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Heartbreakingly slowly, she turned, giving him a full frontal view. The fingers that had gone still began to move again, making quick work of the few buttons that were left. The edges of her shirt fluttered open. His eyes sharpened, trying to see every minute detail of her body through the distance and the night.
Flat stomach, gorgeous expanse of perfect, creamy skin. He registered the slight pink tinge that swept up her chest and throat. Was it embarrassment, arousal or both?
Tugging each cuff at her wrists, she held her arms wide open and let the gauzy material slither against her skin. Down, down, down, until it puddled on the floor at her feet.
The cups of her bra sat low, barely containing the curve of her breasts. He could see the top arch of her areolae, a deep, dark pink. The color of raspberries. Would she be just as sweet and tart against his tongue?
Lace edged the top of her bra. He imagined it tickling across her sensitive nipples. Two teeny, tiny straps, looking as if they might snap at any moment, curved over her shoulders and strained against the heavy weight of her breasts. Never in his life had Beckett wanted so desperately for fabric to break.
Then she spun away. A growling protest was out of his mouth, and he’d taken a step forward before he realized she wasn’t stopping, simply giving him her back.
Heavy lines of ink curled across her skin. Over her ribs, black, blue and purple twisted together into a picture. He couldn’t see all of it, but enough to get the gist. Delicate wings, ethereal body, flowing hair. Just like her, the lithe fairy was turned away, showing only her back and bowed head.
For some reason, the picture she’d permanently placed on her skin made his chest ache. It reminded him of how she’d looked when she’d first walked into the room, exhausted and a little tragic.
Before he could follow that thread of thought, her arms reached behind her, blocking out his view of her ink. Her palms slipped down, smoothing her skirt. The material clung to her body, hugging the curve of her ass in a way that made his hands itch to do the same. Because he couldn’t, Beckett curled his fingers into fists.
The skirt pulled in, following the contours of her hips and narrowing to skim her thighs. The hem hit just above her knees, a perfectly respectable length. But that didn’t stop him from feeling sorry for every poor bastard who had to work with her, watch her prance around in that skirt and know his chances of getting beneath it were slim.
She took a single step forward, opening the slit that lined up perfectly with the seam of her thighs. This time, the groan Beckett bit back had nothing to do with fear that she was going to stop.
The slit ended near the tops of her thighs, hinting at what lay beneath. That hint was torture. Because, with the slit held open by her position, all he could see were shadows promising him so much more than she was giving.
Beckett’s mouth went dry and then flooded with moisture. He wanted to taste her. To discover the musky scent of her arousal and press his face right there into those shadows.
Twisting, she set her pointy little chin on her shoulder and watched him as her fingers tugged at the zipper. Her hands eased the material down, inch by excruciating inch, revealing the scorching-red panties that matched her bra.
Satin and lace, the boyshorts covered her sweet curves. Something about them was both chaste and tantalizing. Like her, a contradiction. Adorably innocent yet devilishly tempting.
His eyes had been trained so intently on her rounded curves that it took him several moments to notice she was wearing thigh highs beneath that skirt.
Dear God in heaven.
Lace wrapped around the expanse of each thigh, cutting in and holding on. He could practically feel the silky texture of them against his palms, rubbing up and down his ribs as her thighs gripped him. Beckett swallowed. Hard. And the tiny, taunting smile that played across her lips told him she knew exactly the reaction she was pulling from him.
Dammit. It had been a very long time since he’d let a woman have the upper hand. How had this one managed it? With ten feet and a pane of glass between them.
When she walked several feet away from him, he got an unbelievably amazing view of her entire body. Killer legs he could imagine around his waist. Hips that swayed seductively. The firm curve of a good ass. The curl of ink, proof that she wasn’t as buttoned up as her outward appearance suggested. Long expanse of elegant spine, riotous curls begging to have a man’s hands twined in them and holding her close.
This woman was a siren. That’s all there was to it.
Lifting a single foot to the bench at the end of her bed, she plastered her body down the length of her thigh to lean over and unbuckle the heel still strapped on. Her breasts swayed, straining against the material barely holding them in.
Pain and need and craving pounded through him, settling so deep in his bones he was afraid the ache would never leave.
Her right foot was on the bench angling her body away from him. Flipping him a look over her shoulder and from beneath her lashes, she watched him even as she rolled the stocking carefully down her leg.
Her body swayed gently, the lace at the bottom of her panties creeping higher to give him an alluring glimpse of more. The metal teeth of his zipper bit into the straining length of his erection. He was light-headed from all the blood rushing to his groin.
He couldn’t remember a single time when he’d wanted a woman so much. Beckett hadn’t touched her and didn’t even know her name, but that didn’t seem to matter. There was something about her that...drew him.
All he could think of was tasting her skin. Hearing the sound of her moans, her sharp inhale of breath when he finally pushed home, filling her up and bringing them both unbearable ecstasy.
His hands clenched around the railing, desperately needing an anchor to keep him from slipping entirely into the fantasy.
