True North (Compass series Book 4) (2 page)

I
rake a
hand through my hair as I stare at the numbers mocking me from my screen. Columbus, another housing authority that’s a fucking mess. Because this is what I need to deal with. I thought I’d be able to affect change from behind the assistant secretary’s desk, maybe make the world a better place. Or at least a more equitable one. That’s what HUD is for, right? And public housing in particular? Evening out the playing field so people born into shit circumstances have half a chance of making good in this lifetime. God knows my family could’ve used the help when I was growing up.

But all I seem to do is put out fires and get twisted up in red tape. Maybe I’ll hand this one off to Cooper to deal with. She’s more than capable. And if she’s not…

I find the bridge of my nose with pinched fingers and rub. The only light on in my office is the one on my desk, and the green-hooded lamp isn’t really enough to work by. The hands of the old-fashioned clock sitting underneath it tell me it’s two o’clock in the morning and I should give it up for the day. Especially since my mind isn’t focusing on the information in front of me. Nope, it’s somewhere else entirely.

It’s been months.

Months of wondering what she meant. Months of wondering if I’d ever get to find out. Months of picking up the phone and getting halfway through dialing her number and then hanging up again. Because I can’t call her.

Can I?

No.

She thinks I’m an asshole. And she’d be right. But an asshole she was willing to fuck. No, wait, that doesn’t sound right. Now I’m imagining fucking her in the ass.

Fuck all, Slade, get your shit together
.

But if I’m not going to think about what it might be like to fuck her up the ass, I still can’t help hearing her words echo in my head. Her standing there, all small and bossy and sexy as hell, hand on her canted hip, counting off her conditions on her fingers. And then she’d said it.

“
Here’s your etiquette lesson for the evening, Slade: There are people who are into that shit. Find them and mind-fuck them stupid, but don’t you dare get your rocks off with people who don’t know your MO.
”

Those are the words I haven’t been able to get out of my head. Especially those eight in the middle:
There are people who are into that shit.
I hadn’t let myself get distracted at the time because I’d been far more interested in getting inside her than having some kind of fucking fireside chat, but afterward it had been all I could think about. I’ve turned those words over and over in my head, wondering if I heard her correctly, but it’s not like she stuttered.

All I’ve wanted to do since then is call her and ask:
What the hell were you talking about?
While she was giving her presentation on the state of the housing authority, on my flight back to DC, when I’d gone back to the office the next day, and every day since, I’ve wanted to know. India Goddamn Burke and her troublemaking mouth. Her hot as hell, plump and parted, glossed lips. And the sex had been awesome. The only thing that could’ve made it better was if I could’ve made her cry with my words instead of my fists.

I’d done it once before in a ridiculously inappropriate setting—I’d insulted and embarrassed her in front of her colleagues, broke down her walls until tears had seeped out from behind that polished-stone exterior. I’d said horrible and untrue things to her then, but when it was just the two of us, she’d made it clear saying those words would be unacceptable. So I hadn’t. No one ever told me to stop before. But she did, so I had.

In my head, I said all the things I was thinking, but it would’ve been better out loud. To see her in tears. Watch the humiliation creep into her face in the form of a pink and then bright red blush. Provoke tears that would slick down her cheeks so I could lick them right off her face, taste her gorgeous shame.

And there goes my cock again, getting rock-hard in my pants thinking about having India Goddamn Burke. Crying again. On her knees or on her back again. Hitting her again. And hell had that felt awesome. I wouldn’t have done it. If she hadn’t asked. But she’d begged and I couldn’t stop myself. Even though you’re not supposed to hit girls. I may be a world-class asshole, but I’m not
abusive
. I learned that much from my father.

Where I grew up, so many people were scrambling to survive, and there were more than a couple of women who sported a black eye or finger-shaped bruises on their necks at the grocery store while they counted out change to pay for their meager provisions. My dad made it clear that was unacceptable.
You don’t hit girls. Ever.
But maybe the rules can be tweaked for girls who want to be hit?

In the pale light of the early morning, while she was still asleep, I’d pulled down the sheet to look at the marks I’d made. They’d made me want to fuck her all over again.

I suspect if I’d grabbed her and rolled her toward me, she would’ve been willing to go at it one last time before we had to get ourselves together for the rest of the day. Before we had to cover up the feral marks we’d made on each other’s bodies with the civilized veneer of expensive suits, hiding evidence of exactly what savages we really are. Filthy, brutish beasts.

But when I’d looked at her, soft and still in slumber, a voice in the back of my head sounded, the one I hadn’t heard a whole lot since the divorce.

Let her sleep. You wore her out and she’s got a big day tomorrow.

So I’d let her be. Rolled over and gone back to sleep. The next time I’d awoken, she’d been gone.

The appearance of that rusty old voice might also explain the unfortunate infatuation I’ve developed with India. Yeah, I’d always found her attractive. She’s beautiful, polished, and—despite what I may have said to her in the past—one of the smartest, most meticulous people in the industry. Not to mention being tough as nails. So, yeah, hot stuff.

I’d fantasized before about bending her over a desk, shoving up the skirt of one of those expensive suits she wears, and slamming into her over and over while she said my name instead of all those stats and figures that roll off her tongue so easily. But that had been a casual interest, one I’d forget about when I wasn’t in contact with her. This obsession is more likely the result of India being the first person I’ve had sex with since Pressly left.

Six. Fucking. Years.

Or not, which is the point. So many dates with my left hand and some soap or lube or lotion, whatever was handy. Mostly in a fit of self-loathing self-abuse after I’d berated some woman or other to tears while picturing my ex-wife at my feet.

