Million Dollar Devil Page 4

  He knows all these strings tying me to him just make it harder for me to leave, like my mom did.

  It’s frustrating to feel so “managed” all the time, especially when I want to prove to him that I’m a capable girl and can do fine on my own.

  One of the doormen studies the hunk of dirty man flesh next to me, then pulls me aside as James struts toward the entrance. “Are you in trouble, Miss Banks?”

  Probably. I give him a reassuring smile. “No, no trouble.”

  We head up the elevators, and then I lead him into my sprawling apartment. James Rowan seems larger and larger as he enters my space. I suppose it should alarm me, but I’m too drunk and too excited to rethink this whole thing. Yes, my hormones maybe got more of a workout than I wanted them to, but I’m trying to get them under control now.

  Oh my fucking god. Did I really kiss him?

  If my father had been a fly on the wall during that, he’d be lying on the floor mat of that cab right now, a dead fly.

  James glances around my pristine place and whistles. “Damn. Nearly as nice as the owner.” He winks at me, his voice deep and flirty, and I feel a blush creep up my cheeks.

  Scowling at my reactions to him, I sigh. “Just . . . clean up, okay? Towels and everything you need are right through there.” I point to the restroom, sighing as the guy heads down the hall. He pauses at the door to the guest bathroom, eyeing me as I sway a little on my feet. I’m suddenly ready for bed, too exhausted and intoxicated to think clearly.

  “Tough day, huh?”

  “Says the guy with the bloody fists.”

  “I won’t mention the other guy.” He shrugs as if it’s no biggie.

  “You mean boast about the other one.”

  Another roguish smile, making me wonder what that dimple on his cheek will look like without his beard. “Appreciate you letting me clean up here.” He turns to head into the shower, and I stop him.

  “Wait. James. Wait. Stand there. Don’t. MOVE. Let me look at you again.”

  Facing me, he narrows his eyes, standing still for me to walk up to him and slide my eyes up and down his frame.

  Trying to ignore the odd little boil running through my veins, I assess him as clinically as possible. Taking in his pros, his cons, everything about him. Needs a little shave. Nicely built. Mmm. Very nicely built. And I bet he’d be a bargain too. I could probably save some money by offering him less. I mean, he nearly killed himself for $500. Men like him have no shame.

  “Do you have a screw loose or something?” he growls softly.

  I jerk my eyes up. Okay. I’ll start the bidding at one hundred. He’ll probably lap that up.

  We will have our work cut out for us, though. It’ll take time. I’ll need to buy time—but it will be worth it. Because underneath the daredevil there’s something terribly mesmerizing, and I can’t wait to discover it.

  I will take on the near-impossible task of turning this guy into the most perfect man the world has ever seen—I just need to control my attraction to him in the process.

  Jimmy

  When I woke up this morning, I didn’t think I’d be finishing up the day in a place as swanky as this one.

  But wouldn’t you know it? My life’s full of adventure.

  Fuck, everything is white here. The walls, the carpets, the sofas, the towels. I hope she pays her housekeeper a mint.

  I’m the only smudge in the place. Knew that much when I saw the way the doormen were looking at me. Like I ain’t even human.

  I check the mirror to find the markings of a fresh bruise on my cheek. Denny’s lucky. I should’ve knocked his teeth out tonight. I probably would’ve if it hadn’t been for Elizabeth.

  Hell, I should’ve knocked him out anyway.

  That guy? What a bastard.

  I yank a bath towel from the linen closet and place it on the vanity before entering the walk-in shower. The light-colored walls and ivory marble tiles are something I’ve only seen in movies.

  This gigantic bathroom is larger than my bedroom. Shit, my whole house would probably fit in here.

  As I work the shampoo into a lather, I think about Charlie again. Best kid in the world. He’s thirteen years old but looks about nine, and because of it, he gets his ass handed to him on a regular basis. Fucking Denny and his family of assholes. How could a grown man encourage his younger brothers to bully a kid?

  Damn, it makes my blood boil!

