Lace & Lead (novella) (6 page)

He turned away, digging out another one of his tank tops. What the fuck was wrong with him? Why had he mentioned Callie?

Emmaline opened her mouth as if to speak, but he cut her off by handing over the shirt. “Here. Wear this.”

She didn’t ask but he answered the unspoken question anyway. “You’re a hell of a lot bigger up top than she was.”

“Oh.” She flushed a little. “I’ve never thought about it that way.”

“I know.” He grinned, taking a long, leisurely glance over her breasts. “Still, kind of hard to avoid noticing when you wear corsets.”

“Mr. Taggart!”

He held up his hands. “It’s the truth. Their only job is to push up and...”

He trailed off when she shook her head. She started to undo the top buttons of her skirt but froze when she figured out that he wasn’t leaving the room.

Half a turn and all she’d see was his back. “I won’t look,” he promised.

“I’m not worried about that.” But her tone suggested otherwise.

“No?”

“Should I be?”

He ran a hand over his buzzed hair. “Shit,” he grumbled, knowing he’d walked into that one.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Taggart, but I couldn’t hear you well.”

“
No
,” he growled at her, accepting defeat gracelessly, “you don’t have to worry about that.”

This woman brings out the worst in me
.

She just stood there, holding the pants and tank top to her chest. He jerked his head toward the door. “I guess I’ll be out there,” he said lamely.

He sank down on his ratty couch, mind reeling as he went over their conversation about Callie again. When he’d talked about her, he’d seen a flash of kinship in Emmaline’s eyes. The bone-deep pain she’d exposed bitch-slapped him. She was nothing like the woman he’d expected her to be.

That made things infinitely more complicated.

He groaned and closed his eyes. He didn’t want to
like
the woman. His job was to complete each mission to the letter, ensure his men’s safety and financial welfare, avoiding extraneous complications. He’d had jobs turn into clusters before; adapt and overcome was the lesson drilled into him over the years.

He’d adapted to this situation, made the smart choice for his men and ensured them a sweet payday. Once he met with Arthur Gregson and explained that the terms of the contract had been broken by sending in additional crews, his conscience would be clear. There would be no niggling ethical shit storms about working for Emmaline.

“Emma,” he mumbled under his breath, feeling it fit her spunk better.

Oh, fuckity shit
fuck
. There was no way he’d crossed
that
line...had he?

“Mr. Taggart?”

He blinked slowly and looked over at the bedroom. His mouth dried and all he could croak out was, “Oh, gods.”

He hadn’t just crossed that line. He’d taken a flying leap over it and was sprinting forward without a glance back.

She looked like some kind of calendar pin-up girl. Callie’s cargo pants hung low on her full hips. His white tank top was too big on her but it clung across her breasts, dipping in the front. He tried to ignore her lack of a bra, although it required his greatest self-control. He might have peeked once—he was only human. She’d pulled her hair up and she was nibbling her lower lip and tugging to make sure the shirt was long enough.

He knew he was a goner when he saw her delicate toes curling on the concrete floor. That vulnerability was so damn wholesome, so unexpected after his years of service, he thought his cock would explode right then and there.

“I couldn’t find any shoes,” she said sheepishly, misreading his earlier oath.

He tried to recover. “I’ve got some extra. They’ll be huge on you though.” He tried to smile, but guessed it was probably more of a grimace. “You remembered to grab precious jewellery, but forgot practical shoes?”

She made a face at him. “People like me don’t get the luxury of practical shoes. Or making my own fashion decisions.”

“Boo hoo for you,” he snarked. “Come on, princess, let’s get you fixed up.”

Too bad that when she walked by all he could see was the way the cargo pants were moulded to her ass. Mentally chanting a prayer to whatever god watched over the perpetual dumb shits, Peirce headed after her.

Three hours later, he was either going to kill her or himself. She was driving him completely nuts. Worst of all, she had no idea she was doing it.

His garage was his sanctuary and having her in there, invading his space, moving things around, asking him questions he’d never tried to answer before, was infuriating and enthralling. She was an eager student, more than willing to get her pretty hands dirty. Her questions, while basic, were pointed and related directly to the task at hand. He ended up going into great detail about the cruiser: its systems, its history, even the ways to improve it from the stock model.

She’d been desperate to help, so he’d finally decided to teach her how to check the oil. It may have been a menial task, but she took it as seriously as a battlefield mechanic working on a disabled vehicle in the middle of a fire fight would.

The only downside of her working on the cruiser was the various ways she had to bend to even manage the work. It was a beast of a car, steel frame, strong and hard to destroy and she was tiny in comparison. To reach the dipstick, she had to place a knee on the bumper and hoist herself up to bend over the engine block. It gave him an all too-perfect view of her from behind.

He gave an inward sigh as he peeled his eyes away, stepping toward the side of the car. Her brow was furrowed in concentration and she was staring intently at the options before her.

