Corrupted--A Scorching Hot Romance Page 7

  She sits up a little straighter. “I told you, for the thrill of it.”

  Her cheeks turn a deeper shade of pink, and her lashes blink rapidly. I read her body language and say, “I’m not sure I believe that.”

  “I’m not sure you need to,” she responds, her chin inching up, and I tap my pen on my desk, study the way she’s suddenly avoiding my gaze.

  “Fine, then. Don’t tell me.” My cell phone pings and we both glance at it. I ignore it for the time being. I flip it over, and close my laptop.

  “What are you working on?” she asks.

  “Going over a contract and looking at designs.”

  Her eyes light up. “If there is anything you need help with—”

  “There isn’t.”

  Her smile slips as she deflates, and her shoulders sink, and damn if I don’t feel like a prick. But I’m not about to share business secrets with her. For all I know she was on that stage to hook up with me again and steal more secrets. But that’s too coincidental, and too ludicrous for even me to believe.

  “Okay. I guess if you don’t need me for anything...” She puts her hands on the arms of the chair, about to lift herself, but stops. “Can I ask why you were at the club?”

  “I had a business meeting,” I say honestly and try not to blatantly stare at her lips, which are still bruised and swollen from my kisses. I went at her like a goddamn horny teenager with no finesse. That’s how much I wanted her, but next time, next time I’ll go slower, savor her longer.

  Next time?

  Yes, of course there’s going to be a next time. I’ve given up trying to fool myself. I have zero control around her. As I consider that, I instantly decide that for the next two weeks, I’m going to live in this fairy-tale world with her, pretend we’re in a magical place where hurt and backstabbing don’t exist. After our two weeks, it’s life as usual, and that life does not include Londyn Harding.

  “Your business was with Luis Laurent?”

  I push back in my chair and study the longing and admiration in her eyes. “How did you know that?”

  “I just heard.” She smiles, and looks down, her thoughts a million miles away. “He’s only my idol.”

  “I’d imagine he is. Wait, is that why you were at the club? Were you hoping to get bought—”

  She grips the arms of the chair again, effectively cutting me off when she says, “No, no, nothing like that. I didn’t even know he’d be there. Well I should let you get back to work.” She stands, and flips her hair from her shoulder but my stomach tightens as another thought hits. What if she’s in some kind of trouble. “Cason?” she says, her frown deepening.

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t normally have so much free time on my hands. I’m not sure what to do with myself. If there is any way I can help you...”

  “Why don’t you head out, explore the city.” I push from my chair and go to my window. “Come here,” I say, looking for an excuse to touch her, as weak as that makes me.

  Her heels tap on the floor as she comes my way. I take her shoulders and move her in front of the window. Standing behind her, I press my mouth to her ear, and breathe in her scent as I point. “See that café right there?”

  “I’m not sure I do,” she says, her voice a bit breathless as she scans the city below. She bends forward, presses her forehead to the glass. Her sweet ass bumps my groin, and my pulse beats a little harder in the base of my neck as she fiddles with the top button on her blouse, like she needs to occupy her hands.

  “Right there,” I say and step closer, until our bodies are touching. “The one with the bright orange sign.” She nods and I add, “They make the best croissants.”

  “You want me to get you a croissant?”

  “Get us some,” I say.

  “You paid an awful lot of money to hire an errand girl.”

  “I know,” I say and run my hands down her arm. “How well did you pack?”

  “Just a few outfits, pajamas...”

  I groan as my cock thickens, remembering how I removed those pajamas only a couple hours ago.

  “I’d like to go out on the boat later,” I tell her.

  She turns to face me, our bodies merely inches apart. “You have a boat?”

  “Yes, and I’d like to take advantage of the nice weather. Did you pack appropriate clothes for boating?”

  “Not really.”

  “Why don’t you go shopping, get what you need. Charge everything back to me.”

