Corrupted--A Scorching Hot Romance Page 3

  “You can’t touch me.”

  “Good, because I don’t want to.” As I push that lie through my teeth, she glares up at me, and for a second I’m pretty sure I spot disappointment in those big blue eyes of hers. Good, I’d hate to be the one hogging all the disappointment in this relationship...or whatever this thing is between us.

  “I’d like to go to my room.”

  She turns from me, and my gaze drops to her perfect heart-shaped ass, all nestled snug in that stylish yet sexy jumpsuit, no doubt, designed by her. The sight grabs me by the balls and squeezes.

  “If you could stop drooling over my ass, maybe you could show me.”

  I meet her gaze, and my smile is slow, maybe even obnoxious. “Is that what you think I was doing?” I ask, even though it’s exactly what I was doing, but I can’t let her know that. And for some twisted reason, I like watching her fall off her high horse, and lose control of her game.

  She opens her mouth, and closes it again. Shaky hands swipe her hair back, and under the bright floodlights embarrassment rushes over her face, turning her cheeks that pretty shade of pink I like so much. “I didn’t mean to suggest—”

  “I’m pretty sure you were suggesting that I want you. Rest assured, Londyn. You’ve been hired as my companion, and that does not include bedroom duties.”

  “Good, because I’m not a prostitute.”

  “No, not a prostitute, but you have sold out before,” I state. She flinches at the dig. I instantly feel like a grade-A prick.

  Her shaky hand grips the handrail leading to the front door. “Cason...” she begins, her voice quieter, but I’m done dredging up memories. We both know what happened in the past, and we have two weeks to get through, so for the time being it’s best we leave the past in the past.

  “Your room,” I say and sweep my hand toward the door.

  “Right.” She turns and her steps are swift as she climbs the stairs. “Your villa is beautiful,” she says, and I open the front door.

  “Thank you.”

  “How long have you lived here?”

  We step inside, and I get it, she’s making small talk, wants to start fresh. Considering our history, I’m not sure it’s possible, but I’m exhausted, and the fight is slowly draining out of me.

  “I bought it a few years back.”

  I set her bags on the floor as she begins an exploration, taking in the living room, the dining room that never gets used, the kitchen with every high-end appliance a person could want and lastly my den.

  She turns back to me, and her throat sounds as she swallows. “You did really well for yourself, Cason...”

  I wait a second, wait for her to add the words, despite me, but they never come. Her smile is genuine, and holds all kinds of warmth as her eyes meet mine, and I soften a little more. What the hell is it about this woman that brings me to my knees so easily?

  Keep it together, Cason.

  “Thanks,” I finally say.

  “How’s Peyton?”

  I smile as I think of my sister. “She’s doing well. She’s applied for a teaching job in Malta.”

  “Wow, that’s amazing. Good for her.”

  “Only problem is it’s a small community with certain values, meaning they don’t hire single female teachers. She’d have to be married. It’s not the law, the marriage bar was lifted years ago, but behind the scenes it’s still practiced.”

  “Wow, I never heard of that before.”

  “Not in North America, but it’s different in other countries.”

  “Sometimes in North America people want you married, too.” I narrow my eyes at her and she continues with, “What’s she going to do?”

  “She swears she’s not interested in marriage, so I guess she’s going to pretend for a while. Once they see she’s good at what she does, perhaps her marital status won’t matter. That’s what she’s hoping for, anyway. It’s her dream job and she’s so good with kids even though she doesn’t want any herself.” Londyn nods, and I say, “Do you remember Rylee Jenkins?”

  “I do. She was dating your friend Sebastian Marshall, right?”

  “Yep, they’re married now.”

  “Oh, wow.” Her eyes go to my left hand.

  “No, not married,” I say. “I wouldn’t be here with you if I were. I’m loyal like that,” I add with a cock of my head.

  “Yes, of course.” She holds her own bare finger up and wiggles it. “Single, too.”

