Hard (10 page)

What doesn’t feel right, though, is the grim look on Cash’s
face when he enters from the back, carrying a bag of ice in each
hand.

“Ryder wants to see you,” Cash says.

“Good morning to you, too.” Without looking at me, Cash
takes his usual station behind the bar, rips open each bag.

“Did he say what about?” I say, going for chipper. But my
optimism gets lost in the noise of Cash pouring the cubes into the
built-in chests behind the bar, the sound like an avalanche echoing
through the quiet of Altitude’s open, empty space.

“What?”

“Did he tell you,” I say, my stomach starting to churn,
“why he wanted to see me?”

“Nope,” he says, yawning. So just in case I didn’t
think I was boring him, now I know for sure. “That’s for
you to find out, I guess.”

“Thanks.” I start to round the corner of the bar. Ryder’s
office is maybe four or five yards from where I stand. I can see the
shut door at the end of the hallway. But when you’re dragging
your feet, a few steps can seem so far away.

“What’d you do to your hair?” Cash says.

I stop and face him, running my hand up the back of my head. I’ve
become so quickly accustomed to being a brunette that I almost forgot
how many other people haven’t seen it yet. “You can’t
tell?” I say.

“It’s shorter,” he says, yawning again. “And
it’s a different color, right?”

“Just how many mind eraser shots did you have this weekend?”

“Sorry,” he says. “Monday mornings. I don’t
do them well.” He rubs his face. “Go see Ryder.”

I nod. It’s true that Cash doesn’t look his usual pretty,
preppy, playboy self. His dimples are the same, but his hair is a
little more ruffled than usual, his shirt a little more wrinkled.

So maybe he is just grumpy that it’s Monday. Or hungover.
Tired.

Or maybe he knows something I don’t.

“You wanted to see me?” I say. I’m half in, half
out of the doorway of Ryder’s office, my hand gripping the
knob, which I notice is different from last week. There’s a
keyhole now. For a lock, I assume.

I wonder if the change was Ryder’s idea. Maybe Jackson’s.
Either way, it’s a sign that Friday night made a clear
impression on someone.

Or Saturday night. Or last night. For the first time, it occurs to me
that this whole office-seduction routine could be a regular thing for
Ryder, that maybe I wasn’t getting special treatment but just
the house special—a private tongue tour in the back room. Sure,
why not? He’s hot and powerful and available. There are plenty
of women every night in Altitude who’d love to find out what
the top of his desk feels like underneath their back.

My fingers tighten on the cool metal of the doorknob as the thought
of another woman in here with Ryder makes my stomach go from nervous
to nauseated. The reaction catches me a little off guard. Because I
don’t care if he has the whole Falcons cheerleading squad in
here every night.

Do I?

I take a deep breath. Even if I don’t exactly know how I feel,
I know precisely what I think, and what I think is that he has no
right to strip me of my job because of what happened between us.
Especially if I’m not the only one he’s stripping of her
pants. That’s a him problem, and I’m done taking
responsibility for other people’s issues.

Sitting at the desk, which is now covered neatly in paperwork (thanks
to my bookkeeping), Ryder beckons me into the office, waving his
index and middle fingers. He’s dressed in his usual
sexy-daytime-businessman attire: expensive-looking jeans, a pressed
shirt with the collar open, the greens and blues and reds of his tats
just barely visible under the sleeves, which are buttoned to his
wrists. He gets up and pulls over a chair from the corner by the coat
rack.

“Have a seat,” he says.

“I’d prefer to stand, thanks,” I say, though it’s
dizzying, being this close to him again in the same place where we
were even closer just a couple nights ago. I cross my arms in front
of my chest and flex my knees, trying to anchor myself to the floor,
my mind’s attempt to get my body focused on my plan.

Because if I left it up to my body right now, the only thing it might
get focused on is Ryder.

“Have it your way,” he says.

“I intend to,” I say.

He returns to his seat behind the desk. He leans back in the armless
chair, his long legs open, his strong hands resting on his thighs.
“So, about Friday night,” he says.

I breathe in deeply, lifting my chin. “I’m not saying I’m
completely innocent, but I’m not the only one to blame either.”

