The Schemer (Harbor City 3)

Walk away, Everly. Just walk away.

It was great advice she was giving herself, but there was no way she was taking it. Challenges, thought-provoking art, and the smell of a bingo card marker were her kryptonite—and Tyler Jacobson, Mr. 2B, was a walking, talking, panty-melting challenge.

She lifted her chin and looked him in the eyes, not backing down an inch. She may have lost the coin toss but she wasn’t going to lose the battle. “You’re wrong.”

“No. I’m not,” he said, cocky as ever. “I’m never wrong.”

“You are this time.”

They stood so close together that she could see the varying shades of blue in his eyes and feel the electricity coming off him in waves that fried her badass circuitry and turned her hot and expectant. This was why she should have walked away—because fighting with Tyler felt a lot like foreplay. And she liked it.

“You don’t believe in the healing power of art?” He didn’t step back. He didn’t touch her, either, but he didn’t need to.

“No,” she said, barely over the sound of her pulse thundering in her ears. “I’m not wearing black panties.”

She shouldn’t have said that. She shouldn’t have even put the idea into his head. But it was too late. His bright-blue eyes darkened a few shades, followed by the slow upward curl of his lips. “Soft. Girlie. Pink.”

She leaned in close. “Nothing.” Her lips were only millimeters from his ear. “At.” A delicious shiver ran up her spine. “All.”

Satisfied she’d taken his game board and shaken all the pieces into new positions, she took a step back, but not far enough. The raw heat in his gaze, all semblance of cockiness or confidence wiped clean to reveal nothing but honest, naked desire, was like a tractor beam to her clit. Her heartbeat galloped in her chest as her body realized exactly where it wanted to be. And for once in her life, without thinking, she took a step forward. Quick as lightning, he moved forward to meet her, his mouth crashing down on hers. It was like touching a match to an oil painting—everything caught fire. The next thing she knew, her ass was pressed against her used BMW’s hood, her hands were in Tyler’s dark hair, and she was still using her tongue to duel with him but in a totally different way. She’d thought she’d been hot before—she was wrong. This was the-face-of-the-sun hot and all she wanted was more.

Her legs were spread as far as they could in the form-fitting stretch jersey dress, and he stood between them, the hard length of his cock rubbing against her stomach as he kissed her dumb. The temptation to wrap her legs around his hips and hook her ankles together just above his perfect ass was nearly overwhelming. It would feel so good. She wanted it. Bad. Which was exactly why she couldn’t do it. Man-size frat boys and moneymen like Tyler ate up women like her and spit them out. They promised the moon and stars but delivered only tacky glow-in-the-dark stickers you stuck to your bedroom ceiling. She knew firsthand. She’d grown up staring at the pale-yellow stars, one more cheap gift from a man who never could tear himself away from work to cross from the fancy part of Harbor City to Riverside, where beat-up, older model cars lined the streets, to see someone as unimportant as his bastard daughter.

It didn’t take any effort to push Tyler away—well, at least once she was able to force herself to put her hands to his muscular chest and shove. He backstepped, stopping just out of arm’s reach, his chest heaving, his hair messed up by her fingers, and his bright-blue eyes dark with lust.

“We can’t do that again,” she said between harsh breaths, sounding to her own ears as if she’d finished a marathon. Nunni had warned her one or a billion times how that way lay danger and trouble and all the bad shit in the world.

“That kiss was…” The words faded out, and he shoved his fingers through his thick hair. “You can have the parking spot. I’ll get the building super to repaint the lines to make the space bigger so it’s not so near Mrs. MacIntosh’s car.”

That was a bucket of ice dumped right into her nonexistent panties. Transactional. That’s how guys like Tyler saw passion. She may have fucked up fighting and foreplay in her head, but at least she didn’t mix up a bad idea with payment for services rendered.

“Fuck you,” she said, strutting from the hood to the driver’s door and yanking it open.

As she turned to slide behind the wheel, she caught the confusion making the corners of his eyes crinkle. Yeah. He’d probably never thought anyone would tell someone like him to fuck off. Life was always a shock to the system for the privileged. Without another word, she got into her car and guided Helga into her new parking spot in the back. By the time she’d given herself enough pep talks to walk across the parking garage to the residents’ elevator, Tyler was gone, taking his pink lounge chair, beer bottle, and cocksure attitude with him.

Good. He was the last man she needed to be dealing with right now. Her life was enough like

a trailer park in the middle of a tornado as it was without adding a man like Tyler into the mix.

Chapter Three

Four very long—and often uncomfortably hard—days later and Tyler was making his way into the lion’s den. Or lioness, in this case. The Black Heart Art Gallery took up the street-level floor of the small but pricey building that had been his celebration purchase after he’d earned his first real money, the kind the folks he’d grown up with called “fuck you money” because that’s exactly what it said to everyone around him.

The building sat right on the edge of the art district and the financial district. He’d known the rough-around-the-edges neighborhood had possibilities even when everyone told him it was a lousy investment. When the neighborhood took off a year later, though, he’d started turning away buyers offering triple what he’d paid. By his calculations, the area was only beginning to grow into what it could be and wouldn’t peak for another decade at the least. That was always the problem with people. They were so hot on immediate results, they failed to play the long game—but not him. That was exactly why he was about to face the woman who’d haunted his late-night dreams and shower-time fantasies for the past four days. He’d disregarded his long-term game plan of antagonizing but not fraternizing with his sexy and off-limits upstairs neighbor from the wrong side of Harbor City, but he couldn’t avoid her any longer.

Luckily, his target tonight wasn’t Everly Ribinski but Italian hotel magnate Alberto Ferranti, who had finally decided to expand his empire of high-end boutique hotels into the United States. Every business consultant in Harbor City had the Italian in his or her sights in hopes of being the one to guide Ferranti in his American business dealings and taking a very healthy cut of the profits, but Tyler was going to be the one to land him. He had the numbers, the vision, and the plan to make it happen. All he needed was some one-on-one face time with the man, and he was going to get it here tonight.

That would solidify Tyler’s position as one of the city’s key movers and shakers. After that, his days of hearing the whispers about being a pity scholarship kid from working-class Waterbury would be behind him for good. Then, he would have made it and finally become a part of the world he’d watched from the outside for so much of his life. According to Tyler’s well-placed informants, Ferranti was going to be here tonight.

“Tyler,” a familiar voice called out.

He turned in time to see Helene Carlyle, queen of Harbor City’s social elite and his friend Sawyer’s mom, wearing a designer navy dress, a necklace worth as much as the pricy art hanging on the gallery walls, and a name tag with the words “Art Adviser” printed beneath her name. This was a woman who instilled fear into some of the city’s most powerful, made doormen shake in their shined shoes, and had enough icy reserve for those she didn’t know or like to reverse climate change. What in the world was she doing here wearing a name tag? He hadn’t heard anything about Carlyle Enterprises being in trouble.

“Is everything all right?” he asked, ready to reach for his wallet if necessary.

“Well,” Helene said, her dissatisfaction obvious in the pinched look to her mouth. “The wine is horrible, but it always is at events like this.”

“No offense,” he said, his brain trying to catch up with the visuals. “But it looks like you’re working here.”