Van Gogh
as a tattoo artist. Trouble was she couldn’t promise something that might not
come true. Lauren had no idea what shape this place was in. It was solvent for
the next few months because of Frank’s insurance. After that…

There weren’t even any customers in here. Was it always this
slow?

Afraid to ask and risk Van Gogh’s meltdown, she said, “It’ll
take a couple of weeks, maybe a few months before anything happens. I’ll do
everything I can to make the transition as easy as possible.”

He looked at Dante as though he needed confirmation of what
she’d said or he wanted a hug.

Dante clamped his hand on Van Gogh’s thin shoulder.
“Everything will be all right. It always is.”

Lauren wished she had that kind of confidence or knew what
else to say. After another moment of strained silence, the door swung open.
Jasmina strode in, ponytail bouncing, a large white sack in her slender arms.
She beamed at Lauren then noticed Van Gogh’s downturned mouth and slumped
shoulders. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Dante pulled the bag from her. “This is Lauren,
Frank’s kid.” He inclined his head in her direction.

Jasmina perked up again. “Yeah? Well hey.” She threw her
arms around Lauren in greeting, hugging her hard.

Surprised, Lauren stiffened momentarily then finally hugged
the young woman in return. Jasmina smelled of baby powder. Somehow, that made
Lauren want to protect her, just as she would a younger sister.

Jasmina gave her another squeeze and stepped back. “I’m so
sorry about your dad. Frank was a great guy. Unbelievably nice. I really needed
a job so I could pay for school. Told him I’d die if he didn’t hire me, so he
did.” She smiled.

Lauren nodded dumbly at Frank’s kindness to others. She
supposed it wasn’t much of a surprise when it came to Jasmina. Not only was she
sweet, she was even better-looking than Lauren had first thought. Flawless skin
dewy with youth, large dark eyes surrounded by sooty lashes, a mouth Angelina
Jolie would have envied, an expression filled with excitement and hope because
no one had crushed her dreams yet. Suddenly, Lauren didn’t want anyone to do
that to her or anyone else here.

“So you’re in college,” Lauren said, hoping Jasmina wasn’t
studying human resources, a dying field. The corporate community’s newest way
to make an extra buck was to outsource HR functions. “What are you taking?”

“Business administration at the community college.” Jasmina
jabbed her thumb at something behind her, presumably the school. “So far, I’ve
gotten A’s in all my courses.”

Dante flashed a grin like a proud older brother. “Jasmina’s
our resident brain.”

The young woman waved her hand in dismissal, though her
smile did widen a bit. She turned to Lauren. “Dante’s just kidding. He’s the
one with all the brains. He’s—”

“This is getting cold,” he interrupted.

“I’m not hungry,” Van Gogh muttered.

“Sure you are.” Dante slapped him on the back. “Throw on
your shirt and join us, got it? Lauren, you’ll eat with us too.”

“Oh no, I couldn’t.”

“Why not?” Jasmina said. “You don’t like Mexican food?”

Dante had already opened the Styrofoam container on top.
Four enchiladas swam in red sauce with cheese blanketing them. To the side were
scoops of sour cream and guacamole, refried beans smothered in more cheese and
a mound of Spanish rice.

Amazing scents of corn, beef, chicken, garlic and onion
wafted toward Lauren. Her mouth watered. “It’s okay. I’m not really—”

She stopped as her stomach growled really loud and long. Once
it had settled down, she finished, “Hungry. I’m not. Seriously.”

Dante arched one dark eyebrow. “There’s enough here for all
of us, including you.” He elbowed Van Gogh. “Come on. Everything’s going to be
all right.”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Jasmina asked.

This time, Lauren kept her big mouth shut.

Dante smiled. “No reason. Just making conversation.” He led
the way to the back.

Van Gogh went into a side room, presumably for his shirt.
Lauren followed Dante and Jasmina until the obvious hit her. She stopped.
“Shouldn’t someone wait up front in case a customer comes in?”

Dante halted. So did Jasmina.

“I could do that,” Lauren said. “I don’t mind. You guys go
ahead and enjoy your meal.” Without her hanging around and intruding, they’d be
certain to do that. Van Gogh could curse her or cry. Shit, she felt like a
jerk, especially as he came back out fully clothed and looking glum.

“It’s early,” Dante said. “This place doesn’t start hopping
until four or so.”

