Wicked Dirty (Stark World 2)

I know I should ignore him, but I can't help myself. I pause, and then he's at my side, and then I've missed my chance.

The elevator doors snick closed, and I'm standing there, my face tear-stained, my feet bare, and this gorgeous, tortured man holding tight to my upper arm.

"Just let me go." In my head, the words are a harsh demand. In actuality, they're a defeated whisper.

"Take this," he says, shoving a book into my hands.

I frown at it, struck dumb by the incongruity of the moment. "What--?"

"Please. Just take it." His voice is a gentle whisper. Low. Apologetic. "And I'll text Marjorie. She'll transfer your money tonight."

I shake my head. "No. No way. I didn't--I mean, we didn't--"

I suck in a breath. "I didn't earn it," I say firmly.

He's looking at me hard. Then--without another word--he cups my head, pulls me toward him, and kisses me so hard and so deep that my knees go week, and it's only his other arm that has snaked

around my waist that holds me up.

When he steps back, breaking the kiss, I have to reach out and steady myself against the wall. "There," he says. "You've earned it."

Then he turns and walks away, leaving me standing on shaky legs, my heart pounding as I clutch the book in my free hand and wonder what in the hell just happened.

5

It's almost three in the morning when the taxi turns onto my street. I know I could have saved the cab fare by paging Marjorie's driver, but I wasn't sure how long I'd have to wait, and I really wanted out of there.

Although now that I'm away, I'm not sure I feel better. I'm still confused. Twisted up. My emotions bouncing all over the place. Irritation. Apprehension. Arousal.

And complete and total mortification.

He'd wanted me to stay--I was sure of it. But then he turned on a dime and sent me away, and I don't understand why. Was I not sexy enough? Did I talk too much? Did I piss him off?

Of course I pissed him off. Dammit. All my talk about seduction when he'd gone and hired an escort? What kind of an idiot am I?

Apparently, I'm the kind of idiot who insults her meal ticket--because even before I rattled off at the mouth about seduction, I was accusing him of banging call girls because he needed to work out his issues.

Holy crap, what the hell was I thinking?

The answer? I wasn't thinking at all. I was nervous. And stupid. And it cost me that job.

Except it didn't. I'm still getting the money, after all. And I didn't have to sleep with him.

So I guess I should be grateful.

Except I'm not grateful. I'm perplexed. And, damn me, I'm just a little unsatisfied. Because I liked talking to him. I liked the way he looked at me. The way his mouth curved when he was fighting a smile, and the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed.

Crap. What the hell am I thinking? I was on a job, not a date. And it's over. Doesn't matter how wow that final kiss was, or how much the feel of his lips still lingers. One time--wasn't that what Marjorie said? One time, and I'm done, and I won't ever see him again.

It's over, and despite my mistakes, I survived.

I should be celebrating, not wallowing in melancholia.

That's what I tell myself, anyway. Too bad I'm not following my own advice.

With a sigh, I slip my hand into my purse and run my finger along the edge of the little book. I'd glanced at it in the elevator, but it's just a slim, hardcover volume with a plain brown dust jacket. I'd opened it on the elevator, but the title page simply said Collected Poems, and before I could flip through it more, the express elevator had reached the lobby, and the doors had opened to reveal a very drunk couple stumbling toward me. So I'd tucked the book in my purse and hoofed it to the taxi stand.

Now, of course, it's too dark to see, anyway. But I brush my fingertip over the spine, and decide I'll tell Marjorie about the book in the morning. Maybe it's like his trademark. Hire an escort, share some literature.