Provocation (Explicitly Yours 3)

“At least let me send you a new dress,” he said.

“If you keep buying me dresses, we’ll have to add on another wing just to store them.”

Beau smiled. “That can be arranged.”

Lola had never owned so much in her life. But what was actually hers? Beau didn’t like her to spend her own money. He thought she’d deposited it into a savings account where it was earning interest, and he’d made her promise she wouldn’t use it. “Save it for something nice here and there,” he’d said. As if ‘something nice’ was the real reason she’d accepted a million dollars to fuck him.

“I already have an outfit planned,” Lola said slowly, “and I think you’ll like it very much.”

Beau ran his hand up over her backside, lingering, slow. There were some things she never had to fake, like swooning at his touch, or the gradual but electric creep of warmth it sent through her.

He liked the dress she’d chosen that morning. She could tell by the way he absentmindedly touched it while they talked—rubbing the soft wool, playing with the tail of the zipper. It was short, which was fine, because she had great legs, and the neckline was high. Conservative but sexy, the kind of woman Beau should have on his arm. Her leather pants were still stuffed at the bottom of her duffel bag, though to his credit, Beau had asked about them. He liked those too.

“What’re your plans today?”

Lola lifted one shoulder. “Shopping. I have some small things to get for tonight.”

“Good. Put everything on my card, all right? I don’t want you spending money on me.”

Had this been the special evening Beau thought it was, Lola would’ve given it more thought. She would’ve taken him up to Mulholland Drive, brought some hotdogs since they’d never gotten to eat theirs, played Pink Floyd on the car stereo and made love to him under the stars. Money wouldn’t’ve even crossed her mind, but that was where Beau always went, and that was one of the reasons he and Lola were very, very different.

That was the life he’d chosen not to have with her. Lola agreed to charge her shopping to him—not because she felt good about spending his money, but because she’d cut up all except one of her credit cards the night before.

Beau leaned in, kissed her once on the lips and walked away. “Warner can take you today. I’ll drive myself.”

“Beau?”

He turned partway around and nodded at her. “Yeah?”

Lola’s throat constricted, as if she physically couldn’t speak. She had tried many times to tell him she loved him for the sake of making this work, but each time, she’d choked on the words. It was the truth, but it felt like a lie.

“Can I take the Range Rover?” she asked instead. She needed to be alone today, and while Beau’s driver was good at blending into the background, he wasn’t much for disappearing completely.

“Of course. You know you don’t have to ask. But I don’t mind driving—”

“I hate it.” Lola sucked in a tiny breath. She was getting sloppy. She couldn’t go around blurting things without thinking first.

“You hate what?” He faced her completely, his attention snagged.

Being treated like a doll. Lavished with expensive things I don’t care about. Sitting around all day, waiting for you to come home. “Warner driving me around,” she said. “It feels extravagant.”

He shrugged, his hands in his pockets. “Warner drives me all the time. It’s more normal than you think.”

“Maybe for people like you.”

“People like me?” Beau tilted his head with interest. She would’ve preferred to drop it, though, this conversation they would’ve had if things had been different. If she cared about making this work. “You are people like me. Now.”

Lola kept a poker face, even as her blood simmered a little. Letting her emotions get the best of her was the kind of thing that got her into trouble, but that pissed her off. She wasn’t like him. She hadn’t even wanted the money—she’d just been a pawn in a transaction between Johnny and Beau.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Lola said, regaining her silky smoothness. “But it makes sense for you because you work in the car. I don’t. I just sit and stare out the window, so I might as well drive myself.”

“Fine,” he said. “Take the Range Rover.”

Lola walked over to him and touched his forearm. “Why don’t you give Warner the day off? I’m sure he’d appreciate that.”

“Why don’t you just let me buy you a car?”

She smiled up at him. “Because there are two in the garage, and two people in this house. Again, extravagant.”

“Better get used to it, ma chatte.” He kissed her one more time. “I really have to run. See you tonight. Seven o’clock.”

