Insatiable

“Nothing’s wrong with you. Maybe I’m just a nice guy.” That amused him, since few in the corporate world thought of him as anything of the kind.

She snorted. “I’d like to meet one of those someday. Haven’t come across any in a long time.”

He sensed she was talking about her job again. He was suddenly curious about this position she’d lost. Given the way she spoke about the men she’d worked with, and the outfit, he suspected sexual harassment had been the underlying cause. Which totally pissed him off. He had younger sisters. If something like that had happened to them, he’d be out for blood. He also had a strict policy against sexual harassment in all his companies, even the hotels in countries where discrimination against women was rampant.

Nobody deserved to be judged or treated differently because of their sex or their looks. As ridiculous as it sounded, he’d learned that himself over the years. He’d been called a pretty boy when he’d inherited a huge mantle of responsibility at a young age and been underestimated more than once, though once was usually enough for most people. Of course, it hadn’t been enough for those closest to him...his own mother, for instance. Which was one reason he spent most of his time in his hotels and rarely went back to his Miami home.

Shoving that situation out of his mind, he focused only on this stranger. “I suspect you could use a friend—and a mechanic—more than a date.”

She glanced down at her suit and made a face. “It’s these ugly clothes, isn’t it? I guess that’s one nice thing about losing my job, I don’t have to dress like a seventy-year-old librarian anymore.”

Noting she’d just confirmed his suspicions, he barked a laugh. God, did the woman really believe a baggy gray suit could disguise the fact that she had more curves than a circle?

“I doubt anyone would ever mistake you for an old lady.”

“Still, you didn’t try to pick me up, which means I’ve been playing good girl for so long, I have completely lost my touch.”

Playing good girl? Hmm.

“There was a time when I would’ve had you offering to buy me a drink, dinner and breakfast, in that order, within five minutes of meeting me.”

Would you have accepted?

“Under other circumstances, I probably would,” he admitted. “But the truth is, I’ve got two kid sisters, and if one of them had had a day as bad as yours, I’d hope some nice guy would offer to help her without any selfish motives.”

She eyed him steadily—God, those blue eyes—and finally a slow smile spread across her face. “You’re really serious.”

He couldn’t help returning her smile with one of his own. It creaked across his face slowly. He wasn’t used to smiling lately, given how hard he’d been working and the family nonsense he always had to deal with. “Yeah, I really am.”

Nibbling her lip, she cast an uncertain eye toward her car.

“If you can’t afford a tow,” he said, “let me call somebody. I have a friend who’s good with cars. He can be here in five minutes.”

That would be his driver, Jed, who’d just dropped him off on the main floor of the garage, near the doors leading directly into the building. He’d gone up to park in the reserved corporate level one floor up.

“Five minutes?”

Damien didn’t answer, instead pulling out his phone and dialing his driver. When Jed answered, he described the problem and then disconnected. “Less than five minutes,” he told her with a shrug. “He said you can leave the car unlocked and the keys under the mat.”

Her brow went up. “Seriously?” Quickly casting an eye over the dented vehicle, she added, “Then again, even if it could start—which it won’t—who’d want to steal it?”

“Good point. Now, while he checks it out, you and I can go to the bar, get out of the heat and talk about your horrible, no-good, very bad day.”

She glared. “You have kids!” Grabbing his left hand, she yanked it up. “You’re married, aren’t you? I should’ve figured.”

He couldn’t help chuckling at her indignant expression, and her assumption. “Not as much as a tan line on that finger, see? Not married. Never have been. No kids. But I have a three-year-old nephew who loves being read to.”

Sheepish, she murmured, “Sorry, Uncle...?”

“Damien.” He extended his hand to hers. “I’m Damien Black.”

He waited for any sign of recognition, such as dollar signs rolling in her eyeballs—he’d certainly experienced that before. But he saw nothing in her eyes but that same wary interest, as if she was trying to decide whether she could trust anyone with a Y chromosome.

Or maybe she was wondering if she could trust herself?

If she’d been, as she said, “playing” good girl...who was she when she wasn’t playing?