Devouring her with his eyes, Beckett watched as she straightened and moved back to the window. Her gaze burned as she studied him. Not just with lust, but something more. He felt the pressure of it licking through his blood. It was as if she could see beneath his skin. Recognized just how alone he was, even constantly surrounded by other people.
Because she was just as lonely.
He expected her to stop when she reached the window. Maybe drop her bra to the floor. Or crook her finger and silently tell him to come finish what they’d both started.
What he was too far gone to anticipate was for her to press her breasts right up against the window. The movement tugged at the already precarious edge of her bra giving him a peek at her nipples. Tiny buds hard and tight with the same desire running rampant through his own body. There was no denying she was just as turned on as he was.
He could read it in the desperate glow of her eyes, the flush of her skin and the languid, liquid way her body moved.
Her arms stretched wide out to her sides. She undulated, rolling her hips and ribs and spine in a way that begged him to touch.
And then the blind snapped down between them.
* * *
SAGGING AGAINST THE wall beside the window now covered by the wide slats of her plantation blinds, Alyssa Vaughn let her body slide down. The polished hardwood floor was cold on her rear when it hit, but she welcomed the shock. Maybe it would cool the sizzling tremble running rampant through her body.
She dropped her head to her knees and screwed her eyes shut.
What the hell had she been thinking?
She hadn’t. That was the problem.
The moment her eyelids closed, her overheated mind conjured up the image of him again. A beautiful man with dark, intense eyes that had scraped across her body with a blazing heat, leaving her breathless. Half of his face obscured by a brightly colored mask.
His body had been just as hidden beneath the dark lines of an expensive suit. But she’d known, instinctively, the fire and strength he harbored. Could see it in the flex of long, tapered fingers and bulge of thigh muscles against smooth fabric.
Dangerously elegant. Like the sleekest jungle cat, beautiful in its power, but deadly when provoked.
The man had stirred some force inside her. The way he’d watched her, gaze sharp and exquisitely intense, focused on every miniscule movement. As though there was nothing in the world for him right then except what she was showing. Nothing more important than what they were sharing.
Excitement and something much more dangerous flashed beneath her skin. A craving that went deeper than mere physical satisfaction. A need long buried. A hope long denied.
Sucking a hard breath through her teeth, Alyssa forced her arms to relax and drop away from their tight hold around her body. She raised her head and let it clunk against the wall. Staring up at the ceiling she’d painted a pale heather gray, she focused on breathing, slow and steady.
No harm done. She’d stopped before going too far. Before letting free that wild piece of herself she kept locked down tight. Always ignored.
A bra and boyshorts were no more revealing than most bathing suits. She hadn’t done anything wrong. So why was she struggling with a sickening mixture of guilt, exhilaration and dismay?
He had no idea who she was. It had been late, dark, with only a lamp on for light. He’d been wearing a mask and was ten feet away, lodged in the shadows. They could collide on the street and never know each other.
A moment of insanity. Mardi Gras madness. A release from the stress and pressure she’d been dealing with all day.
It was over. Or, at least, it would be once she dealt with the hum of residual sexual energy lodged squarely between her thighs.
And if, in the throes of passion when her defenses were weak, she imagined his heated gaze sweeping across her body, watching intently as she finished what he’d started, there was no way anyone else would ever know that—especially him.
2
THEY WERE DESPERATE. And that’s just how Beckett wanted them.
Unfortunately, so was he, although, even as he strode into their plush offices, he had no intention of letting V&D know that.
He needed their app. Would do anything to own it. It was the game changer. Something that would take his nightclubs from simply successful to infamous. Like Studio 54, he wanted Exposed to become a household name, the kind whispered with awe and envy.
He craved the notoriety, money and irrefutable proof that he was finally successful, his life stable. The familiar desperation tasted bitter in his mouth.
What a difference fourteen years could make. At eighteen he’d been kicked out of the massive mansion he’d called home, and the whiplash with which he’d lost everything had hurt. But not nearly as much as realizing his father didn’t give a damn about him.
Without a penny or any discernible skills, he’d floundered, imposing on friends, sleeping on couches, carrying what little his father had let him take in a garbage bag. But it had become clear that wasn’t a long-term solution.
He’d had no place to live. Had never held a job. It might not have sounded like a sob story to anyone else, but going a few days without anything to eat after having every meal provided on gold-rimmed plates had been a hell of a shock to the system.
The fake ID he’d used to get into clubs had been useful in convincing the owner of a seedy nightclub to give him a chance. He’d started out slinging drinks, but soon realized that wasn’t going to be enough.
Six months later he was managing the place, his natural charm and leadership skills taking over. Splitting the profits with a drunk who wasn’t coherent enough to realize what he was giving up hadn’t exactly been the stuff of lifelong dreams, but Beckett had socked away every penny until he’d had enough to open his own place.
It’d taken four years, but a year after he actually turned legal he opened the first Exposed deep in the New Orleans Warehouse District. Funky and eclectic, it had appealed to a wide range of people.
