Taking the Score (2 page)

“Do you own a cat?”

She swallowed, thinking about her cranky cat and his current location. “Yes, I do. A tabby.”

He reached out and plucked at the lapel of her ill-fitting, thrift-store suit, just above a tightening nipple. With those long, elegant fingers that had probably never seen a day’s hard work in their lives, he rubbed, sending to the ground one of the offensive cat hairs that tended to Velcro to her person. A barely discernible eyebrow lift pronounced his conclusion.

Crazy cat lady.

It rankled, but as she had taken great pains to present a certain image, regretting her success was pointless. These clothes were her secret identity, masking the super-zero underneath, keeping that bad girl in check. Better he saw her this way. An attraction to her boss was a distraction she could not afford, not when her life was a complete disaster-piece.

Turning to leave, he pulled on his sticky tank, which had molded to his impressive pectorals in a way old Emma would have been all over, but Ms. Strickland pretended not to notice. And then, just in case she’d missed how shredded those abs were, he used the hem to wipe his damp forehead.

Come. On.

By the time he’d dropped the tank, she had managed to pin an expression of bland disinterest on her face.

“I’d better take a shower, or Smythe what’s-his-face will have a whole other reason to be offended. Can you bring in the Crown Point file and have it on my desk for when I finish?”

She smiled and tried not to look overly smug about it. Failed miserably.

“Already done, Mr. Kane.”

Chapter Two

As Brody headed to the private bathroom in his office, Darth Vader’s theme boomed, meaning the
one person he did not want to talk to was doing her daily check-in. Although tempted to send it to voicemail, he merely sighed and hit accept.

“Hey, shithead, try picking up once in a while.”

“Morning to you, too, sweet sister.”

“Sweet sister, my dick.” Liv muttered something incomprehensible, followed by a barked order to some poor unfortunate who wasn’t moving his ass fast enough with—Christ Jesus—a chocolate fountain. His sister ran a high-end catering business in Houston, a natural fit for the dictator tendencies she’d been cultivating since the cradle. She also happened to be getting married to a Daddy-approved Texas congressman in eight weeks, which meant she was even more impossible than usual.

“I’m surrounded by incompetence,” she said with the weary sigh of a baby CEO. “So, rumor has it you’re going to chicken out and not show your face at my nuptials.”

He rather enjoyed this game. “Well, actually I was thinking—”

“Brody Kane, before you go any further, remember this: if you bail on my wedding, I will hunt you down. Native American trackers, wolves, crossbows. Whatever it takes. I have at least three bridesmaids who’ve already offered to fuck you, four if you count the matron of honor who will happily give you a pity hand job in the church vestibule, never mind that her husband will be squeezed into the third pew. If I have to take Dad’s money to pay for my wedding, then you can suck it up and spend an evening with the family you despise.”

Brody grunted his annoyance. “I don’t despise all of them. You’re in the fair-to-middling range, and I offered to pay for the wedding myself. You didn’t have to take a dime of Papa Kane’s black cash.”

His sister snorted. “And let him get away with not paying a fortune to wash his hands of me? No way! That bastard needs to know he’s good for one thing and one thing only: swiping the plastic.” Her voice softened. “Look, I know it’s awkward, and seeing her—seeing them—is the last thing you want, but you can’t let them win.”

He had no idea how showing up at a Texas wedding extravaganza where his ex-fiancée and her new husband would be front and center came within even ten miles of a win. But he’d do anything for his baby sister.

“Of course I’m going to come—”

“Heh, I’ll make sure of it. Bridesmaids with loose morals, bro.”

Et tu, Olivia?
“I don’t need you to set me up.”

“Right. Because according to Flynn you haven’t so much as looked at another woman in six months. He said he pops a new condom in your wallet every month but each month goes by and the rubber remains untouched. I can’t imagine not having sex for an entire six months…”

And Brody couldn’t imagine why he was having this conversation with his sister.

“…unless She-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named gave you some sort of dick-shriveling disease. Oh God, is that what’s wrong? Is that why you haven’t been using your penis?”

“Liv, I’m not talking about this with you.”

“Because as slutty as my bridesmaids are I can’t knowingly inflict my syphilitic brother on them. Well, maybe Jess. She
has
being pissing me off lately—” She broke off to harass someone about pomegranate centerpieces.

“Liv, I don’t know why you listen to Flynn.” Fucking Flynn, who had appointed himself Brody’s personal condom dispenser. Flavored ones as well. “I do not have syphilis. And my sex life is very healthy.” If by healthy, you counted orgasm, party-of-one in his shower with his frump of an assistant the fantasy.

