Sultry in Stilettos (5 page)

First order of business—no
more Mrs. Nice Guy to the Bitch Brigade. They only treated her the
way they did because she allowed it. It paid to be nice, but it
didn’t pay to have anyone walk all over you. She dimmed the light
when the vein above her eye started to throb.
There. That's better.
She quickly
brushed her teeth to get the shame and bourbon cocktail out of her
mouth.

Next order of business, NEVER drink
Kentucky bourbon again. She was nowhere near sober yet, and she
already felt like she'd been kicked in the teeth. Oh wait, that's
right, that was her day, not her lack of tolerance for
alcohol.

And finally, no more letting people
get away with murder—starting with Beckett Mills. He’d been the one
to kiss her the other night. He’d been the one with his hands on
her ass. Not the other way around. But somehow, she'd let him off
the hook and blubbered around him yesterday. If she wanted them
back on normal footing, she needed to actually talk to him. Not
stutter like some lovesick school girl whose crush had been
revealed via Twitter.

He had no business kissing
her. Matter of fact, she was going to tell him that—first thing in
the morning. Except, he was always late, and sure as shit, she
wasn't having a conversation like that with him at work.
And
she wasn’t waiting
until the end of day tomorrow. Because she knew herself. She was
all bravado now, but when the rest of the alcohol wore off, she’d
be too mortified to give him a piece of her mind. Might as well do
it now. Never mind the time—what the hell time was it? The digital
clock on her cable box blinked 2:30 AM.
Whatever
.

He’d sent her a million texts at this
time of night, erm, morning. And like an idiot she’d tolerated it.
He'd bragged about his exploits. He’d way over-shared. Well,
tonight, he was going to get woken up.

She grabbed her keys and looked down
at them. No way in hell she could drive. Swaying on her feet a
little, she put her keys down—definitely still too drunk to drive.
Annoyed, she snatched her phone off the coffee table and texted BC
Cab Company. They specialized in late night pick-ups around the
city. The girls had started calling them booty call cab. Which was
accurate in so many ways.

The pickup text arrived within five
minutes. As she stumbled out of the door, the rational, fearful
part of her wondered if this could have waited till morning.
Beckett always hit the beach or the pool depending on the waves.
She could wait and meet him there.

No. Don’t be a chicken
shit.
They were having this
talk.

The cab ride took exactly seven
minutes from her place on Robinson back down toward his place on
Park. Handy. She leaned over to talk to the cabbie and nearly
smacked her head on the grate that separated the compartments. "Um,
do you mind waiting?"

The pixie-haired female cabbie raised
an eyebrow. "Sure. But the meter's running."

Fine by her. She'd make Beckett pay
for it later. This was all his fault anyway. If he hadn't kissed
her, everything would have been fine. Then she wouldn't have been
so mad about being dumped. She'd be safely ensconced in her
apartment, listening to Tracy Chapman and eating a tub full of
ice-cream, wallowing. Instead, she was mad.

Ricca typed in the key code
and swung the door open. As she knocked on Beckett’s door, the
doubts started to creep in. What the hell was she doing? Was she
insane?
Maybe just a little.

"Too late now," she muttered and
knocked.

It took two minutes for him to come to
the door, and when he did, he blinked. His expression morphed from
an angry frown into confusion. "Ricca? What’s the matter? What are
you doing here?"

She pushed past him and entered,
praying he was alone. He had pajama bottoms on, so that was a good
sign. Though he was standing there shirtless, and his broad
shoulders and chiseled abs made her forget what she wanted to
say.

"Ricca, are you okay? You’re freaking
me out."

"I'm fine,” she mumbled as she tilted
to the left.

Beckett sniffed and narrowed his gaze.
"How did you get here? You didn't drive, did you?”

She shook her head and immediately
wished she hadn’t. Her stomach rolled, and she was a little
terrified the contents would make an appearance. She cursed the
bourbon gods again. Why did alcohol make it seem like it made you
invincible? At best, she felt shaky on her feet.