Two years later came the club in New York. Then L.A., Nashville, Chicago and Seattle. He now owned twelve locations. But that wasn’t enough.
Part of him wondered if there would ever be enough. If success and security could wipe out those first few years of desperation.
Especially when his father delighted in reminding him just how much of a disappointment and failure he’d once been. Or that the money he’d made since was on the back of something lurid and common.
As if the man hadn’t come from humble beginnings himself. His father was a self-made billionaire. And a ruthless asshole, like a lion eating his young to protect his power position within the pride.
Beckett didn’t care how he made his mark, though. It didn’t bother him that he did it by selling alcohol and providing a dark place where inhibitions dropped and people hooked up.
Sex and sensationalism sold. Which was exactly why he needed V&D’s new social media app. Having a dozen Exposed locations was great. But allowing anyone with a smartphone to feel as if they were at his clubs...that would open his revenue stream up to every city in the country. Hell, in the world. Billions of people dropping in to watch and interact.
However, V&D refused to even entertain his offers.
Which just pissed him off.
It had been a long time since someone had been stupid enough to disrespect him to his face, but that was what V&D was doing. Treating his blood, sweat and tears like the ten-year-old banished to the kiddie table at Christmas. Dismissing him as if he was insignificant. That, more than anything, was what had lodged beneath his skin, itching and burning.
Well, they’d surely realized that was far from the truth by now. He was more than significant. He had them by the balls.
They wouldn’t listen to reason, so he’d simply take what he wanted.
He was going to enjoy watching them squirm. And while that would certainly be entertaining, what he really hoped to gain from this meeting was an understanding of what he’d done to piss them off so much they’d excluded him from the negotiations in the first place.
He hated to be in the dark. That’s when you were open and vulnerable. Beckett did not like being exposed. And the irony wasn’t lost on him at all.
Now V&D were scrambling, and Beckett was going to enjoy sitting back and watching the show. This would be fun.
He grasped the handle of the conference room door and his heart rate kicked. He embraced the physical evidence of his anticipation, letting it free for just a moment. A smile flickered across his lips. Then, completely in control, he wiped his expression clean.
Striding forward with confidence, he raked his gaze across the conference table and the people already waiting. And he nearly stumbled.
Blood, adrenaline and a bone-deep craving flooded his body. Every muscle went solid, straining against his skin and the need to reach across the table, grasp the woman staring at him and kiss the hell out of her.
Although the daggers she currently had pointed at him said that probably wouldn’t go over well.
Beckett’s years of harsh control served him well. Shaking his head, he pulled out the chair opposite the gathered contingent and settled against the soft leather surface. Leaning back, he let the chair tip off center and take his weight, his body lax and comfortable.
Scraping the group with a practiced, sharp smile that was all teeth and challenge, he waited to see what their first move would be.
He’d been looking forward to this meeting all morning, but suddenly it had gone from entertaining to downright thrilling.
Because sitting across from him, elegant, cold and seriously pissed off, was the last person he’d ever expected to see.
The woman was far from the tech geek he’d anticipated. While he’d been doing research on both of the partners, the V in V&D had remained a mystery. In an age of social media, she hadn’t had a Facebook, Twitter or Google+ account. Which had struck him as weird, considering she was the brains behind a company poised to explode into the highly competitive tech market.
Hell, she was selling a social media app and didn’t have a single social media account. No photographs or videos of her drunken college days on YouTube. According to rumor, she valued her privacy, preferring her lab, computers and code to actual human interaction.
He’d half prepared himself for some shy, mousy thing with pale skin and eyes bloodshot from staring at flickering screens too long.
Instead, her pale-green gaze was definitely not foggy or distracted. It was intelligent, angry and trained solely on him.
A blouse the same shade as her eyes was buttoned up tight. A single strand of gleaming pearls nestled against the hollow of her throat. The long, lush hair was swept up into a tight twist, bangs feathering across her forehead.
She was clearly the prim and proper businesswoman ready to plunge into shark-infested waters...and win. And maybe, if fate hadn’t intervened, the ruse would have worked.
But he knew her secrets.
He’d seen her naked skin, that heartbreaking tattoo and her sexy lingerie just last night, framed in the lonely window of a French Quarter apartment.
* * *
ALYSSA WATCHED HIM stride into the room, powerful, commanding and utterly confident in his own skin. She’d braced for the impact, but it hadn’t done much good.
The moment he entered it felt as if all the oxygen had been sucked from the room. Her lungs deflated, leaving her gasping for breath.
It had been years since she’d seen the man, although their single encounter had left a lasting impression. Not just on her psyche, but on her life.
Although she’d bet next year’s profits he didn’t have the first clue who she was...or that he’d once had his tongue down her throat and his hand up her skirt.
Or that he’d humiliated her.
She’d been sixteen and upset from a fight with Bridgett and her father before a friend had picked her up for a party. Her stepmother had accused her of things she hadn’t done—drugs, drinking, seeing an older guy. Without a second thought, her father had believed every word his wife fed him.
