Million Dollar Devil (Million Dollar #1)(7)

“I’m Elizabeth.” I keep my last name to myself.

James scans my features in a way that makes me blush. “I’ve got pending business, as you can see, Elizabeth . . .”

“I . . . have another business proposition for you,” I repeat before I lose his attention. “One I think you will find much more interesting.”

“Yeah? This I gotta hear.”

Vaguely, I wonder if I’m too drunk to be thinking clearly. I motion him to the bar, acutely aware of his big body following me. I notice the bartender watching us in amusement. He pours another drink for me. I toss back the tequila shot, gasp as the burn reaches my stomach, and turn to face the YouTube daredevil.

James “Jimmy” Rowan is looking at me cockily. His gaze was on my ass when I spun around—and I can’t believe how low I’ve fallen. How my body keeps jumping from the nearness of this guy. I purse my lips in a fight for control, not believing I’m fishing for the face of our new top-of-the-line product in some seedy bar, with some douchey bearded daredevil they call Jimmy.

But I’m desperate, and I don’t like feeling desperate.

I inspect the span of his shoulders. His dark unruly hair. He lifts his head as if sensing my scrutiny, and I catch his gaze. There’s intelligence there—maybe he’s not a Harvard grad, but with a little, okay, a lot of grooming . . . it could work. I suddenly get another uncomfortable squeeze in my tummy.

Yeah, he’ll do.

I’m taking this guy home.

I tip the bartender a hundred. “Thanks.”

“Whoa. You’re welcome. Anytime.”

“Let’s go, James,” I say primly, and he scowls at me, shoots a confused glance at Luke, but follows me out.

Jimmy

First of all. I didn’t plan for this. I was coming over to the office when I bumped into Denny and company. Decided I was hankering to tear his limbs off, one by one. Turns out I can do neither because Hillary Clinton here has some business. With me.

Right.

Still puzzling over that one. Oh yeah . . . I have some ideas of what business she’s thinking ’bout. It’s not the first time some classy, high-end chick comes to Tim’s Bar and thinks either me or my buddy Luke is some sort of personal Magic Mike.

I like fucking like any other man, but one’s got some pride, and I always turn those chicks down. Except why didn’t I send this one and her suit out the door?

I scan her profile as she fiddles with her phone, and I assume she’s summoning a car service. Her hand trembles. She’s a small thing, at least a head and a half shorter than me. Shoulder-length dark hair. Skin like porcelain. She looks like one of those pretty dolls people keep behind glass doors. Never to touch, only to admire from afar.

So why the fuck are my hands itching to reach out and trace her, head to toe?

It’s as if her tremors increase as I study her, like she senses my stare. I smile to myself. Hell, I like that I make her nervous.

A part of me wants to make her more nervous, while another just wants to get to the part where we both take our clothes off.

That’s what she wants, I bet. And I never take my bets lightly.

“Did you get lost on your way home from . . .” I narrow my eyes as I silently debate. “A tea party?”

“Tea party? Really?” She shoots me a shocked look. “For all you know, I live down the street!” She sounds annoyed that I called her out on how much she sticks out here.

I laugh. “I don’t think so. I’d definitely know if that were the case.”

“Because you know everyone who lives around here?” She sizes me up, her gaze a little too caressing, if you ask me.

“All the pretty women.”

“I’m sure you know them by first, middle, and last name.”

“Pet names,” I say, lips twitching as I wink at her. “And those are subject to change as we advance from foreplay, the throes of it, and pillow talk.”

She bristles a bit, and I wonder if she’s spoiled as well as obviously rich. I look at her, wondering if she fucks all nice and clean or all raw and dirty. She tilts her chin up a little higher. “The car’s on its way,” she says, smoothing her hands primly down her suit.

“I have all night,” I drawl easily, crossing my arms.

“Yeah, me too,” she says offhandedly.

“Just the kind of thing I like to hear.” I give her a lopsided grin. “I like patient women. Means they won’t rush me once I get busy.”

She laughs sarcastically. “Oh . . . why would I be in a rush when I’m standing out on the corner of—where are we again?—with a man I’ve never seen before at a bar I’ve never heard of?”

I laugh, then reach out and tweak that little pearl necklace on her throat. Watch her go breathless before I release it. “No one forced ya. If they did, tell me where to find them, and I’ll take care of it, but I’m guessing you walked in the bar on your own accord tonight. I’m assuming you weren’t dragged here. As for the man you don’t know? That’s me, and I’m going home with you.” I drag my thumb along her lower lip and study her. “Because you forced me. For what reason, I’m still waiting for you to tell me, baby.”

She swallows, then rolls her eyes away from my biceps and gnaws on her lips.