Off Limits (26 page)

Which is why I decide not to bother. I’ve done a fair bit of schmoozing already. If Hudson wanted more from me, he could have been more specific when he asked. Besides, he needs to learn to deal with disappointment, and who better to teach him but me.

Grabbing a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, I head to the area where the silent auction has been situated. I peruse the items up for bid, quickly bypassing the most popular draws—a houseboat, a vineyard in France, a private island off of Malta—and settle on the gaudiest piece of art I’ve ever set my eyes on. Complete with a five-inch thick ostentatious gold frame, the six-foot square canvas is covered with abstract red-hued phallic brush strokes. It’s bold and brusque. It makes me angry just to look at it.

It’s perfect.

I pull a Montblanc fountain pen from my breast pocket and find the next blank line on the auction sheet. Tripling the last amount offered, I fill in my own bid. Then, with a gleeful smirk, I sign Hudson’s name and his office phone number before tucking the pen back in my jacket.

There. I’ll pose for a picture at the door on my way out for good measure, but otherwise my work here is done. And without causing any trouble.
Consider it a baby gift, Hudson.

Downing the too-sweet champagne, I turn to search for a place to set my empty glass before making my trek back across the museum floor.

That’s when I see her.

My breath is knocked from my chest the second my gaze slams into her. I swear there’s a spotlight on her. Cliché, isn’t it? But I pull my eyes up toward the ceiling to see if there’s a fixture directed at her and am surprised when I find none. Because she literally
shines
.

Frozen to my spot, I ignore the people pressing past me coming to and from the auction tables, drinking in every detail I can of the beauty across the room. Her long shapely legs, her lusciously curved hips, her pouty mouth drawn into a tight line. She’s wearing a lace shift dress—my sister owns a boutique, I know these terms—simple in shape, but the pattern is elegant, making her look classier than many of the older women here in their skin-tight bling-bling gowns. She’s on the tall side, but not too tall. With her modest heels, she’s just the right height to kiss. Just the right height to devour without having to bend. Just the right height to be able to look in her eyes as my hand presses gently at her throat.

Jesus, did I just fantasize about choking a woman? What the fuck is wrong with me? I’m the first to admit I’m a pig, but I’ve never had those kinds of kinky thoughts. I’ve never not been a gentleman. Never wanted to not be
nice
like I want to not be nice looking at her. She’s just so…captivating.

I’m not the only one who notices. She’s surrounded by a flock of men who are not very good at hiding their eagerness to see what’s beneath her dress, and I can’t say that I blame them. She’s
that
alluring. That
hypnotizing
.

She’s not even the kind of girl I’m attracted to. Too thin, too brunette. Too young—she can’t be more than twenty-five. But there’s
something
about her. Something that separates her from the crowd. Something in her gestures as she patiently tolerates her would-be suitors. Something about her posture, which is polished, but aloof. Something about her entire being that keeps my eyes pinned to her like a lion’s pinned to his prey.

I should leave. I know this. It’s not my M.O. to stalk. I prefer to be the one reeled in—again, part of the model I’ve successfully honed. But I’m stuck, glued to the spot, staring at this intriguing creature with graceful movements and delicate features.

And then there’s a clearing in her swarm of admirers, and I’m suddenly not stuck, but moving toward her, drawn as if on the descent of a zip-line. She hasn’t noticed me, and I take advantage of that, circling around her so that I can approach her from behind. It gives me a chance to check her hand when I’m near enough for signs of a ring. A ring is a deal-breaker for me. I don’t do infidelity, never have. Once, I came close. Or rather, the situation
felt
close to cheating, and it was terrible. I won’t do that again.

But that was five long years ago now and not only has that lesson been learned, it also seems to be unnecessary tonight. The slinky brunette that has lured me across the room is ring-less. I’m assuming she’s also date-less, or if not, she should be, because no way in hell would any decent man leave his girlfriend alone around the predators here. Predators like me.

It briefly occurs to me that I’ve never once thought of myself as a predator, and that maybe these ideas in my head are a sign that I need to get the fuck out of Dodge.

But I can’t. For reasons I can’t explain. Reasons that are primal and base and as out of my control as breathing.

As well as being ring-less, she’s also drink-less, and so, as a waiter passes, I drop off my empty flute, and retrieve two fresh glasses.

When my prey turns casually in my direction, I’m ready.

I hold out a glass in her direction. “Champagne?”

Her grey eyes spark when they catch mine, sending a jolt straight to my dick. I’d know that look anywhere—she likes what she sees, and thank God, because now that I’ve seen her close up, I’m absolutely certain that I have to have her. Have to possess her. Have to do unspeakably dirty things to every inch of her body.

