Heartless Few Box Set Page 2

  “I thought I should give you another towel. Your teeth are still chattering. I don’t want you to catch your death of cold because of me.”

  He looks down, directly at my erect nipples. Yeah. I need that towel, stat.

  He reaches around me to the shelf above my head, and hands me another plush towel. As he does, his chest brushes up against my nipples, hardening them more. I hope he didn’t notice that, or the involuntary shudder that flowed through me as a result. I wrap the towel around my shoulders like a cloak, grateful for the extra warmth. I’m not warm yet, but I’m a little less cold, and I appreciate the gesture.

  As he saunters out of the room, I let out the breath I’ve been subconsciously holding, following him across the studio and toward the elevator. It arrives after what feels like an eternity, and I climb into the tiny space. It’s pretty much the last place on earth I want to be right now, but hopefully it’s not the last I’ll ever be.

  I’m standing a little behind him, so I take the opportunity to get a better look—the mirrors in the elevator affording me a 360-degree view. That. Face. Though. He’s stupid handsome. The kind of male-model good looks that you only ever see on TV, or in magazines. His stunning eyes sit within an exquisitely chiseled face—Grecian, almost. He’s got the lot—strong jaw, proportionate nose, and beautiful, shapely lips. His thick dark hair, artfully stubbly chin and all-over tattoos only add to the effect.

  I marvel at the thought that there are people who actually look this good in the flesh, and that I’m trapped in an elevator with one who seems to think I’m some kind of stalker. My eyes travel downward. His body is tanned, toned, and taut. His shapely neck leads to broad, well-defined shoulders. They’re tight and muscular, with a few veins visible just below the surface of his supersmooth skin.

  His chest is expansive, and he has a rock-solid eight-pack. Abs. From. Hell. The icing on the cake though, is the V. Those muscles that disappear into the top of the waistband, leading down to ground zero are some of my favorite parts of the male anatomy. In my time as a professional dancer, I saw a lot of male bodies, and his definitely comes up to scratch. So fucking sexy. In different circumstances, I’d like to lick that perfectly toned chest and….

  My eyes continue to wander just below the V, to the top of his shorts where I can just see the waistband of his designer underpants. My gaze moves down further still, and before I know it, hello crotch! Uh-oh. The soft fabric of his shorts is straining into a tent-like peak—I guess he's pleased to see me. It’s also clear that he's got nothing to be embarrassed about in that area. Nothing at all.

  Wait. What the fuck am I doing? Now is definitely not the time to awaken those types of feelings that have been dormant for so long. I’m disgusted with myself, but then I reconsider. Maybe Marko and Nic are right, and I do need to get laid and get it over with. If I can be thinking this way in this situation, something’s got to give.

  Ugh, no! I wrench my gaze upward quickly and stare dead ahead, but not before the guy’s eyes meet mine in the mirror. He raises that eyebrow again, having obviously seen me checking him out. Busted.

  He winks at my reflection. Winks! The blood runs hot in my cheeks. I have never been more mortified in my life. What the hell is wrong with me? The last thing I want is him thinking that I’m into him. Although, turning up naked in his shower probably did that already. Shit.

  Two

  We step out into the kitchen area, and I heave a huge internal sigh of relief.

  I grab my bag and rummage around until I find the card, turning quickly to hand it to him. Next, I shove my redundant underwear into the inside pocket.

  “Marigolds Cleaning Services,” he reads aloud. “No job too big, or too small. Proprietor, Gloria Cavendish.” He’s clearly still skeptical. I can almost read his mind as he appraises me.

  “That’s my aunt. Call her. Please.”

  Do it. Do it. Call the number, I silently urge him. Instead, he swivels on his heel to face me. He narrows his eyes and circles me several times like a hungry lion eyeing its prey. I can see him studying me again, and what a sight I must be—the thin soaking wet fabric of my white T-shirt clinging to my nipples, hair dripping wet and hanging in ragged ringlets, skimming the waistband of my shorts. Occasionally, water drips into my eyes, causing me to squint. Realizing that this could be a hindrance if I have to flee, I heap it into a messy bun on the top of my head, and secure it with the hair tie that’s perpetually wound around my wrist. Old dancer habits die hard.