“Nope. I’m drunk. But a
responsible drunk,” she slurred. Responsible had come out sounding
like
reshponshible

"Why don’t you sit down?” He put a
hand on her arm, trying to lead her to his couch.

Ricca shrugged him off. "No. I'm not
sitting down. I just want you to answer one question for
me."

"Uhm, okay, what is it?"

"Why did you really kiss
me?"

His expletive broke the silence
between them. He ran his hands through his hair. "Shit, Ricca, I
kno—"

"No. You don't. You shouldn’t have
done that. And I let you get away with it this afternoon, and I
shouldn't have. I was so confused. Turned on. Confused. Mad. Why
did you do that?" Shit had she just said turned on?

"Fuck. I'm sorry. I just—" Beckett
started.

"Just tell me, and I’ll go. I'll go
and forget this ever happened. Why would you kiss me like that?"
She placed a hand on his bare chest and instantly felt the pull in
her core. The light dusting of hair on his chest distracted her as
she reveled in the softness of it. “You used t-tongue. That was
against the rules. Like you wanted to turn me on. Why?”

"Because..."

"You can’t just waltz in and give me
the Mills treatment. I'm not one of your hoards. I'm your friend.
You text me when you’re having a bad day, when your horrid brother
gives you shit. When you have a shitty date or you've got a stage
nine clinger. Now you ruined that. Hell, I'm not even your
type."

"Ricca."

“Not good enough, Beckett.”

Beckett started to pace.
Ricca stared at him. All she needed was an answer, and she’d go
home. Then she’d forget Beckett Mills.
Even the fantasies?
A little
panicked voice from her subconscious nagged.

No, definitely not. She’d still have
her fantasies, but no real world stuff. Way too sticky.

“Ricca, I don’t have any answers for
you. Truth is, it just happened. It shouldn’t have, but it did. You
said we’d be okay.”

She frowned. “I think I lied.” Tears
pricked her lids. She blinked at him through the salty liquid.
"Beckett." Her stomach rolled, then clenched as if someone had just
kicked her in the gut. She straightened. “Oh no.” Her stomach
clenched once, then again. Before she knew it, vomit and bile made
an appearance at Beckett’s feet.

****

Beckett tried to pull his brain from
his memory of Ricca storming into his place asking him why he’d
kissed her. He’d wanted to kiss her again. His dick stood at
instant attention at the thought.

His body was in no mood to
listen.

After he’d cleaned himself up and
taken her home, there’d been the dilemma of how to get her cleaned
up and into bed. In her incapacitated state, she’d been no help.
He’d managed to dump her in the shower fully clothed to help wake
her up, but she’d needed help standing up so he’d climbed in with
her—which had been the mistake of a lifetime. Hot, wet Ricca was
the last thing he needed. But as torture went, he could have done
worse.

He never knew Ricca had such a way
with curse words. Beckett smirked at the memory. Ricca howling as
the warm water hit them. How she blissfully groaned and leaned back
against him while he washed her hair. She had so much hair that
he’d had to wash it twice to make sure it was clean. As he’d
massaged her scalp, she’d groaned in appreciation.

When he’d turned off the
water and gotten her out, he’d been treated to the only fantasy
he’d ever have for the rest of his life. Ricca in a wet T-shirt.
The water had plastered her T-shirt to her lush breasts. He’d done
his best not to look, but more than once, genetics won out over
chivalry.
Shit
,
he was a guy after all. He literally couldn’t help himself. The
woman was stacked, with breasts so gorgeous a blind man would take
notice. Thankfully, she’d been coherent enough by that point to
change her own clothes. Well, at least to get them off.

With a herculean feat of averting his
eyes, he’d managed to get her dressed in a T-shirt and underwear.
And he changed into sweats he’d left over there after their last
fantasy and crashed in the guest room. Unfortunately for him, sleep
had not been on the menu. The sheets had constricted his legs, and
the warmth from the heater clung to him like a muggy, stifling
cloak. He’d finally slept fitfully, tormented by erotic dreams of
Ricca, wet and moaning against him, writhing with need in his
arms.

