Текст книги "ARROGANT PLAYBOY"

Автор книги: Winter Renshaw

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 43 страниц)

Chapter Eleven

BECKHAM

“We’re staying at Golden Oak,” I announce as Odessa climbs into the black Town Car my brother sent to pick us up from the airport. Bronson loads our luggage before shutting our door and climbing up front. A few minutes later, we’re speeding down the freeway toward his expansive country estate. I was always the city mouse. He was always meant to be a country mouse of the rich, reclusive variety.

“I thought we had a hotel reservation?”

“We did. Dane cancelled it. He wants to host us at his place.” I turn my phone on, my screen blowing up with missed emails and messages. Another topless selfie from my latest admirer mixes somewhere between all those. I delete it, but not before taking a peek. I’ve never claimed to have the self-control of a saint.

“That’s nice of him.”

“He likes to control everything.”

“And you don’t?” She chuckles.

“Absolutely not.”

“You’re obsessed with controlling what people think of you,” she says. “You want everyone to like you but only on your terms. That’s controlling.”

I glance up from my phone, two seconds from reminding her that she agreed to be kind during this trip. She wears a smile that lights up her emerald eyes, and it’s nearly identical to the one she wore the first night we met. For a second my heart hammers, and I forget we’re on completely different pages.

“Insulting someone while smiling,” I say, “isn’t the same as being cordial.”

Her chin tucks, dragging a curtain of shiny auburn hair over her shoulder as she sighs. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

I struggle to decide whether her apology is genuine, sarcastic, or a combination of the two. She looks at me from the corner of her eye before shifting her entire body my way.

Her slanted hand juts out a second later.

“Truce,” she says. “Let’s call a truce. At least for the next four days. I’ll stop making snide comments and you stop trying to get under my skin. We’ll play the roles of two cordial associates who’ve never slept together.”

I chuckle. Interacting with her while attempting to forget how fucking sexy she looked straddling my cock last week is going to be a challenge.

Her eyes close, and she takes a deep breath. It’s almost as if she has to psyche herself up to be nice. All it does is make me want that upper hand even more. She still fucking has it. She’s a goddamn dog refusing to let go of a stolen bone.

I meet her hand, my thumb grazing the delicate bone in her wrist. Her hands are softer than I remember.

The Town Car pulls into the private gate of Golden Oak. The driver presses the call button and within seconds the gate opens. We’re deposited under a majestic porte-cochere built with two stories of honed Brazilian granite Dane flew south of the equator to personally select. Every inch of this estate has Dane’s stamp of approval. Visiting here, as much as I loathe Utah and what it represents to me, always serves as a solemn reminder of what we’ve achieved in the last decade.

“Bienvenue!” Mathilde, my brother’s house manager greets us along with a tuxedoed butler. It always amuses me how my reclusive brother prefers to have a staff of eight at his beck and call while preferring to remain alone in his spare time. I can hardly spend an hour without some kind of social interaction yet I prefer to keep my penthouse employee-free.

The world couldn’t handle two of me anyway. Dane would venture to say the same.

“Hello, Mathilde,” I help Bronson unload luggage and wheel Odessa’s bag around the car. “Mathilde, this is Odessa. She’s consulting for TEH. I assume Dane told you she was staying?”

“Oui.” Mathilde smiles as if the auburn-haired beauty standing before her is enchanting. “The rooms are ready. We’re happy to have you.”

Odessa leans in and kiss-kisses Mathilde’s cheeks, taking her hands. “Very lovely to meet you, and thank you for accommodating us. I look forward to my stay at Golden Oak.”

We follow Mathilde up a winding, mahogany staircase, one I’ve traveled many times, until we reach a quiet hall opposite of my brother’s wing.

“Here you are, mademoiselle. Monsieur King, your room is next door. Press the call button if you need me.” Mathilde disappears into the dark hall.

“Sure beats the Hampton Inn.” The corner of Odessa’s mouth pulls up. I don’t think she’s being facetious, but it’s so fucking hard to tell with her.

“Unpack. Freshen up if you’d like,” I say. “I’ll come get you before we head downtown. Dane has meetings planned for us the rest of the afternoon.”

***

“What’s your brother like?” Odessa asks as we’re driven to headquarters an hour later. “In person, I mean.”

“Intense.” I straighten my tie.

