Dirty Secrets Page 18

  Something about his strength as he pulls me towards him fills me with a rush of white-hot need. I swallow past a throat that is dry suddenly.

  ‘Because I asked you to. Sit down. Talk to me.’

  Disappointment bursts inside me.

  ‘I just told you—’

  ‘You don’t do “talk”,’ he interrupts—another thing I’m not at all tolerant of in my business life but that, in this moment, with this man, I find strangely erotic. ‘But I do.’

  I tilt my head to one side, wondering a little more than I’d like about this man now. Even from a distance I could perceive his natural air of authority but up close, like this, I feel it wrapping around me and I have the strangest impulse to surrender to it.

  ‘Will you make it worth my while?’

  ‘And how would I do that...?’

  He lets the question hang in the air searchingly, and so I supply my name almost on autopilot. ‘Avery.’

  ‘Avery.’ Jesus. If I liked the taste of his name in my mouth then the sound of mine coated by his accent, on his lips, is like something out of an erotic fantasy. I close my eyes for a second, absorbing it, enjoying it, appreciating it as a connoisseur might a particularly fine wine.

  ‘How about this?’ There’s a barstool behind me. I reach around and pull it closer, and then closer still, so that when I do as he’s asked and sit down, my knees are brushing his inner thighs, our bodies as close as it’s possible to be. Around us, the club hums and buzzes and that very busyness gives us a degree of privacy, as though we are in our own little bubble.

  I reach for his hand and place it on my thigh, beneath the fabric of my dress.

  ‘For every question I answer, you’ll move your hand an inch or so higher.’

  His Adam’s apple throbs as he swallows.

  ‘Deal?’

  There’s that duality again, like he wants this but he’s also fighting it—fighting me.

  ‘Deal.’

  I relax, a smile curving my lips, lips that his eyes drop to and devour so heat spreads inside me, pooling between my legs.

  ‘What do you want to talk about then?’

  ‘What do you do, Avery?’

  It’s a boring—yet safe—first question. ‘I’m CEO of my own company.’

  ‘Impressive. What kind of company?’

  I move my gaze pointedly to my legs.

  A small laugh, but less robust this time. Almost shaky. He pushes his hand along my leg and a pulse of adrenaline kicks at my side. I want to cheat, to wriggle closer, but I don’t. I know all about delayed gratification and that’s exactly what I’m experiencing. The buzz of anticipation is its own reward.

  ‘Ever heard of Moatsy?’

  His eyes are guarded. ‘Yeah.’

  I’m not surprised. Everyone’s heard of Moatsy. It’s the fastest growing data protection company in the world. Not only do we track who’s tracking you, we put safeguards on registered devices, making the sale of browsing information almost impossible. Corporations were my first clients but in the last couple of years the average Joe has become—quite rightly—concerned with the open slather collection of personal information for the purpose of commercial gain.

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘No shit. You’re on my phone.’

  His hand creeps higher. My pulse fires. ‘I hope to be on a lot more than your phone before the night is done.’

  No laugh this time. Just a look in his eyes that I can’t analyse.

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-nine. You?’

  ‘Do I have to answer the questions?’ His hand nudges higher.

  ‘I can make it worth your while.’

  But before I can lift my hand to his cock he shakes his head. ‘You’d better not do that.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘We wouldn’t want the night to end prematurely.’

  ‘Have you got something against telling me your age?’

  For a moment a frown shifts on his face, and then he smiles, a lazy smile that’s slow to spread. It sparks curiosity low in my gut. ‘I got the feeling you didn’t want to know anything about me.’

  I tilt my head to the side, considering that. ‘True. Still, a quid pro quo seems only fair.’

  ‘Is that right?’ His hand shifts slightly higher. I haven’t technically answered a question but I don’t point that out.

  ‘I like to take as well as give,’ I tease, moving closer so his hand brushes close to my sex.

  His eyes narrow and I hear a faint hiss escape from between his teeth. ‘I’m thirty-three.’

  ‘And is there a Mrs Byron-Moore?’

  ‘Mmm...’ His noise of assent is a low rumble and I freeze. I might have very few standards when it comes to indiscriminate, passionate sex, but infidelity is a line I will never cross. I’ve got no interest in screwing another woman’s husband—nor in getting off with the kind of man who’d cheat on his wife.

