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Beau laughed, pulling her hands away. “He was incredibly rude to you, but that’s my fault. I bring it out in him.”
She shook her head. “I need to learn to keep my big mouth shut.”
“Please don’t,” he said. “I love not knowing what will come out of it next. Such as the charming way you called me a thing after the fit you threw over my buffet comment.”
“I said what?” Lola asked.
“Just now you said you were very possessive of your things.”
“That’s hardly the same. You referred to women as something you can pick up next to a tub of fried chicken,” Lola said. “I was just playing nice for your friend like you wanted. Has he ever invited you to his table before?”
Beau pursed his lips. “No.”
“Then I must’ve done something right.”
“You did something to me, at least.” He scanned her face. “I like you being possessive over me.”
“I’m not. I was just doing what you asked.”
He sipped something dark from his glass and surveyed the room. “I’m not sure why you continue to fight this. The deal’s been made, but truth be told, I think you want to be here. You just won’t admit it.”
She studied his profile. There was a disconnect in his eyes, as if not looking at her meant she wasn’t there. It made him darker. It occurred to her just how much power he had tonight. He’d treated her like glass so far, but he could still shatter her with a flick of his wrist. “Beau? What if I decide not to go through with this?”
He blinked once and turned his head to her. When he raised his hand, she flinched. He touched his thumb to the corner of her lips. “You know what our arrangement is,” he said. His voice dropped. “And on one point I’ve been very clear. Until sunrise, you’re mine.”
His thumb was still pressed against her skin, distracting her. “I know self-defense,” she said.
“You won’t need it.” He shook his head. “Trust me.”
Had she met Beau another time, a time when Johnny wasn’t part of her life, she would’ve been attracted to him. He wasn’t her type—Johnny was, with his unsmoothable edges and no-bullshit attitude. His faded hair, faded tattoos, faded black T-shirts. Beau’s dark-brown hair was just enough for her to grab a handful and no more. Lola had an eye for expensive things even if she didn’t own any, and nothing on Beau’s body came cheap. He just beat Johnny in height, but where Johnny’s T-shirts stretched across his torso, Beau’s terse suits—and tuxedos—perfectly complemented his broad shoulders and muscular, lean frame.
“My eyes are up here,” Beau teased.
She blinked up from his chest. “Sorry.”
“Where’d you go?”
She just shook her head.
“Look,” Beau said, sighing, “we have an agreement, yes, but I’m not resting on that. I’m obviously attracted to you or you wouldn’t be here.” He paused. “Maybe I don’t need that reciprocated, but I want it. And I’m willing to work for it.”
“I love my boyfriend,” Lola said. “You can’t expect me to enjoy sleeping with you.”
“I do expect it,” Beau said. “When I make love to you tonight, it’ll be in a way that demands everything from you.”
Lola’s throat tightened. Nowhere in their arrangement had they said they’d be making love. This was just supposed to be sex—straight up sex. No romance. No fantasy. Definitely no lovemaking.
“I wouldn’t pay a million pennies for any other woman,” Beau continued. “This is about you, not me. Tonight, you’re my queen.” He made sure she was looking him in the eye when he added, “And that makes me your king. If you’re worried about making love, don’t be. I’m going to fuck you too.”
Lola covered her mouth but couldn’t tear her eyes away from him. “Beau,” she said behind her hand.
“I don’t want any misconceptions. I’m going to make you uncomfortable. I’m going to worship you. I’m going to dominate you. Any man who just has sex with a woman like you is a fool. I want to make art with you—dirty, impossible, fucked-up, beautiful art.”
Lola’s mind reeled. The image he’d painted was too vivid to shut out. There were people all around them, but inside she was tightly wound and aching for him to untwist her. One hand twitched with the urge to slap him while the other wanted to fist his lapel and bring him closer.
“Now you’re giving me something,” Beau said, watching her with intensity. “Something I can work with.”
Lola didn’t even know the skin she was in. “I need to fix my lipstick. I can meet you at the table.”
He straightened up. “Go ahead. I’ll wait.”
Lola rushed to the nearest bathroom and stood in front of the mirror. Only the slight flush of her cheeks gave her away. The reality of the situation hit her. She would be having sex with this man—this stranger. It was no longer about money, but about two people spending the night together. Her heart pounded from Beau’s words. She could feel blood circulating through her for the first time ever.
It wasn’t Beau’s promise of things to come that scared her anymore. Nor was it his threat that it was too late to change her mind. What scared her was wanting this, and at the idea of being fucked by him, she had.
She took out the lipstick the makeup artist had given her. She didn’t leave the bathroom until it was applied perfectly.
Beau noticed. “You look composed again,” he said when she returned.
Lola hated that word. Only people with something to hide composed themselves. But he was right—she was struggling to be herself in an environment so obviously meant for someone else.
They were the last ones to the dining table. After introductions had been made, Beau put his mouth to Lola’s ear and said, “Mayor Churchill is one of those who equates my inability to commit to one woman with the way I do business. An invitation to his table is an opportunity.”
His warm breath pebbled her skin. She nodded to show she understood, but with him so close, her mind was back on their kiss. It’d been so convincing that even she’d believed it. There had been need and desire in the way his hands had gripped her, but something gentler and almost reverent in his lips.
Beau conversed easily with the table, but Lola wasn’t listening. She watched. He had an unnerving way of focusing on whoever was speaking. It was similar to how he’d approached Lola and Johnny with his proposition. Where did business end with him? Would it carry over into the bedroom?
“So, Lola,” Mayor Churchill said between dishes, “are you from Los Angeles?”
Beau took her hand under the table.