“Just…intense?”

“Yes.”

“He can’t be that bad. He seemed nice on the phone.”

“He’ll be impressed with you.”

“I’m not worried about him liking me. Not everyone has to like me.” Her hand flies to mine as if the gesture could possibly soften her words. “And I don’t mean that in a snide way, Beckham. I’m just saying. I’m comfortable with who I am.”

“I’m pretty sure you made that clear when you were prancing around my bathroom naked, finger-brushing your teeth.”

She laughs, dragging her hand off mine and leaving a cool vacancy in its place. “I try not to care what people think of me. It’s none of my business.”

“And yet you work in PR, where you’re constantly manipulating the way people perceive things.”

“Don’t think you’re the first person ever to point that out.”

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, revealing a tiny diamond stud. I never noticed it before. I was too fixated on appreciating the way her hips sway when she walks or too busy looking for a hint of a smile on her pink lips to pay attention to the little things. There’s a freckle on the side of her cheek too: a small, lonely freckle in a sea of flawless, creamy skin. The tiniest hint of a bump in the profile of her nose catches my eye. She isn’t a boring, classic beauty, but she doesn’t need to be. She’s soft edges and dynamite, and that sets her apart from the polluted sea of cut-and-paste beauties back home.

Twenty minutes later, we’re strolling down the hallway toward the double mahogany doors that’ll deliver us to my brother. I burst in without so much as a knock, knowing full well how much he hates that.

“Dane,” I say.

He glances up, not startled in the least. He’s used to my tricks I suppose. His gaze lands on Odessa, and he straightens his posture before rising.

“Dane, pleasure to finally meet you.” Odessa goes to him, her hand extended and a radiant smile on her face.

She’s never smiled at me that way.

“Thanks for coming all the way to Utah,” Dane says. He speaks to her but gifts me a curious glance. If I know my brother he’s trying to decide if I’ve fucked her yet. “I hope the flight was at least somewhat enjoyable.”

“It was a lovely flight. Thank you,” she says, though she may as well be curtseying at this point. Apparently Dane’s royalty, and I am the lowly jester.

“Maureen has the conference room set up.” My brother points at the door. We follow.

“This must be new.” I point to an oil painting of Dane that looks more like a caricature than a portrait. “Commissioning art now, are we?”

“You won’t find it as a line item,” he states. “It was a gift.”

“Not good enough to hang next to your Renoir at Golden Oak?” I razz.

He never used to be so goddamn pretentious. Success does something to a man. It’s an unstoppable catalyst.

Odessa spreads her things out at the end of the conference table, taking the chair on Dane’s right.

“Oh, Dane.” Casual excitement colors her tone. “Beckham and I are flying to Vermont next week. He’ll be leading a town hall meeting with Charity Falls and answering questions for an interview that’ll go in their Sunday paper. Front page.”

Her body mirrors his. Apparently I’m made of cellophane.

“You didn’t tell me it was going to be front page,” I interject. Not that it matters. It doesn’t.

“This project is kind of a big deal there.” She turns to me, sticking the end of a capped pen between her pink lips before pointing it at me. “This interview is a huge deal. They’re going to try and use your words against you, analyzing the town hall meeting to come up with pointed questions.”

“No pressure.” Dane tenses his jaw.

“I can handle this.” I take a seat on my brother’s left, but not before removing my jacket and draping it over the back of my chair.

“The last thing we need is negative publicity,” Dane grips a pen between his thumb and forefinger, twisting it back and forth. “We have several major deals in the works. Some just waiting on signatures. It could all change if our image is slaughtered because of Charity Falls.”

“Exactly.” Odessa chimes in, speaking with her hands. “This is the kind of story that goes viral. Today Show picks it up, Facebook sticks it in their sidebar, Reddit gets ahold of it…”

“You act like this is the Keystone Pipeline.” I groan, burying my head in my hands. “They’re wind towers for fuck’s sake.”

“The fact that he doesn’t see the significance of this is what concerns me,” Odessa turns to Dane, cutting me out of the conversation once again.

“Agreed.” Dane furrows his brow as he mirrors her posture. They’re locked in some kind of silent conversation, I’m sure. Communicating telepathically like they share a goddamned brain.

The room is hot. I unbutton my collar, as she tilts her head and smiles at him.