He slants his eyes, his mouth opening slightly into the beginnings of
a smile. “Who is to blame, then?”

“Well, since the whole thing was your idea,” I say,
leaning onto the desk with both hands, like a prosecutor about to
reveal the smoking gun, “I’d say you.”
Case
closed, your honor.
Savannah would be proud, both as a friend and
as a lawyer.

“Actually, it was Jackson’s idea,” Ryder says. “He
and Cash convinced me to

do
it.”

Whatever hesitations I had earlier this morning about setting Ryder
straight vanish at the word
convinced
, like I was just another
bet to be won for him, a consequence of some gross truth-or-dare
session among Ryder and Cash and Jackson.

If he’s trying to embarrass me, okay—it’s working a
little. But two can play that game. “So they put you up to
it?”

“It was their suggestion.”

“Because as I recall,” I say, my muscles tense, my jaw
tight, “your erection didn’t seem to need too much
convincing.”

Ryder’s blue eyes widen. He nods his head, and runs a hand back
through his dark hair. When he looks up at me, he’s grinning.

“What do you think we’re talking about?” he says,
standing up and crossing toward me.

He plants his hand next to my hand on the desk’s edge, his
fingertips just touching mine, and the feel of his skin, even so
barely, makes the nerves in my stomach turn to butterflies as I
realize: maybe I don’t know what we’re talking about. And
maybe I just gave myself away.

Shit.

“Friday night,” I say, my voice quieter than before.

“Friday night,” he says, “You left before Cash
could tip you out.” He pulls three fresh, crisp, new hundred
dollar bills from his shirt pocket. “Not everyone’s first
time is such a success.”

“I didn’t know,” I say. “I thought it was all
going to the debt.”

“It was,” he says. “But your ass in those jeans
made Altitude a lot of money that night. So Jackson and Cash
persuaded me to reward you for it.”

“Oh,” I say, biting my lip as I turn my head away from
him. “That’s nice of you.”

“Yeah, it is,” Ryder says.

I look back at him, studying his face. I heard somewhere that people
often assume attractive people are assholes because they are
attractive, and therefore seem unapproachable. And Ryder’s not
just attractive—with his blue eyes and dark hair and strong jaw
line, frankly, he’s gorgeous—so combine the stereotype
with his tattoos and height and build and reputation, and I imagine a
lot of folks assume he wouldn’t have a thoughtful bone in his
body.

And I guess I’m seeing I’m one of those folks.

Not that he’s not ever the bad guy. He has the reputation he
has for a reason. But maybe just not always.

“Thank you,” I say as I reach for the money. He pulls it
away from my grasp, and tucks it back into his pocket.

“I don’t know, Cassie,” he says. “Maybe I
changed my mind. I’m not sure if I like your attitude today.”

I close my eyes and sigh as I realize I may have to say the one thing
I didn’t want to say. “I’m sorry, Ryder. I really
appreciate your generosity.”

He takes a step toward me. “Say my name again, and I’ll
think about it,” he says, his voice low and deep and cool,
though the sound of it makes every part of me warm.

I cast my gaze up at him, and swallow hard. “Ryder.” I
can’t help it: my mouth pulls into a tiny smile at the feeling
of the last syllable slipping past my lips.

“Again,” he says. He brushes the back of my hand on the
desk, trailing over my wrist and up my bare forearm, across the
sleeve of my dress to my shoulder, my neck. I close my eyes, blocking
out everything except the way it feels for him to trace his
fingertips across my earlobe.

Keep it together, Cassie. You know exactly where this goes.

It’s true. I do. We’ve been here before. But as he twists
the back of my hair around his fingers, I also know: I don’t
think I mind being here again.

He drops his other hand from my waist to my ass and pulls me closer
to him, our bellies and legs and everything in between pressed
against each other. I put my hand in the middle of his firm, wide
chest to steady myself, his steady heartbeat beneath my palm like a
countdown to whatever we’re about to launch.

I look him at directly, like I’m the one daring him now.

And maybe, caught in this office with him again, I’m daring
myself, too.

“Ryder,” I say, as in one motion he guides my head toward
him, his fingers tangling in the back of my short hair, and kisses
me, soft and firm and slow, like a musician who stretches out that
one last note so it winds around the audience, holding them in place,
not letting them go.