Tighten those reins, boy. Get a hold of yourself.

I almost do, but then she narrows her stare and twists her lip. It’s the lip that does me in.

“How do I know you didn’t put anything in it?” she asks, and JesusfuckingChrist, she’s got an English accent. I’m instantly hard.

Okay, semi-hard. I’m not twelve. I have some control.

“Well,” I consider, “I have two drinks. You choose which one, and I’ll drink the other.”

She hesitates, suspicion vibrating from her body. Which is crazy—I’m a puppy.

Except I’m not a puppy. Not right now, not around her, and her distrust increases my interest in her tenfold.

“How about you drink from both of them? And then I’ll choose one.”

Whichever she chooses, she’ll have her lips on the glass after mine. That’s so hot.

Maybe I am only twelve.

With her eyes still caught in mine, I take a swallow from one flute and then from the other. “Now choose.”

“I’ll have this one,” she says, claiming the glass I drank more from. “Thank you.” Her skepticism relaxes slightly, but she’s still wary. As she should be.

I’m surprised how much it arouses me.

Tipping it forward, I clink my flute to hers. “You’ve been surrounded all night.”

“And?” She’s polite enough not to sigh, but I can hear the weariness behind the single word.

I should leave her alone.

I can’t. “I didn’t like it.”

She tilts her head, her expression both appalled and intrigued. “I don’t really think it matters what you like.”

“True, true.” I give her the Chandler grin, the one that drops panties at the speed of light. “Thing is, I don’t think you liked it either.”

She crosses her arms over herself and leans her weight on one gorgeous hip. “So, since I didn’t like a bunch of men trying to pick me up, you thought you’d come over and pick me up instead?”

“When you put it that way, I sound like an asshole.”

“You said it, not me.”

She seems truly put off, and I’m momentarily thrown off my game. Mostly because this isn’t at all the game I usually play. Usually,
I’m
the target. There are too many already willing women to waste time working for one.

Smile and say goodnight, Chandler.

I take a swallow from my drink. The sweetness is so much more tolerable as I imagine licking it off her lips, and now that I’ve imagined it, there’s no going back.

“How about I make it up to you?” I say, totally improvising. “When you’re ready to go, I’ll escort you out so no one bothers you. Once outside, you can totally tell me to take a hike.”

She gives me the same expression she did before—the shocked and fascinated one—and this time I catch a hint of amusement as well. “You’re really full of yourself, thinking I need you to help me get out of here.”

An unexpected filthy, crass comment about filling her instead flutters on the tip of my tongue, but I push it away.
Play nice.
“I wasn’t implying that at all. I’m just offering a service that could be mutually beneficial.”

“How would that benefit you?”

“I’d get to be the guy seen walking out with the most beautiful woman in the room.”
Yes!
Now my brain’s on the right track.

She gives me an incredulous glare, but her icy demeanor has melted. “You American men are such charmers.” She takes a sip from her drink, and when she licks her tongue over her bottom lip? Talk about melting. I’m so hot I’m a puddle of molten lava over this girl.

Somehow I manage to remain
charming
. “Oh,” I mock groan, clutching my chest as though she’s wounded my heart. “You’ve lumped me with the all the other ‘American men.’ That’s a real low blow.”

She laughs, and it’s so adorable that I want to sink my teeth into the sound and bite, want to mark it and claim it as mine.

“Perhaps it was a little crueler than necessary,” she says, then sobers quickly. “Let me ask you this—is being
seen
with me the only thing you’re interested in?”

No, it’s most definitely not at all. I’m also interested in fucking her. I’m interested in dragging her into a dark corner so I can feed her my cock. I’m interested in watching her ride me, her petite tits bouncing as she drives up and down the length of my shaft.

And now I
am
hard. So hard it hurts.

I don’t answer. Which is an answer in itself.

Damn, I need to get out of here.

I catch sight of the crowd that had earlier surrounded her and use it as my excuse. “Your entourage seems to be returning. I’ll let you attend to them.” I will myself to turn and walk away, but my feet don’t move, and before I know it, I’m leaning into her, so close I can smell her natural scent underneath her floral perfume.

“My offer stands if you want it,” I say quietly. “Come and find me. I’ll be here.”

Shit. Now I’ve done it. If she has any sense, she’ll tell me not to bother waiting around. It’s my only hope.

But when I straighten, her eyes lock on mine, and I can’t help but think she might be as twisted up over me as I am about her.

“Genevieve,” she says, holding her hand out to me.

I barely manage to mask the shock that runs through me when my hand clasps around hers. “Chandler. Chandler Pierce.”