  “What the fuck were you doing in my shower?” he barks.

  This is starting to feel a whole lot like Groundhog Day. Again.

  As I didn’t get to dry myself, my legs are still wet. Droplets of water slowly wend their way down my inner thighs, toward my ankles, pooling at my feet. I now regret not taking the time to put my Chucks back on—shoving them in my bag, instead—but I was focused on getting out of the bathroom. Still, barefoot isn’t ideal for a quick getaway.

  This sucks—I’m standing here in front of this horny big bad wolf, looking like a wet T-shirted Little Red Riding Hood. I take a deep breath before answering him again as calmly and confidently as I can.

  “I’ve been coming here from seven ’til eleven every second day for about six months—”

  “Have you now? You must have some kind of stamina.” He licks his lips salaciously, so different from how gentle he was with me downstairs, only minutes ago.

  At first I’m confused by his comment, but then I realize the double meaning in what I said, and my cheeks burn again. I continue hastily.

  “Working here. Cleaning.” My attempt at seeming unflustered is clearly a big fat fail.

  “Today with the spiders, I guess I overreacted, but it was like instinct took over. It’s a total phobia. Like, I couldn’t stop myself. It just happened. I was totally going to clean up after myself—I really was. I had no idea there was anyone else here. I’m so sorry….”

  He finally dials the number, standing so close to me that I can hear Gloria’s phone ringing from his handset. I hope to God she picks up. Just as it’s about to go to voice mail, taking my hopes with it, Gloria answers, panting. Green Eyes puts her on loudspeaker, keeping his gaze fixed on me.

  “Marigolds Cleaning Services, Gloria speaking, how may I help you?” I’ve never been more relieved to hear her voice.

  “It’s Arlo Jones,” he responds gruffly.

  There’s a small pause. I can tell that Gloria’s rifling through her contacts list, trying to recall exactly who he is.

  “Ah yes, Mr. Jones! I’m sorry, of course, yes, Rosemond House. How can I help you?” She’s her usual chirpy self, obviously blissfully unaware of the gravity of the unfolding situation.

  “You can start by giving me some fucking answers,” he growls aggressively. She gasps, and there’s another pregnant pause before she speaks again.

  “Umm… I’m sorry… I don’t…. What would you like to know?” She’s flustered by his tone and harsh words, understandably so.

  “Well,” he sneers. “Maybe you can start by explaining why I’ve returned home from touring and tried to jump in the shower after my morning workout, only to find someone in there already. She claims to be your niece and my cleaner. Pretty little thing. Loooong legs.” He drags out the word long in an exaggerated fashion.

  “Dark hair with ringlets down her back, latte-colored skin, huge brown eyes, ass like two grapefruits in a string bag. Sound familiar?”

  As he speaks, he places his index finger at my nape, and gently traces an invisible line up to the bun heaped on the top of my head. He slides his finger back down again, coming to a stop at the base of my neck. His touch is both electrifying and terrifying. It’s such an intimate gesture from a total stranger, yet despite the less-than-ideal circumstances, it feels good. My skin immediately prickles with goose bumps—the combination of cold, lust, and a tinge of fear is an unexpected thrill.

  The silence on the other end of the phone is deafening. It seems that G
loria is speechless, which has to be a first. She recovers herself quickly.

  “Yes, that’s my niece, London.” She sounds super nervous. I can’t imagine what she must be thinking. “I’m not sure what’s going on there, but I can assure you that my company—”

  She’s no longer on the line. He hung up on her midsentence. He leans toward me, so close that I can smell his faintly minty breath. I’m increasingly aware of each breath he takes. Having him stand this close is too intimate by far, yet I don’t back away. Like him, I’m breathing heavily.

  My cell immediately starts ringing in my bag. It’s Gloria, of course. I really want to answer, as I know she’ll be worried, but the withering look that Green Eyes shoots me tells me not to move a muscle. I let it ring out. Right now, I don’t know what to be more wary of, the wrath of my aunt, or the angry Adonis in front of me.

  He closes his eyes, tilts his head back, and moves it slowly from side to side, cracking the joints in his neck. It’s hot as hell. He’s hot as hell. I try to shake the unwelcome and highly inappropriate thought from my mind and focus on the more important matters at hand—like self-preservation.