And I am totally tangled in the song Ryder’s composing.

He turns slightly, sitting back on the desk, never breaking his hold
on me, his lips still locked on mine. He pushes up my dress, cupping
one hand over the back of my panties, making me instantly wet with
anticipation. “I like the new cut,” he says, tugging a
lock of hair with the other hand, pulling my head back to kiss
underneath my cheek, underneath my chin, his lips tickling as they
trail down my neck.

“Thanks. Most guys prefer long hair,” I say, my breath
catching in my throat, just as I’m caught between wanting to
melt in the heat of Ryder’s mouth on my skin and wanting to be
able to resist the promise of his strong hands as they rub the
roundness of my ass.

He kisses my chest, between the V of my dress collar. “I guess
I’m not most guys.”

His tongue teases across the tops of my breasts, and I begin to
unfasten his shirt buttons, my fingers exploring the taut muscles of
his defined chest. I push the shirt open, glimpsing the tops of the
tats on his shoulders—an intricate, delicate butterfly on one,
a bee in flight on the other. I lean forward, kissing his pecs as my
fingers continue to work through each button, grazing past the cash
in his left pocket—and I’m jarred back to the reality of
why we’re here in the first place. “Just put this toward
the debt,” I say, patting the bills through the fabric.

“My heart?” he says. His hand still underneath my dress,
he slides it up my back, pulling me closer to him.

“The money.”

“You worked hard for it,” he says, kissing the curve of
my cleavage, making my nipples harden. “It’s yours.”

“But keeping it just slows down paying you back.”

“If it makes you feel better,” he says, grinning as he
looks up at me, squeezing my ass under my dress, “I’m
sure I can think of a way to pay me back faster.”

I push back from him, not sure if he’s serious or kidding. But
if there’s something I know for sure about men it’s that
they’re always serious about sex. And if they have to wield a
little power or intimidation to get it—
Because I’m
your boss, I’m your boyfriend, I’m your husband
—they
will. You owe them. Or so they think.

Not all men. But some men. Sometimes even men who sweep you off your
feet. Who you think you trust. Or love.

So while it’s one thing for whatever these rendezvous are to be
a bit of fun for Ryder and me both, it’s quite another to have
it be my real job at Altitude.

Like all I am is an adding machine with some holes and handles.

Fuck that. Fuck him.

“Is that what you really wanted to see me about?” I say,
yanking down the back of my dress, straightening my collar. “To
get me to agree to prostitute myself til you’ve had your
ten-thousand-dollars’ worth?”

He stands, his shirt open, all except the bottom buttons, his
magnificent bare chest on full display. Above his jeans, his pelvic
muscles form the lines of a perfectly sculpted V, narrowing toward
his cock straining against his fly. He walks toward me, his arms open
in front of him, like he’s making an offering of some kind.

Probably an excuse.

“Cassie, wait. Please wait.”

“Leave me alone,” I say, turning toward the door. I reach
for the knob as he turns the new lock and covers it with one hand,
holding onto my waist with the other, his half-naked torso so close I
can feel the warmth of his skin radiate through my thin dress.

A minute ago I would have liquefied from the heat. Now it just fuels
my fire.

“It was a joke,” he says.

“Sure it was,” I say. “Unless I agreed. And then
it’s just a business deal, right?”

He raises an eyebrow, pulling himself toward me. “Pretty fun
business we’re in, then.”

I slap him. Not hard enough to leave a mark. Certainly not even close
to as hard as I’m sure he’s been hit in the boxing
ring—or the bedroom, probably.

But it’s hard enough to get his attention. He puts his hand to
his cheek, his mouth slightly open, but mercifully silent. His eyes
are big, like he can’t believe what just happened and honestly,
I’m not sure I can either. I mean, I’m not a violent
person, but I’ve been in violent situations—and I know if
you’re going to give someone a smack, you better be ready to
receive one, too.

But Ryder doesn’t retaliate. He doesn’t even seem upset.
His gaze never moves away from me, but there’s a look of
amusement in it, like he’s on the cusp of smiling or laughing.

Probably just another hilarious joke that I don’t get.