Baddest Bad Boys(7)

“So I’ll tell Danny to bring Mac up. He can drive your car down.”

She bucked and flailed. “You cannot do this to me!”

“Watch me.” His voice was steely.

“I’m not a minor! My brothers don’t have any authority over me!”

“That’s their problem, thank God. Not mine. Nod if you’re going to be good. If you mess with me, I’ll cuff you to the stove. Understand?”

She nodded. He shoved her down into the chair. His footsteps receded. She gauged the distance to the door, got up and tiptoed—

“Don’t even try it. Sit your ass back down.”

She spun around, nerves jangling. Jon tossed her a tattered gray sweatshirt. “It smells like mold, but it’s better than…that.” He jerked his chin at her chemise top.

Bossy, controlling bastard. He was worse than both her brothers put together. Anger made her bold. She tilted up her rib cage, making her boobs strain against the buttons. “Do my tits scare you, Jon?”

His mouth tightened, as his eyes flicked down to her chest.

An unfamiliar sense of power unfurled inside her. An instinct to push him, and then push him harder, just to see where it went. She reached up, popped the top button of her chemise.

“Don’t you dare.” His voice was hoarse and menacing.

“What are you going to do?” she taunted, popping a second button. “Turn me over your knee? Spank me?”

He advanced on her, until he was inches from her, staring down into her face. “Don’t mess with me, Robin,” he warned. “Just…don’t.”

“Why not? You’re completely safe, right? You don’t want me. You have a rule. I’m off limits. So why not have my slutty fun with you?”

He tilted her chin up. “Look into my eyes. Do you know where you’re going when you push me? Are you sure you want to go there?”

She gazed back, and realized that she wasn’t. She’d thought she was, but she’d imagined a tender seduction that would make her feel, well, safe. That predatory glow in his eyes was anything but.

Nope. She didn’t have the nerve. He was so angry. So big. So…hard looking. She broke eye contact. Chickenshit. Tears stung her eyes.

He had the gall to look relieved that she’d backed down. Bastard.

“I’m going to fix some dinner while we wait for Danny to call me back,” he said. “Put on the goddamn sweatshirt.”

Robin sighed, and pulled the chilly, mildewed fabric over her head. When her face emerged from the frayed neck, he held out a plastic bag of tomatoes and cucumbers, a look of challenge on his face.

“Make yourself useful,” he said. “Do the salad.”

Jon focused on the garlic he was slicing into spikes, which he then stabbed with unnecessary fierceness into the thick steak he was about to grill. Good thing he’d left on that denim shirt. Or she’d take one look at his tent-pole hard-on, and know she had him cold. Millimeters away from falling to his knees. Begging for a piece of that.

He wasn’t sure if the sweatshirt helped. The damage was done. The sweatshirt was slipping off one gleaming golden shoulder. Her skin was so soft. His hands itched to touch her again to confirm that sensation. And other sensations, beckoning him. Like the long, sinewy curve of her taut belly. The swell and hollows of her hips. The nipples of those plump cupcake boobs, straining against thin lace. Sweet.

He squeezed his brain, did the math again. She’d been ten, eleven when he met her. He’d been, what, twenty? A smart-ass, swaggering hoodlum. Yeah. It tracked. Twenty-five. Wow. He was thirty-four. That was still a big, eyebrow waggling, wink-wink, nudge-nudge age gap, even if it wasn’t out and out cradle robbing. And what the f*ck was he thinking, anyway? Was he actually trying to justify…?

Whoa. No way. Down, boy. She was Mac and Danny’s precious princess. She would always be a baby to them, and this thing was a f*cking train wreck in the making. He could feel it. He valued his friendship with Danny. He wasn’t going to screw around with it. Uh-uh.

He shook salt and pepper over the garlic-impaled meat, set the rice to boil on the propane stovetop. A thudding sound made him turn.

She was juggling. Five fat hothouse tomatoes were in the air, whirling in a dizzying circle. “Robin,” he complained. “What the hell?”

“I’m tense,” she said, her voice distant. “Juggling relaxes me. I can take another one. Give me another. Go on. Toss me one.”

“But that’s my dinner,” he said, plaintively. “Can’t you relax yourself juggling something else? How about rolls of toilet paper?”

“Shut up. Throw me another.” Her concentration never wavered.

He groaned, grabbed a tomato, intuited her rhythm, and tossed.

Sure enough. She danced back, eyes far away as the sixth tomato flew perilously close to the ceiling. Hair swung, hands flashed, as she maintained perfect equilibrium in constant movement. She was good.

And gorgeous. Out of her skull, maybe, but total eye candy. How could he have missed it for so long? She’d sucker-punched him. He stared at the dick-tingling-spectacle for several awestruck minutes.

“How did you reach twenty-five still a virgin?” he asked.

Splat, a tomato landed at his feet, exploding juice and seeds all over his shoes. Robin caught the others, thuddity thud thud in her crooked arm, looking abashed. “How could you ask a question like that to a woman who’s got six tomatoes in the air?” She dumped them on the counter, grabbed a paper towel. “Sorry,” she said. “Can I—”