Rule's Obsession (The House of Rule 1)

"Black hair and purple lipstick?"

"If that's what you want," she agreed tonelessly.

"It is.

****

The car that picked Angie up on Saturday night had one thing she wasn't expecting: Damian in the backseat. For whatever reason, she'd thought she was meant to meet him at the party.

As she settled next to him, she tried to ignore the fact that he was studying her intently. Trying to calm her nerves, she attempted to focus on earning the money that would help Janice get out of the situation she was in.

She busied herself with the seatbelt and when he didn't speak and the car was in motion, she leaned back in her seat. When she continued to feel his hot eyes moving over her body, she flattened her palms against the leather and challenged, "You like what you see?"

His jaw tensed, his shoulders filling his jacket. "Most definitely. And that's the reason you're here."

"Because your mother has to believe this?"

He tipped his head in affirmation, his features giving nothing away.

She swallowed hard and tried to ignore the pounding in her chest that was induced by sitting so close to him. "So what's the story?"

"There is no 'story.' All we'll need is the complete truth, except for the part about the payment you're receiving."

"Okay." She cleared her throat and demanded an answer to the question that had been bothering her since she'd agreed to this scheme. "There won't be any PDAs, will there?"

For a moment he wore a blank look and then he smiled wickedly, his straight white teeth solidifying the perfection of his smile. "Public displays of affection?"

She exhaled, trying to remember exactly why she couldn't risk the intimacy of touches between them. "Yeah."

A frown came between his brows. "I shouldn't think so." His expression stilled and became grave. "I'm assuming you want me to relinquish you after this night is over, correct?"

Caught off guard by his intimation, her stomach dropped to her feet, but she managed to nod her head, her eyes glued to his.

At her non-verbal confirmation, he answered brusquely, "Then no, no unnecessary touching." Negating his words, he reached out a hand and lifted her chin, tipping her face up to his. Her nerves shifting restlessly, Angie tried to suppress the pleasure his touch created within her. "You clean up quite well, but I distinctly remember requesting the gothic look," he said in a voice that contained irritation and a hint of accusation.

Her heart pounded in her chest as his hand slid back and forth over her cheek, the pads of his fingers feeling rough and supremely masculine. It took every ounce of brainpower Angie had left to concentrate on the conversation. "This was as gothic as I could make it and still retain my dignity. I'm twenty-seven, not seventeen." Her breath hitched as his fingers tightened on her skin and she had to force her vocal chords to continue working. "Black dress, sheer black stockings, black hair and nails. What more did you want?"

His eyes dropped to her mouth and lingered before snapping back up and blasting her with a hard, implacable expression. "I distinctly remember requesting the purple lipstick."

As the tantalizing scent of his after-shave rushed over her, she shook her head. "It just didn't work with the dress," she said softly.

"I'm paying you two-thousand dollars. I want the purple lip color. Do you have it in your bag?"

She did. She'd thrown it in, just in case. "Yes."

"Put it on," he grunted, his finger sliding over her bottom lip.

Angie fumbled with the clasp of her tiny black shoulder bag and withdrew the lipstick, fighting her nerves the entire time. His hand dropped away and she popped the top from the tube and began to apply the loud, obnoxious color. She needed no mirror; her stepmother-at-the-time had taught her how to apply lipstick without one when she was a teenager, telling her that it was something every woman should know how to do in a pinch. It was difficult with fingers that were trembling, but when it was accomplished, Angie looked back to him.

His gaze sharpened as he studied her, a dangerous glint highlighting his eyes as they roved over her. His lips flattened as if he were pissed about something and the blood pumped furiously in her veins as he hissed out, "Yeah, you're as sexy as fuck."

Her pulse quickening erratically, Angie watched, as if in a trance, as he pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket and began wiping at her lips, dragging the material back and forth over her skin until she knew there couldn't be a trace of color left. When he was finished he sat back, his stare bold and assessing. Angie struggled to form words. "Why did you do that?"

At the same moment she acknowledged that she was dying for his touch, he spoke in a gravelly voice, "You were right. It doesn't work. There's sexy . . . and then there's sexy. You don't need any help and I don't need the complication."