House Of Payne: Scout (2 page)

With a crappy attitude like that, Scout was baffled why anyone would put themselves in front of his camera. But they all did, no doubt hoping they’d be the next supermodel to pass the great Ivar Fournier photographic litmus test.

Leo looked doubtfully from one to the other. “Well, if you’re sure…”

“No worries, Leo.” Dropping her phone into her bag, she dug out a packet of tissues, pulled one out and held it out to Ivar. “Hold that to your nose until I get you to my place, okay?”

He did so, tilting his head back. “Your place?”

“I live right across the street.” She curled her arm around his and, with a farewell nod to Leo, led him to the sidewalk. “Though, considering a greasy spoon like Pig In A Poke is hardly the kind of place you would haunt, I suspect you already know that, so you might as well drop the act. Your being here is no coincidence.”

“Scout, you are much too cynical.” Those killer blue eyes slid her way, and she wanted to cuss a blue streak that not even a bloody nose could dampen his raw physical impact. “I assure you, I am not nearly the threat you seem to think I am.”

In response, her internal alarm system clanged so loudly it was all she could do to not run away. “Uh-huh. Save it for when you’ve stopped bleeding. Oh, and I might as well give you fair warning—your excuse for being here had better be impressive.”

“Have you not heard? I am always impressive.”

Hell, yeah, she’d heard. She’d heard how impressive he’d been while on the deck of a yacht during the Cannes Film Festival, fucking an Academy award-winning actress while eating out the supermodel that sat on his face. The paparazzi had also found him to be impressive when he’d had a lesser member of a certain European royal family bent over a chalet balcony railing in Vail, ass end up, as he hammered into her while the snow fell around them. Apparently, unlike other mere mortal men, shrinkage in cold weather wasn’t a problem for him. And then there was that incident with a modeling agent twice his age in a busy bathroom at Melbourne International Airport. Sadly, since the charges of public lewdness and disorderly conduct had been dropped, she hadn’t been able to confirm that he’d been his usual impressive self Down Under.

But generally speaking, Ivar Fournier was just about the definition of
impressive
.

Unfortunately for her.

With his head tilted back and face throbbing from where the thief had landed a decent kick, Ivar took in the security men at the lobby of Scout’s building. They appeared concerned and addressed her by her nickname rather than the more deferential
Ms. Upton
. In turn, she greeted them both by name—Darius and Zed—and gave them a solid thumbs-up that settled them down.

That was Scout’s special gift, he had come to learn over the past several weeks. She was an impossibly organized and driven woman, and she had an answer for everything. She brimmed with a confidence no human being should have, unless they had an army at their back and a squadron of air support above. Or like his grandmother, who had a purebred family tree that declared one’s superiority to everyone else who breathed.

Scout Upton didn’t have an army, and she wasn’t a purebred anything. Her accent was hardnosed, blue-collar Chicago. She swore like a sailor, something he liked because it was real, and whatever wealth she possessed she’d earned from hard work at House Of Payne.

Or most of it was earned that way, he thought as she passed a key fob over an elevator scanner. Some of it had been earned another way entirely, if what he’d been told was true.

As he followed her into the elevator, he gave Scout a quick but thorough once-over. To look at, it was easy to see how she could use that pinup-girl body to get whatever the hell she wanted. Tiny waist, bodacious breasts that demanded the male attention with every jiggling intake of breath, legs that went on for miles and the most spank-worthy ass he’d ever itched to get his hands on. Her walk was a come-on; her scarlet-painted mouth advertised a promise of X-rated heaven. She was sex in stilettos, and she didn’t bother to hide it.

Quietly, lust simmered in his veins, as it always did whenever she was near.

Trading sex for gain wasn’t a problem in his world. Far from it. It was how business was done. He’d been doing it since he was fifteen, so he begrudged no one for fucking whoever or whatever they could in order to survive. But as he watched her out of the corner of his eye, he had to admit it was becoming increasingly impossible to picture Scout Upton trading sex for gain. It just didn’t fit with the no-nonsense woman he had come to know. Not that he knew her well. For some reason, she was unusually cagey around him, which made him wonder if she knew why he was really there. But as time went on, that seemed less and less likely. All he could see when he looked into her eyes—really looked, with that ability his danger-laden childhood had granted him—he saw nothing but forthright, straight-up Scout.