  I reach down, curving my hand over his wrist, pulling it away. His expression doesn’t change. He feels no guilt, evidently.

  ‘And how would she feel to see you with your hand up my dress?’

  ‘My mother has very little interest in my sex life.’

  ‘Oh.’ If I’d had any doubts as to how much I want him, the instant tsunami of relief would negate it. I am immeasurably glad he’s not married, glad I don’t have to walk away from the tension that’s humming between us.

  ‘Do you think I’d be here, doing this, if I was married?’

  ‘It wouldn’t surprise me.’

  He looks...hurt. Fascinating.

  ‘I’m not like that.’

  I lift my shoulders. A lot of men think they wouldn’t cheat, but in my experience that certainty’s about as rock-solid as a block of ice on a summer’s day.

  ‘What brings you to the Bay?’

  He hesitates a moment. ‘I thought I was asking the questions.’

  ‘Have I hit on something you don’t want to talk about?’ He keeps his fingers where they are but shifts them from side to side, stroking the sensitive flesh of my inner thigh. I bite down on my lip to mute a groan.

  ‘Not particularly.’ A lift of his broad shoulders. My instincts tell me he’s not being completely honest but I don’t particularly care. Whatever this guy’s business is, he has a right to keep it private. I’ve already said more to him than I have the last three guys I slept with combined.

  ‘You’re cryptic.’

  He grins. ‘I can be.’

  ‘Do we know each other well enough yet?’

  Another frown. Jesus. I don’t usually have to push a guy into bed. This is a new experience for me. I contemplate walking away from him, but I feel both fascinated by and invested in him.

  ‘For what, Avery?’

  I roll my eyes. ‘Come home with me.’

  He leans closer, his hand stays where it is. ‘You mean, come home and fuck you?’

  I nod slowly. ‘Unless you don’t want to?’

  His eyes hold mine and my breath hitches in my throat. I feel as though he’s going to say no. Like he might stand up and end this. And I really, really don’t want him to.

  ‘Barrett?’

  Copyright © 2020 by Clare Connelly

  Bronte Pierce needs a break, and a job at Fast & Fury might be just the thing to reset her life. What she gets is Crow, the stubborn, sexy, hard-headed boss she can’t get out of her head. But when a single murder turns into a conspiracy, it’s Crow who protects her—and puts her at risk of losing her heart.

  Read on for a sneak preview of Custom Built by New York Times bestselling author Chantal Fernando.

  Custom Built

  by Chantal Fernando

  CHAPTER ONE

  “I’M SORRY, BRONTE,” Nadia says, shoulders hunching. “You know how much the
business has been struggling for months, and now it’s barely making enough money for me to cover my own ass, never mind have an employee. I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” I tell her, forcing a smile, even though I feel like crying. I mean, I knew this was coming. I’ve worked as an assistant for Nadia’s private investigator firm for years now, and I know how hard this decision must be for her. We had spoken about it a few months ago, and to be honest I’m surprised she has kept me on for this long.

  However, that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. I need this job, and I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do without it. I don’t have any other qualifications, and I can’t afford to go back to college to finish my teaching degree. And I don’t even want to talk about health insurance. Thank God I had my second surgery several months ago. I can’t even fathom what I will do if the abnormal cells come back.

  I know how bad times are for Nadia, though, with us getting less and less work with every passing month. I’d spent this week cleaning and rearranging the office because I didn’t have much else to do.

  I see Nadia more like family than my boss, but I know that she has to do what’s best for her. I understand that—it’s just going to be a shit time for me right now.

  “I’ll pack up my things,” I say, and swallow hard, looking at my desk. I pick up the picture of me and my dad, both of us smiling, his arms wrapped around me. It was taken last year at Christmas, my red lipstick all over his cheek where I had kissed him. Dad has always been my rock, and I know he’d help me if I need it, but I’m too old to be running to my daddy. I need to sort this all out myself and find a new job as soon as possible, before my savings dry up and put me in deeper shit.

  “I’m really sorry,” Nadia repeats, her voice cracking.

  I put the photo frame down and turn to give her a hug. “It will be fine, it’s not the end of the world. I’ll find another job, and hopefully business will pick up for you and you can keep this place running.”

  This might not be what I need right now, a kick when I’m down, already stressed out over my health issues, but you can’t control what curveballs life decides to throw you.

