Made: A Bad Boy Romance (Bad Boy Games) (5 page)

Just be cool and act innocent, maybe a little dumb.

“Please give me the phone.”

I place my empty cocktail stem on a nearby table and hold up the small beaded bag I borrowed from Caylee. “Phone? You think I have it? In here? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I make a show of fumbling with it. “There’s not much room. I’ve got my lipstick and my—”

He reaches, and I think he’s going to take my bag. Instead, his thick fingers curl around my hand from beneath. When his skin makes contact with mine, an electric current leaps between us, silencing my patter of nonsense. I stumble backward a step. He doesn’t let go. It’s a good thing he’s holding on because in these heels I’m not used to wearing, I wobble, and he catches me.

Then he’s holding me close. My breasts press against his hard chest. He grins again, flashing perfectly even and very white teeth. Heat radiates from him, burning through my dress and burrowing inside me, warming me in ways I’ve forgotten about but need so freaking much. A jolt of pure lust arrows from my breasts to the growing heat between my legs.

All I can think is that he’s gorgeous. Not in a movie star kind of way, but in a rough, masculine sense that makes every feminine thing in my body jump up and down like cheerleaders at the Super Bowl.

With the edge of his thumb, he traces the line of my jaw. “You have no idea what I’ve been saying, do you?”

I realize he’s been talking all this time, but I haven’t been paying attention to his words. “Do what?” My breaths grow shallower by the moment. I can feel my heart thudding in my chest, and my brain is about ready to pull the plug for the night and let my libido take over.

His hand slips around the back of my neck, pulling me even closer. His lips are damp and so very close. Dear Jesus, the things this man could do to me.

All night long. . .

I shake my head to clear the fog. If I keep this up, acting dumb won’t be an act or take any effort to pull off.

I need to get the hell out of here, and I can’t let him take the phone. It’s my only connection to Caylee. What if she needs help later? Not that anything’s going to happen. It’s the principle of the thing. I promised.

He lowers his head and whispers in my ear. “Give me the phone and I won’t tell anyone you tried to steal it.”

“What? Wait, I haven’t stolen anything! Caylee gave it to me and asked me to keep it for her.”

His expression darkens. “Here’s the thing, sweetness—”

“Brooke. My name is Brooke.” I don’t know why, but somehow it’s suddenly important to me that he not use icky terms of endearment
.

“All right—
Brooke
,” he says evenly, “your friend might have given you the phone, but it doesn’t belong to her. She had no right to give it to you. If you return it now, I can smooth things over, no harm, no foul. Everybody walks away.”

Apprehension skitters down my spine. What is this about? Why
wouldn’t
we all walk away and who does this guy think he is? A bracing sense of outrage bubbles up inside me, dissolving the fear. It’s also strong enough to stem the tide of lust that’s been threatening to make me spread my legs for him and damn the consequences.

“What’s your role in this sick little scheme?” I demand, the best defense being a good offense and all that. “These high rollers need a pimp because they can’t get a woman by themselves? What’s wrong with them? And why do you work for them?”

Does he flinch at my words? If he did, it was super fast. My eyes linger on his brown eyes as they go darker. I catch a glimpse of something scary that must live inside him. I suspect he keeps it chained and under complete control. I don’t know how I know this, but once I roll the idea around for a second, I’m as certain as I’ve ever been about anything that this is true. Oddly, seeing a predator behind his gaze doesn’t scare me, which I distantly recognize as all kinds of wrong.

“Your friend talked to you about tonight?” he asks.

“Of course. In case you haven’t noticed before, women do talk to each other. It’s a thing.”

His face goes blank. “That’s unfortunate.”

Crap.

I need to get the hell out of here. Now.

He doesn’t give me a chance to move. His fingers clamp around my upper arm with punishing strength. “You’re coming with me.” He turns and takes one long stride.

“The hell I am!” I dig my feet into the floor for all the good it does me. At least, I slow him down and force him to turn around—a benefit of not being a skinny female. I jerk away from him and manage to get free, but the momentum makes me stumble.

He catches me. Again.

Damn him.

Pulling me solidly against his body, he lowers his mouth to my neck. I can feel his hot breath on my skin. “If you keep this up, bad things will happen. I don’t want that. For you or for me. Understand?”

