Rule's Obsession (4 page)

"I might," he said, as the vision of sharing her food hit him as being particularly sensual.

She looked back to the waiter. "I'll have the grilled chicken and vegetable medley."

After the man turned to go, Damian tamped down his arousal and attempted to get down to business. "I need your help Saturday evening. Are you free?"

Her eyes narrowed to suspicious slits. "What kind of help?"

"I need a date for a dinner party."

The girl was smart; Damian could see her adding up the few things he'd already let slip and coming up with, if not his entire reason, then at least part of it.

She folded her arms over her chest and leaned back in her chair. It seemed as if she was attempting a casual look, but Damian wasn't buying it. Her voice was flat as she stated, "A woman like me is inappropriate for a businessman such as yourself," she restated his opinion in a controlled voice and then continued, "and yet someone needs to believe you're seriously interested in me."

Damian inclined his head minutely. "Correct so far."

"Who are you trying to fool?"

The girl was good; she caught on quickly. "We're trying to fool my mother."

She shook her head slightly and let out a half-smile. "There is no 'we.' I haven't agreed to anything."

"I'll pay you for your time," he offered abruptly.

"You'd
have
to pay me for my time. Saturday is my most lucrative day at the salon and I'd don't want to cut it short."

"A thousand dollars now and a thousand when the evening is over."

"Holy shit
. Two grand just for a dinner party?" Distrust highlighted her features. "Nothing else?"

"Just a dinner party. Nothing else, although it has to look as if we can't wait to be alone. That is, if you think you're up to the challenge."

The first thing he saw was calculation as she very obviously thought about earning two grand in a single evening for little to no work. The second thing he saw was a question as she slid her gaze over him as if mulling over being alone with him. Damian felt the immediate hit to his groin as he imagined the same. It wasn't hard to do; being alone with her was something he thought about often. Her lips slowly opened and her face was transformed into a highly provocative look that made his pants too tight. Her voice came out, almost sultry and nothing like he'd heard from her before, "I'm pretty sure I could fake a bunch of people into thinking I'm into you."

He watched, almost entranced, as she lifted a hand and picked up a lock of hair and began twirling it around her fingers, and held the strand close to her mouth, making it impossible for him not to focus on her full lips. It was an obvious bid for sexual attention; it was also more than obvious that she was staging a performance, and damn if she wasn't good. She shrugged a delicate shoulder and continued, "I suppose for two grand I could manage to pretend you're not a complete douche bag for a few hours."

Damian raised an eyebrow. Her words themselves had been insulting, but the way she'd purred them had made it seem as if she couldn't wait to strip the clothes from his body . . . with her teeth. Yeah, if she could keep that up, she'd do just fine. His mother would buy it, hook, line and sinker. She'd finally get the message that he didn't have a single romantic feeling for Courtney and leave him alone again.

"So you'll do it?" he asked.

"Sure, why not?"

Damian was pleased he was getting what he wanted, although he acknowledged that he didn't care for how mercenary the girl seemed. Her tone had changed quickly when two grand was mentioned. It was a turn-off, but that was actually a good thing, because he needed something to dull the sharp edge of attraction he felt when he was near her.

He pulled out his business card and took a moment to jot down his cell phone number before handing it to her. "My information. I'll have a car pick you up at six sharp on Saturday night. Call and leave your information with my secretary. If you need to speak to me personally, call my cell."

"What do you want me to wear?"

"Something like that, of course," he said, indicating the outfit she had on.

She narrowed her eyes and a look of confusion colored them. "Umm, the party will be fairly formal, right? Or is it just us and your mother?"

"No, her dinner parties are usually twelve to sixteen guests."

She took a deep breath. "Right. I need to wear a cocktail dress at least, I think."

"Okay. But make it black and don't tone down the gothic element."

"All right, but I have to warn you that a dressed-up look will appear more polished."

"Black hair and purple lipstick?"

"If that's what you want," she agreed tonelessly.

"It is.

****

The car that picked Angie up on Saturday night had one thing she wasn't expecting: Damian in the backseat. For whatever reason, she'd thought she was meant to meet him at the party.

As she settled next to him, she tried to ignore the fact that he was studying her intently. Trying to calm her nerves, she attempted to focus on earning the money that would help Janice get out of the situation she was in.

She busied herself with the seatbelt and when he didn't speak and the car was in motion, she leaned back in her seat. When she continued to feel his hot eyes moving over her body, she flattened her palms against the leather and challenged, "You like what you see?"

His jaw tensed, his shoulders filling his jacket. "Most definitely. And that's the reason you're here."

"Because your mother has to believe this?"

He tipped his head in affirmation, his features giving nothing away.

She swallowed hard and tried to ignore the pounding in her chest that was induced by sitting so close to him. "So what's the story?"

"There is no 'story.' All we'll need is the complete truth, except for the part about the payment you're receiving."

"Okay." She cleared her throat and demanded an answer to the question that had been bothering her since she'd agreed to this scheme. "There won't be any PDAs, will there?"

For a moment he wore a blank look and then he smiled wickedly, his straight white teeth solidifying the perfection of his smile. "Public displays of affection?"

She exhaled, trying to remember exactly why she couldn't risk the intimacy of touches between them. "Yeah."

A frown came between his brows. "I shouldn't think so." His expression stilled and became grave. "I'm assuming you want me to relinquish you after this night is over, correct?"

Caught off guard by his intimation, her stomach dropped to her feet, but she managed to nod her head, her eyes glued to his.