  After a few moments of silence, his eyes suddenly flash open, and he catches me ogling him. Again. I’ve reached humiliation level penthouse suite. I always thought of the whole “ground opening up and swallowing you” thing as just a phrase that people used for dramatic effect, but now I know different. If a black hole or a vortex to a parallel dimension appeared in front of me right now, I’d gladly jump in feetfirst.

  “I’m calling bullshit on your little tale. Clearly the cleaner part checks out, but that doesn’t even remotely begin to explain why the fuck you were butt naked in my basement. I should call the police and teach you a lesson.” He’s still standing behind me, and his hot breath skims the back of my neck as he barks into my ear. There go those goose bumps again.

  “Maybe you should.”

  “Excuse me?” he snaps, his patience clearly wearing thin.

  “I said maybe you should call the police.” I’d welcome a visit from them at this point. I’m sure it couldn’t make the situation any worse.

  “We’ve already been over this several times.” I’m trying not to sound as irritated as I feel, and failing miserably.

  “And you expect me to believe that you left a trail of clothes including your bra and panties leading to the shower, but you had no idea I’d walk in on you lathering up that hot little bod of yours?”

  God knows what part he thought the ladder and bug spray played in this whole debacle. I mean, I’m no seduction expert, but I can’t imagine there are many people who consider an abandoned A-frame and a can of toxic chemicals a turn on. Although there are weirder kinks out there, so who knows?

  “Umm… yeah, basically. What happened with the spiders was terrifying, and you finding me in the shower afterward was the single most embarrassing experience of my life. You can’t seriously think I planned it, can you?” Can he?

  He throws his head back and starts laughing. It’s a low, deep, velvety sound, and sexy as all hell. It’s not the reaction I was expecting from him, and I don’t know whether to be relieved or petrified, or a little of both.

  “Ten out of ten for taking stalking to a whole other level. Level: Batshit Crazy. What did you think I was going to do, see you there, sweep you up, and ride off into the sunset on my white charger with you?”

  That’s it! I see red and totally lose my cool. Maybe not my smartest move, given my predicament, but on the other hand, we’re just going around in circles, and something’s gotta give. I take a step back so that I can look him directly in the eyes, squaring my shoulders and trying to look more defiant than I feel. Oh, but those eyes are glorious! Deep emerald pools blazing angrily at me.

  “Look, I apologize if my ‘story’ doesn’t meet your approval, but maybe that’s because it’s not a story. I know I shouldn’t have used your shower, and I’ve already apologized for that. It was a moment of fear-induced madness, but I realize that it was the wrong thing to do. I’m genuinely sorry, and not just because I got caught. But to be clear, I’m not a stalker or a fan. How can I be stalking you when I don’t even know who you are?” I pretty much yell the last sentence. Shit. I’m so fired. Or dead. Or both.

  He steps back in surprise, eyeing me skeptically.

  “You really had no idea who lives here?” he enunciates slowly.

  FFS, he’s killing me here! How many more times can I tell him the same fucking thing?

  “Nope.”

  “And even when you saw me, you didn’t recognize me?” Who the fuck does he think he is, God?

  “No, I didn’t. I still don’t.”

  “Arlo Jones. The Heartless Few. Sound familiar?” He’s eyeing me carefully, assessing my reaction. He said his name when he was speaking to Gloria, but it didn’t really register with me. I think about it now.

  “Kind of… yeah? Umm… yeah okay, for sure.”

  He laughs again, but this time, it’s a sharp and stilted sound, heavily laced with sarcasm.

  “The lead singer of one of the most successful bands on the planet and you’ve kind of, maybe heard of me. Is this some kind of joke?” He’s looking daggers at me now.

  The name is familiar, but it’s definitely not one that would be on the tip of my tongue if someone asked me to name three bands, for example.

  “No, it's not, and I’m sorry if I’ve offended you, but I’d really like to leave now. I have another job to go to.”

  As I say the words, it dawns on me that I must be pretty late already. I’m not sure of the exact time, but I’m pretty sure I’d normally be on my way by now. Shit. Not only is Gloria going to be pissed with me, but Murray is too. Just when I think things can’t get any worse, they do. I wish I could just start the day over.