We’re touching from shoulder to thigh, and there’s a delicious bulge in his pelvic region that’s pushing into my belly. The craving for him flares, even stronger this time. I shift my weight and move against him.

He smiles. “We can do that, too.”

“That?”

He moves his hips just enough to punctuate the lust in his expression.

Oh, that.

A tiny groan escapes my mouth.

“First, I only want to talk to you,” he says. “Once we resolve some issues and the matter of the phone, we can do other things.”

There’s something so smug, so confident, so utterly masculine about him that reeks of I-can-fuck-any-woman-I-choose. Really? Does he have to be one of
those
guys? Now it’s anger that warms my body.

“Let go of me,” I hiss into his lapel.

Amazingly, he releases me. Cool air rushes between us, and I feel a flash of regret. Instantly, I shove it deep down inside me. “Thank you.”

“Apology accepted, now will you please—”

“That wasn’t an apology,” I snap. “What do I have to apologize for?”

That icy blankness comes over his face and seeing it yet again makes the look familiar. I don’t like it. This must be what he looks like when he lets the predator loose. That thing about seeing the predator in him not bothering me? I lied.

A knot forms in my stomach. I need to get out of here. I lunge in the general direction of the front exit. I don’t make it more than two steps before his hands clamp down on me.

“You’re not helping yourself by acting this way,” he says through gritted teeth while I struggle and don’t get anywhere.

I try not to wince at the punishing strength of his fingers wrapped around my upper arms and fail. “Look, I don’t know what your problem is, but can’t we solve it right now like reasonable adults? My friend asked me to keep the phone until she gets home. That’s all I’m going to do. I promise not to use it, unless of course, she calls me. Once she’s safely returned, I’ll give the phone to her. She can give it back to you or whatever is supposed to happen. Simple, right? I can’t figure out why you’re trying to make a federal case out of a phone and not even an expensive one, at that.”

“Miss Lopez, I’m afraid you don’t understand the nature of—”

“How do you know my name?”

A moment passes. Two.

The blank look on his face settles in as if it lives there on a regular basis. “It’s my job to know your name, just like talking to you is also part of my job. I’m very good at it, so you need to understand this: you’re not leaving Dominion until we talk and then you hand over the goddamned phone. Is there any part of that you don’t understand?” By the time he finishes, I think I see a crack in his impassivity. His eyes still on mine warmed by a distinct heat he can’t hide, fingers that tremble slightly.

I don’t like being talked to like I’m a third-grader, but the crack in his badass armor is something I can use. I glance pointedly at his massive hand still wrapped around the bare skin of my arm. “Is it necessary to treat me like I’m a criminal?”

“Are you going to make another run for it?”

I lift my chin. “Not unless you try to manhandle me again.”

He smiles and slowly releases my arm. We stare at each other like this is a big moment, and we’re both waiting for something, except I don’t know what that
something
is.

When it’s clear I’m not going to make a break for it, he gestures toward the door through which Caylee disappeared. “After you.”

A thrum of excitement courses through me. This is my chance to get some answers about whatever this thing is that Caylee’s mixed up in. Harley & Sweet, my ass. I may have seen too many movies, but this guy acts like a soldier in the Mafia.

“Miss Lopez, please?” I detect a certain strain in his voice like he’s having difficulty holding himself back. This pleases me in a way that warms every feminine nook and cranny in my body.

I head for the VIP door and pass from the dark club into a brightly lit hallway. Temporarily blinded by the transition, when my vision returns, my excitement flips to disappointment. What did I expect? I blink, taking in the beige tile floors, beige walls, fluorescent lights, blond wood doors on the right and left, all closed. No artwork on the walls. No signs. The only thing I see in contrast to the endless sea of beige is the door at the far end of the hall. It gleams with a lustrous black finish and is emblazoned with a golden crest that might have been ripped off from European heraldry and features the letters
H&S
in the center
.
Clearly, the way to the inner sanctum and whatever secret evil they’re hiding.

I turn back to look at my captor. Darkness still consumes his eyes, but his lips are now curved in what looks like a very self-satisfied smile that does nothing to calm my fears.

