Stealing Rose (The Fowler Sisters 2)

“Better than The Shard?” The newest skyscraper, close to the London Bridge, is one of the more popular spots for tourists to check out a view of the city. Not that I’d been there, but I’d heard all about it from Whitney.

“Not as crowded, at least. I don’t know about better.” The elevator dings and the doors slide open, revealing a crazy interior.

I start to laugh as we walk inside, earning a weird look from Rose. “What’s so funny?”

“This elevator looks like a damn nightclub.” It’s dark inside save for the glowing purple and green lights that shine on the black floor, the little glints of silver embedded in the solid surface shining bright. The walls are mirrored and covered with a faint black brocade print, and there’s even mood music.

“It does,” Rose agrees with a little smile. She starts to move as if she’s dancing, and I watch in fascination as she sways her hips in time to the music.

She’s wearing a short pastel-colored lace dress and I’m not sure if she has panties on beneath it, but now is not the time to check. I’m hungry after expending my energy for the last five hours or so of straight fucking and eager to get to this restaurant so we can order something to eat.

“You trying to turn me on?” I ask her.

Rose flashes me a smile over her shoulder and shakes her ass. Jesus, the woman is hot. “Maybe.”

“It’s working.” I grab hold of her hips and pull her to me, stifling the groan that wants to escape when her ass brushes against my cock. It stiffens, though I can almost hear it protesting in agony, enough already. Let me rest.

She swivels her hips, her ass pushing against my cock, and I hold her still, my mouth against her hair as I whisper, “Do you want me to fuck you in the elevator?” I bought condoms at the Boots drugstore not far from her hotel, running in to purchase them while she was getting ready, blowing her hair dry and all of those other things women do before they go out on a date.

My entire body goes still. Is that what this is? A date? I’ve never been on one in my life, not even when I was young. It was all about the hookup. That’s all it’s ever been. Why let someone get close to me when I had all of these deep, dark secrets I didn’t want to share? My life turned into a tragedy, and then it turned into a joke. But the joke was on me and Mom, no one else. We became the punch line and it sucked.

I didn’t want to share that with anyone else. Of course, I’d never met anyone like Rose, either.

“I’m just playing.” She rests her hands on the outside of my thighs, her touch burning me even through the thick denim of my jeans.

“With fire,” I murmur just as the elevator comes to a stop and the doors slide open.

Rose pulls away from me, practically running out of the elevator, and I follow after her down the narrow hallway that turns into an even narrower staircase. She glances down at me, making sure I’m right behind, and I fall into step after her, cocking my head so I can sneak glances up her skirt.

Just as I thought. The little tease isn’t wearing panties. She’s going to drive me straight insane before the night is done, I swear.

We reach the top of the stairs and the night air hits me, cool but with that hint of lingering heat that declares summer is coming. Rose sends me a smug look over her shoulder and I’m about to say something when the hostess approaches, a cute, petite thing dressed all in black, the skirt of her dress so short I’m afraid one wrong move and she’ll be showing the world—or at least us—everything she’s got.

“Two for dinner or just drinks?” the hostess asks, her accent thick, a little sneer curling her upper lip.

“Dinner, please.” I wrap my arm around Rose’s waist, pulling her into me. She goes willingly, her curves fitting perfectly against my side, and we follow the hostess to a high table that faces directly out over Trafalgar Square. She hands us our menus with a quick smile and then scurries away.

“If she would let me, I would so give her a makeover,” Rose says as she flips open the menu. “If I suggested it, though, she’d probably be insulted.”

“You think she needs a makeover?”

Rose glances at me from over the top of her menu. “Did you see all the eyeliner she had on? And mascara? Hell yes, she needs a makeover. When I was in high school I worked the Fleur counter at Bloomingdale’s for one summer. I was sixteen and loved it.”

“Really? One of the Fowlers working the makeup counter?” I’m surprised. Figured they would think that sort of work beneath them.

She sends me an irritated look. “My grandma made me and my sisters do it at one point or another. I’m the only one who enjoyed it, though. I loved giving makeovers.”

“Why?” I forget about the menu and my hunger and wait for her answer. I like that she’s opening up to me. Though of course, her opening up means she probably expects me to do the same.

And I don’t know if I can.

“I don’t know.” She shrugs, her expression thoughtful. “It was fun, to make that transformation happen. And to see the joy on the women’s faces when they saw what I did, it made me feel good. I didn’t even care about selling them the product. I just wanted to make them happy.”

“Isn’t that the point of a makeover at a cosmetics counter? So you can sell them the product?”

“Yes, and I failed miserably at that part. I’d take over an hour on a woman’s makeup and let her walk without spending a dime.” Rose shakes her head. “I was awful.”