  I begin moving away from him slowly. I’m edging nearer to my bag, and while he mulls over this last exchange, I surreptitiously pick it up. Obviously my movements are not as subtle as I think, because he closes the newly created gap between us instantly, moving his tall, lithe body as gracefully as a panther. In a few neat strides, he’s close again. Too close. He stares down at me, his expressive eyes searching mine, and at the same time revealing what he’s thinking. I take another step back, and as I do, he catches my wrist in his large, calloused fingers. Shit.

  Before I can stop him, he takes hold of my chin, tilting my head before placing his full and shapely lips onto mine. What the…? Surprisingly, it’s a tender, featherlight kiss, and is quite possibly the hottest thing I have ever experienced. How can a man who is arrogance personified be so sensual? More to the point, how can such a gentle touch turn me on so much?

  Our lips barely brush and yet I feel like he’s got a direct line to the sweet spot between my legs. I’m instantly wet. It’s as though I’ve been washed over by molten lava that has now settled in a bubbling pool at the base of my stomach. It takes a few moments for my brain to assimilate what’s going on, and when it does, it decides I’m not entirely opposed to the idea of making out with this guy. In fact, I’m pretty much all for it.

  It turns out he’s an amazing kisser. He reaches down and pulls me closer to him, tightening his grip on my wrist, and increasing the pressure against my lips. Or is it me doing that? I can’t tell, but I can tell I’m loving it. His tongue pushes through the seam of my lips, exploring every inch of my mouth. With every stroke and every passing moment, I’m becoming increasingly turned on.

  This is like nothing I’ve ever experienced—my physical reaction to him is so intense. To feel this attracted to him is ridiculous. I don’t know him, and what I do know of him, I don’t like very much. Correction—my brain may not want to like him, but my body is of an entirely different opinion. It can’t seem to get enough.

  Holy freaking fuck. As his naked torso presses against my wet T-shirt, a bolt of energy surges through me, literally jerking me closer to him. The thin, drenched material between us is nothing more than a formality,
so when his chest brushes against mine it’s like he’s gently stroking my nipples—they stand to attention immediately.

  He loops one hand around my waist and the other around the back of my neck, pulling me closer so that we’re pressed tight against each other from shoulder to waist. Now that my wrist is free, I stretch my arms, and move both hands up behind his neck, pulling downward in an attempt to meld his lips even more tightly to mine. The action causes the towel-cape around my shoulders to slip to the floor.

  I also let my bag slide down my body to fall at my bare feet with a soft thud, no longer in such a hurry to leave. I rise on tiptoe, leaning into Arlo Jones, and allowing him to kiss me harder. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m outraged that I’m doing this, but at the same time, I can’t bring myself to stop. As my tongue explores his mouth, I revel in the feel of him, wanting to make the moment last. Nobody has ever felt as good to me as he does right now. Not even Danny.

  So this is what fireworks between two people feel like. It’s a first for me, and I hate myself for it. Somewhere in the back of my mind there’s a voice telling me this is wrong, that I shouldn’t be doing it, that I’m as good as dancing on Danny’s grave. Sadly, right now the voice of my desire is shouting louder, traitorous bitch that she is.

  I feel Arlo’s abs ripple and tense against mine, causing my stomach to flip, and stealing my breath from my lungs. Then our bodies meet below the waist, and I can tell he’s as turned on as I am—for sure that’s not a banana in his pocket. Oh. My. God. This is good. Unspeakably, sinfully, deliciously good. Every atom of my body is screaming out, desperate to deepen the physical connection—the more of me touching him, the better. I feel like I could come at any moment, and we’re only kissing. And grinding—there’s a whole lot of grinding going on. I can’t seem to get enough of him. My arms go to his waist, pulling him even closer.

  He pulls away from my mouth a little, and before I can protest, rests his forehead against mine. My eyes flutter open automatically, and as I pull back slightly, I see that his remain closed. I watch as a pained expression—almost a wince—passes across his face. I can tell he’s going to say that we need to stop. That what we’re doing is stupid and out of control. Wrong.