That might not mean anything, he reminded himself grimly. His vision was excellent when it came to spotting things no one wanted him to see. But even he could be fooled.

“What amazing security your building has.” Leaning back against the elevator’s brass handrail, he lifted a brow when she jumped at the sound of his voice. Definitely not the worldly, elegant type he was used to dealing with. But again, he liked that. He might be as fake as five dollar Louis Vuitton wallet, but as far as he could tell Scout was as real as they came. “If I am not mistaken, this is your own private elevator?”

“Oh. Yeah.” She scrunched her tip-tilted nose that had often reminded him of a little kid’s. “This building has four penthouse suites. Each one has an express elevator that opens directly into their respective apartments, and I, uh… I happen to live in one of them.”

“How convenient. And, from the sound of it, expensive. House Of Payne must pay you very well, indeed.”

“Can’t complain.”

When she didn’t offer further explanation—in fact seemed quite comfortable in letting the awkward silence stretch on with nothing but the hum of the elevator to fill it—he studied her openly. In the weeks he’d known her, Scout Upton had had a wide purple streak in her dark hair, then later a shocking crimson. Now it was a uniform dark brown but still pulled back into a smooth French twist, a look that had been all the rage during the Second World War. Rockabilly was Scout’s style, a niche in fashion he’d never paid attention to, but now he wasn’t sure why. With her scarlet Kewpie doll lips and thundercloud-gray eyes enhanced with black winged eyeliner, her retro flair made her seem like a swan among pigeons.

He could admit it, if only to himself. Even if Marcel Dubois hadn’t put this woman on his radar, he still would have noticed her.

Noticed her… and wanted her.

“I was wondering if I shouldn’t call the police to report what happened,” Scout said as the elevator doors clanked open to a world of brilliant white and abundant sunshine. “At the very least I’d feel bad if this jerk struck again and really hurt someone.”

“Does a bloodied nose not constitute being injured?” As he spoke, he looked around the open-air penthouse. It was both massive and breathtaking, with white-washed walls and floor-to-ceiling windows that displayed panoramic views of the city and Lake Michigan. The equally white contemporary furniture in the sunken living room was broken up with vivid pillows in jewel tones that reminded him of the hair colors she’d worn in the past. The dining room, complete with a long black lacquer table, had obviously been turned into a makeshift office that should have looked messy, but didn’t. Despite three monitors, two separate but neat piles of paper, a printer, a jar of green M&M’s and a wireless keyboard cluttering up the space, it was clear there was order to everything.

Just as it was clear that Scout didn’t do traditional entertaining where a dining table would ever be used.

“Are you serious? You call a dinky little nosebleed being
injured?” Guiding him to the breakfast bar and pushing him onto a stool shaped like a calla lily, she pulled at the hand that held the tissue and studied his face. “Look at that. Not even broken. If your nose had been broken you might’ve gotten some sympathy. But since I’ve had nosebleeds from getting smacked in the snotbox a time or two in my life, all you get is an icepack and ibuprofen. Stay.”

Snotbox? And what was this
stay
command, as if he were a flea-bitten cur? Then the rest of her statement sank in and his building irritation vanished. “What do you mean, you have been
smacked
? As in struck? Hard enough to bleed?” When she didn’t answer, instead offering him an eye-rolling shrug, as if he were an idiot for stating the obvious, his brows came together. “Who did this to you?”

“I dunno.” She pulled a bag of frozen peas from a stainless steel freezer and broke up the contents on the counter. “Can’t remember the names, really. Some foster homes are worse than others, know what I mean?”

“You were in foster care?” He hadn’t known that.

“I didn’t start out in a fancy palace in the sky, pal. Life took from freaky turns and before I knew it, I wound up here. Take this.” She’d wrapped a kitchen towel around the bag of peas and pushed it into his hand, then gave him a clean tissue. “Lean forward on the counter and put the cold compress on the bridge of your nose, and press it on either side so it’s all pinched together. Keep it in place for about fifteen minutes, or until I’m done reporting this to the police. If you’re still bleeding half an hour from now, I’m taking you to the ER.”

There it was again, that unruffled, sweeping confidence that got under his skin and bugged him until he couldn’t sit still. “We shall see.”

“You’ll do it, and you’ll do it without bitching, because you’re a smart guy. And what I’m saying is the smart thing to do.”