Beau walked out of the room, and she listened for the conclusion of the morning show—the rumbling garage door, the roar of the Lamborghini’s engine. No matter where in the house she was—eating toast in the breakfast nook, staring at Beau’s pillow in his bed—that was when everything in her body unclenched. Being around him was constant mental warfare.

Lola went into the kitchen to locate the keys to the Range Rover. This would be the one day she’d enjoy spending Beau’s money. Her to-do list wasn’t very long, but each thing was an important cog in her plan.

Not long ago, Beau’s kitchen was the last place she thought she’d be standing. As she’d fled his hotel room, doing her best to hold her broken heart together, she’d never wanted to see Beau’s face again—much less be living in his home. But this morning, knowing what was to come later that night, there was nowhere else she’d rather be. As it turned out, a hell of a lot could change in three weeks.

2

Three weeks earlier

There was a reason Beau never thought about that night at Cat Shoppe. He’d pushed Lola—and the memory of her on stage—down into his depths years ago. She was never meant to surface. It should’ve been the best day of his life—selling his first company for millions after a decade of struggle. It would’ve been, had he just gone home after his last celebratory drink.

But he hadn’t, and now he stood in the Presidential Suite at the Four Seasons, staring at the door Lola had just left through. Their words echoed through the hotel room—cold, hard confessions and accusations. His normally steady heartbeat raced as if he’d just run a sprint. It unnerved him. Remaining calm was something he’d trained himself to do, a survival tactic for situations like leading a boardroom full of megalomaniacs.

He couldn’t—wouldn’t—allow anyone that power over him. She’d done him a favor by walking out before he could explain, opening his eyes when he’d been blind for her. What had he thought—that Lola was anything more to him than another challenge? The thing that’d made her special, that’d set her apart from other women, ceased to exist. She no longer had his power. It’d been a struggle, but he’d taken it back. Now, she was just another defeated opponent, a discarded chess pawn.

Beau returned to the suite’s master bedroom. It was hot in the room, as if the heat had been on all night. As if it’d all been some sort of fever dream—intense, vivid, colorful. Over with the new day’s dawn.

Except that Lola was everywhere in that hotel room. Her red lipstick, smeared into the comforter. His white robe that she’d worn, strewn across a chair. His tie, still knotted, on the floor where he’d discarded it after blindfolding her. She’d really gotten to him, burrowing deep, making him think the ending he’d planned wasn’t what he wanted after all. It wasn’t the first time she’d drawn him under her spell.

Ten years earlier, Beau had become the man he’d always wanted to be. Now, he and his money were respected in the business world. Sought after. The definition of power. And underneath it all had always been his weakness—the girl in the black kitten ears.

Beau crouched at the footboard and picked up the gold dress he’d ripped off her body. Beads bit into his palms when he squeezed it. No—none of it’d been a dream. Thrusting inside her, wondering how it was possible, w

ith all the fucking he’d done in his life, that he’d never felt anyone that way—that was real.

It was real, the way she’d approached the gas station the night before, a small smile on her face, her eyes turned up slightly as if lost in a daydream. With a gun to his head, he couldn’t move, couldn’t scream at her to run, couldn’t do anything but watch her pull open the door and step into a nightmare. He would’ve done anything to stop it, would’ve handed over everything he’d worked for, but he could only stand there.

Beau tossed the dress aside and stood, running his hands over his hair. He needed to get ready for his day. He and Lola were done—there was nothing more to say. Warner had her now, and she’d be home soon—getting her things, breaking Johnny’s heart. Beau hoped she’d be brutal. No man should get off easy for selling the woman he claimed to love.

He thought about calling Warner and telling him to stay with Lola. When she was finished, she’d need to leave quickly, shed that sorry excuse for a boyfriend. Warner could drop her off—where? It occurred to him she might not have anywhere to go. That she’d get in Warner’s car and feel like she had no one. That she might not get in Warner’s car at all. That without a reason to leave, she might—stay. With Johnny.

Across the room, Beau’s cell was in pieces on the floor from when he’d hurled it at the wall. He went for the hotel phone. He was unreachable, having instructed the front desk to hold his calls so his time with Lola wouldn’t be interrupted.