  I arch a brow. “Daddy hasn’t managed to marry you off to one of his business associates yet?”

  She glares at me, but hey, it’s a legit question. After her father accused me of running a prostitution ring, she started going out with that douchebag Jackson Freeman, a man with the right pedigree and someone her daddy handpicked, of course.

  “That’s why I’m here,” she says so quietly I have to strain to hear it.

  What is she talking about? “You’re saying you’re here to get married?” I ask. I mean the room was full of wealthy men, all of whom her daddy would approve I’m sure. Well, with the exception of me. I might be a self-made millionaire with two extremely successful online businesses, despite the Harding family sabotage, but no matter what, in his eyes I’ll always be that boy from the wrong side of the tracks.

  “When I marry it will be for love,” she states, her voice steady, but the turbulence in her eyes is a sure sign she’s fighting some internal war.

  “Of course it will.” Leaving the matter for the time being, I tug off my tie and toss it aside. Her gaze drops as I shrug out of my jacket and toss it over my shoulder. “I’ve been wanting out of that all night.”

  “Is it one of yours?” she asks, and waves her finger up and down the length of my dress shirt and pants.

  “This style sells at Hard Wear, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “It is and I bet it sells well. It’s perfect...you’re perfect.” Her gaze jerks to mine. “I mean you look good. In the suit.” She blinks a few times, her gaze panning the length of me a second time. Okay, obviously our attraction to one another hasn’t diminished over the years. If anything I think our absence has strengthened the pull, and seeing her tonight has lit a spark inside me that I can’t quite seem to extinguish. She lets loose a flustered sigh. “What I mean is the suit looks good. It’s a nice cut.”

  “What’s going on with you, Londyn?”

  Her gaze jerks back to mine and she stands a bit straighter. “Nothing, um, I didn’t mean to stare. I wasn’t looking at your body or anything like that. I have no desire to sleep with you. I was just admiring...wait, maybe admiring isn’t the right word. None of this is coming out right.” She takes a breath, lets it out slowly and tries again. “I was noticing the excellent fit and I like the way your pants hug your...” A garbled sound crawls out of her throat, a half laugh, half snort. “I don’t mean hug—”

  “Londyn,” I say, effectively cutting off her ramble. “When I asked what was going on, I meant are you working in fashion.” She’s not, and as much as I hate to admit it, I have kept tabs on her. “It’s always been your dream and you were good at it.”

  “I...um... I’m sort of in between jobs. I’ve been doing charitable work with my mother. So, Peyton, she’s doing well?”

  Clearly, I’ve hit a sore spot.

  Giving her a reprieve, I say, “Come on, I’ll show you to your room.” I pick up her suitcase and she follows me up the stairs. “This one has a nice view of the ocean. Peyton loves this room,” I say, and she steps in, runs her fingers over the soft bedding.

  “It’s very pretty.”

  “I’m glad you like it.” I set her luggage on the stool, as she sits and bounces on the bed. My throat tightens, and I try not to look at her breasts. “Comfortable enough for you?”

  “Yeah, not that I’ll sleep.”

  I soften. “Still hav
e a hard time?”

  She points to her head. “I can never shut this down.”

  “How about a glass of wine and something to eat. That might help.”

  Her grateful smile screws me over. “That sounds perfect. I forgot to eat earlier.” She squeezes her hands together, an anxious gesture of hers I’m familiar with. “I was so ner...”

  Her words trail off, but I push. “You were what?” I ask as she follows me back out into the hall. We head downstairs, and I guide her into the kitchen and pull out a stool at the island.

  She sits. “I was so busy getting ready for the auction, I forgot,” she says, but she’s forgetting something else. This is a girl who shared all her hopes and dreams with me—only to steal mine—but I know what makes her tick, at least I thought I did. But what she’s not saying is that she was nervous about tonight because this isn’t something she usually does. Why was Londyn really up on that stage?

