Easy Ride. Suzanne Ruby
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His expression remained as distressed as his jeans, yet he looked nothing short of gorgeous. Infuriatingly so, because she didn’t want to feel attracted to this nutcase. The image of a black horse, which was inked on his now-exposed chest, seemed to breathe heavily along with him.
“You’re not Lydia,” he said.
“And you’re not Fabian.”
He ran both hands through his beautifully disheveled hair, and gripped it down to the roots, as if anchoring himself amid the confusion.
In her opinion, all he did was elevate the bed-head look to a whole new level of sexiness.
“There you are, Ride. I see you two have met,” Fabian said, entering the room as if nothing remotely weird had happened in his absence.
For Kirby, the moment had a distinct ménage feel about it. And not in a good way.
As much as Easy Ride had awakened something within her—something completely capable of muddling her emotions—her head began to clear. Obviously, this guy was into some woman named Lydia. Or else he had the ability to cook up some seriously tasty lines that contained no sincere ingredients, and then serve them to everyone. Along with a few borderline-offensive ones specifically for her.
No matter. Kirby smiled, from the inside out. She’d have no problem doing what she needed to do for the story. And maybe doing a few things she wouldn’t ordinarily do along the way.
As imperfect as their introduction had been, Easy Ride was perfect story material.
HOLY CRAP.
So this was his new client. From behind, and with her hair up in a bun, she could pass for their manager. Lydia loved his shoulder rubs, neck kisses and harmless-but-naughty banter. The naughtier, the better, with the added levity of some questionable compliments. All in good fun.
Nothing about this current situation could be considered remotely fun.
This Lydia-from-behind look-alike hadn’t bantered back in the usual manner, which should have been a clue. Instead, he had ramped up the innuendo.
The fact that this woman wasn’t painfully thin should have been another clue, but he’d been too busy enjoying the softness of her to think it through. Rather, enjoying the softness of what he thought was Lydia.
In a way, he was relieved it wasn’t his boss because he’d gotten more than a little turned on. Then it struck him. Had he really made a snarky remark about a new client’s breasts?
Adam Drake traced the outline of her gorgeous curves from afar. She’d even let her hair down, and damn if she didn’t make the most stunning brunette he’d ever seen.
She’d been a blonde in the club, he was sure of it. No small detail in his defense for what had happened. But the hair color hadn’t been the hook. It was her belligerent-turned-appreciative gold-flecked eyes looking directly into his.
Besides, Lydia was the one who’d asked him to track down Gentleman John and report back to her in this room. But she hadn’t been here when he’d returned.
Where the hell had Lydia run off to anyway? She could corroborate his story.
Then again, why even bother formulating a defense? Being innocent never worked. At least, not for him.
He tried to remain confident as the client chatted with Fabian near the door, probably requesting a new friend for the evening. All the while, his good buddy Fab acted proper and professional and appropriately appalled at Adam’s behavior.
Now that was hilarious. Fab put on a bigger act than all the guys combined.
Fabian finally gave him the two-fingered wave, indicating it was safe to come back. He would probably be asked to apologize to the classy client. And Fabian would soak it all up and use it against him later.
Instead of a reprimand, Fabian said, “She’s happy to continue with you.”
“Come again?” Adam said.
An amused smile slashed across his client’s face. She didn’t seem too torn up, which made him wonder whether she had some sort of ulterior motive. She sure as hell didn’t look as if she had to pay some poor schmuck to hear her out. Much less praise her.
If he were good at one thing, it was spotting a poseur. A woman who came in for all the wrong reasons. Namely, for sex with one of the hot guys. Clients didn’t have to pay a penny if they weren’t satisfied with their session. That much was in the contract. So if a client wanted sex, the employee risked losing his wages if he said no.
Fabian left without responding to Adam’s question, but the knowing wink spoke volumes. He’d saved Adam’s ass on this one, as a best friend should.
He also left Adam to comfort this heartbroken knockout.
Fabian was the only other person who knew Adam’s own story of heartbreak. How his fiancée had traded up to the lead singer of the popular country-rock band Better Days. But only after cheating behind his back for an embarrassing amount of time.
He fought the urge to rub his bicep. The tattoo artist had inked a gorgeous stallion over his ex-girlfriend’s name. It was a nice complement to the Arabian mare tattooed on his chest. The cursive letters of Liv’s name had transformed into the stallion’s windblown mane quite easily. But he could still feel the resulting humiliation at times. Like slivers of glass lodged under his skin.
After a few awkward moments of silence, Adam offered his hand and led his new client back to the sofa.
She settled in on the far side.
He closed the distance between them, then draped his arm across the back. Near her, but not touching. He owed her that much.
“So, how does this work?” she asked, then bit her luscious bottom lip, which took a close second in sensuality to the top one. Full, with a cupid’s bow.
He resisted the urge to bite his own bottom lip.
“No rules. It can work however you want. It’s helpful for me to know a little bit about you. Why you’re here.”
“I heard about this place from my best friend, who will remain unnamed.”
“Understood.”
She fidgeted with her hands for several seconds while he waited. Patiently. He tried like hell not to get a full hard-on just looking at her. He felt the stirrings of one, a slight tightening of his jeans, so he diverted his gaze back to the fireplace.
“I’m divorced,” she said. “Which was difficult enough. But I was never really married. Not in the way people are usually married. Oh, God, this is hard.”
He tried to follow, but she wasn’t making sense.
“Were you in some sort of arranged marriage?”
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