"Why? Does it bother you?"
“I hate it.” She swipes her hair over her shoulder.
“I’ll make sure to use it more often, then.”
She opens and shuts her mouth. "You’re an asshole."
I look her up and down. “And you’re still a spoiled mafia princess."
Her cheeks turn fiery. Then she slides her handbag over her shoulder. "Riveting as this meeting has been, I should be getting along."
She begins to walk past me, when I lower my voice to a hush, "Sparrow, get in the car."
2
Abby
I get in the car.
Goddamn him for having that effect on me. He could ask me to lie on the ground in front of him, naked, and I’d do it. There was something about the hushed quality of his voice that brooked no argument. Something in his tone that called to me and insisted I comply. And I did. I slid into the car, and he followed me in, then asked for my address. I wanted to refuse to give it to him, but considering I was already in the car, that would have been childish, so I told him, and he directed the chauffeur. Yep, he has a car and driver who, apparently, followed him as he’d chased after the thief who tried to rob my bag. A-n-d, the car's a Jaguar, no less.
I take in the plush leather seats, the scent of luxury that pervades the interior. Clearly, Cade is doing well. I knew, of course, from all the reports of him in the newspapers. Not that I've been stalking him or following him or anything like that. I work in entertainment PR, so of course, it’s my job to keep track of celebrities and newsmakers. And Cade, being the captain of the English cricket team, definitely counts among them.
After a ten-minute ride—during which neither of us speak—we draw up in front of my apartment building.
By the time I push open my door, he’s already out and holding it open for me. I get out of the car, walk past him, then key in the passcode to the front door. He follows me up the narrow staircase to the second floor, then waits as I open my apartment door. I turn and glance at a spot over his shoulder. "You can go now."
"No."
I jerk my gaze to his face. "What do you mean?"
"Invite me in."
I set my jaw. "Why should I?"
"I could say it’s because your brother is my best friend. That we knew each other when we were young. That we need to speak. But really, you should because"—he scans my features—“you want to."
I swallow. My lower belly clenches. A pulse blooms to life between my legs, and a shiver runs down my spine. Damn him. He knows how affected I am by his nearness. He knows how much that chocolate and cream stern-Daddy voice of his affects me. OMG, did I just refer to him as Daddy? I referred to him as Daddy. What is wrong with me? Why would I think of him in that way? Clearly, the years of being ignored by my own father has something to do with my being attracted to that forbidding tone of his.
"Did you say something?" he rumbles.
"Wh-what?" I clear my throat. "Why would you say that?"
"Because I think you asked me to come in."
I scoff, "I didn’t."
He arches an eyebrow, and good god, my panties almost combust. Cade-fucking-Kingston is a master at being able to convey his disapproval without saying a word. And why is that so freakin’ hot? The man’s three years older than me. That’s not much at all, but considering just how much he’s filled out over the years, how his shoulders have broadened until they seem to shut out everything else from my vision, how the thick muscles of his biceps bunch as he slaps a hand on either side of the door, has my toes curling, my knees shaking, my thighs quivering, and OMG, my nipples tightening into pinpoints of desire that scream that I should not only invite him into the house, but also into my bed.
He glares at me. A shiver of anticipation runs down my spine.
"Abby," he growls in that velvety smooth, yet gruff baritone, "ask me in."
I do.
Of course, I do.
Could I refuse him? Of course, not.
Do I want to refuse him? I do.
But tell that to my body, every inch of which is fine-tuned to him, like he’s a magnet and I’m one of those poor steel pins that doesn’t stand a chance at the attraction he exudes. Ohgod, ohgod, ohgod. I need to keep my distance from him, else there’s no telling what I might end up doing. I’ll probably throw myself at him, then climb him like a tree and cling to him as I licked every inch of that luscious face of his—and the column of his throat, too—and how embarrassing would that be?
I pivot, stomp inside the apartment, and hear him follow. I slap on the lights as I march through the little living room, past the bedroom, and into the kitchen. I place my bag on the counter near the sink, then fill a glass with water from the tap and gulp it down. I turn, then yelp when I slam straight into that hard chest of his.
The rich, evocative scent of him wraps around me. His big body surrounds me. He grips my waist to steady me, and a thousand little fires ignite under my skin. The next second, he’s lowered his hands and put distance between us. I tilt my head back, and further back, taking in those chiseled features, the high cheekbones, the thin, mean upper lip, the pouty lower lip, that hooked nose, that wide forehead with that lock of hair that’s always falling over it. I sway toward him, and he smirks.
The jerkass smirks. "A little small for your tastes, isn’t this?" He glances about the space, then back at me. "You slumming it, Princess?"
"None of your business." I draw myself up to my full height and squeeze my fingers around the glass in my hand. “But you’re in now, so what do you want?"
"Don’t know, babe. I’m not far enough inside, don’t you think?"
Those fires under my skin promptly spread to my face. This is how it always is with him. He says something suggestive, and I lose my train of thinking. Which was fine when he was my brother’s best friend, the boy I had a secret crush on. The boy who was protective toward me when I was teased as ‘Thunder Thighs’ in high school. The boy who I’d later betrayed. The boy who is now a gorgeous, achingly hot man. He’s also an asshole I don’t recognize.
"I don’t know, babe. From where I am, it seems you wouldn’t know if you were in or out," I snap.
He blinks, seems taken aback for a second, then barks out a laugh. "Very good, Sparrow."
"Do. Not. Call. Me. Sparrow," I say in a low voice.
"Oh?" He tilts his head. "Does it do things to you when I do?"
I nod. "It makes me want to throw something at you." Don’t do it. Don’t do it. I toss the rest of the water in my glass at his face.
He freezes. So do I. I watch as the water drips from his nose, from his chin, onto the front of his white shirt and across his torso. I’m instantly wet—okay, more wet—and it’s nothing to do with the water that blots his lapels.
His gaze narrows and his nostrils flare. "You’ve done it now," he growls, and the sound chafes over my already stretched thin nerve-endings.
"Wh-what do you mean?" I squeak.
"You want to play, baby?"
I shake my head.
"I think you do."