Play My Game: A 100 Series Standalone Romance Page 7

  “Gather your hair away from your face and neck.”

  No “please” or semblance of a request, just a tightly spoken command as if I’m standing on a stage or the auction block. Teeth gritted behind my closed lips, I reach up and lift my tangle of auburn waves into a loose ponytail in my grasp.

  I can do this. I can weather his assessing gaze and maddening arrogance the same way I handle any other obstacle thrown in my path. God knows, I’ve had enough training in twenty-five years of living that I can get through these next weeks, too.

  “You have a scar under your left arm.”

  “Yes.” His abrupt remark jars me, not that I expected the significant flaw to pass without his notice. As bad as it was, I don’t try to think about that old wound. It’s easier not to think about it in the daylight. In the dark, it’s harder to keep the memories away.

  Now that he’s pointed it out, my thoughts flash back to that spring night when I was thirteen, when the trauma of my home life came to an explosive, final end. I can still hear my father shouting and swearing, railing at the world from behind the wheel of our speeding Buick. I can hear Mom screaming for him to slow down, that he was going to get us all killed.

  Most of all, it’s Jen’s wooden silence, her resignation in those horrific moments, that haunts me to this day. Her terror never ended, not even after he was gone.

  “How’d it happen?”

  I shrug. “Just an accident that happened when I was a kid. No big deal.”

  He doesn’t believe me. His gaze locks on mine as if he can sense I’m holding something back. I wait for him to dig deeper. If he is anything like his ruthless art, he won’t be content with my vague answer.

  I hurry to formulate viable explanations in my head, mundane scenarios to bore him and deflect his curiosity. But he doesn’t seem interested in talking.

  Unfolding his arms, he pivots around to the sideboard to serve himself another generous serving of the Macallan.

  “I’ve seen enough,” he utters tersely, his back to me. “Get dressed. I’ll wait for you outside.”

  He sounds so disinterested, I have to wonder if I’m not at all what he was expecting. Is it my scar that he finds so offensive, or the fact that I haven’t told him where it came from? His sudden lack of interest is curious, coming from a man who’s made a fortune from exposing human frailty and pain.

  I let my hair go, watching the rigid lines of his shoulders and spine as he pours his drink.

  “That’s got to be at least four shots of whisky since I arrived. Isn’t that a lot for eight o’clock in the morning?”

  He grunts, eyeing me over his shoulder. “I wasn’t aware you were keeping track.”

  “Maybe someone should.”

  My reply brings him around to face me, his sensual mouth drawn up in a faint sneer. Then, as if in defiance of what I’ve said, he downs the whisky in one swallow while holding me in that scorching gaze of his. He sets the glass down with a hard thump.

  “You drink too much,” I inform him, as if he doesn’t already know. “Is that why it’s been nearly two years since you’ve produced anything new?”

  The question leaps off my tongue before I can hold it back. His stare bores into me as he steps toward me. His legs are long and powerful. Two strides carry him within arm’s length, close enough that I can smell the smoky whisky on his breath and see the hauntedness in his dark eyes. I can also see the barely restrained anger in his handsome face.

  “Your clothes, Ms. Laurent. Put them back on.” The smooth Southern edge of his low voice is far from soft now. “As soon as I leave this room, one of my staff will be in to clear away these dishes. I suggest you dress quickly and preserve your dignity, unless that good-girl attitude of yours is only a facade.”

  God, he’s an arrogant bastard. I should let him go. I should not say another word. I should simply be thankful this awkward exercise is finished, and pray the remainder of my time with him will be over just as quickly.

  But maybe there’s something ruthless inside me, too, because I can tell I’ve hit a nerve and it only makes me want to probe deeper. He’s trying to shut me out, and for some reckless reason, I don’t want to make things that easy for him.

  “Why start painting again now?” I press. “And why start with me, aside from the fact that you want to recoup the seventy-five thousand that Daniel owes you?”

  He scowls. “Isn’t that reason enough?”