  “You do this often, then?” I ask, deciding to call her out on it as I open the fridge. I pull out a bottle of white wine and hold it up to her. She nods and I uncork it.

  “Oh, yes,” she says, her voice light and breezy as she waves her hand. “It’s quite the thrill.”

  “I bet it is. I’ve never seen you onstage before,” I say, testing her.

  “Wasn’t this your first time at the club?” she counters, and I fight a grin.

  “Maybe that’s why I’ve never seen you onstage before,” I say and it brings a wide grin to her face, one that reminds me of our happier days and messes with me a bit. I turn from her, and pull myself together as I fill two wineglasses.

  “I guess I just happened to be at the right place at the right time,” I say, turning back to slide a glass across the island.

  “Or the wrong place at the wrong time,” she responds and clinks glasses with mine.

  I look at her over the rim of my stemware before I take a healthy sip. While she’s probably right about that, I still ask, “Are you sorry I bid on you, Londyn?”

  She goes quiet, too quiet, and her lids fall slowly. When they lift again, she says, “I guess that depends on why you bid on me so fiercely.”

  “You have a degree in fashion design,” I begin and she eyes me. “I have numerous upcoming meetings, and I really need someone who knows a thing or two about fabric.”

  Her eyes light up. “Really?”

  “Yes, I have shirts and pants to be laundered and ironed,” I tell her.

  Her cheeks redden and I brace myself, waiting for her to hurl that glass at my head. I’d deserve it. She takes a deep breath, like she’s considering it, then calms herself.

  “I hardly think you need me for that.”

  “What other reason would I need you?” Jesus Christ, could I be any more of a prick? Probably not, and I sort of hate myself right now. I’ve been needing to vent for far too long, obviously, because the truth is, I’m protective—maybe even overprotective—of those I care about, so why I’m purposely saying things to hurt her is beyond me.

  Wait, what? I care about her?

  Of course, I genuinely care about her. I never stopped, but I can’t forget how deeply her betrayal cut. How that goddamn wound has never healed and how the sight of her on the stage tonight ripped it raw all over again.

  “Maybe this is a mistake,” she says and glances over her shoulder as she sets the drink down.

  “No one is forcing you to stay.”

  As I give her time to reconsider and figure out her next move, I go back to the fridge and take out the seafood I’ve been thawing. I’ve always been a good cook. A necessity when you have no mother or father to take care of you. It wasn’t always like that, though. I was seven when they died in the car accident, Peyton was only two. Our grandmother took us in until she said she was too old and frail to care for us anymore. But that wasn’t the real reason. She blew through our childcare money like a house on fire—and not on us. Child services stepped in and we ended up in the system.

  I turn back and find Londyn watching me. “I’d never keep you here against your will,” I say and gesture toward the door. “You’re free to go. I can drive you myself, or call you a car if you prefer.”

  She hesitates, and looks past my shoulder, but her thoughts seem a million miles away. What is going on with her?

  After a moment, her focus returns. “What are you making?” she asks.

  “Seafood pasta.”

  “With those small scallops, and white fish?”

  “Yes,” I say and take out the milk, garlic and onions.

  “Oh, my God, I’ve been dreaming about that pasta for a year.” She makes a sound, one that reminds me of the sweet noises she used to make before she fell asleep in my arms, and my goddamn dick twitches. “You always were such a great cook, Cason. I tried to replicate that recipe once, but it didn’t turn out like yours. What’s your secret?” she asks.

  “I don’t have any secrets,” I say flatly. Her question was innocuous, and I get that she’s not looking for any insider information, but even if I did have any secrets, she’s the last person I’d tell. Fool me once, right?

  “Right.” Her shoulders tighten at the remark, and unease radiates off her as she takes a big drink of wine and tries again. “I meant, what do you put in it that makes it so special?” She forces a smile, working to ease the tension between us, and holds up her finger, like she just had an epiphany. “Wait, let me guess, you make it with love,” she adds.

