Dirty Rogue: A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance(27)

This isn’t the businesslike self that she’s been presenting most of the meeting. I’m sure of it now. I lean toward her even though the door to the office is closed tightly. “What is it?”

“I read through your file this morning to get a more thorough picture of your background,” she says slowly, and at first I have no goddamn idea where this is going. Of course she would have read through the file. What does that have to do with—?

“I read about your brother.”

I never talk about my brother.

I try my best not to think of my brother.

So when Quinn brings him up, I draw a blank. I can’t think of a single f*cking thing to say.

“I’m sorry for bringing him up,” she says, straightening her posture, worry filling her eyes. “I just wanted to let you know that…that I had read about him, and if there was anything you wanted to—”

A hot surge of anger spikes through my chest, and one of my hands involuntarily clenches into a fist. “No.”

“I’m—”

I cut her off. “I’m not using him to boost my image.”

Underneath the anger, fear rankles in my gut.

Quinn holds up both hands like I’m a bull about to tear into a matador. “You absolutely don’t have to,” she says smoothly. In spite of myself, I’m soothed by the sound of her voice. “I just wanted to share with you that I’m aware of him, okay? I’m—” She leans in again, dropping her hands to the surface of the desk. “I can’t do this. I need to be honest.”

“Honest about what?” My anger is already dissipating.

She bites her lip, then looks me straight in the eye. “I told Carolyn that we…that we went on a date.”

I burst out laughing. It feels good to release some of the tension that was forcing my muscles to clench. “I bet she loved that.”

“She did,” Quinn says in a tentative tone, a little smile forming on her face. “And I—I mentioned that I thought I hit a nerve by asking about your tattoo. She told me about Elijah, and then I saw his name again in your file.”

I sigh and straighten my spine, though I want to sink back into the chair and cover my eyes with my hand. I can’t let her see how much talking about this scares the shit out of me, and I’m not going to start breaking down now, after ten years. Christian Pierce isn’t some shrinking sissy who falls apart at the mention of his deceased brother. “It’s all right, Quinn.” I force all the thoughts about Eli out of my mind and concentrate hard on the memory of Quinn’s creamy skin pressed up against the length of my body, let the memory put a smile on my face. “Can I be honest about something?”

“Anything.”

I stand up out of the chair and lean across to whisper into her ear. “I want to bend you over this desk and f*ck you until you can’t possibly orgasm even one more time.”

Then I sit back in my seat and watch her.

Heat rises to Quinn’s cheeks, turning her face a deep shade of red, and her lips part just slightly. I can only imagine how slick her folds must be right now underneath the sharp black dress she’s wearing today, the sleeveless cut showing off her toned arms. Her fingers curl into her palms as she stares into my eyes, the gold flecks in her green irises glinting in the afternoon sun pouring through her office windows. I only see the rise of her breasts because I’m looking for it. My cock twitches despite the fact that my heart is still pounding from how close, how close she was to seeing something that could have f*cked everything up permanently…

She looks down at the papers in front of her, blinks, then takes one of them into her hands.

“The second opportunity will be two weeks from next Tuesday, and this is one that I’ve set up to be on behalf of Pierce Industries to show your commitment there. I haven’t arranged photography, but as soon as you approve this, we can move forward with—”

She’s trying so goddamn hard, so determined to do this job well despite what’s between us, and I f*cking love that about her.

Emotion surges in my pounding heart.

I try to stop it, but I can’t—I’m falling in love with her.





Chapter 21

Quinn





At the Bowery Mission on Friday, we make up a small group: me, Christian, and a single photographer. The photographer and I tuck ourselves into various corners of the kitchen and linger near the serving line for just as long as it takes to get several photographs that will circulate online and in various press outlets.

I can’t take my eyes off of him.

He’s so cocky, so self-assured, so self-centered. He uses women and then discards them seemingly by the week. He buys whatever he wants and never thinks twice about whether he deserves it. His money is all that matters to him.

At least, that’s the image he projects most of the time. He lights up the goddamn room at the Purple Swan, charms his dates, tells dirty jokes—he’s at the center of everything.

But at the Bowery, he’s someone else.

The charm is still there, but it’s warmer, softer, not so in-your-face. He speaks quietly to the people who move through the serving line, politely, in a welcoming tone. Everyone smiles at him as he dishes out portion after portion of steamed vegetables onto the waiting plates.