  Her shoulders sag, the glow on her face dimming at my suggestion. “Okay, it’s better than sitting around here twiddling my thumbs, I guess.” Her gaze moves to my laptop, a longing in her eyes. “Are you sure you don’t need my help with anything else?”

  “Positive,” I say.

  She gives a curt nod, pushes past me and walks out of my office. I stand there for a few minutes, and my insides turn. Yes, I get it. She’s a brilliant woman, capable of doing more than running errands for me, but I can’t—won’t—task her with anything that involves my business. That would make me the stupidest man on the planet. I sit down, and the sound of the front door clicking shut pulls me from my reverie.

  I grab my phone and text my sister back. She knows I always spend the holiday in Cannes, secluded from the real world, so I have no idea why she’s asking about my plans when they’ve been established for years. I wait for an answer but when none comes, I dial her number. She answers on the fourth ring.

  “Hey, big bro, what’s up?”

  “I should be the one asking you that question.”

  Papers rustle in the background, and I tap a restless finger on my laptop. “What are you talking about? Wait, have you forgotten your meds this morning?” She cracks a joke. Like me she sometimes uses humor to hide what she’s really feeling.

  “And here I was wondering if you overdosed on your morning concoction of smart-ass.”

  She chuckles and I relax. It’s good to hear her voice. We’ve both been working so hard, it’s actually been months since we sat down and talked face-to-face. But with the holiday upon us, hanging out in person is not going to happen anytime soon. Not because we’re busy but because we both hole up and just try to get through the festive season the best way we know how.

  “I’m calling because you asked if I would be home for Christmas.”

  “Yeah, sorry,” she says, a hitch to her voice. “I don’t know what I was thinking. Maybe I’m off my meds.”

  My heart constricts at the uncharacteristic longing I hear in her voice. “Are you okay?” I ask, struggling to loosen that imaginary band squeezing my chest.

  “Never better,” she says, injecting a fake ounce of lightness into her voice. “What about you? How did your meeting go with Luis?”

  “Great, actually. I think the new line is going to be a huge success.”

  More paper rustling, and a stapler clicks. “What are you not telling me?”

  I chuckle inwardly. My little sister is too smart for her own good. “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”

  “Try me, bro. I need a good story. Something to cheer me up.”

  I stiffen, and my heart stills. “Why do you need cheering up?”

  A beat of silence and then she replied, “Ah, nothing really. You know, the holiday.”

  “Yeah, I know.” I spin in my chair, and glance out the window, debating on how much I should divulge.

  “Spill,” she says, “Or I’ll hunt you down. You know I’m a teacher. I have ways of making you talk,” she teases.

  I laugh at her antics, and a bit of the tension leaves my chest. “You’re not going to believe who’s here with me.”

  “Ooh, do tell.”

  “Londyn Harding.”

  Peyton goes so quiet I think she might have hung up on me. I wait a second for the dial tone, and when it doesn’
t come, I say, “Are you still there?”

  “Bro, seriously, what the hell is going on?”

  “I actually bought her at an auction house.”

  “You...bought her?”

  I wave my hand even though she can’t see me. “It’s not quite like it sounds. It’s all aboveboard. So don’t worry.”

  “You...bought her,” she says again, and I don’t need to be face-to-face to know hers is scrunched. A familiar gesture when she’s trying to puzzle something out. “Like, you own her?”

  “It’s not quite like that. It’s just—” I pinch the bridge of my nose. What the hell possessed me to open my damn mouth, anyway?

  Oh, maybe because you need someone to talk to about Londyn.

  Nope, I don’t. I really don’t.

  Liar.

  “It’s hard to explain,” I say.

  “Wow, fate is a funny thing, isn’t it?”

  Fate? Fate isn’t what brought us together. Five million dollars is what brought us together. No way am I about to admit that though. I actually still can’t quite believe I doled out that insane amount of money.

  “Why would Londyn be selling herself? Does she need the money or something? Did her father cut her off?”