Hmm. He’d like to find out. He only hoped she decided to give him the chance.

Finally, after a long, breathless moment during which his heart started pounding with anticipation, she took his hand and said, “It’s nice to meet you, Damien. I’m Viv Callahan. And if you can have a gin and tonic in my hand within thirty minutes, I might just revise my opinion of the male species.”

2

VIV HAD BEEN a good girl for a long time.

She didn’t just mean the nine weeks she’d been employed by the Virginia Vanguard. Even before that, she’d been steering clear of men, though she’d never come clean to her friends about why. They knew she’d been bothered by her breakup with her ex, Dale, last spring. They didn’t know she’d actually been heartbroken, however.

It seemed as though the real Viv had been in hibernation ever since. But this guy, a complete stranger who in ten minutes had shown her more courtesy than any of her coworkers had in months, called to every wicked, suppressed instinct she owned.

As they walked together, side by side, out of the garage, she couldn’t help casting surreptitious glances at him. Under the bright, late-afternoon sunshine, his black hair gleamed luxuriously, like a sleek cat’s. His profile was incredibly masculine—the cheeks sharply cut, the jaw square, the nose strong without being overbearing, the brows thick over dark, chocolate-brown eyes.

Having been surrounded by beefy, brawny, self-important meatheads who’d been harassing her for weeks, she found his tall, lean-but-powerful body incredibly attractive. The tailored suit couldn’t disguise his broad shoulders, strong arms, slim waist and hips and long legs. Absolutely delicious.

Vixen Viv, who’d been in hiding since being so badly burned, began to awaken within her.

Damien was gorgeous, sexy, unattached and interested. Judging by the clothes and where he was staying, he was probably a successful businessman visiting the DC area. Not being a local, he wouldn’t be sticking around. That was just perfect, since she was in no mood to even think about anything serious. She hadn’t been kidding when she’d told her friends she wanted some cock without complications. He could give her the one while letting her avoid the other. Win-win.

She had nothing to lose and no longer had a job to worry about holding on to. If she tried, she could seduce him into bed and not leave it until next week.

Besides, she was sick of allowing herself to live a life based on what one rotten man had done to her. If she’d told herself a year ago that a guy could hurt her so badly she’d give up men—and sex—for months, she’d have laughed.

Damien Black might end all that. He could help her shake off the unaccustomed insecurity she’d been experiencing since Dale had shattered her self-confidence.

She just had to make him want to.

Seeing a crack in the sidewalk, she edged closer to him, not wanting to trip. She also wanted to feel the brush of his sleeve against her arm, to catch a whiff of his spicy cologne.

“Watch your step.” He put a hand against the small of her back as they reached the jagged crack in the cobblestone.

“Thanks,” she murmured, not pulling away once they’d passed it. His hand stayed where it was, too, a fiery brand on her spine that she felt through her blouse and jacket. She didn’t mind the possessiveness of it, because it was simple and noncontrolling. He made no effort to manhandle her, but the power of the touch reached her on a deep, visceral level.

It had been a long time since she’d given up control in a sexual relationship, and she sensed by the power this man exuded, as easily as he wore his designer suit, that he was used to being in control. Having a man take what he wanted—as that ignorant hockey player had done yesterday—infuriated her. But letting him take over, now, that was a totally different story.

The thought made her shiver with naughty anticipation.

They were heading toward the ritzy new Black Star Hotel, which was on the opposite side of the garage from the high-rise where she worked.

Had worked, damn it.

The hotel had opened fewer than six months ago. Viv had eaten lunch at the restaurant a few times, since the place was so close to her office—former office. But she’d never stayed there. It was definitely out of her price range, as it catered to wealthy international tourists, who came to explore the nation’s capital, or Wall Street bigwigs on business trips.

Speaking of which... “I didn’t ask, were you heading somewhere when you decided to play Sir Galahad wielding his mighty cell phone?”

“Yes, but it’s nothing I can’t reschedule.”

“You’re sure? I don’t want to keep you from an important meeting or anything.”

“No. I was planning to stop in and check out a business interest of mine, but I didn’t have an appointment.” He glanced over at her, his lips quirking up into a smile. “It can wait.”