  “Obviously, you don’t need the money.”

  “Are you suggesting I should forgive your boyfriend’s stealing just because I don’t need what he took from me?”

  “Daniel didn’t steal anything from you.”

  “Didn’t he?” He steps closer to me, closing the meager distance. A dangerous fire smolders in his consuming brown eyes. “Only a cheat gambles with money he doesn’t have. A thief, Ms. Laurent.”

  He sounds so indignant, I can’t help myself; I scoff. “Then why not offer to have Daniel pose naked for you instead of me?”

  “Because I wanted you. And you said yes.”

  His voice skims over my bare flesh like a stroke of his hand. Dark, heated, and utterly in control. I swallow, my mouth as dry as the core of me is drenched. He hasn’t touched me, yet my skin tingles as if his hands have stroked every bare inch of me. Arousal coils deep within me, uninvited, yet undeniable.

  Just from the power of Jared Rush’s gaze and the smoky rumble of his voice.

  A cold, knowing smile pulls at the hard edge of his mouth. He leans in a little closer, his deep voice going even lower, a vibration I feel all the way to my marrow.

  “And just for the record, Ms. Laurent, if you were mine, I would’ve put a fucking bullet in my head before I’d ever give you up to a man like me. Not for any reason. Not for any price.”

  I stare at him, unable to speak. My lungs don’t seem to function, except to soak in the dark, enticing scent of him.

  He takes a step back, and his eyes make one final sweep of my nudity. “We’ll be leaving for my studio in ten minutes.”

  10

  JARED

  I feel her stare on me as I stalk away from her.

  It carves into me even though I can’t see her changeable blue-gray eyes. Intelligent, inquisitive eyes. Brave, beautiful eyes that see more than they should, more than I intend to allow.

  She’s fearless, too, marching into my house wrapped in a sweet summer dress and haughty defiance, like a virgin sent in to face a dragon and determined to not go down without a fight.

  I hadn’t expected to begin seducing her over my breakfast plate, but damn if the idea hadn’t taken on immense appeal the instant her gaze clashed with mine.

  I’d told myself to show her some gentleness today, exercise some patience. I’m generally in short supply where those two things are concerned, but with her, at least for today, I wanted to try.

  Fuck. So much for that.

  Making her strip in front of me was a cheap shot, one beneath even a bastard like me.

  I’d like to tell myself it was contempt for Daniel Hathaway behind my demand. After all, he’s the reason she’s here with me in the first place. He’s the reason I’m going to have Melanie Laurent on my canvas and in my bed before these next weeks are over.

  But when I told her to undress for me, I wasn’t thinking about Daniel Hathaway or debts to be settled—new or old. I wasn’t even thinking about my painting. I wasn’t thinking about anything except the proud, smart, incredibly attractive woman seated alone with me in the room.

  A woman who seems determined to challenge and push back at me with every turn.

  She made it clear she wants to draw a hard line between her real life and our arrangement. I get that. Hell, I respect her for it and wholeheartedly agree. I’m not going to let her get inside my head or my personal life any more than she wants me in hers.

  None of that changes the fact that when she’s with me, she’s at my mercy.

  I thought taking her clothes off would unravel som
e of the fight in her. Instead, I’m the one who’s nearly undone. I’ve seen hundreds of beautiful, naked women, both professionally in my studio and laid out before me for my pleasure. But none of them ever affected me as powerfully as her.

  My heart hasn’t stopped banging in my chest since the moment she reached for the knot on her innocent-looking wrap dress. Like a teenage boy who’d just discovered his father’s porno stash, my body’s reaction to Melanie undressing was swift and uncontrollable. Blood that surged to my cock in a hot torrent has left me with a massive hard-on that has yet to subside.

  As I step out of the room now, the image of her confidently complying to my heavy-handed command runs on repeat in my head.