  Yeah, so I may have to pay Tim for the bar damage. The person I became tonight is the person Denny knew he could pull out of hiding. It was too easy, and I guess it concerns me.

  It only took him a minute to drag my rage to the forefront. Was that the goal all along? I didn’t want a fight.

  Hell, Charlie didn’t want this fight. Charlie ain’t into that. He’s such a calm, sweet kid that he’s paid very little attention to my tips on defending himself—and that concerns me too. He begged me to stay out of it, and maybe I would’ve, if Charlie could hold his own, but he can’t.

  And he won’t need to.

  He has me for that.

  My mind turns back to Elizabeth. Hell, my mind isn’t the only thing weighing in right now.

  Elizabeth Banks. The Elizabeth Banks. From the fucking newspapers.

  Who knew that in person, she’d make my cock stiff as fuck? Who knew that I got off on the country-club set? What I’d give to run my fingers through that silken black hair, stare into those emerald-color eyes, and just screw around until morning light.

  I stroke my dick, thinking of her sweet little body, the way her nipples spiked with just a bit of friction. If she gets cranked up over a little foreplay, I wonder what happens when she’s into an outright grind.

  My hand tightens as I leisurely pump up and down. I close my eyes and think of her smile. Those perky fucking tits.

  Damn.

  What I’d do to earn my place in her bed. What I’d do to spread those soft thighs, clasp her slender hands, and find that easy late-night rhythm.

  Hell. I’d probably fuck like a maniac and scare her to death.

  I wonder then if she likes a lot of foreplay or if she gets right to it. Does she like wild sex in numerous positions, missionary, or climbing aboard and riding?

  She seems so prim and proper. She dresses like a woman who’s in control, but she needs to let her hair down.

  I’ll gladly help her with that.

  On the drive over, she acted all timid and shit, but as soon as our lips met, she felt that chemistry. I felt the connection.

  I should be hightailing it back to the house. Instead, I’m here in her museum-size shower, stroking myself while thinking of one hot piece of strange tail.

  I stop.

  She’s more than a piece of ass. I grit my teeth and revisit her earlier words.

  Does she really have an offer for me, or is that some sort of pickup line?

  If the deal is as good as she thinks, and I hope it is, maybe I’ll be able to provide Charlie a better life, a safer place to call home, and maybe even some new clothes. That shit doesn’t come cheap.

  Rap. Rap. Rap.

  I freeze. Dammit.

  “Everything all right in there?”

  I press my head against the wet tiles and stare down at my erection. “Yep! I’ll be out in a minute.”

  “Take your time!”

  Not a chance.

  That’ll come later.

  When I’m taking my time and working on a woman. On a damn classy woman.

  Elizabeth

  Everything’s foggy when James emerges from the bathroom. I smell him first. He smells like my hand soap and shampoo, both of which have a vanilla base.

  And then I make the mistake of looking at him.

  Holy lord. He has a towel slung over his hips, and . . . it’s not even one of my big bath towels.

  It’s like a hand towel.

  I didn’t even know I had towels that small. Or maybe he’s just that big.

  He has leg muscles to kill for. His back i
s like a ski slope over a perfect ass. I gawk at his chest, at the dark wet hair on his pectorals, glistening on the planes of his sexy-as-hell body as he sits next to me on the sofa.

  Wha?

  I can’t even think a full word.

  Wha?

  “So, is this a normal routine for you?” he’s saying, as alarm bells go off in my head. Too close! Too naked! Too close!

  “No.” I jump off the couch and point to the kitchen. “Want a drink?”

  “Not yet.” He shoots me that devil’s lopsided smile again. “Why would I need a drink when I could sip on you?”

  From this vantage point, I have a perfect view right up the towel, between his legs. I fight to avert my eyes. “I brought you home because—”

  “Look. We don’t need to talk. We can pick up where we left off.”

  Oh god. He is almost naked. And he’s hairy and hard and . . . naked on my couch. And I’m still drunk and thinking tequila thoughts, and when was the last time I had sex? I can’t even remember. “That’s not . . .”