Now is not the time to get all prissy-ass melancholy. Now is the time to wrap up this report and get on with my life. And absolutely not call India Burke. Especially since I’ll be seeing her in less than a week at the forum on housing authority receiverships. My cock hardens at the thought and I slam my laptop shut. There’s a bottle of lube and a hand towel with my name on it waiting for me at home, not to mention a half-full bottle of vodka. Don’t want to keep them waiting.

*

The fluttering in
my stomach is downright embarrassing. I rarely get nervous. And why would I? Everything that surrounds me is under my control, so what is there to be nervous about? Sure there are some issues that crop up at the office that are bigger than I am and those gnaw at me. Like this fucking bill looming over my head. But in my personal life…anxiety? No. That is not a thing that happens to me. Except these—butterflies? Fuck, no, do I have fucking butterflies. It’s…I don’t know, something more manly than butterflies. Which is just about anything. Moths. Wasps. Bats. Yeah,
bats
.

I wipe my hands on my pants because the only thing worse than being nervous is people
knowing
you’re nervous. That gives me nauseated chills. But I shake it off because the conference room door is creaking open.

Usually that would annoy me and I would’ve sent one of the minions crawling around to fix it. I almost had, snapping at one of the wide-eyed interns to send them scrambling for the facilities crew or sprinting down the street for a can of WD-40. But then I’d realized it lets me know when anyone’s coming in. And I’ve been keeping an eye on the door for a certain petite, black-haired demon.

I go back to my conversation with Cynthia Quaid, who’s been bending my ear about all the improvements she’s instituted since taking over LAHA. I’ve read the reports. I know she’s doing a good job. She was a good hire, one of myriad good decisions Jack and India have made where LAHA’s concerned. That’s what this particular session is about, actually. How much longer their presence is going to be required.

There’s a jolting squeak in the middle of Cynthia’s description of their new inspections policy, and my head swings toward the door. Jack Valentine, leading with his booming voice, strides in, and India follows not far behind. She looks the same, and a pulse of blood rushes toward my cock as I picture her hair splayed over the fluffy pillows at the Grant-Arthur. How she’d have to brace herself with a hand against the upholstered headboard because I’d be fucking her that hard. I’d booked a suite, hoping to entice her back to my room with the promise of some hot sex and a big tub. Women like big bathtubs, right? Even women like India Hellion Burke?

But she’s not naked and panting or wallowing post-fuck in the bath. She’s got that polished professional thing going on, and I want to rub it right off her. Or better, smack it off. My palm almost itches with the urge to feel the sting of flesh hitting willing flesh again.

I let Cynthia finish her spiel and dismiss her. I’m eager to get close to India, though I don’t want to show it, but suffering through Cynthia’s inane list of accomplishments I’m already aware of should’ve given me enough of a buffer that I won’t seem overly keen.

Stalking across the room, I wait for India to finish greeting Cooper. I’ve never seen Cooper be friendly to anyone, with the exception of India; it’s fascinating to watch them interact. Two of the sharpest women I know, who don’t hesitate to eviscerate anyone in their path, actually seem to have some affection for each other. I would’ve thought they’d go at each other tooth and nail, rip each other to shreds, but no. What’s the deal with that anyway?

When they’re through, I approach India before someone else claims her.

“Ms. Burke.”

The arch of her eyebrow gets tugged slightly higher. “Mr. Lewis.”

I glance around, taking in my surroundings, making sure there aren’t any curious ears too close. But we’re good, so I lean in as close as I dare and drop my voice. “Are you busy this evening? I thought a repeat performance might be in order.”

Please say yes, please say yes.
I’ve been thinking about her for months, lusting after the smell, the feel of her in my fantasies. When I’m not thinking about Pressly.

“I—”

The purse of her lips and the soft tone of her voice indicate the beginning of an apology. No.
No
. The hope is bleeding away, and it completely circles the drain when she lifts her left hand, turning it to show me a ring. A ring. On
that
finger.

“I can’t, Slade.”

“You’re married?” I spit the words, incredulousness overwhelming my manners.

“You don’t have to sound so surprised,” she mutters and looks vaguely self-conscious. Is that a swell of pink on her cheeks? Is she embarrassed?

“I’m not surprised you got married.” Which is not at all true. I’m flabbergasted she’s married, but not because I don’t think she’d be able to find a partner. I mean, India might be an acquired taste, but for the right guy… “But I saw you, what, four months ago? Who is this guy?”

The little voice in my head has piped up again, and I want to smash the hell out of Jiminy Cricket.
Is he good enough for her?

“Well, I got married a couple of weeks ago, and I’m sure you don’t know him.”

“Was it one of the guys in the picture?” The memory of seeing a photo of her, flanked by two men as she ducked into a town car, jumps to the front of my brain. From when she’d been assaulted in New York after uncovering some shady dealings at the transit authority. Our office had sent flowers and I’d wanted to call, but I couldn’t. Is it one of them? There’d been a Latino guy in a suit and a guy in flip-flops and jeans. My money’s on the guy in the suit.

“What picture?”

“Never mind.” Because she doesn’t need to know I’d kept a copy of that picture in a drawer of my desk and had studied it, trying to figure out who the fuck those guys were and how they’d managed to be the ones India let into her fortress of a personal life. “But who is he? Or is this some state secret?”

“It’s not a secret,” she says, though her eyes go slightly wider as she avoids my gaze. But then she straightens her shoulders and looks me in the face. “His name is Cris Ardmore.”

Dismay pulls my mouth into a frown. “I don’t know him.”

She half-smiles, and for some reason it makes me more annoyed. “That’s what I told you.”

“What is he, some hotshot attorney? Doctor? CEO?”

The half-smile morphs into a full-on smile, and she gets this dreamy look in her eyes that confounds me. India is a lot of things; soft is not one of them.