They reached the hotel, and the doorman immediately opened the door for him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Black.”

Nice service they had here, at least for the registered guests. Keeping staff good enough to remember the names of the clientele had to be expensive, which could explain why the rooms started at five hundred dollars a night.

“Have you been staying here for a while?” she asked as they entered the opulent lobby, tiled in sleek, black marble.

Tasteful gold accents brought in some color without making it look ostentatious.

“I got into town last night. But I always stay here when I visit DC.” He smiled and nodded at the concierge, who had immediately snapped to attention. “This is my favorite hotel chain.”

“They’re pretty new, aren’t they?”

“Not really. They started in Miami around twenty years ago, and have about fifty locations around the world. The Paris one is my favorite.”

Mmm, Paris. Visiting the city of lights was number one on her bucket list. She’d always loved the idea of it—the art, the music, the food, the romance.

Probably few people would believe it, but Viv was a romantic at heart. Most saw her as either a tough girl—as she’d had to be, being raised with all those brothers—or a sexual siren. So she seldom had a chance to reveal her softer side. And the one time she had...well, her ex hadn’t exactly been the romantic type, and had been amused to find out she was.

She tried to shove Dale out of her mind. Not easy since his damn campaign signs were all over the place. Whenever she saw one, a chant of, “Lose, lose, lose,” roared through her mind, but she had a sense that he was going to win his coveted-above-all-else Virginia delegate seat this fall. The bastard.

She supposed it wasn’t a surprise that Dale was on her mind now, even though she was definitely over him. Well, she was over the tender emotions, not quite over the hurt or anger. Anyway, losing her job had brought all those feelings to the forefront again. Dale had commented when they’d broken up that a “woman like her, who worked around a lot of men” was bound to get into trouble. Damn, she hated that he might hear about this and decide he’d been proved right.

“Jackass,” she mumbled.

Damien immediately stopped raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, sorry, I guess I was talking to myself.” Feeling herself flush, she quickly added, “And I was not talking about you.”

“Your boss?”

She shrugged, noncommittal.

“You talk to yourself a lot, don’t you. I heard one of your scintillating conversations when I walked up behind you in the parking garage.”

She winced. “Did I singe your ears?”

“Don’t worry about it. Anybody who’s had a day as bad as yours gets a pass on language and just about everything else.”

“Everything else, huh?”

Possibilities flooded through her mind. She could think of a lot of things that would help her get her mind off her ex, her job, her car and all that ailed her. Getting back in the saddle, sexually speaking, was the perfect way to move past everything that had been going wrong for the past few months. She could get her rocks off, have an unforgettable night of passion and walk away tomorrow, clean slate, ready to start again. And doing it with the incredibly sexy man escorting her to a private table in a corner of the bar sounded heavenly.

Remember—make him want to.

She hadn’t come on to a man in months, hadn’t even really flirted, and definitely hadn’t tried to get a guy into her bed. But it was kind of like riding a bike, wasn’t it? A woman never really forgot how to make a man want her. At least, a woman as skilled at it as Viv Callahan had once been.

Instinct kicked in, her body making the decision one second ahead of her brain. As he pulled out her chair, she reached up and unbuttoned her suit jacket, slipping it off. There was nothing she could do about the shapeless skirt that reached her knees, but she was wearing a silky white blouse that could be considered sexy when it wasn’t concealed by the jacket.

She made it even sexier by surreptitiously unfastening two more buttons while he took his seat opposite her. When he looked at her, his gaze traveled to her suddenly much-deeper neckline, lingered there for a moment and then moved up to her face.

His smile said he’d read her every move.

She didn’t care.

Didn’t blush.

Didn’t retreat.

No.

Instead, she went one step further. Smiling innocently, she said, “Another good thing about unemployment. I no longer have to put my hair into hideous buns, either.”

Reaching up, she pulled out the pins that constrained her thick, long hair, and shook it out, running her fingers through its length. It fell in a golden curtain around her shoulders.

