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When her blue eyes come back to mine, they’re wide and soft around the edges.
I’m more sadistic that I thought. Only the tiniest flare of vulnerability reminds me that she’s five-foot-nothing and wouldn’t make it farther than the lockers if I decided she wouldn’t. Just like she wouldn’t have made it out of the phone booth if I hadn’t stepped aside.
This girl may look the part, and my business might be falling to shit, but she could never be my Queen of Hearts. Her quick mouth, sticky hands, and hard stare are annoying, but they couldn’t bring me to my knees. I’d snuff the life out of her before I let them.
One day, she’ll play her games on a man that isn’t as…sportsmanlikeas me, and they’ll do just that. The thought slides a sheet of unease under my skin.
“Answer my question.” My tone has lost its edge. “Where did you learn to pick a pocket like that?”
Hot, shallow breaths leave her lips and graze my throat. Curling my free hand into a fist around my poker chip in my slacks, I tear my gaze from hers in an attempt to thin the air. She’s too naked for this.
As I’m glaring at Laurie’s locker behind Penelope’s head, her soft voice touches my ears, its contents as unexpected as its tone.
“I’m trying,” she whispers.
My eyes skim to hers, and dammit, I wish I hadn’t looked, because I don’t find the sarcasm I was expecting. Instead, her face is flushed a pretty pink and her bottom lip sticks out. I shouldn’t know how it feels to run my thumb over it. Shouldn’t want to do it again, either.
“Trying?”
“To stop with the whole swindling thing. You were supposed to be my last…”
My eyes slant on hers as her sentence trails off. Gritting my teeth, I say coldly, “Call me a mark, Penelope, and it’ll be the last word that comes out of your mouth.”
She flashes me a lop-sided smirk. “Target, then.”
I snap the waistband of her tights, hard, in an attempt to shock her. More fool me—the moan that escapes her lips tugs on the tip of my cock. I dig my finger back in, deeper this time, a darkness filling me as my fingertip grazes the band of her thong.
Dead parents, bratty behavior. That’s a recipe for a sinner if I’ve ever seen one. What I’d do to sink my teeth into that dough-like skin and taste those sins of hers. To pull on her red ponytail and relish in every confession she makes against my pillow as I fuck her from behind.
Lust crawls under my skin like an itch I can’t scratch. I clear my throat, trying—and failing—to ignore the heat of her gaze shining up at me.
This is ridiculous. That’s what I thought earlier too, when I left the jet ski garage a hundred bucks lighter. This girl has a way of luring me into quiet places and sending me into so much of a spin I forget where the exit is.
Being a dick is the only way I know how to stand up straight around her.
“Try harder,” I grind out. I drag my finger out of her tights again, and the satisfying snap of elastic reminds me of the crack of a belt. “Keep your sticky fingers to yourself, Penelope.”
“Yes, boss—”
I grip her jaw rougher than I intend. I’m too worked up, too hot, to feel any regret. “Don’t get smart with me. Blake’s an easy target: dumb as a bag of rocks. You won’t get away so easily if you try that shit on anyone with half a brain and a Glock in their waistband.”
She frowns, her jaw muscle flexing against my thumb pad in defiance. “Bet I could.”
I stare at those lips a beat too long. Bet I could. Christ, I’ve known her for a week and she already knows what buzzwords will dig her red fingernails under my skin. Years of conditioning makes it instinctive to bite back with a wager, but, in the interest of being professional, I clamp my mouth shut and drag my hand away from her face.
I take a step back and flex my fist. Stride toward the exit. I don’t intend on stopping until I’m in the darkness of my office, where the heat of her skin and the scent of her strawberry shampoo can’t mar my restraint, but her voice comes in a low, sultry rasp, my name wrapped within it.
My stomach tightens. I turn and look at her face. Her stupid, pretty face, punctuated with features that make men do silly things, like follow her into locker rooms knowing she’ll be in pantyhose and lace.
“If Blake’s an easy target, what does that make you?” She pulls a wallet out from under her dress.
Son of a bitch.
She holds it up like a trophy, and the initials RV glint in gold under the spotlights. My own name, taunting me with how fucking complacent I’ve become.
With a lazy smirk, she flips open my wallet and peers inside. She tugs out a hundred-dollar bill and slides it into her bra.
“That’s for winning the bet.” She pulls out another hundred. “Plus VAT.” She cocks her head in thought, then pulls out another. “Plus tip.”
I watch in dark amusement as she tosses my wallet onto the bench and flashes me a sickly sweet smile. “Pleasure doing business with you, boss.”
She slinks off into a cubicle, leaving me with an unwanted thrill under my skin and the threat of a hard-on in my pants.
I bite out a laugh.
This girl isn’t the Queen of Hearts, but the Devil in disguise.
Unfortunately, I can’t say for sure I wouldn’t follow her into hell.