At her non-verbal confirmation, he answered brusquely, "Then no, no unnecessary touching." Negating his words, he reached out a hand and lifted her chin, tipping her face up to his. Her nerves shifting restlessly, Angie tried to suppress the pleasure his touch created within her. "You clean up quite well, but I distinctly remember requesting the gothic look," he said in a voice that contained irritation and a hint of accusation.

Her heart pounded in her chest as his hand slid back and forth over her cheek, the pads of his fingers feeling rough and supremely masculine. It took every ounce of brainpower Angie had left to concentrate on the conversation. "This was as gothic as I could make it and still retain my dignity. I'm twenty-seven, not seventeen." Her breath hitched as his fingers tightened on her skin and she had to force her vocal chords to continue working. "Black dress, sheer black stockings, black hair and nails. What more did you want?"

His eyes dropped to her mouth and lingered before snapping back up and blasting her with a hard, implacable expression. "I distinctly remember requesting the purple lipstick."

As the tantalizing scent of his after-shave rushed over her, she shook her head. "It just didn't work with the dress," she said softly.

"I'm paying you two-thousand dollars. I want the purple lip color. Do you have it in your bag?"

She did. She'd thrown it in, just in case. "Yes."

"Put it on," he grunted, his finger sliding over her bottom lip.

Angie fumbled with the clasp of her tiny black shoulder bag and withdrew the lipstick, fighting her nerves the entire time. His hand dropped away and she popped the top from the tube and began to apply the loud, obnoxious color. She needed no mirror; her stepmother-at-the-time had taught her how to apply lipstick without one when she was a teenager, telling her that it was something every woman should know how to do in a pinch. It was difficult with fingers that were trembling, but when it was accomplished, Angie looked back to him.

His gaze sharpened as he studied her, a dangerous glint highlighting his eyes as they roved over her. His lips flattened as if he were pissed about something and the blood pumped furiously in her veins as he hissed out, "Yeah, you're as sexy as fuck."

Her pulse quickening erratically, Angie watched, as if in a trance, as he pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket and began wiping at her lips, dragging the material back and forth over her skin until she knew there couldn't be a trace of color left. When he was finished he sat back, his stare bold and assessing. Angie struggled to form words. "Why did you do that?"

At the same moment she acknowledged that she was dying for his touch, he spoke in a gravelly voice, "You were right. It doesn't work. There's sexy . . . and then there's sexy. You don't need any help and I don't need the complication."

Her heart dropped in disappointment even as she knew that he was right. He might not need the complication, but she damn sure didn't need someone like him in her life. Even
if
the thought of going to bed with him was so tempting it was sending a river of longing through her bloodstream.

The car pulled up to a house awash in lights and movement. The atmosphere seemed convivial, and they hadn't even stepped from the vehicle yet. She ran her hands down her skirt and attempted to get her unruly emotions under control.

****

Angie gripped her champagne glass with fingers that trembled. She listened with only half an ear to the conversation going on around her.

She realized immediately that this had been a mistake. It was more than obvious that Damian's mother was trying to set him up with the young woman who'd been introduced to Angie as Courtney Powell.

When they'd first arrived ten minutes before, Mrs. Rule had appeared crestfallen when she'd seen Angie with her son. As she'd led them around, Damian's mother had introduced the younger woman to Angie as 'my goddaughter and Damian's dear, dear friend,' and Angie had absorbed the not-so-subtle hint that her son was already taken.

Expecting to dislike this Courtney girl for a reason she couldn't quite figure out, Angie had been surprised that the girl seemed quite nice. When they'd been introduced, there had been an obvious look of relief on the younger girl's face when she'd realized that Damian had brought a date. She'd given Angie a smile that contained real warmth.

But his mother certainly appeared to be disappointed and Angie experienced a sudden guilt that she hadn't expected to feel at the subterfuge.

Now, as she stood in the middle of the living room of this 'mini-mansion', Angie sipped champagne and tried to hold up her end of the conversation, while her hostess gently interrogated her. Damian had been pulled away by a man she assumed was a business acquaintance, and he stood across the room in a larger circle of guests that included Courtney. His mother had manipulated that, and Angie could see by the tense line of his jaw that her move had angered him. He didn't seem to be annoyed with the younger girl, just . . . oblivious. But still, Angie couldn't help but feel a bit sorry for her, even though it had been apparent to Angie that the other girl didn't want his attention.

Angie stood rooted to the floor, knowing damn good and well that she shouldn't have agreed to this. She began counting down the hours until the evening ended and she could disappear from these people's lives just as quickly as she'd come onto the scene. If it hadn't been for Janice and this seemingly simple way to grab some fast cash for her friend, Angie would never have agreed to the scheme.

"What do you do, dear?" Damian's mother asked as the man to the immediate left of Angie listened in on the conversation and inched just a tad too close for her liking.

"I'm a hairdresser." She took another sip and attempted a smile as she tried to discreetly edge away from the man without drawing attention.

"You own your own salon?" The older woman asked.

"No." Angie named the shop where she worked, although she was very sure these people didn't even know it existed, much less where it was located.

"And that's where you met my son?" she asked with no apparent animosity.

"Yes, ma'am." Angie forced the smile to stay on her lips as she wiped away a drop of condensation from her glass.

"Your make-up is quite unusual." The older woman looked her over curiously, but not in a rude way, to Angie's relief.

"Thank you, I guess. It suits me."

"Why yes, it does. And I did mean it as a compliment. You're very beautiful," Mrs. Rule said in a softly sincere tone.