  Her high, firm breasts studded with tight pink nipples. Long, lean legs crowned with a modestly trimmed thatch of light curls covering her sex. Miles of milky skin I’m certain will feel as soft as velvet under my hands, my lips, my tongue.

  And a scar hinting at something more than just a badly healed physical wound.

  I’d been struck mute and stupid with lust as she took off her dress and underwear. I told her I’d been picturing her unclothed since that first night. That much was true, but I’d been wrong to think I was prepared to see her in the flesh.

  She is exquisite. Sexy as fucking hell.

  She’s broken in places, too. That scar is only trace evidence of bigger things she doesn’t want me to see. I’d be lying to myself if I said it didn’t intrigue me as much as her outward beauty and sharp intellect.

  She should have snapped up my offer to end this game before it begins. The fact that she stood firm didn’t surprise me. She’s too loyal, too strong. She may even be a little desperate, though whether it’s for the money to spare Daniel or herself, I’m not sure. Regardless, she wouldn’t have come here in the first place if she wasn’t fully prepared to adhere to the terms of our contract.

  Evidently, retreating is no more in her nature than it is in mine.

  God help her for that, because now that I’ve seen her it’s too late for either one of us to turn back. She only thinks she can’t stand me now; when this is over, I’m certain she’s going to hate me. And rightfully so.

  A low curse grinds past my clenched teeth as I close the French doors behind me.

  One of my household staff notices me and approaches from another area of the penthouse. “Is everything all right with your breakfast, Mr. Rush?”

  Her cheerful smile dims when she sees my thunderous expression. I don’t have the patience to smooth my scowl, particularly not when I’m still sporting an erection along with my surly attitude.

  “No one goes in this room without first getting my permission, Carolina.”

  “Of course, sir. I’ll convey your instructions to the rest of the staff at once.”

  I nod curtly, dismissing her to carry out my order. Threatening to allow any of my employees to barge in on Melanie while she was undressed had been another cheap shot. It was also a bluff. I would never do that to her, but I need her to understand she’s in my world now.

  I need her to understand that I’m the one in control, no matter how thin that control is already proving to be.

  Retrieving my phone from the pocket of my jeans, I start tapping out a text to my personal assistant to arrange for my driver and a private charter service to East Hampton airport. I’ve barely typed the first couple of words when a call from Nate interrupts.

  He’s here at the house today, working on contracts in my office downstairs. For all he knows I’m still in a closed-door breakfast session with Melanie, so this can’t be good news. I abandon the text and answer my lawyer’s call.

  “What’s going on, Nate?”

  He clears his throat. “Sorry for the call, but we have a situation.”

  “What kind of situation?”

  “Alyssa. She seems pretty upset.”

  Shit. Just what I don’t need to deal with right now. Unfortunately, I don’t have much choice. “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know. She’s asking to see you, Jared. She’s down here in the office.”

  “You mean she’s at the house right now?”

  Behind me, the French doors open and Melanie steps out. Fuck. Talk about even more bad timing.

  Every article of her clothing is fixed in place as primly and perfectly as it was when she arrived, her clear gaze leveled on me with the same disapproval and mistrust.

  The bright flush of color in her cheeks is new, though, and I’m not sure if that heat is directed at me in outrage or something else. After the way I just treated her inside that room, I wouldn’t be surprised to feel the heat of her palm striking my face in another second.

  I wrench my focus back to the other problem at hand.

  “Did Alyssa say what she needs?”

  “You know her. She only wants to talk to you. She looks like shit, Jared.”

  I curse under my breath. When I glance at Melanie I am met with a scathing look of rebuke—and not a little amusement.

  “I’m sorry,” Nate says. “I should’ve told her you were tied up for the day. I’ll take care of it—”

  “No.” My answer is clipped, but firm. “Tell her to stay put. I’ll be right down.”

  “Female trouble?” Melanie asks as soon as I end the call, challenge gleaming in her stare.

