Down & Dirty (Lightning 1)

“Well, you do have a connection. If none of these houses are a fit for him, I’m sure, you’ll be able to find one that is.”

The ??or else” hangs ominously in the air between us.

Chapter 4

Hunter

Emerson is pissed. And not just the normal kind of pissed, either. Nope, right now she’s the kind of angry it takes a lot of effort to talk a woman into—and even more effort to talk her back out of again.

Usually I’m pretty good at talking myself out of trouble…and if talking doesn’t work, I’ve got a bunch of other methods that usually do the trick. But the way she’s looking right now, it’s going to take more than my usual repertoire to get me out of this and back on even ground.

Then again, I’m not so sure I want to talk her out of being mad. Not when she looks so spectacular with her red cheeks and her blue eyes sparking with rage.

“You’re going to have to drive,” she says as she pushes past me and begins the long march to the door at the front of the office.

“Fine by me. Most people think I’m fairly good at it.” Of course, most people are talking about my ability to organize a line drive when they compliment my skills, but I don’t see the need to point that out right now. Especially since Emerson still hasn’t shown any indication that she knows who I am. Unlike that man-eater boss of hers who seems determined to get me into the biggest, most ostentatious bachelor pad in San Diego—no matter how many times I tell her I’m looking for a family home.

“Couldn’t prove that by me,” she retorts as she reaches for the door. “Or my clothes.”

I maneuver around, so that I can push the door open and hold it for her as I gesture for her to precede me. She walks through without so much as a glance my way, let alone a thank-you. Which is a good thing because I don’t even bother trying to hide my grin.

“That’s a pretty big assumption you’re making.” I pull the passenger door open, then wait patiently for her to climb up into the cab. As she does, I get a really good look at her really great ass. And since there’s no panty line—despite the fact that the wet material of her skirt is still clinging to her generous curves—I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t imagining her in a little red thong. Or better yet, completely bare beneath that red polka-dot skirt.

I wait until she’s all tucked in before walking around the front of my truck to the driver’s side. She’s already got the folder open on her lap, her face buried in the first spec sheet even as she types into her phone.

“According to the GPS, the first place is about fifteen minutes from here.”

“Can you tell me about it?”

She sighs like it’s the biggest imposition in the world. “I suppose. But you’re going to be seeing it for yourself in just a few minutes.”

“Humor me. I don’t like going into places—or situations—blind.”

“But you have no problem forcing me to do exactly that.”

Her stinging tone is meant to slap me back, and maybe it should. But there’s something about all that acerbic wit that intrigues me. Something about that mouth—besides her obscene lower lip—that turns me on. Which is why I can’t help answering, “What’s the point of having all this money if I can’t make the people who work for me do what I want?”

Then I sit back and wait for the fireworks.

They don’t come. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little disappointed, so I glance over at her, just to get the lay of the land. And grin when I see the way her fists are clenched and her eyes are shooting sparks. Or bullets. She’s got them narrowed, so it’s kind of hard to tell.

She is so pissed. And so close to letting that temper of hers fly that I can almost taste it.

Because I’m a bad man—and because I haven’t been this amused in a long damn time—I poke at her a little more. “So, how many bedrooms does this place have? I need at least seven, for when my friends stay over.” My tone ensures that even though I say “friends,” she hears “playmates.”

“This one has nine. And five living areas.”

I’m a little disgruntled at her restraint. “Only five? I prefer—”

“One for every guest?” Her tone ensures that even though she says “guest,” I hear “skank.” And maybe even “sexually transmitted disease.”

“Variety is the spice of life.”

“If that’s the case, maybe you should forego buying a house and just work your way through a different hotel penthouse every month. San Diego does have a lot of hotels.”

“Isn’t it your job to convince me I need a really big house with every amenity known to man?”

“Nobody needs a house this big.” She waves the folder in front of her. “It’s twelve thousand square feet and has six tennis courts, two basketball courts, an Olympic size pool and its own nightclub.” She glances down. “And a candy room.”