When he’d woken up on Saturday, she
was still passed out asleep. He’d called twice to check on her on
Sunday, but she hadn’t picked up. Nor had she returned any of his
texts. It wasn’t like her to go into full avoidance mode. To be
fair, she had a few fantasies she had to plan for, so she might
have been meeting with vendors.

When she'd come in this morning she’d
gone right to her office and shut her door. He’d even tried poking
his head in to check on her, but she hadn’t been in the mood for a
chat. Not meeting his gaze she whispered, "I need a couple of days
to get over my hangover and embarrassment. Make that a
week.”

“You’re okay though?” He frowned. “You
remember anything?”

Her eyes went wide, and she
immediately winced. “Oh, God. What did I do? Only thing I remember
is Kentucky bourbon, then really needing to talk to you, then you
dumping me in bed. I’ve got some blank spots." She grimaced, and
her tongue peaked out to moisten her bottom lip. “Did I, um, say
anything?”

He shook his head. It was really
better for both of them if she didn’t remember. “Nope, just said
you wanted to ask me something. Then you proceeded to pass out. I
took you home.” He swallowed the bitter taste of the lie. She’d
only feel worse if she knew what happened.

“Seems you’re in the running for
sainthood.”

“Come find me if you
remember what you wanted to ask me.”
And
maybe this time you’ll get a different answer.

“Yeah, okay.” She licked
her lip again, and his dick strained against his jeans.
Shit
.

He went back to his office
sporting a massive hard-on. Every time he even caught hint of her
perfume, his whole body went rigid.
So.
Would. Not. Work.
But it had to. No matter
how he felt about her, he knew himself, he’d fuck it up eventually,
and there’d be no going back to friendship. She actually mattered
to him. Not to mention Braedon would flip his lid. His brother was
an ass, but Braedon was the only family Beckett gave a shit about.
He couldn’t hurt him.

If he ignored the attraction long
enough, it would just go away, and he'd learn to deal. Just like
before.

It didn’t matter if he wanted to taste
every inch of her.

His phone rang, and he snatched it up
without checking the caller ID. "Mills."

"What’s up, asshole?"

Fuck. All traces of desire vanished.
He did not need this conversation today. "What’s up,
Braedon?"

“You don’t sound happy to hear from
me, baby bro.”

“That’s because I know
you’ll insist on calling me baby bro.”
Not
because I was just ogling your ex, wanting to make her come in my
office.

“Well birth order is a bitch. Okay, so
listen. I have a couple architects for us to see this week, if you
have the time. You still working on the bank for the additional
loan?”

Beckett nodded his head. “Yeah. I’m
working on them. They rejected my last proposal. But I’ve got
another one I’m pulling together and the possibility of a pretty
big job promotion, so that could change things.”

Braedon whistled. “Okay, now you’re
talking. Any idea of salary?”

“Well, it’s a VP job, so I expect over
150k.”

“Nice.” Braedon cleared his throat.
“You know, you could always ask the old man for a loan.”

Beckett clenched his teeth. Like hell
he’d ever ask the old man for anything. “You still have faith in
him. He’s not going to give me a loan unless I come to heel. And
there’s no way I’m going to work for him.”

“
And you’re sure you don’t
want to consider that? You could come on for six months. Then once
we are up and running, you can leave. At least you
tried.”

Beckett clicked his jaw, trying not to
grind his teeth. It was an old argument. Braedon had gone into the
family law practice. Beckett hadn’t. His father had earned his
money from playing in the NFL, but had gotten injured and gone into
law. Jackson Mills had been so pissed he couldn’t make Beckett come
to heel that he’d frozen Beckett’s trust fund. Fine by him—he
didn’t need the old man’s money. “Not going to happen,
Braedon.”