“Don’t worry, Dane. I’ll feed Beckham some handcrafted lines that’ll quell this little story before it picks up any more steam.” Odessa places her hand over his, and he doesn’t flinch.

I’m not sensing a sexual attraction between them. But they click. Genuine, mutual respect filters back and forth between them, taking shape in quiet smiles and easy nods.

Just a couple of fucking pals.

“Anyway.” I clear my throat, rising to grab bottled water from the fridge in the back of the room. “Next order of business?”

Or first order, really.

It’s not like Dane to allow someone else to run the show. Shit, he barely allows me. I have to claw my way up and prove that I’m not some haughty playboy without a care in the world. I give a damn about this company. It’s my “baby” too. I’ve just mastered the art of conducting myself without a giant stick up my ass.

My brother drones on about a couple of clients he’s been wooing on the West Coast, while I’ve been busy romancing the Peterson Corporation. I assure him the Peterson contract is in the bag, and we’re just waiting on the board to meet and take their final vote.

“Oh, here.” Odessa perks up, typing into her tablet. “We have the preliminaries for the test site if you want to go over it now?”

She whips the screen around, only I can’t see it from where I’m seated. Dane’s eyes adjust and his bottom lip juts out as he scrutinizes.

“Is this something we can discuss tomorrow?” I glance at my watch, my stomach damn near echoing. I haven’t eaten in several hours. “I’m going to grab a bite to eat.”

And call some old friends because I’ll be damned if I sit around Golden Oak tasting Scotch and smoking hand-rolled cigars by the fountain that depicts torch-carrying Goddess Demeter.

That was Dane’s idea of a guy’s night last time I was in town…

“Remember we’re having dinner with Uncle Leo,” Dane says.

“I wasn’t aware that was tonight,” I say.

“We’re meeting at six.” Dane checks his wristwatch. “Sam, you’re welcomed to join. It’s a casual dinner at an old diner outside of town. I’ve given my kitchen staff the night off. You’ve been traveling all day. You deserve a decent meal.”

“I don’t want to impose,” she says.

“Uncle Leo would love to meet you.” Dane offers a warm smile. “Please. I insist.”

Odessa’s eyes search mine then return to Dane’s.

“Yes. Please.” I stand, swinging my jacket off the back of my chair. “You can sit by me.”

She ignores me, gathering her things. “Sure. I’ll join if you don’t mind?”

“Not at all.” Dane retrieves her pen. “And Sam, if you’d like to put your things in office thirty-four, it should be unlocked. Key’s in the door. It’s all yours while you’re here.”

“Perfect. Thank you.” She heads toward the door.

“Meet us at the elevator in a half hour,” Dane calls after her. He steps closer to me the second she’s out of earshot. “What the hell was that?”

“Beg your pardon?” I was about to ask him the same thing.

“You fucked her, didn’t you?” Dane’s hands hook on his hips. “Can’t leave you alone with anyone for five minutes.”

“In my defense, it was before I knew she was Sam the PR consultant. I picked her up at a bar.” I hate how seedy that sounds out loud. “She said her name was Odessa. It was only supposed to be one night.”

“You can’t fuck half of Manhattan and expect to never run into any of them again.”

“Half of Manhattan? Thanks.”

His hand flies up. “I’m sorry. That was a little harsh. But you don’t get a playboy reputation staying home on Friday nights.”

“Gotta get laid somehow,” I declare. “Not the relationship type, and I’m sure as hell not going to find what I need in some kinky sex club.”

Dane fires a daunting glare my way. I don’t know much about the Crystal Swan, I simply appreciate that his urges are distinctly different than mine. Sex for Dane has to be as mentally stimulating as it is physical, at least that’s what he told me once. I prefer not to have to think when I’m balls deep in a gorgeous woman. I don’t want her restrained, quiet, or subservient. I want her riding me, screaming my name, and digging her nails into my back.

Deliciously uninhibited.

“Are we done here?” I slice through our silence. “Because I’m fucking starving.”

My brother cracks a rare smile. I catch a glimpse of it before it fades. “Don’t fuck her again. Not while she’s working for us.”

“Same to you.” Not that I think he’d do it.

“She’s not my type, Beckham. You know that.”

“So you weren’t eye-fucking her right in front of me for the last two hours?”

