Born to be Bad. Crystal Green
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wondered if this was Theroux’s place. Everyone knew the man owned aboveboard businesses such as restaurants, bars and souvenir shops. Ironically, he was said to own the exact store where she’d purchased the gator head today.
But she was more interested in other establishments—especially the ones Lamont had mentioned.
Gemma took a big breath, fortifying herself. She could barely even walk straight with all the adrenaline attacking her system.
When she finally made it inside, she didn’t have long to absorb the murky atmosphere—the T-shirted, buzz-cutted, beefy men clutching the handles of mugs and watching a TV game show at the four-sided bar. The smell of booze and perspiration mixed by the slow blades of a ceiling fan. The clank of balls rolling over a pool table in the far corner.
Instead, a pair of strong arms engulfed her with the quickness of a flashing bite. One hand sprawled over her belly, pressing her back into a hard, lean body covered in linen. The other gripped her chin, turning her face toward her captor while he guided her into a deserted corner.
Theroux.
Only now, this close, could she see the feral glow of his pale blue eyes set against skin the color of a tobacco leaf.
Gemma tried to bite into his hand, but he loosened his hold while refusing to let go. Mouth quirked, his smile was mean, his gaze was narrowed.
“It’s not nice to follow people, chérie.”
Fear choked her throat, and she was painfully aware that her only weapon was a dime-store gator head wrapped in a plastic bag. Her heart jackhammered in her chest. He could feel her crazy pulse, couldn’t he?
This wasn’t a fantasy anymore.
Something shifted in his eyes, the shards of a broken kaleidoscope changing form. He released her, except for the fingers that kept a hold of her skirt waistband.
God, she couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t run, either.
Yet, inexplicably, she took a step toward him.
His heavy eyebrows shot up. His half smile returned.
Her instinctive response had caught her unaware, also. But Gemma gathered all her courage and shed her old skin—the girl next door who’d made the honor roll and the dean’s list throughout school. The editor of every academic newspaper she’d worked on. Her family’s great hope.
She shot a cheeky glance at his hand. His fingers had gone from grasping her waistband to settling on her hip, his thumb looped inside the skirt’s rim.
Now that she could breathe again, she detected his scent—cool, mysterious, brandied.
“Do you mind?” she asked, directing her glance from his encroaching hand to his face.
“I mind being tailed, yeah,” he said. “Is there something you want? My day’s been full of demands, anyway.”
Didn’t she know it. “Your hand’s still on me.”
“So it is.”
His smile widened, but it wasn’t playful. No, this was what sin looked like when it was amused.
Gemma’s blood rushed downward, making her stir uncomfortably. Making the inside of her thighs slick with the excitement of the chase. Making her swell and throb.
Dammit, she needed this story, and the enigmatic Damien Theroux was right here, ready for the unmasking.
She wasn’t going to lose this chance.
Instead, she stilled the trembling in her lower stomach, hoping it wouldn’t travel to her limbs.
It did.
But her voice was strong, even as she played dumb. “You own this place?”
He merely stared at her.
“I take that as a yes.”
“Take it any way you want it.”
Her appreciation for the art of a good double entendre tickled her nerves. Luckily, she found her steel again.
“I was wondering…” what you’d feel like inside me “…if there were any openings. You know, for a waitress.”
Genius, she thought. Working for him would be a good way to gather some sly information about these “other” dealings Lamont had hinted at.
But Theroux just continued staring.
“No?” she asked.
His thumb unhooked from her waistband, coasting lower, brushing over the center of her belly. Gemma jerked and grabbed his wrist as a bolt of desire shot through her. With emphatic meaning, she pushed his hand away.
“We’re not hiring,” he said. “For waitresses.”
Gemma gulped, dreading her next question.
HAVING GROWN UP IN A DOWN-at-the-heels section of the Faubourg Marigny, Damien had been raised to watch his own back. That’s why, halfway through his trip from Lamont’s, he’d been aware of someone following him. Usually, he kept much better track of his surroundings, but today he’d been distracted by Lamont’s threats to go to the media with what he knew. None of Damien’s marks had ever been that stupid.
Would Lamont actually chance it?
Damien highly doubted so, because the price was too high. Still, he didn’t like being targeted. Trailed. You always felt it in your spine—the watching. The way a potential threat sought out your vulnerable spots.
And blondes like this woman standing in front of him were one of his biggest weaknesses.
Now, as she glanced up at him with those baby-doll-blue eyes, Damien knew better than to let down his guard for the second time that day.
She had Barbie packaging, but the innocence of her heart-shaped face was thrown out of whack by a surprisingly square jaw. Delicate, to be sure, but still strong.
“So,” she said, cool as a mint sprig in an iced cocktail, “what kind of work is available here?”
He ran a gaze over her body, starting from the flats of her sensible shoes upward—the long, tanned legs, the career-girl khaki skirt that covered slim hips and a trim waist, the humidity-soaked blue top that clung to a pair of small, rounded breasts. As his attention lingered there, her nipples hardened, pebbling the material in two strategic locations.
Deliberately, he returned his focus to her face. Her cheeks were flushed, probably because she was insulted. Either that or… Could she be turned on by his interest?
Did this girl play dirty? And had her game started when she’d followed him here?
Lust speared through Damien, a raging grumble reaching from gut to cock. He could play dirty, too. In fact, that’s the only way he wanted it. Dirty, and easy to dust off.
“What kind of work do you do?” he asked.
“Waitressing.”
“And?”
She pursed those lips. Blow-job lips, as he’d grown up calling them. “I’m not sure I understand, Mr….?”
“I’m asking about your experience, Ms….?” He mocked her by grinning.
Refusing to back down, she laughed. “Call me Gem. Gem…James.”
She rested a hand on her hip, and Damien ached, remembering how his palm had molded those curves.
“I waitressed at an Italian restaurant in high school. In college, I worked at the same trendy bar for four years. I’ve also done time at a few chain restaurants recently. So what do you say? Are you hiring?”
“No.”
She glanced at the floor, but not before Damien saw a flash of disappointment. When she looked back up, she was giving him the puppy-dog treatment.
“I