  “Say nothing.” He reaches for me and drags me to him. “Nothing at all.” His lips skim mine. “Let your body do the talkin’, honey.” He’s crooning now. Sexy, sultry.

  The “honey” part snaps me out of the trance. “I need a minute.”

  “Hurry,” he says, patting my bottom when I pass him.

  I jump. Men do not swat my ass. Especially hot naked men who are nowhere near my type. My type is the Ivy League guy who has his own dynasty to manage. Not him. Not . . .

  What the fuck am I doing?

  As soon as I’m behind closed doors, I kind of wobble over to the bed and sit. Really. What. The. Fuck. Am. I. Doing? I acted on impulse, and now?

  I’m here. He’s out there. We’re alone. Behind. Closed. Doors.

  Whatever possessed me? When did I cook up the idea that it would be fine to create a man since I couldn’t find one? Sure, in the broad scheme of things it’s possible, but I don’t have time for a long shot. I need a solid finish.

  I need to impress the unimpressionable. I want my dad’s approval.

  And this is a fucking stupid-ass way to go about obtaining it. Even bleary from too much tequila, I know that Mr. Doesn’t-Even-Know-How-to-Shave isn’t going to get me the Daughter of the Year Award.

  I had too much to drink and need to nod off for a minute.

  Just a minute . . .

  As I close my eyes, I think of the last few hours. I’m sitting at the bar. James is the focal point. Everyone loves him. There’s a fight and an endless conversation with the bartender. I see a beast of a man, a man who seems interested in me.

  I’m interested in him.

  There’s a fight, and I break it up. My shirt is torn, stripped away from my body. Suddenly, I’m hot. Aching. Desperate.

  My eyes fly open, but James isn’t there, so I return to my fantasy because this is getting good. I latch on to the dreams and let them have me. Maybe these visions are a sign of what’s to come. Or maybe they’re just a warning.

  I am NOT interested in him. In any way, shape, or form. He is my little project. That is all.

  But I’ll indulge the fantasy. Just for tonight. As long as I don’t let it get out of hand.

  And you won’t, Lizzy. He’s just a dirty, sweet-talking guy from the street. Keep your head about you.

  I sleep restlessly, having dreams of my launch failing miserably, people laughing at me, at us, at Banks LTD. I dream of bloody lips on mine, and feeling bloodied hands touching me, and feeling restless and reckless and waking up horny.

  I shift in bed, exhaling, glaring at my ceiling over my dilemma.

  I hear snoring. I groan, my head pulsing. Stirring, I peer around the room and realize the snoring is coming from my living room. I wrap a silk robe around myself, slide into my fur slippers, and start padding out but freeze when I see a pile of flesh and blankets on the sofa.

  Ducking behind my massive entertainment center, I gasp and draw the sash on my robe tighter around me. My eyes widen, and I start when I see the muscles on that body. A pillow covering his face.

  There’s a guy sleeping on my couch.

  A breathing, living, RANDOM guy!

  I bolt to my room, fully prepared to slam the door and lock it, if necessary, and call 911. Instead, I stand there addled and narrow my eyes as I peer out my bedroom door.

  What have I done?

  Shit.

  I can’t believe what I did.

  I take a quick shower and change—with the door locked—and then I pace nervously in my room. He could be a rapist. Some felon. A thief. And I let him into my place.

  But the guy is also a businessman in his own way. Honestly, I was impressed with the size of his YouTube business, and I’m pretty sure I could even help him grow that more after we’re done with my project. I’m certain he and I could find some common ground and a win-win situation for the both of us.

  I pace and pace, shocked that I—Elizabeth Banks—brought him into my gorgeous Midtown apartment.

  I’m surprised the doormen even let me bring him upstairs!

  A worrisome thought hits me: Did they think I bought myself a male escort last night?

  The image of dirty, bearded, bar-brawling, testosterone-laden James Rowan making love to me slams into my brain, and I’m envisioning that this man likes it hard and rough and raw, makes hard and rough and raw noises, and moves his hips in the same way.