“You’re delusional. And it’s called being hospitable. She’s a company guest. I was treating her as such.” Dane grabs his silver pen and tucks it into his left breast pocket, a sign that he’s done with this conversation. He takes a step past me, then another, before stopping and turning back. “You like her, don’t you?”

“Fuck, no.” I scrunch my face.

“Right.” Dane rakes his hand along his jaw, seeing right through me.

“Some girls are worth the chase.” My words are about as accurate as that God-forsaken oil portrait hanging down the hall. “Believe me, she’s not. There’s nothing special about her–”

“Ahem.”

Our attention jerks toward the doorway, where Odessa stands with folded arms and averted eyes.

 “Maureen said the car’s downstairs.”

Chapter Twelve

ODESSA

“Who’s this foxy lady?” A short man with crinkled gray eyes and a faded Dodgers baseball cap stretches his arms my way the second we walk into a hole-in-the-wall diner in Middle of Nowhere, Utah. I thought the guys were joking when they said the diner was in the Middle of Nowhere, but I saw a sign on the way in that said Middle of Nowhere – 8 miles.

“Uncle Leo.” Beckham cocks his head and places a firm hand on the old man’s bony shoulder. “This is Odessa. She works with us.”

Beckham hasn’t said two words to me since I overheard his blatant declaration that there’s nothing special about me. His words dangled awkwardly in the air between the three of us the entire car ride here. I’m sure he thinks my feelings are hurt, but that couldn’t be further from the truth.

“Good to meet you, Leo.” I meet his embrace. He hugs me tight, like we’ve known each other for decades.

“We’ve got the best booth in the joint.” Leo ushers us to a large round booth in the back corner, next to a vintage jukebox and a display of Saran-wrapped pie slices.

“Uncle Leo used to own this place,” Dane says. “Beck and I used to bus tables and mop the floors.”

“Some food service outfit out of Toluca Lake bought it up years ago.” Uncle Leo swats his hand. “It’s not the same, but at least I know the place is clean. Never had a cockroach in forty-three years.”

We stand around the table until Beckham ushers me in first. I slide to the middle, followed by Beckham and Dane. Uncle Leo takes my other side. A gum-smacking waitress not much older than nineteen moseys up to us. Her hair is pulled into a high ponytail that hangs down one side of her face.

“Hey, guys.” She leans in, her palm on the table as she hunches over and flashes a wide smile at everyone but me, her lashes batting one too many times. “Haven’t seen my favorite customers in a long time. Where you been hiding?”

“These guys.” Uncle Leo bats his liver-spotted hand. “You know how they are. Busy building their empires one windmill at a time.”

“How’s your father liking his solar heated pool?” Dane asks.

“I don’t know about him, but I’m loving it.” She widens her stance, cocking her head and smiling dreamily. “You guys are all welcome to come by sometime for a swim.”

That’d be a sight to see.

“You’re kind to offer, Becca,” Dane says. “Anyway, what’s the special tonight?”

She rattles off a memorized list of soups, hot dishes, and pies before taking our drink order and scampering off.

“Feels like forever ago that you two wandered in here.” Leo smiles, blinking away the speck of nostalgia caught in his eye. “A couple of hungry, scraggly-haired boys with dirt on their chins and sunken eyes.”

“Is it necessary to re-live that moment for the hundredth time?” Beckham sits back, adjusting his posture and gazing around the diner. The space feels tighter as he fidgets.

Try as I might, I can’t picture Beckham as some mangy-haired little boy. He’s clean-cut. Overly confident. Unapologetically prosperous.

Leo’s thick-knuckled, liver-spotted fist pounds the table. “Yes, Beckham. Damn right we do. The worst thing you can ever do is forget where you came from.”

Dane and Beckham exchange looks. I get the impression Leo likes to lecture them. They probably need it.

“We could never forget.” Dane’s voice is low, his jaw set.

I’m regretting my decision to join them for dinner tonight, only because the awkwardness from earlier is quickly compounding with the awkwardness from the present. I’d have gladly made myself a peanut butter sandwich and curled up with a book in that elaborate guest suite at the top of the winding stairs.

I peruse my menu for the tenth time, settling on a chicken club with a side of greasy diner fries. It’s nice to order what I want for a change. Jeremiah used to scoff if I ordered something that wasn’t worthy of a picture on Instagram.