Her brow rises in recognition, and for the first time in my life, I’m worried about my reputation. Usually, I wear my name like it’s a designer brand. My name gets me things I like. Gets me out of speeding tickets and into the arms of pretty women.

But I’ve never cared who the pretty woman was—this time I do. This time, I want the pretty woman to be this one. I want
Genevieve
.

Her expression is unreadable, and I can’t tell if I’ve just sealed the deal or if I’ve blown any chance I might have had.

Then she says, “It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Pierce,” and turns to greet the gentleman who has just arrived at her side, also carrying two flutes of champagne.

Though she clings to the one I gave her, her dismissal is clear.
Mr. Pierce,
she said. So cold and detached. So utterly unimpressed.

I take the cue and slip away. I should leave the event entirely, but I can’t force myself to go. I told her I’d be here, and maybe it’s because I really am a nice guy that I can’t seem to bring myself to break my word.

Or maybe I just can’t bear to let her go yet.

I mingle. Some woman I’ve fucked in the past drapes herself over my shoulder and introduces her friend who drapes herself over my other arm.
This
is my audience. I could take either of them home right now. Both of them.

But as they fawn, my focus is on Genevieve. I watch as she excuses herself from her admirers. My gaze follows her as she approaches a group of men. She taps one on the shoulder, one old enough to be her father. He puts a finger up, telling her to wait, and I bristle at the gesture because it’s rude but also because it’s familiar. Just like I didn’t like the crowd that had surrounded her, I don’t like what this man might be to her. I have no right to care. I’ve only just met her, and every interest I have in her is carnal. Yet I do care. Very much.

Which is why, when I see her heading toward me a few minutes later, I already know I’m about to say or do something I shouldn’t.

Ignoring the women clinging to me, Genevieve looks me straight in the eye. “Does your offer still stand, Chandler? Because I’m ready to go now.”

I don’t hesitate even a beat. “Definitely,” I say, shucking off the women as though they were a well-worn jacket. I slip my hand in Genevieve’s. “Let’s go, shall we?”

Told you I’d do something I shouldn’t. Sorry, Hudson.

* * *

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T
o my friends and family
, for cheering me on every step of the way and for supporting my absences while I’m hiding in my cave, I love you. Each and every one of you. Thank you for reminding me how important it is to live each day as if it’s the most important and to shoot for the stars. To my little bugs, who better not read these books until they’re 40—at least—I love you, nuggets. Thank you for all your Skype chats, your cards and your homemade gifts. Aunt Lo loves you like no one else and yes, you can have all the Star Wars things. Always.

To Heather Roberts, cheerleader, ass kicker when I need one and for all the love in between. Thanks for being you, for your daily inspirational Jamie pics, and those other pics we will keep between us. LOL! I love you, PETALS. You’ll never know how much.

To Candi Kane, there will never be enough words to express my gratitude and love for you. Thank you for pimping me like nobody’s business. Without you, no one would know the name Lola Darling. I am forever in your debt and you are permanently tattooed on my heart. I love you, lady.

To Wander Aguiar, thank you for this amazing photo of Jacob Cooley and for all your efforts in getting the perfect shot. I am in love with this cover and it's all due to you. Thank you for bringing Max to life. xo

To my team at Social Butterfly PR, thank you, thank you, thank you. Thank you for this kick ass cover and for your tireless hard work. Hilary Suppes, you rock, and that adorable baby of yours is lucky to call you Mama. Thank you, ladies, for everything.

To Laurelin Paige, Melanie Harlow Sydney Jamesson and Roxy Sloane, thank you for inspiring me with every word you write and for your generous support. You are what this community is all about and to have you in my corner means the world to me.

To the bloggers who take time out of your busy lives to read and post about my books, my God, I don’t know how you do it all. Crystal Grizzard Burnette, one day I’m going to hug your neck for all that you do, but until then, thank you for each and every post. They make my heart swell. Angie McKeon, you are a delight. I love your posts and your positivity. Peggy Lee, thanks for all that you do to support indie authors and our filthy love stories. It does not go unnoticed. Ang Oh, you and your Dirty Girl tribe are some of the best out there. Keep up all the hard work, and thank you for all the Lola Love. Jen McCoy, you filthy, filthy girl. I love your face. You know it’s true. Thanks for your Dirty Quotes and for all the love. The Literary Gossip is one amazing blog and I adore you all. (You too, Nina LOL.)

And last, but never least to the readers, sweet mercy, you make me happy. Thank you for taking a chance on another one of my books, for loving Max and Chloe’s love story and for each and every tweet, review, comment, tag, and PM. You make this sometime solitary life worth every sacrifice. I LOVE YOU ALL!

Lola xo