  The thought unexpectedly makes me so hot that I squirm and shake my head as I try to push it away. The worst part is that the guy is nowhere even near the kind of guy I always go for.

  I always go for guys who are educated, polished, elegant. Classy. Boring. Not that boring and classy are interchangeable, but sometimes they can be. Rowan is neither.

  Another shiver speeds down my back as I remember the way he brawled at the bar.

  I’d never seen a real bar fight before. The men I date would never do that. I suppose because they hate getting their hands dirty. Think themselves above it. It isn’t the way classy, educated people are supposed to behave.

  But to be honest, I can’t say some of my “friends” proved to be as educated and classy as some might expect.

  No.

  Dropping off the face of the earth after I assumed we were dating isn’t really a classy thing to do. It’s the kind of thing only a loser would do.

  A thing that only my most recent ex, Daniel Winfrey, would do.

  Daniel was a normal guy. He was wealthy, but not Banks wealthy. Dartmouth educated, interesting, and cute. But he was apparently too intimidated by my father to endure a dinner with him. He stood me up the night of our introductory dinner at my dad’s place, and from that moment forward, I’ve feared that being my father’s only daughter will prevent me from meeting a lot of men who would be great catches in other families.

  In fact, I don’t think there is another man out there who will ever meet my father’s standards.

  No.

  My father wants perfection in every sense, and the thought of failing him, or of the only two men in my life having an awkward relationship, makes me want to retch.

  So no.

  That’s why I’ve avoided dating for a while. Why should I go through the motions if they’ll either get too scared to face my father or prove to be completely different from what I hoped for?

  Those few failed relationships have plagued me with self-doubt, and for the past few months, I’ve had to replay our breakups a million times to figure out what I did wrong. I can never seem to find out—so I’ve decided the best course of action is to focus on Banks LTD and let the other parts of my life just adjust.

  I’m not going to let this opportunity go to waste. Sure. This guy could use a good hand, but if anyone can create the perfect man out of a classless, crass, bearded bar brawler, it’s me.

  I’m a detail person.

  I won’t miss anything that needs to be done.

  This guy is an up-and-coming YouTube star.

>   Which reminds me . . . I flip open my laptop and check out his channel once more. He has over two hundred thousand followers. Wow. That many people either find him entertaining or want to see him die?

  Impressive.

  I could totally work with a guy who seems to connect with the public in the way this one does.

  I watch another video as he sleeps. It’s an older clip with foggy images, but I’d know that body anywhere:

  “Dared for a hundred bucks to jump my bike over that car over there. Watch this.” He hands the phone to a little boy that can’t be over eight or nine. “Charlie, get over here—now Charlie’s holding the phone . . .” He grins into the camera.

  “Careful,” Charlie peeps out happily as he trains the phone on James.

  “Me? Careful? Never.” James winks, laughing that deep laugh as he heads over to do his stunt.

  My stomach is in absolute knots as he crafts a makeshift ramp and takes position on his bike. A bike that’s almost too small for James’s big frame.

  Obviously the guy survived the stunt because he’s currently sleeping in my living room. But still, I am breathless as I watch him pedal the bike, push up into the air, fly across the top of the car, and land with a flourish.

  A childish “woot!” comes from behind the camera, and James hops off the bike, approaches with a slow, cocky male swagger, and peers into the video lens as he says, “See that? Yeah, fuck you, too, and give me my money.” He winks and turns off the camera.

  Who’s Charlie?

  I realize that maybe it wasn’t a mistake. Maybe this is the sort of guy who will value the money I can offer, and I desperately need someone who’s willing to work hard to make my launch happen.

  Bracing myself with a breath, I march outside, half expecting to find all of my artwork and silverware gone. But no, he’s still asleep. I stand before him, surveying him. Nice chest. A little hairy but we’ll take care of it. Muscles all over. Bodywise, I have nothing to complain about.

  Too much facial hair, though. Hair too long as well.

  Oblivious to me, he shifts on the couch. He’s perfectly relaxed lying there, shifting around, displaying a peek of his ass.