So they did have some busy times here. That was a relief and
a good selling point. Even so, Lauren didn’t budge. No way would she intrude.
“What if someone comes in and steals one of the tees or something else while
we’re all in the back?”

Dante didn’t answer. He regarded her. Not like an employee
or coworker would.

As a man.

His attention lingered on her mouth before raking over her
boobs and legs, as though he and she were alone and he had the right.

That might have disturbed Lauren if she hadn’t been so
suddenly dizzy and aroused. Her pussy ached with need, while her thoughts had
turned to mush. Although she was technically the boss, Dante was clearly
keeping command and letting her know it.

“It’s only stuff,” he murmured. “Come on, before your food
gets cold.”

She didn’t know what to say, how to argue. He’d included her
so easily, making Lauren a part of a team of people she already liked and would
probably tear apart, sending each on their own way. Never seeing any of them
again.

Especially him.

Dante scooped half his lunch onto a clean plate, placed it
in front of Lauren then sat across from her.

Although the backroom was snug, it had an open, airy quality
about it thanks to Van Gogh’s wall-to-wall murals. He hadn’t left one surface
untouched. At first, he’d wanted to paint his rendition of the real Van Gogh’s
Starry
Night
or
Sunflowers
here
.
Dante, Frank and Jasmina had nixed
that, suggesting something less weird and more pleasant.

Van Gogh had grumbled but finally conceded and truly outdid
himself.

Above them, his work created an illusion of a high stone
ceiling pitted with age. He’d designed the walls to give the effect of sitting
in the center of a stone terrace, its graceful arches laden with flowering
vines, the purple, pink and white petals seeming to dance in an invisible
breeze. The three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view showed the sea stretching
endlessly in all directions to mountains in the distance.

Lauren kept turning in her chair to take all of it in, her
lips parted in obvious wonder, naked delight on her face.

Finally, she was behaving like the person Dante sensed she
was. A good woman capable of deep feelings, possibly willing to take a risk and
have a good time…once she ditched the corporate clothes and loosened up.

He sensed there wasn’t anything put on about her. He liked
that. She certainly wasn’t an outrageous flirt like most of the women he’d met.
He enjoyed that even more. She had the kind of looks he favored. The mole on
the side of her mouth, the curve of her cheek, her pale throat continued to fascinate
him as though he’d never seen another female before.

When it came to women, Dante wasn’t a deprived man by any
means. Sex had been his for the taking since his early years in high school
when more than one girl had thrown herself at him. Back then, exploring a
female’s body, all that softness, their outstanding curves had been a new
adventure and pissing fun. Over the years, he’d indulged himself without
regret. Burying his cock in a woman’s heated cunt, filling her eager mouth with
his tongue was as natural as breathing and definitely not something he’d ever
questioned and wouldn’t start now.

He took a bite of his enchilada, barely tasting what he knew
was buttery beef, cheese and spicy sauce. Instead, he imagined a welcoming
smile from Lauren, her warmth that would offer more than excitement. It would
give a man the comfort he truly needed.

She turned again and finally caught him watching her.

He smiled.

Blushing quickly, she glanced down at her plate. Given her
pained expression, the food didn’t seem to please her.

“You don’t like enchiladas?” he asked.

“I love anything Mexican, but you gave me too much.”

Dante hadn’t given her anything at all, at least what he
sensed they’d both really enjoy.

“This is your lunch.” She pushed the plate toward him. “I can’t
accept all of this.”

“It’s only food. I can always get more.” He eased it right
back then ordered, “Quit making excuses and eat.”

Her brows drew together in a slight frown.

“Or don’t you know how?” he asked innocently.

Her indignation turned to quick embarrassment. She pulled in
her shoulders.

As if that would make her smaller? She was ashamed that she
wasn’t built like a stick?

Dante held back a frustrated sigh at Lauren’s reaction. He
wanted to haul her to his station, turn her to the mirror and show her how
glorious her curves were. How fucking feminine no matter what advertisers
claimed men wanted. He was a damn man and he liked meat on a woman. Maybe it
was a part of his cultural heritage, but ample boobs, hips and a plush ass made
his blood sing. Unfortunately, now wasn’t the time to get into that. “Watch
him,” he told her, inclining his head to Van Gogh. “Do what he’s doing.”

Oblivious to everything except his lunch, Van Gogh shoveled
forkfuls of his monster burrito, rice and refried beans into his mouth. His
thin cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk’s. A string of cheese hung over his
bottom lip.