Everything about this man is dark. Hair, eyes, skin that looks like he’s spent a lot of time outdoors in the sun and wind and earned the little crinkles at the edges of his features to prove it. That darkness tugs at something deep inside me I’m not sure I’ve ever acknowledged before. If he wanted to take me—here and now—I’m not sure I could resist him. Or if I
want
to resist him.

I remind myself he’s just a club security guy with a jones for the phone Caylee was probably supposed to keep. That’s all that’s going on and no more. My fantasies that he’s a mafia enforcer can be chalked up to an over-active imagination and the fact I don’t get out enough.

Don’t kid yourself. There’s more to him than a sexy-as-hell appearance. There’s more going on than what you can see on the surface. You know it. Stop pretending you don’t.
The voice echoes from somewhere deep inside my head, as secure and certain of the truth as if it’s saying today is Friday. Ever since my parents were killed in a plane crash eight years ago, I’ve listened to that voice. My intuition. I can’t even remember how many times it’s kept me out of trouble. But when I think about it, what do I care who he is or what is really going on? Why am I making a thing about the phone? I should give it to him and be done with it. Caylee’s a big girl who can take care of herself.

“Alright.”

“This will only take a moment,” he murmurs.

Instead of heading for the black door at the end of the hall, he opens one of the side doors and ushers me into an office that can’t be more than eight feet square with more beige walls, a desk, two chairs, one file cabinet, and no window. He closes the door behind us. Instead of sitting behind the desk, he shifts one hip onto it and folds his arms over his chest and waits, studying me.

Every moment with this man feels like a contest. It’s like I’ve gone to war only nobody told me the war had started. Or maybe solid, practical Brooke Lopez has suddenly become delusional? Nope. Not happening. My stubborn, real-world pragmatism is what has enabled my little sister and me to survive the past seven years and stay together when the courts wanted to split us up and dump us into the foster system. No way I’m surrendering it now.

I glance from him to the chair in front of the desk and back again. Sitting there will give me a straight shot view of his crotch, which still features an impressive bulge he’s making no effort to hide. Because I’m in no mood to be polite or, God forbid,
easy
, I stare. Of course, he grins. It’s such a casual, lazy amusement that I want to slap him.

He gestures in the direction of the chair. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

“You’re not,” I pause meaningfully, “comfortable, that is.”

“I’m good.” His eyelids lower and the grin widens. “I can stay like this all night long. I’d be happy to prove that to you.”

I blush, hard but remain standing. It’s a minute before I can ask, “What do you want?”

He studies me for what feels like a long time then says, “The phone, please.”

“What’s the big deal about the phone?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” His stare isn’t as icy as it was before.

“I promised Caylee I would hold on to it.”

“It was given to Miss Bennett for her convenience. Despite that fact, it does not belong to her. That means it was not hers to give to you in the first place.”

“I suppose it belongs to Harley & Sweet?”

“As a matter of fact, yes, it does. What did Miss Bennett tell you about Harley & Sweet?”

I want to blow him off with a cute and possibly funny accounting of Caylee’s story, but that’s not me. I don’t think I have a cute or possibly funny bone in my body. He waits. I get the impression that he wasn’t kidding when he said he could do this all night long. That thought, however, is a good place for my mind to go. Too many fantasy distractions. . .

Finally, I manage a simple version of what Caylee told me. The reality is that I don’t know much more than that and can’t imagine how any of it could be construed as some kind of security breach. I finish with, “That’s all I know. That and the address of the place in New Jersey where girls go to, you know. . .”

“No, I don’t know,” he murmurs.

“Sign the contract.”

“So you plan to go there, take a contract?” There’s an edge to his voice.

I stare at the floor, confused and fighting more knots threatening my stomach. “Maybe.”

“Because of the money?”

I can’t answer. Too many reasons flood through me, the most important of which is Samantha. Since she was in kindergarten, my little sister has wanted to go to medical school. With only two more months until she graduates high school and my college loans still unpaid and Samantha’s upcoming college loans looming, her dream becomes more distant with every day that passes. I can’t bear the thought of her ending up working as a secretary in an insurance office like me. I imagine our parents looking down from wherever they are and shaking their heads in sorrow over what has become of their daughters. If I fail, I will have betrayed everything they worked for; everything they wanted to do for us but couldn’t. . .