He didn’t take his eyes off her, as she’d known he wouldn’t. There wasn’t a man alive who didn’t see an attractive woman’s long, silky hair and imagine twining his fingers in it as she rode him into oblivion.

Damien watched her, his lips parted, his eyes hooded. And a surge of feminine power rose within her. For the first time in ages, she felt strong, sure of herself, certain of what she wanted and how she was going to get it.

The real Viv was back—in charge, in control and ready to get wicked.

* * *

STARING INTO THE face of a woman who’d gone from extremely attractive to drop-dead gorgeous, Damien felt like a baseball player standing on the field who’d just learned all the rules of the game had changed. Missed swings no longer counted as strikes, and three definitely didn’t mean you were out. As for a grand slam, well, he had the sense that was suddenly well within his reach.

What, he wondered, had happened?

She’d been prickly when they met—with reason, given what she said she’d been going through. She’d warmed up and become a little flirtatious, but mostly just conversational. He’d noticed flashes of wit, but nothing that could have been described as provocative. And then, between the time he pulled out her chair and when he sat across from her, she’d armed herself with every potent, sexual tool in her arsenal. She’d gone from buttoned-up, sedate businesswoman to vamp with a few unbuttons and a swish of that glorious mane of blond hair.

Only a fool, or a male virgin, wouldn’t get the message.

“What are you up to?” he asked, blunt, as always. He didn’t play games, not when it came to anything important. And he sensed she could be important.

“Hmm? What do you mean?” she said with a shrug, playing innocent.

He nodded toward the hair, and cast another pointed glance at the extremely interesting cleavage. “I asked Miss Marple for a drink and ended up with Jessica Rabbit.”

“Who’s Miss Marple? And, uh, Jessica who?”

Not many people shared his enjoyment of old mystery novels, so he gave her a pass on that one. But a woman built like Roger Rabbit’s wife ought to be familiar with the cartoon character.

“She...”

“Kidding.” Batting her lashes and vamping her voice, she purred, “‘I’m not bad, I’m just drawn that way.’”

Oh, yeah. She most definitely was.

“Why the costume change?”

She shifted her gaze away, but before she could reply, a server stopped by their table. The young woman deposited two glasses of ice water, garnished with lemon, and offered them each a perfunctory smile. That was good. He didn’t want to be recognized and called by name by everyone in this place, not in front of Viv.

“Two gin and tonics, please,” he said, remembering his companion’s drink preference.

When the server was gone, Viv glanced around. “This is beautiful—the view of the river is lovely. It’s even nicer than the one from the restaurant upstairs.”

“Coward.”

Her jaw fell. “What?”

“No subject change allowed.”

“Did I do that?”

“You know you did. Now answer the question,” he murmured, enjoying the sparkle in her eyes and the tiny smile lurking on those lush red lips. She was slightly annoyed that he was pressing her, but also, he suspected, excited that he was following her where she’d led him with those two unfastened buttons.

“I suppose you’re right,” she finally admitted. “Remember that librarian comment? Well, I have been wearing a costume. Not by choice. It was at the suggestion of my supervisor.”

Back to the job with the shitty coworkers and asshole of a boss. He stiffened, instinctively growing angry on her behalf again. “Why was that?”

“I worked with a lot of poor, weak, helpless men. Isn’t that sad?”

He rolled his eyes, knowing exactly where she was headed. “Men with no self-control?”

“You win the prize. You want to hear the really fun part, the kicker I found out today when I was being fired?”

He wasn’t sure, but nodded anyway.

“I was a bet.”

Damien’s hands clenched into fists on the table.

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah, during his we’ve-decided-not-to-keep-you-through-the-rest-of-your-probationary-period speech, my boss’s boss said the guys had bet on who could get me into bed first.”

“Are you serious?” he asked through a clenched jaw.

Damien had the urge to hurt someone, and vowed that by the end of the day, he’d have found out the name of her ex-employer, invested in the company and fired her son-of-a-bitch supervisor. Hell, he could buy the damn company and fire every man who worked there.

“Entirely. Seems I was just too much of a distraction, so it was best for everyone—including me, for my personal safety—if I left.”