  I hold up the big stick of butter. “Wrong,” I say, and she laughs. It lessens the strain in my body and I relax.

  “You always did have a great sense of humor,” she says, her smile big and heart-stopping. “Some things never change.”

  “And some things do,” I say. “So, what will it be, Londyn. Will you be staying, or leaving?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Londyn

  WELL ISN’T THAT just the question of the hour, the day...the century. He turns from me, and reaches into his cupboard. Even though I can’t see his face, I can still feel those dark brown eyes drilling into me like a fine-tuned laser. Disappointment radiates from his every pore, and I can’t say I blame him. But he’s not as innocent in all this as he might think. Back in the day, he said some pretty hateful things about me. I thought there was more between us. I thought he used to believe in me. He didn’t. Regardless, I should have been the bigger person and never should have let my father run with Cason’s original clothing app idea—although I’m not sure I ever could have stopped him. Anger and hurt made me act out and do something rash and reprehensible, something we can never come back from. I’m older now, wiser, but there is no undoing the damage that has been done. From here we can only go forward, and that direction does not include a future for us.

  My stomach coils and I take a huge sip of wine. Cason spins back around, his fingers wrapped around the neck of the wine bottle, and I try hard not to think about the way those strong hands used to care for me. Back in college, he always walked me home, accompanied me to fundraising events, and would stay the night in my dorm room, holding me until I fell asleep. I’m still a terrible sleeper—especially in strange places. I used to think Cason was my knight in shining armor and thought someday we’d ride off into the sunset together. But that stupid romantic image isn’t helping this situation, so I bury it as he grips the wine bottle and arches a questioning brow.

  I give a resigned nod. “Yes, thank you.”

  “You’re staying, then,” he says, a statement, not a question.

  Of course I’m staying. If I left now, I’d lose all that money.

  Is staying really about the money, Londyn?

  If only it were. An unguarded groan catches in my throat.

  “Is there a problem?” he asks as he refills our glasses and I hate him right now. How the hell can he be so damn unfazed by this situation when my insides are bouncing off
my abdomen like a wrestler bounces off the ropes in a prizewinning match.

  Honest to God, I never in a million years thought I’d end up in his villa tonight. Yet here I sit, every goddamn emotion I had for him back in the day rising to the occasion and begging to be noticed. Back at the club, it’s no wonder his voice—muffled or not—elicited tingles in my body.

  “No, no problem at all,” I lie and fiddle with my wineglass. I look past his shoulders, check out the ingredients on the counter. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “You could get started on pressing my pants,” he says, and I’m about to toss my glass at him until I catch the twitch in his lips. Okay, so maybe he’s not as calm and collected as he’s pretending to be, and maybe he’s using humor to hide the insanity of all this.

  “If you don’t need them ironed this very moment, perhaps I can do them later.” I hold up my glass. “Wine and ironing don’t mix.”

  “Toss in your dislike of me, and I don’t want to be anywhere near that fiasco waiting to happen.”

  A humorless laugh catches in my throat. “You probably don’t,” I say, even though I don’t dislike him. Quite the opposite, really.

  He laughs at that, and the sound skitters down my spine, and settles deep between my legs. My God, no man, and I mean no man ever stirred my body from a simple laugh.

  Imagine what his touch would do.

  Another sound crawls out of my throat and Cason arches a brow. Okay, I seriously need to get myself together, and contrary to what Jennie and I talked about at the club, no way am I going to sleep with my host, no matter how young and hot he is. Despite our fun and easy banter, I’m sure the only thing Cason wants from me is vengeance.

  “I thought I could help cut the onions,” I say, wanting his focus off my face before I reveal what I’m feeling. He does not need to know what his mere presence is doing to my body.

  “You cook now, do you?” he asks and drops pasta into a boiling pot.

  I shrug and push off the counter. “Not as good as you, but I try.”

  He pulls a big knife out of the drawer. “Have at it, then.”