As she began to turn away, his hand snaked out and snagged her wrist. They both stared in surprise at the fingers shackling her. Ivar honestly had no memory of wanting to keep her there, but now that he’d done it, he might as well get a few things established. “You should know something about me.”

She looked at him dubiously. “What do I need to know about you that I don’t already know?”

Now that was an intriguing statement. “I do not like bossy women.”

“What about bossy men? You okay with them? Because if so, pretend I have a penis and do what I tell you.”

Merde
, the things that came out of this woman’s mouth… “Of all the things you have told me to do in the past few minutes, picturing you with a penis is the most impossible. Picturing you as you are, however…” Against his will, his gaze slid down her body—from her blouse that showed off a garden of floral tattoos on her chest and a cleavage that made him insane to plant his face there, to a belt that cinched in her waist and emphasized the lush flare of her hips, to her long denim-clad legs that ended with impossibly high red leather heels. With curves like hers, she could tempt a saint to reach out as if he’d gone blind and her body was covered in Braille. “This I can do. Most easily.”

Her eyes went wide and her pupils dilated before she took a cautious step in retreat. “Fine, be stubborn and do whatever the hell you want. Just take it from someone who knows—if you keep your head tilted back, the blood drips down your throat into your stomach, and eventually you barf it back up in Technicolor. I’d prefer that doesn’t happen while you’re here.”

“But you would be fine with it if I did it elsewhere?” He knew he was needling her; of course he knew it. But he couldn’t help it. He took too much pleasure in the way her storm-colored eyes flared when she was peeved.

Whenever she dealt with him, Scout was almost always peeved.

“If that’s how you want to take it.” She gave her wrist a jiggle. “Now, if you’d be a sport and let me go, I’ll get some pain meds for you before tackling the police. Sound like a plan?”

For a fleeting moment he considered ignoring her so he could keep her as his prisoner. Then, when he realized that thought bordered on crazy, he let her go. “As you wish.”

But it wasn’t what he wished. Not by a long shot.

Chapter Two

Come to find out, if someone wasn’t murdered or threatening the security of the nation, most police reports had to be filed online. Scout slogged her way through various screens, and by the time she shut things down she was ready for some pain meds herself. Instead she grabbed a handful of candies from the jar by the keyboard and scooted out of her chair.

And found Ivar leaning against one of the white pillars outlining the dining room’s space, nose still red from either the cold pack or the kick. With his arms crossed and his shoulder against the pillar, he looked like he’d been there a while, watching her.

Yeah, and that’s not unsettling at all.

“Newsflash, Fournier—staring is rude, creepy and it makes me want to kick you. You should take a picture, it lasts longer.”

“I was just thinking how I would love to photograph you. You have a certain quality that captures a man’s eye and refuses to let go.”

For an entire second, her heart paused in its dutiful beating. Then it rocketed away, and she popped a candy into her mouth to cover just how close she’d come to fainting. “Uh-huh, sure. So speaks the guy who’s photographed the world’s most beautiful women.”

“Indeed I have. So?”

“So, sweet talk won’t fly with me, pal, and it sure as hell won’t distract me from finding out what the hell it is you’re actually doing here. It will, however, piss me off.”

“What a strange woman you are, to be infuriated by sweet talk.”

“Now you’re getting it. I equate sweet talk with manipulation, so if you’re jonesing to see me in beast-mode, you’re doing it right.”

              “Again, I must note that you have a cynical slant on the world, Scout.”

“Not on the world. Just you.”

“Ah. Then I am special in your eyes, yes?”

Um. “That’s one way of looking at it.”

“Then this is how I shall see it.” As she approached, he lifted a brow at the candies in her hand. “Green M&Ms?”

With a jolt she realized the significance of chowing down on those particular candies right in front of him. Crap. Was there anything she could do that wasn’t thoroughly mortifying around this guy? “So what? I like the color green, okay?”

“No need to be so defensive. I simply have never seen an entire jar of a single color of those candies. But then, I have no strong love for things that are sweet. I prefer… spicy.”

There went her stupid heart again, refusing to budge until her chest threatened to explode. Maybe she was suffering from some hitherto unknown condition and it was triggered by beautiful, sophisticated men with velvety French accents. Though most women with a pulse would be triggered by someone like that, now that she thought about it. And the condition wasn’t exactly a medical mystery. It was basic, straightforward attraction.

Wait.

Attraction?