“Jesus Christ,” Damien muttered. Lifting his water glass, he half drained it, trying to cool himself off. He was stunned by the idiocy not only of her male colleagues, but also of a higher-up who would hear about that bet and react by firing the victim. If the man had been one of his employees, Damien would have hit the roof. Not only was it wrong on a moral level, but the guy had also just opened up his employer to serious lawsuits.

When he felt capable of being rational, he said, “Call your lawyer.”

“I can’t afford one.”

“I’ll call my lawyer.”

“Thank you, but no.” She offered him a small, humorless smile. That, and her slumped shoulders, told him how crushed she was by this entire situation. “I just want to forget it ever happened,” she said. “I got severance, and I’ve been promised excellent references.”

“All to keep you from suing or making trouble.”

“Yes. Normally, I’m good at making trouble.” She traced the tips of her fingers across the condensation on her own glass. “Maybe I’m losing my touch.”

He watched her long, slender fingers, so delicate and feminine, but also strong. He sensed she wasn’t so much giving up as she was choosing what she thought was a better option.

“I’m sorry. And I’m goddamn angry. Let me help you.”

“I don’t need any help.”

Used to taking care of things, and bothered that he couldn’t in this situation, Damien bit back a frustrated retort. She was independent, he respected that. But he couldn’t stand the idea of anybody getting away with that kind of bullshit, especially when Viv was the injured party.

Their drinks arrived. Damien glanced at his watch. “Twenty-nine-and-a-half minutes,” he pointed out before sipping, enjoying the icy bite of the alcohol.

Remembering her comment in the garage, she smiled. “Okay, I officially resign from Man Haters Anonymous. At least for the rest of the day.”

Lucky him.

“Now, back to your situation...”

“I meant what I said. I know men like to solve things—boy, do I ever know that. But I have already made up my mind.”

As if she sensed he was about to argue, Viv tossed her hair, lifted her chin and managed a real smile. He suspected she was trying to downplay her sadness and humiliation as she said, “I must say, though, I’m not happy my good behavior went to waste. I was so nice, so plain and sweet while trying to get those guys to lose interest.”

Plain she could never be. He doubted sweet was used to describe her very often, either. No, she was spicy.

“The deck was stacked against you because of that bet. You could have come in to work literally wearing a nun’s habit and it wouldn’t have changed a thing.”

“I understand that now. But I gave it my best shot, believe me. Though, I didn’t think of the habit angle, and I should have, given my Catholic-school upbringing.”

Something else they had in common. “Nuns are terrifying.”

“No kidding. My second-grade teacher, Sister Margaret, wouldn’t have recognized me over the past several weeks, I was so demure. If she had, she’d probably have fallen over dead of shock that her predictions of my future wickedness hadn’t come true.”

He sipped again, wondering just how wicked this woman could be. “Future wickedness, huh? Did she believe you were destined for damnation?”

“Or prison.”

He chuckled.

“You think I’m kidding? Yeesh, let a nun catch you in a coat closet with two boys, playing my-underwear-are-better-than-yours, and she’s pegged you as a bad girl for life.”

“Were they?

She cocked her head. “Were who what?”

“Were yours better than theirs?”

Snorting and rolling her eyes, she said, “Well, duh. Angry Beavers beats Darkwing Duck or Animaniacs any day.”

He had just taken another sip of his drink but her response made him swallow the wrong way, and he had to cough into his fist, half laughing, half groaning. When he could speak again, he asked, “Your parents let their seven-year-old daughter wear Angry Beavers panties?”

“Caught that, didja?” she replied with a snicker. “They worked a lot, raising six kids, five of them strapping, athletic, eating-them-out-of-house-and-home boys.”

Ouch. Five brothers. He wondered where she fell in the Callahan family lineup.

She continued. “Because of my parents’ work schedules, my oldest brother had to take me back-to-school shopping that year. He didn’t want to be caught by any of his high school friends in the little girl’s department at the mall, so I had free rein when it came to choosing panties. Heh. But hey, better than Ren and Stimpy, right?”

“I don’t know, ‘happy-happy, joy-joy’ seems like a good underwear motto.”