  No matter what happens, I know I’ll be okay. When one door closes, another one opens, right?

  I comfort Nadia, I gather my things, and I leave.

  I woke up this morning employed and fairly optimistic, and now I’m going home without a job and no idea where my next paycheck is going to come from.

  Life can be a bitch sometimes, can’t it?

  * * *

  Just before Christmas isn’t the best time to try to find employment. Everyone has already been hired for the season, and no one wants to take on someone they would have to train during the busy festive season. Not surprisingly, my resume isn’t remarkable, and my private investigator skills aren’t even going to help me work in a bar or restaurant.

  “Have you ever worked in a bar before?” a manager at one of the establishments asks me.

  “Well, no, but—”

  “I’m sorry,” he says, cutting me off. “We need someone with experience.”

  “I’m a fast learner.”

  I mean, how hard could it be, right? It’s not like I’m a doctor looking for a new job. I can learn to serve drinks and food and wear a smile while doing it. I’m a hard and efficient worker; I just need someone to give me a chance. I didn’t finish college because the timing wasn’t right for me.

  “Come back after the holidays” is all I get in response.

  I decide to call up all the private investigator firms in my city, but none of them are hiring either. In the world of easily accessible technology, people are probably handling their own investigating, cutting out the middleman and leaving me jobless. I really hope Nadia will be okay and not have to shut down the firm. The thought saddens me, and I hope there’s a way she can stay open and get more clients in the upcoming weeks. Otherwise she might be here along with me, trying to get any job she can.

  My phone rings, “All I Want for Christmas Is You” playing loudly. “Hello?”

  “Hey, princess,” my dad says, and I can hear the smile in his tone. “I haven’t heard from you in a week. Is everything okay?”

  I haven’t spoken to him since I got fired, because I don’t want to admit that I’m currently failing at life. Asking for help has never been my strong point—I prefer to suffer in silence and try to solve all problems on my own. I know I’m going to have to tell him, though; I’m just going to buy myself a little time.

  “Everything is fine, Dad,” I assure him. “How are you?”

  My dad lives about an hour away from my apartment, and we catch up for family dinner every week or so. Besides that, we usually text or chat every day or every other day. I love spending time with him, and I look forward to seeing him. Yes, I’m a daddy’s girl.

  “I’m good, just busy with work. You know how it is,” he says.

  Actually, right now I don’t.

  My dad has always worked hard, and that’s where I got my own work ethic from. As soon as I was old enough to get a job, I did. I was never spoiled, and had to work for everything I had. For my first car, he told me he’d match whatever I saved, which taught me how to work for my money, but also allowed him contribute.

  Dad now owns a construction business, along with my uncle Neville, who also owns and runs a farm. Dad mainly does the admin side of things, but he started off as a laborer, so he isn’t afraid of hard work.

  “I’ve been thinking about you today, so I thought I’d give you a call.”

  “When are you free this week?” I ask. Might as well face him, because avoiding him isn’t going to help the situation. I can’t lie to him, though, so I guess I’m just going to have to tell him what happened in person. Or maybe I should try to secure a new job first.

  “Always free for you,” he says, voice gentle. “I was actually calling to invite you over on the weekend. I’m having a barbecue, and everyone will be there. Your uncle wants to see you too, so I hope you can make it.”

  “Okay, message me the details and I’ll be there,” I reply. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  We say our byes and I love yous and hang up. Sighing, I glance down at my handful of resumes and lift my chin. Surely there’s something for me out there. I’m too old to have no job security, and it annoys me that it has come to this. I should have gone back and finished my degree—then I’d have something to fall back on—but there’s no point with the what-ifs now. I just need to find something, anything, and if I don’t like it, I can always just stay in that job until I find something better.

  “Who knows? In a few weeks I might have to come apply here,” I mutter to myself as we pass Toxic, a well-known strip club.

  If I didn’t think my father would kill me, I might even consider it.

  I spend the rest of the day handing out my resume, smiling and trying to act as charming as can be.

  Just hoping the next door to open for me will be a good one.

  ***

  Don’t miss Custom Built by Chantal Fernando, available wherever Carina Press books and ebooks are sold.

  www.CarinaPress.com

  Copyright © 2020 by Chantal Fernando

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  ISBN-13: 9781488062391

  Dirty Secrets

  Copyright © 2020 by Denise Smoker

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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