Scandalise Me. Caitlin Crews

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      It was that last part that made her wonder exactly how much control she was clinging to, after all.

      “I don’t want to drag you off somewhere by your hair and have my way with you, Ms. Brook.”

      The smile on her lips turned mocking, but she was more concerned with the sudden long, slow thump of her heart and the heavy, wet heat low in her belly. “Because you’re not that kind of guy?”

      There was something more than predatory in his eyes then, hard and hot, a dark knowing in the curve of his mouth that connected with that deep drumroll inside her, making it her pulse, her breath, her worst fear come true.

      “I’m absolutely that kind of guy. But I told you. You have to ask me nicely.”

      He smiled, as if he was the one in control. And she couldn’t allow it.

      “No,” she said, furious that it came out like a whisper, thin and uncertain. His smile deepened for a moment, like a promise.

      “Your loss,” he murmured, and that aching fire swelled inside her, nearly bursting.

      And then he laughed again, dismissing her that easily, and turned to go. Again. For good this time, she understood, and she couldn’t let that happen.

      Zoe had no choice.

      “I wouldn’t do that, Mr. Grant.” She didn’t know why that dryness in her mouth seemed to translate into something like trembling everywhere else, when she’d known before she’d approached him that it would probably come to this. She waited until he looked back at her, and pretended the blue gleam of his eyes didn’t get to her at all, with all that weary amusement, as if he could see right through her when she knew—she knew—he couldn’t. That no one could. She made herself smile. “I know about Sarah.”

       Chapter Two

      Sarah.

      That name seemed to echo through the club, drowning out the music, slamming everything else straight out of his head. It seared through Hunter’s whole body like a lightning strike, only much darker. Much worse. Much more damaging.

      He should have known.

      If he hadn’t been so thrown by the appearance of Zoe Brook—like a jolt of caffeine, dressed in slick dark colors that only emphasized the powerful punch of her smoky, blue-gray eyes and lips painted a dusky shade of red—he would have seen this coming, surely. She was wearing too many too-expensive clothes, for starters, which meant she wasn’t flashing any skin. She hadn’t thrown herself at him in lieu of a greeting. There was absolutely no reason at all she should get to him, much less make an entire club filled with far more conventionally beautiful and accessible women simply...fade.

      And yet she’d been the only thing he could see, from the moment she’d locked eyes with him.

      But women like Zoe didn’t approach him at all these days, much less in places like this. They didn’t seek him out. They thought they knew all they needed to know about him, and he went out of his way to confirm their low opinions. They condemned him from nice, safe distances, way up high on their moral high grounds, and he liked it that way. He didn’t want to be near anyone he could ruin, not ever again.

      He should have known.

      Sarah was still the noose around his neck, all these years later. Forever. Deservedly—and he’d been kidding himself, thinking that he could avoid it now that he was back in New York. Imagining he could ignore the terrible truth. Blowing off his old friends’ attempts to finally do something about what had happened to her, a decade too late.

      “I beg your pardon?” He hardly sounded like himself, whoever the hell that was.

      Zoe’s smile affected him more than was healthy. Far more than was wise. “You heard me.”

      “Yes. But I don’t think I know what you mean.”

      Her smile deepened, and he felt thrust off-balance. Angry and needy instead of his preferred state of numbness. Something like lost—and it was that last he found unforgivable. He’d accepted that he was the worst kind of man a decade ago. He’d proved it every day since, hadn’t he? Why couldn’t that be the end of it?

      But it never was.

      “Oh, I think you do,” Zoe was saying almost cheerfully. “But you can pretend otherwise, if you like. I won’t think less of you. I doubt that’s even possible. Either way, I’ll expect you at my office tomorrow morning at ten.”

      “Your expectations are destined to end in disappointment.”

      “I hope not.” Her perfectly wicked brows rose, and he didn’t know what was the matter with him, that she could threaten him and he wanted her anyway. “I’m very good at getting what I want, Mr. Grant. You don’t want to test me.”

      “Are you blackmailing me, Ms. Brook?”

      Her smoke-colored eyes filled with a gleaming sort of triumph, making her look nearly beautiful in the club’s dark light. But Hunter had made beautiful women his life’s work, and Zoe Brook didn’t fit the bill. She was too sharp, too edgy. Her full lips were too quick to a smirk and her cool, blue-gray gaze was far too direct and intelligent. Her dark hair was thick and inky, her figure trim and smooth beneath clothes that murmured of her success in elegant lines, but she wasn’t anything as palatable as pretty. He liked softness and sweetness. Obliging whispers, melting glances. She was too...much.

      And that was without knowing that when he touched her, he caught fire.

      “That would suggest that there’s something about your ex-girlfriend that could be used to blackmail you,” she said after a moment of consideration. Her mouth twitched. “Are you saying there is?”

      “I have no idea. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Hunter smiled. “But then, everyone knows what a dumb jock I am.”

      “I don’t think you’re dumb,” she said, and not in a complimentary way. “Whatever else you are.”

      “You may be right,” he agreed, amused. “It takes a certain level of intelligence to remain this committed to my own destruction.” He held her gaze. “But that still doesn’t mean I know what you’re talking about.”

      There was a small pause, and the world crept back in. The insistent pulse of the club’s loud music. The distant sound of laughter. His own heart, pounding hard.

      “You’re remarkably self-aware for a Neanderthal, I have to admit,” she said then, as if she was extending an olive branch.

      “I was a Neanderthal professionally, never socially. It’s a crucial distinction.”

      “Are you telling me you’re the way you are deliberately?”

      “Aren’t we all?” he asked, more harshly than he’d intended. Giving too much away, he saw, when she tilted her head slightly to one side and regarded him with uncomfortable frankness.

      He needed to walk away from this woman. He needed to end this conversation. He didn’t know why he couldn’t seem to do it. Why he stood there СКАЧАТЬ