If she was having this uncontrollable reaction to him, complete with heart palpitations and a wicked case of the vapors, that would mean…

Oh, shit.

She was attracted to a man she thought of as Trouble with a super-sized capital T.

“Look, just so we’re clear, the M&Ms were a joke gift from Payne.” Who claimed she needed to loosen up and get laid while on vacation, so he thought the green candies were a hoot. Dumbass, she silently growled, popping another one into her mouth. His sense of humor hadn’t evolved since they were in their late teens and he had her convinced green M&Ms were genuine aphrodisiacs, the bum.

“Oh?” To her surprise, Ivar caught her wrist just as she was about to toss another candy into her mouth, and examined the little green morsel between her finger and thumb. “I am puzzled. Why is it a joke?”

She froze, taken aback by his sudden move and trying to ignore how his fingers burned in all the right ways against her skin. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Kidding? What is there to kid about?”

“The legend behind the green M&M.”

“Perhaps it is an American thing?” His thumb brushed with apparent idleness over her wrist, intensifying the odd sense of being branded by his touch. “What legend?”

Oh,
hell
no. She wasn’t about to go there. Nuh-uh. No way was she going to admit to gobbling down candies that were notoriously known as libido enhancers while standing in front of the most physically beautiful man to ever grace God’s green earth. “Uh…”

“Yes, Scout? Tell me all about it.”

“You know what, look it up for your…” The words died somewhere between her brain and her lips when he bent his head, guiding her hand upward.

No.

Way.

Surely he wouldn’t…

Oh my God, no freaking way, no freaking way, no freaking—

His mouth closed over everything—candy, finger and thumb, his tongue coming to scoop up the M&M in a wet-velvet caress against her skin. Warmth tingled from that point to travel all over her body at the speed of light, and the intensity of it freaked her out so much she snapped her hand from his hold. But to her dismay the tingling continued as if he still held her. “You just… That was… What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Taking what I want.” His slow smile was unrepentant. “Does this mean you do not wish to share your aphrodisiac with me? Think of the fun we could have.”

“Damn it.” Thoroughly rattled—and she took great pride in
never
being rattled—she tried to level him with her best glare. “You knew about those stupid candies all along, you… you brat.”

The smile vanished at the name. “You cannot take a joke, eh? How disappointing, Scout.”

“Look at my face. This is me, not giving a shit about disappointing you. I was going to question you about what you’re doing in my neighborhood, but as of now I couldn’t give a damn. I just want you to leave.”

“This is how you show gratitude to the man who got his face kicked in while getting your property back from a criminal? Are you so heartless?”

“Damn straight. Heartless could be my middle name. Say it with me—Scout Heartless Upton. Doesn’t that have a nice ring to it?”

He watched her without answering, and the focused way he observed her had her pinned to the spot. It wasn’t that he was employing puppy eyes, which was what she’d expected. This was something… different. Almost like he was x-raying her with his gaze, and the intensity of it made it hard to breathe. Suddenly she had the urge to fill the silence until either he smiled or stopped burning her with his zeroed-in attention.

“I do not believe the term
heartless
suits you.” When he at last spoke his tone was quiet, almost distracted, like his brain was miles away and was having trouble finding its way back.

“Oh, really? Why’s that?”

“I have a gift I often use in my work—the gift of seeing behind the public face to the person hidden underneath. So believe me when I say that I have seen heartless before, many times over. And it is there inside you, of course. You are capable of heartlessness. But to my eyes, this is not the biggest part of what I see in you.”

What do you see in me?
The question formed on her tongue, and she punished it by biting down until the words died a silent death. That would just be playing his game, and she wasn’t in the mood to be played. If he thought he could make a tough piece of work like her daydream about sitting on his face while floating around on a yacht, mouth open and grinding into him as he made her forget the whole world could see them because he clearly had the most talented mouth in the Northern Hemisphere…

Damn. What was the point she was trying to make?

She pressed her lips together in a fit of self-directed aggravation. “Look, let’s just put an end to this, all right? I know what you want, or at least I think I do, and it’s not to get your hands on my M&Ms.”

“You say this with such certainty. And, if I may say, getting hands on your sweet assets would be a noble goal for any man.”

“Uh-huh. Right.”

He looked wounded. “How can you not believe me?”