  I’m tempted to explain, but that would mean blurring the line that’s been drawn between us in the sand today. Besides, Alyssa is my personal business. I’m not going to air her problems in public any more than I would my own. Where mine are concerned, Melanie Laurent has already seen more than I’d like.

  I slip my phone back into my pocket. “As much as I was looking forward to getting started with you, Ms. Laurent, unfortunately, it will have to wait until tomorrow.”

  I can hardly say she looks disappointed.

  “Eight o’clock,” I tell her. “I don’t expect you’ll be a second late.”

  “Why would I be? The sooner you start your painting, the sooner we can be done with each other.”

  I grunt, stifling a smile. “Come, I’ll walk you out.”

  She refuses my gesture to accompany her. “Don’t bother, I know the way. It sounds like you have your hands full enough as it is.”

  Without waiting for my permission or my reply, she turns away from me and leaves for the elevator on her own.

  11

  MELANIE

  With a large serving tray balanced on my hand, I carry five orders of Thursday’s turkey-and-gravy lunch special out to the group of silver-haired women chattering over iced teas at the back of my section at the diner.

  “Here you go, ladies.” I set the heaping plates down in front of them, tucking the emptied tray under my arm while I ask if I can bring them anything else.

  I wasn’t supposed to work until Saturday, but with an entire day to kill after my abrupt dismissal from Jared Rush’s mansion this morning, I decided I’d rather pick up an extra shift than spend the rest of the day at home steaming over the infuriating audacity of the man.

  I’d also like to forget that I took my clothes off in front of him, but that’s never going to happen. Even though I had almost convinced myself it was simply a requirement of the job I’ve entered into on my own free will, it didn’t feel like a job.

  Standing naked in front of him while his inscrutable, assessing gaze drank me in from head to toe felt more intimate than I want to admit. It felt like being caught in a storm, all of my senses heightened, my skin too tight and too hot, alive with a million tiny electrical charges.

  Now, several hours later, all I feel is anger and awkwardness.

  Based on his unreadable, almost harsh expression while he stared at me I have to wonder if he’d suddenly regretted offering to paint me.

  Maybe my scar put him off.

  Maybe he didn’t appreciate the fact that I hadn’t swooned on top of his breakfast table the way I’m sure he’s accustomed to with any other woman he meets.

  Or maybe he�
��d prefer to paint Alyssa, whoever she is. Though he didn’t exactly seem happy to be dealing with her this morning, either. Not that Jared Rush’s women or his no doubt well-deserved problems with them are any concern of mine.

  “Melanie, dear?” One of the ladies breaks into my thoughts with a pleasant, sing-song voice. “I hate to be a bother, but didn’t I ask for the vegetables in place of mashed potatoes?”

  Shit. I blink and shake my head. “Oh, yes you did. I’m sorry, Mrs. Augustino. I’ll be right back with that for you.”

  It’s not like me to be so distracted, but my mind has been in a scramble all day. Not only because of my unsettling reaction to Jared Rush, but also because of the things he said to me.

  Things about Daniel.

  They may be colleagues on the hotel project, but Rush’s mistrust of Daniel is clear. Anyone would have a right to be upset over a sizable debt like the one he racked up the other night, yet Jared Rush seems to disapprove of Daniel on a deeper level, as a person.

  Why hire him for the project if he didn’t like him? For God’s sake, why invite him to a private, high-stakes poker game at his mansion—especially when he was aware of Daniel’s situation in Las Vegas?

  I didn’t even know about that myself. Jared Rush is right, I was blindsided to learn about Daniel’s gambling. I felt foolish; I still do. Why had he kept it from me? How long would he have tried to keep it a secret?

  As I return to the kitchen for the side plate of veggies, other questions gnaw at the edges of my thoughts, too.

  Not only about the man I fell in love with over these past three months, but about the one I don’t know at all, yet who seems able to reach all the way into my soul with a single burning glance and a few shockingly intimate words.

  If you were mine, I would’ve put a fucking bullet in my head before I’d ever give you up to a man like me. Not for any reason. Not for any price.