  “I’m not sure,” I say. The one thing I do know, however, is that she was lying when she said she was on that stage for the thrill.

  “How long do you own her?”

  “I don’t own...” I stop, my protest dying in my throat. Once Peyton gets something in her head, there is no changing her mind. Clearly, I taught her well. “She’s here until after Christmas.”

  Another pause and then in a soft voice she says, “That is so nice, Cason.” The sigh that follows those words surprises the hell out of me, but the longing in her voice is what nearly knocks me off my damn chair. What is going on with her?

  “There’s nothing nice about that, Peyton,” I say, exasperation in my voice as I shoot that answer back quickly, maybe too quickly.

  “Yeah, Cason. There is.” She chuckles into the phone like she knows something I don’t. Whatever she thinks she knows, she’s dead wrong.

  “I don’t even like her,” I say, my denial so fast and furious I wonder exactly who I’m trying to convince.

  I am so screwed.

  “I know,” she says, her voice lacking conviction.

  I slump a little in my chair. “Then why would you say it’s nice?”

  “I think you’ll see soon enough,” she says, a hint of something in her voice, something that sounds like melancholy, but my sister isn’t a dreamer. Like me, she’s grounded in reality. Then again, I am suspending reality for the next two weeks to live in some fairy tale with Londyn.

  I snort and say, “Okay, you really are off your meds. You’re worrying me, kiddo.”

  “No need to be worried, and you can stop being overprotective. I’m a big girl and can take care of myself and while I’d like to talk longer, I have to run to a meeting.”

  “Yeah, okay,” I say, reluctant to let her go as concern niggles at me. Maybe I am just being overprotective.

  “I love you, big brother.”

  “I love you, too, crazy little sister.” I shake my head and wonder what’s really going on with her as I slide my finger across the screen to end the call. As soon as I get back to the city, I plan to pay her a visit.

  I go back to my computer, and work to focus on business. I make a few calls, check in with human resources regarding a staffing problem and somehow manage to lose myself in work for the remainder of the day. By the time I lift my head, and blink my eyes into focus, I realize that it’s nearing dinnertime. Nighttime will soon be upon us. So much for taking the boat out today.

  I push from my chair and as the quiet of the house beats against my ears, worry weaves its way through my veins. I stand and step up to my window to glance out. Where the hell is Londyn? She should have been back hours ago.

  I leave my office to search the villa. Maybe she came back and I didn’t hear her. I check the main level but she’s nowhere to be found. Worry hits like a punch. Is she lost? Hurt? She would have called if she needed me, right? Shit, we didn’t exchange numbers. Another thought slams into me. Maybe she left. While I had my head down, buried in work, maybe she cabbed it to the airport and hopped on the next flight back to New York? She said she didn’t want to go back, but maybe she changed her mind after I sent her on a menial task. But no way can I talk to her about business, or let her help.

  I work to quell my panic and wonder why the hell I’m panicking in the first place. Jesus. Her hopping on a plane would probably be for the best for both of us. The fact that I can’t find comfort in that thought nearly paralyzes me. Shit.

  Forcing my legs to work, I dash up the stairs, and three long strides take me to her room. Her suitcase is still sitting where I left it and I don’t even want to examine how happy that makes me.

  If she didn’t leave, where the hell is she?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Londyn

  I SWING MY PURSE, looking far more carefree to the tourists flocking about than I actually feel deep inside. Honest to God, I can do more than run errands for Cason. I have thoughts, ideas and skills that can be put to better use. But why on earth would he ever let me near his work again? If I were him, I sure as hell wouldn’t.

  He bought you for revenge, Londyn, not to help him with his business.

  With that thought bouncing around inside my brain, I walk along the streets, and work to ignore the empty ache inside me. I find the stupid café and step inside. The delicious smells instantly lighten my mood, and as I walk up to the counter, I shake off the rest of my angst. I’m here in Cannes for two weeks, with the hottest guy on the planet. Sure, he hates me, but the hate sex was pretty damn phenomenal, and definitely something I want to experience again.