Must. Get. Laid.

“Good to hear,” said Liv. “And if it isn’t, I’ll make sure you’re taken care of this weekend.”

His ears perked up. “What about this weekend?”

“I’ve decided to have my pre-pre-bachelorette party in Chicago. I’m arriving Friday.”

Pre-pre-what the fuck? And in four days? He groaned.

“I heard that.”

“You were supposed to. This weekend isn’t good. I have business dinners and waxing appointments. Getting my hair washed.”

“Aw, what’s wrong, Brody? Are you too busy jerking off to pictures of Day-leks in your Fortress of Solitude?”

“Liv, it’s pronounced ‘
Dah
-lek’ and you know I hate when you mix up the sci-fi and comic book universes.”

Ignoring him, she charged on in her usual bull-in-a-china-shop manner. “I’ll be staying at a suite at the Peninsula so there’s no need to interrupt your masturbation schedule. I’d just like to see my sad, pathetic brother—and maybe offer one of the F-Troop in sacrifice.”

“For fuck’s sake.”

“Exactly. I’m doing this for the sake of your wang. I’ve already emailed the details to Emma. Make sure you send a car to the airport. It’s the least you can do, since you’re not paying for my wedding, you jerk.”

Click.
Strip club with cock-destroying women or have his sex life coordinated by his sister? What a choice.

“Ms. Strickland?” he called out to the reception suite.

“Yes, Mr. Kane?”

Yes, Mr. Kane. There, Mr. Kane. Harder, Mr. Kane.

Perfectly anticipating his needs as usual, she already stood at the door to his office. Had she heard any of that conversation? Did he need to affirm to her that his sex life was indeed healthy and he
really, really
did not have syphilis?

“My sister.” He waved to fill in the rest.

Was that a smirk lifting the corner of Ms. Strickland’s hot little mouth? A heartbeat later, it was gone—if it had ever been there. Nothing but placid professionalism greeted him now.

“Your sister emailed details of her weekend trip and specified Alinea as her preferred dinner destination on Friday night. Should I make a reservation?”

“Remind me.”

“Avant-garde dining. Sixteen courses. One of the desserts is a helium-filled, apple-flavored balloon.”

He growled. Something like feminine appreciation softened his assistant’s usual no-nonsense mask.
Note to self: Ms. Strickland likes it when you growl.

“I’ll book Smith & Wollensky instead,” she said.

“Just the two of us. She’s bringing her princess posse but I’ve no intention of sitting through dinner with that gaggle. And also, could you—”

“Reserve a town car to pick them up at the airport? Will do.”

“Thank you, Ms. Strickland.”

She shut the door behind her, and despite the shapeless skirt, his inner horndog detected the shift of her fine ass muscles beneath that cheap fabric and stood up to beg. Christ.

Guess he knew how he’d be spending today’s shower time.

…

Emma pushed through the double doors of Club Girl and did a quick scan.
Phew.
Ray wasn’t on the floor yet, which meant she might just be able to get away with being thirty minutes late for her shift.

Why, oh, why had she thought shutting her eyes for that brief power nap was a good idea? It was supposed to be twenty minutes where she would awake refreshed and ready to flirt with the well-tipping, grabby-assed clientele. Two hours later, and she was screwed.

“He wants to see you.”

Shit.

Emma turned to face Katerina, one of the dancers. Without a doubt, she was one of the most beautiful women Emma had ever seen, with her strong, toned body, perfect breasts, and legs a mile past eternity. If Emma bent that way, she’d be bending all over Katerina.

“He knows I’m late.”

“Yes. He know.” Katerina was Romanian and her English, while good, often left her mouth abruptly. She claimed to have arrived in the U.S. as a mail-order bride, took one look at the prospective groom and told him “you are unworthy to touch this body.” She’d rather allow men to stuff bills into her G-string than let a catfishing, potbellied liar share her bed.

Speaking of lowlifes, Ray wanted to see her. It was bad enough Emma managed barely four hours of sleep between the end of her shift at Club Girl and the buzz of her alarm for the nine-to-five. If she screwed this job up or pissed off Ray, it would be bad news for Daisy.

Maybe she should just let that five-foot-two squirt of irresponsibility pay the piper. Why the hell was Emma here in a gentlemen’s club—with no freaking gentlemen, she might add—wearing a too-short skirt and too-high heels? Why did she have to surrender her meager life savings of ten thousand, three hundred and sixty-seven dollars, and still not have Daisy’s debt even halfway paid off? Why the hell were
her
dreams on hold?