Peirce leaned in, biting back a curse as he brushed against the frame. Crap, he was so hard he’d probably punch a hole through the rusted shell.

Emmaline tentatively pointed and glanced askance of him. He kept a poker face. Her mouth contorted in a moue of insecurity and she pointed at another. Again, he gave her no sign.

She sighed and looked at them both again. Her expression was so torn he couldn’t help but encourage, “You know this. Just breathe and choose.”

She scrunched her eyes, breathed in and out and correctly picked the dipstick. As soon as she realised she’d made the right choice, she let out a small whoop of triumph. A huge smile graced her face.

His heart stopped.

She didn’t seem to notice; she was too focused on checking the oil level exactly as he’d told her. When she was done, she crawled down the bumper and grinned up at him. “Can I do anything else?”

She was practically vibrating with excitement.

There weren’t any other jobs for her at this point.

“Want to learn to change a tire?” he asked hoarsely.

Emmaline’s arms ached, her fingers would be blistered tomorrow and she was covered in rust and sweat and oil and gods knew what else.

She’d never been happier in her entire life.

Taggart had given her job after job. Each time he explained the tasks, often going back and forth between holoscreen and the real vehicle. He’d let her ask questions, watched her become familiar with the tools and overseen her work. But what she appreciated most was his refusal to do the job for her, or tell her if she was doing it right.

She’d never, in twenty-four years of life, been trusted to use her own knowledge to accomplish a task. Even the charity work her father had assigned her to oversee had been double-checked by his financial advisor. A team of stylists oversaw her clothing choices, especially for community events.

She pushed hard on the wrench, planting her feet so the wheeled board she lay on wouldn’t move. The bolt screeched, but finally gave. It only took a few more turns to remove it and watch the damaged skid plate fall to her right.

“Nice job,” Taggart complimented. He was crouched beside the car, watching her as she worked under it. Without warning, he reached out, grabbed the board and pulled her to him.

She stared up at him, frozen, wrench still clutched to her chest, his arm between her legs, his hand on the board. This was a reminder of how much bigger he was, leaning over her, ice-chip blue eyes cataloguing every detail. The thought of him stretched out on top of her made her chest flush and her cheeks burn.

It wasn’t until his eyes darkened and stared at her mouth that she realised she was biting her lower lip again. She stopped.

“Well,” he began softly.

When he didn’t continue, Emmaline shifted uncomfortably. “Well what, Mr. Taggart?”

“Peirce,” he corrected, eyes flicking up to hers.

Oh, my
. Would she be able to say his name without spontaneously combusting? She swallowed. Such familiarity was forbidden in the higher classes, unless a betrothal was imminent. Even then, it was frowned on when not behind closed doors. But for some reason, with
this
man, she couldn’t resist. She wet her lips.

“What were you going to say, Peirce?”

His name, her lips. Shit on a stick, he had to leave.

“That’s enough for today,” he said gruffly. “I’ll go grab us some food. You eat Berkwan?”

One of the family servants, a refuge from Berkwai and its violent cartel, had told Emmaline how much she missed the native meals. Her descriptions of the highly spiced food always left Emmaline’s mouth watering but her father had never allowed her to try it; he claimed it was beneath their breeding.

“I don’t know. I’ve never had it before.”

“It’ll be a new experience then.” He pulled away from her and headed for the door.

“Peirce?”

His head throbbed. Both of them.

He looked over his shoulder.

“Thank you for letting me help,” she said.

He grunted. “I’ll be home in half an hour,” he said. “Don’t leave the apartment.”

He could feel her eyes on him long after he’d closed the apartment door behind him. He wouldn’t be able to have Emma around for a week without losing it completely.

It was time to get his mind back in the game.

Chapter 5

An hour later, she had decided Taggart—Peirce, as he’d asked her to call him now—really didn’t understand the concept of
home
. Not like she had a great deal of experience in that area, but she’d always been careful to keep her room a place of safety and comfort. Peirce’s house was devoid of any comforts. Even his cupboards were bare.

She paced the length of the kitchen again, turning toward the door without conscious thought. Her mind was too busy racing through the possibilities. This wasn’t like Peirce; she knew from experience that he was always punctual.

Two days after Peirce had arrived on the Gregson property, she’d finally convinced her father to let her go for a walk on the outer edge of the grounds. He’d insisted Peirce go with her. Peirce had consented only when her father reminded him he was being paid to do what was ordered and a time had been set for the next day.

She’d been two minutes late to get downstairs. She’d nearly fallen down the stairs in her haste to catch him as he strode away.

“Mr. Taggart! Aren’t we still going?”

His eyes had been clear shards, his mouth an arrogant line. “You’re late.”

She’d been surprised. Outside of public appearances, all of which were run by her father’s assistants, she’d never been on a schedule before. “I’m sorry?”