  My body quakes in remembrance. I always wanted Cason, wanted him to be my first in fact. Somehow, I knew sex with him would be wild, wicked, devastatingly delicious and so deeply satisfying. Never in my life has a man pushed me against the wall, or bent me over a counter. I’ll never be able to go back to vanilla sex after that. The man is corrupting me. Maybe that’s his plan. Ruin me for any other guy, and then leave me cold. But I’m not currently cold. No, my body is warm, flushing as I think about how skilled he is with his hands, his mouth. Heck, while I’m here I’m just going to go for it. Live out every fantasy that’s ever crossed my mind. Give myself to him in a way I’ve never given myself to another. I’m so lost in my thoughts that I almost don’t hear the woman behind the counter asking for my order.

  “Oh, sorry. Everything looks so good,” I say, pretending I was debating on what to choose. “I can’t make up my mind.”

  She smiles at me, and I check the display, finally deciding on a six-pack of croissants and a cappuccino to go. A few minutes later, I’m back strolling the streets. I sip my delicious coffee and take a bite of the croissant. Holy God delicious. Cason wasn’t kidding. I put the remainder of them into my big purse and walk aimlessly, wasting time as I glance into clothing shops, looking for something suitable for the boat, but not really in the mood to shop. I browse, and because I’m not looking where I’m going, I come to an abrupt halt when I bump into a man with a camera, nearly knocking it from his hands.

  “I’m sorry,” I say and check the camera to make sure it’s okay.

  Before he can answer, a girl in her early twenties, dressed in jeans, an oversize thrift store sweater and a stylish black beret, takes hold of my arm. Her nostrils flare as she glares at me. Heck, if looks could kill.

  “You’re not supposed to be behind him,” she says, impatience lacing her voice. She points to a crowd gathered around a gazebo. “Over there.” After a good hard eye roll that would leave me with a headache, she throws her hands up and says, “Extras. They’ll be the death of me yet.”

  Ex
tras? What the heck is going on?

  I walk to the gazebo, and slide in next to some elderly gentleman. He has kind blue eyes and a nice smile. “Hi,” I say, and he puts his fingers to his lips to hush me.

  I wince, and try to see over the heads of the people in front of me. I shift, and spot a man dressed as Santa, children on his lap. Cameras are zeroed in on him as he laughs joyously with the little wiggling boy. Ohmigod, they’re filming a movie here. The girl with the beret circles the gazebo, and when Santa stands, his suit gets caught on the chair and rips.

  “Cut,” Beret Girl says, and the crowd around me relaxes and starts talking. “Where is Bethany?” she calls out. “Bethany, where the heck are you?” We all glance around for Bethany, not that I have any clue what she looks like.

  “She’s not well. She had to leave,” one of the cameramen shouts.

  Beret girl throws her hands up. “Great. How are we going to fix this costume?”

  I push through the crowd, and tentatively walk up to her. “I can help.”

  Beret Girl eyes me for a moment. “What do you know about costume design?”

  “A lot actually.”

  She studies me for a moment, and gives me that big eye roll again. “There’s no budget. We’re a small production. I can’t pay you.”

  I don’t even care about the pay. I’m excited to do something beneficial, and put myself to better use while I’m here. “It’s fine. I’d be happy to help.” I turn to Santa, and examine the clothing on the other actors and actresses. “Come on, Santa. Let’s get you fixed up.”

  Santa pulls his beard down, and I see the young man beneath the costume as he exchanges words I can’t hear with Beret Girl. A moment later he’s leading me to a small space in the back of a fruit-and-vegetable market, the doors open to the rear of the building. I glance around and examine the antiquated equipment.

  “Can you work with this?” Santa asks with a big frown. “It’s sort of all we had the budget for.”

  I laugh, a new lightness inside of me. “I don’t think I have a choice,” I say, and he grins and holds his hand out.