Because she was a soft touch, that’s why.

Inhaling a bolstering breath, she headed to Ray’s office and walked in without knocking. A bird’s nest, feathered with red and gold strands, rose from a kneeling position and wiped her mouth.

Should’ve knocked, Ems.

Kelly, one of the dancers, smoothed her silver lamé dress—though “dress” was pushing it—and cracked her jaw just in case it wasn’t 100 percent clear what she had been doing sixty seconds before Emma walked in. The scrape of Ray’s zipper was the auditory icing on the someone’s-just-got-blown cake.

“Leave us,” Ray barked at Kelly.

“Sure, babe,” she purred. Walking by Emma, she brushed her shoulder, a not unfriendly but knowing look in her eyes.
Your turn.

Not in this lifetime, sister.

The door closed with a quiet
snick
.

Emma wasn’t afraid of Ray. He might be the kind of guy who was happy to be blown in the back office of his strip club, and he might have plenty of muscle to back up his shady dealings, but he had never once threatened her. No, all his heavy-handedness was directed at her sister, who liked a line of recreational coke every now and then.

Where “every now and then” meant six months of digging a hole so deep the only way back was to offer Emma in sacrifice.

For almost three months, she had stepped into Daisy’s high heels and “worked” as a cocktail waitress. Never saw a paycheck. Surrendered every tip. Watched nightly as Ray counted off each five- and ten-dollar bill and noted it in his ledger of misery.

“You’re late, Emma.”

“Sorry about that. I closed my eyes and…” She trailed off, hoping it was obvious.
I am working my ass off here. I need my day job to buy bread. Maybe a Potbelly sandwich once in a while.

Ray—and why were they always called Ray?—rubbed knuckles over his ten o’clock shadow, a move that was supposed to project contemplative. In his case, it gave off “dickhead.”

“How long have you been working here?”

She bit back a sigh. How long had she been bonded in serfdom was a more accurate question.

“Just shy of three months.”

“And how much does your sister still owe me?”

Her gaze flickered to the ledger on his desk, its leather as black as Ray’s soul.

“Sixteen thousand dollars, give or take.”

Those shark’s eyes flipped up. “Give or take. Interesting choice of phrase.”

She resisted studying her nails. Ray was about to make a speech about how he was a giver, a pillar in his community of lowlifes and scumbags.

“I’ve been
giving
you all sorts of chances but the customers don’t seem to warm up to you, not like your sister. Of all the waitresses, you take the fewest drink orders, make the least tips. The clientele want to spend money, Emma, but you’re walking around with your nose in the air instead of your tits bent over the table.”

“I’m working my tail off.” Damn, she was just so tired when she got here that it was hard to muster enthusiasm with spittle-flecked mouths drooling over her.

“I said I’d give you three months to work off your sister’s debt—”

“And I will!”

He looked taken aback at her outburst.

“I will,” she said more softly.

“You have a week, and I don’t reckon on your chances of making it up. Maybe you have different talents I need to nurture.” His accompanying leer dragged a shot of bile up her throat. “What else are you good at?”

Sex. She was good at that, or had been once. Beneath this good-girl persona was a bad girl rattling at the cage, but she’d left wild Emma behind in her search for a new life. An image of Kelly wiping her mouth sliced through her brain.

Uh, nope.

“I’m—I’m—I’m very organized.”

He stared. “Organized?”

She arced her gaze over the office, taking in his ugly monstrosity of a desk, the bank of monitors for the floor and private rooms, and the leopard-skin sofa. Probably real leopard, the prick. Not a paper out of place.

“If you need someone to do your books, I have a degree in business.” She didn’t, but the lie had wangled her the job at Score Property. Lying had always been easy, coming from her own family of scumbags.

“We’re all accounted for.” He shifted in his seat as if he was…oh, shit, trying to accommodate a hard-on. He couldn’t possibly be ready for more after he had just had his dick tickling Kelly’s tonsils, could he?

“I can smile more, show more skin, whatever it takes,” she said quickly, working to keep the panic out of her voice. Sex was the currency at Club Girl, so upping her game was imperative. Maybe she could borrow a push-up bra from one of the girls, stuff it with tissues and use them later when she bawled her eyes out.

“By the end of the night, the customers are going to love me.”

Ray knuckle-rapped the desk. “That’s right, Emma. They will.”