Naughty Little Thief

Just fuck him right now.

“Sandy, he keeps looking at you,” one of Sandy’s friends said.

“What did you do to him?” the other wanted to know.

“Honestly I’ve never seen two people hate each other like you two do!” a third one chimed.

“Ignore him,” Sandy told her friends. “Beckham can’t stand that I grew up in a trailer park while his ass was being wiped with sterilized, silk wipies.”

“Calli, why does your brother scowl at Sandy?” one of them asked Calli as she approached and gave her a huge hug.

“Oh, he’s been in a mood all night,” Calli said dismissively when they finally pulled free.

“Ever since he saw me,” Sandy drawled.

“Whatever. You should go say hi and wipe that scowl off his face.” Calli grinned.

Sandy rolled her eyes heavenward. “Right.”

“Sandy! Go give him a lap dance,” one of her friends chimed again.

Sandy stared at him. Gorgeous. So damned gorgeous. All that dark hair and gypsy tanned skin did wonders for his looks. But the rest of him sucked. Mr. High and Mighty. Mr. big-dick-I'm-such-a-shit-and-in-every-Forbes-magazine Beckham Winters. She remembered how he’d got into snit because she’d borrowed some of his stuff when he’d had like thousands just like them. Selfish twad. She was going to return them eventually!

But he kept glowering at her across the night club now, his face hard. She’d never seen him look so angry at anyone other than at her. He was so gentle and sweet to Calli. Her stomach roiled uncomfortably and her chest tightened as she held his gaze, but the more it hurt, the more she smiled at him, happy when he scowled even deeper. Well, she was here because of him, after all. She might as well go say hi.

“You think I won't?” she told her friends with fake bravado. That was her. All bark, no bite. She’d rather pretend she was an asshole rather than let anyone suspect she was a weenie. But she wasn't going to let Beckham scowl at her all night. She’d been having a great time, especially when her friends had told her he was checking her out like mad, especially hooked on her ass, but when she’d turned to see that look of total fury in his face, her fun had quickly plummeted to nil. Nope! She wasn’t going to let him get away with making her feel like shit this time.

“Watch me,” she said. “But if I do go, someone’s paying for my drinks.”

She had three hundred dollars to last her all weekend and she really needed to stretch them—so she might as well let the girls invite her to a round.

The dark-haired Harrison had left the booth, and Beckham didn’t move a muscle as Sandy wound through the crowd, the drink she’d wheeled free from the bartender in her hand. Her heart pounded incredibly hard, incredibly fast. Beckham Winters…

He had the looks to match the scowl—virile. Cold, almost icy. Unapproachable. But not to Sandy. Nope, not this time.

His black button shirt stretched over his broad shoulders, the V at his throat revealing smooth, golden skin that even now made Sandy’s mouth run dry. He had been her every friend’s fantasy. Every time the get-together was at Calli’s, there would be ooing and ahhing as they all fantasized about seeing Beckham.

Even Sandy had fantasized.

Oh, she’d fantasized.

But that was a long, long time ago, before she realized she wasn’t good enough for him, and women like her would only ever be diversions for men like him. As she closed the last steps, she remembered all times he’d rejected her in tons of little ways. And then a big way.

No more dreaming of Beckham….

She needed to prove to herself he had no power over her anymore. She was a woman, not a girl. And she had a life waiting for her back in Florida. One she would gladly get back to once she got the closure she needed here.

“Hey Becky boy,” she told him, eying him with a smirk as she dropped into the booth across from him. “I’m surprised you’re not surrounded by groupies. You must be losing your touch.”

“And yet here you are, Sandy,” he drawled with a smirk of his own.

Did he just call her a groupie? And he was looking at her as if he knew intimate secrets about her too?

Well you did one time climb, in nothing but a pair of panties and his warm gray sweatshirt, into his bed…

Her heart pounded as his eyes, all-seeing twilight in color, remained fixed solely on hers. Not even on her breasts, a bit too exposed in her strapless. She was dressed to kill. Instead she was the one dying because Beckham had only grown more and more handsome. His voice deeper. His nearness making old fifteen-year-old Sandy surface along with every want and vulnerability he’d made her feel.