Beneath This Ink (Beneath #2)(3)

“And this should make me want to help you because…?”

She pushed off the seat and stood. “This was pointless. I don’t know what I was thinking, coming here.”

I leaned back against the wall. “Then why did you?”

She slid her zipper up and straightened her suit jacket. Once again, she was prim and proper and too damn far out of my reach.

“This is my one shot to prove I’m capable of running the foundation. So basically, I’d do anything to make this project a success. Including throw myself on your mercy.”

She crossed the small room and laid a hand on the door. A perverse part of me didn’t want to see her walk away without some promise of seeing her again. I liked this dynamic—the one where she needed something from me and I had the upper hand. It was an unexpected gift I wasn’t about to throw away.

“Anything?” I asked.

She paused, slowly turning back toward me. Her expression was guarded.

What? Did she think I was going to demand she drop to her knees and suck my dick to get what she wanted? For a fleeting second, with that image firmly in my mind, I wondered if she would. No. I wouldn’t let her whore herself out for this, even if she were willing. And she better f*cking not be. She was better than that, and surprisingly, so was I.

“You ever get your hands dirty in the projects that your little foundation funds? Or do you just sit up there in your ivory tower and write checks and let other people do everything you take credit for?”

Her shoulders visibly stiffened. “I do a lot more than sit in an ivory tower and write checks.”

“Prove it.”

“How?”

I grabbed a business card off my counter and scribbled an address on the back before I held it out to her.

“Be at this address tomorrow at three o’clock.” I looked at her suit and blouse. “And wear something you ain’t afraid to get dirty.”

She took the card by the edges, as though scared to handle something I’d touched.

“You think you can manage that, princess?”

She didn’t answer, just spun and shoved open the door, as if she couldn’t wait to get away from me.

I wondered if she’d show up tomorrow. My gut said she would. But I’d just have to wait and see.





The words a deal with the devil came to mind as I sat in my car outside the deserted warehouse. I checked the address on the back of the Voodoo Ink business card for the fifth time. Surprisingly, Con’s handwriting was completely legible—almost artsy, even. Far better than my own. Which meant there was no mistaking the address. This was where I was supposed to be. No other cars were parked along the road, and I wondered if, in this neighborhood, my Mercedes would still be here when I came back out.

At this point, I was willing to sacrifice just about anything I owned if it would get me what I needed.

This project was my baby. My one shot at proving to the board and the outgoing executive director that I was capable of taking the reins when he retired at the end of the year.

As the last remaining descendant of the Bennett family, I should have been the presumptive choice for the position, but the board was increasingly skeptical that a thirty-year-old woman should take the helm. My great uncle, Archer Bennett, was the current executive director, and was also open to the idea of considering outside candidates for the position. His one concession to the fact that I was family: he’d given me a shot to prove myself by overseeing the fundraising, planning, and construction of the new headquarters.

If I couldn’t complete that project on schedule and on budget, I was as good as out of the running. It wouldn’t matter that this error on the deed was in no way my fault; it would only matter that I hadn’t caught it before the architect drew up the plans. In Archer Bennett’s eyes, shit didn’t roll downhill. Anything that went wrong on my watch was on me. I didn’t disagree with his outlook, but it also meant that if I didn’t get Con to donate the property, I was screwed.

God. When he’d asked if I’d do anything for this project, my entire body had frozen, as though waiting for his verdict. What would I have done if he’d told me he wanted a repeat of that night I still couldn’t get out of my head? It was easy to tell myself that it’d been a drunken mistake, but that didn’t stop the memories from coming back all too frequently. And dear Lord, did I remember.

Part of me wanted Con to throw down the challenge so I’d have an excuse to relive it. Because otherwise it would never happen. Even if my common sense didn’t stop me, my pride would keep me from going back. We were like oil and water. Although that night, to be cliché, we’d been like fire and gasoline. I still blushed at the things he’d done to me. The things I’d let him—no, begged him—to do. Forget blushing, my panties were in serious danger of needing a change when I thought about… I shook my head. I was clearly the only one remembering that night with any kind of longing, because from what I’d heard, Con needed a new bed frame to keep up with the notches he’d accumulated. Yesterday he’d had me in the perfect position to demand whatever he wanted from me. And he’d demanded… what exactly?

I stared at the warehouse again, and this time my imagination went wild. The possibilities were too ridiculous to even allow them space in my head. But seriously, I had no idea what I was walking into. Con had mentioned getting dirty. So I was probably going to be scrubbing floors or painting over graffiti. I was beyond embarrassed to admit I’d never done either.