“Because you’re a bullshit smooth-talker trying to make moves on a chick from South Deering’s picturesque Slag Valley.” And it bugged her no end. But she had to give credit where credit was due—he was an expert when it came to
smooth
. No surprise there, since his last escapade before hitting Chicago had been all about sweet-talking a supermodel away from her football-playing man. He could probably charm the birds right out of their frigging feathers if he put his mind to it.

But she was from the school of hard knocks. No way was she ever going to fall for it.

“South Deering? Slag Valley?” His black brows drew together. “I thought you were from Chicago.”

“I am—South Chicago, to be precise. I’m proud to say I’m from one of the worst neighborhoods this fine city has to offer. If that doesn’t give you an idea of what South Deering is, nothing will.” She moved to collapse onto a sofa, hoping her unimpressed air camouflaged just how freakishly aware she was of him. “You’ve been haunting House Of Payne for weeks now, yammering on about the tattoo spread you want to do, yeah?”

“It pains me, the way you phrase it. Not only have I never yammered in my life, but you speak as though any fool with a camera could take snaps of a tattoo.” His pissed-off tone seemed genuine as he joined her in the living area. She tensed, only to feel vaguely disappointed when he slouched opposite her on the matching couch a good six feet away. So much for wanting to get his hands on her assets. “Tattoos are more mainstream than ever, yes? People from all walks of life are now getting them, more often than not to commemorate significant personal moments. I want to shine a spotlight on the life stories that are told in the form of body art, as well as reveal the people who display their personal stories on their very skin.”

“I understand why you’d be interested in the subject. I guess I’m just stupid, because I don’t get why you’re so fucking determined to get your hands on our extremely confidential client list.”

“You make it sound diabolical.”

“Probably because it is.”

“I assure you, my motives are completely innocent.”

“Oh, gee, really? Gosh and golly, I sure would love to take your assurances straight to the bank, but promises that you’ll be a good little boy hold no currency.”

“I am hardly
little
.”

She’d just bet. “Why do you keep knocking on House Of Payne’s door when we keep refusing to let you in?”

“You really have to ask?”

“Uh, yeah. Obviously.”

“Perhaps you are unaware of what House Of Payne has become?” His brows went up, and for a moment his carved face verged on looking almost wicked. “It is famous for its artistic creations—no other tattoo studio in the world can compare. Naturally I must start this project with the greatest gallery of living art the world has to offer.”

“And, just as naturally, you must understand we became great for several reasons, one of which is
trust
. We won’t hand our clientele list over to you and say ‘have at it.’ There’s going to be ice-fishing in hell before that ever happens.”

He grimaced. It was a tribute to the perfection of his face that even a grimace could be beautiful. “I have realized this, of course. Bad for business.”

“Hot damn, you’re finally getting it.”

“And considering how much this luxurious penthouse must have set you back,” he added, looking around in apparent admiration, “it occurs to me that you will protect the business of House Of Payne with everything you have. You get so much from it, after all.”

Scout frowned. Despite the seemingly complimentary tone, that sounded… wrong. “This penthouse and everything in it was bequeathed to me by House Of Payne’s main investor, who was also a close personal friend of mine. So let’s not make it sound like I’m some grasping, greedy money-grubber draining the House dry financially just because you’re pissed about not getting your way. I put twice as much into House Of Payne as I get out of it.”

He held up a hand. “I meant no offense, of course. No one who works as hard as you do could ever be called—how did you say?—a money-grubber. Certainly, you earn your paycheck.”

The frown didn’t lessen, because damn it, she
did
earn every penny she made, and then some. “Forget about offending me—which yeah, you totally did, and I can’t imagine you spouting that kind of shit to, say, Payne, about his lakeside estate that he worked his ass off to get. You’re smart enough to realize he’d pop you in the mouth for a smarmy little comment like that. And by damn, he’d be right to do it.”

“Truly, I meant no—”

“But like I said, forget about offending me, because you need to get something through that thick head of yours, Fournier. House Of Payne is under no obligation to accommodate whatever fanciful artistic whims that strike you. It doesn’t even have to give you the fucking time of day. Do you have any questions at this point regarding how the House doesn’t have to acknowledge your existence?”

His eyes narrowed. “No.”

“Outstanding. Now that I’ve cleared the air on that, I’m not going to spend another goddamn second justifying my hard-earned paycheck, where I happen to live, or keeping private business matters such as our clientele list just that—
private
. We’re done.”