Becca returns with our drinks. By the time she finishes scribbling our orders, I mutter an excuse about washing my hands and slip off to the ladies’ room for some space. The diner’s dead for dinnertime on a Wednesday night. I wash up and then loiter outside the bathroom, out of sight from the guys. Slinking up against the wall, I take my phone from my bag and fire off a day-late text to Carly, letting her know I’m in Utah, and I’ll be back this weekend.

Buying more time, I pull up some old messages from Jeremiah, seeking validation that we were happy together once upon a time and that it wasn’t all in my head. My eyes mist as I peruse the over abundance of sweet texts that to anyone else wouldn’t mean much.

Fingers tingling, I fight the urge to send him something. We had a great Friday night together. After cooking me dinner, he stayed over. I fell asleep in his arms, and he kissed my forehead the next morning before slipping out the door.

I hadn’t slept that well in weeks.

But Jeremiah asked for space, so space is what I’ll give him, even if my heart is pulled in seven different directions every time I’m reminded of him. Mom said it’ll do him some good to see what life’s like without me. She gave me the whole ‘grass is never greener on the other side’ speech and assured me my cousin Melissa’s husband got cold feet just before their wedding too. Now they’re happily married with four kids.

Some nights, I lie in bed for hours and replay the last month or so, frame by excruciatingly detailed frame, searching for a hint or a clue that he was having second thoughts. But I always come up with nothing.

And then I imagine my life alone. Without him. And it’s actually not that bad.

“Oh, there you are.” I yank my phone down and find Beckham straight ahead, head cocked like he’s trying to get a read on me. “Food’s here.”

“That was quick.”

“What were you doing?”

“Washing up.” I slip my phone into my pocket and shrug.

“With what? Travel brochures and gumballs?” His hands hook his narrow hips. “You wanted to get away.”

“The conversation was getting a little…personal.”

“That’s how Uncle Leo is. You earn the right to be brash when you’ve lived as long and hard as he has.” His face tightens. “I’m sorry if it made you uncomfortable.”

“Don’t worry about it.” I take a step but he doesn’t budge.

His rigid stance blocks me in. “I owe you an apology. From earlier.”

I don’t want to have this conversation here, at this greasy spoon. I didn’t want to have it at all; I wanted to forget it happened.

“I shouldn’t have said you weren’t special. I didn’t mean it.” He slicks his hand through his hair, grabbing a fistful of dark strands and tugging on them before exhaling. “And that just came out wrong.”

“Beckham, please…”

“I don’t know how much you heard, but if I hurt your feelings…” He shakes his head, our eyes catching.

This is Beckham.

This is Beckham being nice.

Genuinely nice.

For a second, I stop breathing, and I’m not sure why. Intimacy filters into this exchange, and I’m not sure how it got there.

“You didn’t hurt my feelings.” It’s the truth. His words didn’t hurt because they were a lie. He lied to his brother. He absolutely thinks I’m special and worth chasing. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have accused Dane of eye-fucking me from across the table. A man who doesn’t find a woman interesting wouldn’t have been upset over the prospect of losing her to someone else. He staked his claim with one pointed accusation whether he realizes it or not.

Beckham King likes me…

Which is absurd because he doesn’t know me.

He’s intrigued by me, enthralled by the chase.

“Food’s probably getting cold.” I point toward the end of the narrow passage, but he still won’t move. My gaze traces along the bottom of Beckham’s lip, the memory of the way he tasted two weekends ago floods my mouth.

His stare heats me in this tight space, raw energy zipping up my center, swirling in my chest, and radiating through my fingertips.

I squeeze past him and weave through pulled out chairs and oddly placed tables, mentally conjuring an image of Jeremiah for experimental reasons.

My body stays tepid. Not a single thunderous pound hits the inside of my chest. No melancholy ache in my heart.

I try to remember what Jeremiah smells like, tastes like, but every sensory memory is replaced with ones of Beckham. Every inhalation brings a flood of Beckham’s clean aftershave, like I’ve memorized it without even trying. I feel the weight of his stare from behind, watching as I lead us back to the table. Leo and Dane stand when I return, and I scoot back into my spot between them all.

My appetite vanishes when Beckham’s hand slides over mine under the table. I glance down and it’s gone.