Chapter Three

Declan

A tapping nail pulls my attention upward from the stack of contracts I’m reading. A headache is throbbing in my head, and if I can leave early tonight, I will.

“Your stray returned.”

I look up, stretching my neck lazily and pretending to not look.

Tabby nods to the stairs leading down into the club pumping with music. The week has come and gone, keeping me busy checking shipments and working between the office here and the one from home in Back Bay. I’m looking forward to a quiet evening of drinking, and maybe fucking a girl who knows the deal and won’t expect platitudes and presents afterward. I like to think my prowess between the sheets is gift enough.

Rolling my eyes, I finish my shot of tequila, letting the alcohol scorch a smooth hurt down my throat and then slamming the glass on the counter. Somehow I think I knew whiskey wasn’t strong enough for tonight. Glancing at the prey holding a tentative court at the top of the staircase, I look around at the men who see her. What the hell is Sydney doing back here? I doubt ignoring her presence will make her go away. She’s a persistent little thing, and punishing her torments me. I can tell a few men have ideas of their own, and I don’t like it.

Muttering “bloody hell,” I stalk off to my lounge, disregarding the interloper. If she wants me so bad, she can work for it. I’ll let her run the gauntlet of lecherous stares and groping hands, as much as it bothers me to grin and bear it. The temptation to throw her out increases with each passing minute. She doesn’t belong here, but the need to see how far she will take things wins out, pinning me to my seat. Besides, I have the enjoyment of advising Neil that he’s lost his bet with Tabby.

“Dec.” Joining me, Neil salutes me with a drink and I follow with another. He hasn’t seen Miss Meadows yet, and a smile cracks my face for a change. I’m going to enjoy telling him, and follow it by consuming copious amounts of alcohol. Other women are the last thing on my mind after seeing Sydney here in my space.

I point in her direction, speaking. “Thought you should know you lost your bet with Tabby.”

Neil’s brow furrows and he turns half around watching the delectable Miss Meadows nearly stumble down the club steps in her too-tall heels, body encased in a short navy trench coat that leaves little to the imagination.

God, I want to tear it off her like an orange peel and stab my fingers deep into the layer of dark, stiff cotton, hearing the organic material rend. The need to rip it off, not caring how it ends up torn on the floor, overwhelms me.

Neil grunts. “You seem pleased by this, Dec. I thought you said she wouldn’t be back. Like ever, if memory serves me correctly.”

“Yes, and I also heard it’s a virtue admitting when you’re wrong.” I’m rarely wrong, but in this case I set myself up for failure miscalculating her moves.

Neil watches her descent into the club. His eyes follow her, as do mine. It pisses me off—Neil ogling her barely covered ass and shapely legs.

“So what are you going to do now?” he asks.

I raise my arms behind my head, feigning a relaxed pose. “I’m going to enjoy the show.”

He fiddles with his phone, taking a drink, but I see his eyes stray in her direction. He’s doing it to test me, not because he’s genuinely interested in her, and he’s lucky I know he wouldn’t poach.

“I bet you are, Dec.”

I growl, “Stop staring at her.”

Neil snickers. “You and every other man in here are looking her over.”

“Well knock it off.”

“Are you staking a claim?” He smiles and I sigh.

“As if you didn’t know.”

Neil barks with laughter and several heads turn to stare at us.

“Easy, brother. I don’t want the delectable Miss Meadows, but you might want to let the rest of them know that.” He points to where she’s shyly making her way into the center of the club.

“I imagine that’s why she came, but not for you, so stop staring.” Sitting up, I settle into my seat, spreading my legs out and casually adjusting myself. Ladies pass by and offer their services to entertain me, but I brush them off with lame excuses. I’m too interested to see what Miss Meadows hides underneath her pretentious little coat. Under the lights the navy looks black, same as my suit, and oh so fitting. We are both a metaphor in disguise, one pure as snow and one dark as sin.

I would love to teach her to sin; but it isn’t my place to sully her, despite how much I want to. Girls like her should be avoided at all costs. She might legally be adult, but in my head I know she doesn’t have the experience a woman of my acquaintance would—and that’s not putting her down, it’s the truth. My women are lionesses, scheming and seductive. Sydney is a fluffy little kitten with too-big eyes and a heart of gold, sadly misguided in thinking she can save her father from further ruin and destruction. Someone ought to tell the angel that he’s beyond redemption. And who better than a man coated in sin and on a first-name basis with the devil?

It’s tempting, that’s for sure, but I have no allowance for projects like this that could take up my time from legitimate business and whoever is fucking up my shipments. If I have to guess, it’s LeHavre, and right now I don’t have the trusted manpower to keep tabs on him and watch out for Sydney. Stevens and Rhodes already have enough to do without devoting time following Sydney around.

My eyes hover over the last sip of alcohol in my glass, watching her sneak around the corner. On shaky legs she climbs up to the dais, leaning down into my piano player’s ear and catching his attention. The grand piano sits in the center of the club, with spotlights illuminating the shiny black lacquer. The piano lounge is something else I inherited, and with a few upgrades I made the place a real money-maker, eliminating my need to launder funds—because shit, alcohol and sex are an easy cash cow.

She whispers in Rob’s ear, fueling my anger with irrational jealous feelings with each passing minute. Her hands fidget on her tied belt. What is Sydney doing? The anticipation of waiting for her to loosen the belt has me zoning out from the background noise of the club. I want her to do it. I want her to pull the belt loop loose, but I wait.

Rob gets up from the instrument, patting the seat for Sydney to sit down. Her hair is pulled back from her face in a tight bun as severe as the cinching belt around her waist, giving her an hourglass figure. The music from the bar behind me mutes to a whisper, and her fingers strike the pale keys with skill that surprises me. Shocks me, really. She plays as if classically trained, fingers stumbling on the keys but once, and the tune resembles the original song—only with a jazzy twist. It’s Bob Dylan’s “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door” and if she thought temptation with a song about a dying deputy was going to sway me, she’s wrong. Her father made his own fucking mess, and he should fix it himself instead of relying on her to do it. She relinquishes the piano back to Rob, who gives her a little bow. Confusion churns in the pit of my stomach as I scan the number of eyes focused on her. She moves to the pole strategically placed next to the piano, and Rob returns, picking up the song where she left off in a haunting melody.

Her legs sway a bit and she reaches up to let her hair loose. Pins scatter to the floor in little black bouncing pings, and locks of hair curl in delicious waves, taunting me to grab them. I wonder if girls learn to do that trick early on to wrap us around their little fingers. It’s obviously working, because men in the club whistle and I look around to see who is watching her declaration of war on my senses. If baby doll wants to play, baby doll is going to have to pay. They’re all watching and it’s pissing me off.

Her hair tumbles free in waves, releasing her floral scent into the air. Slender fingers tug at the belt loop, unraveling the knot. Her jacket slowly opens to reveal the present underneath. I wouldn’t mind a private show—except she’s showing everyone, and my ire magnifies tenfold. My fists clench, short nails biting into my palm, and I want to grab her hair up and wrap it around my hand, back into a bun. I want to button and cinch her jacket up tight from her knees to her neck so only my eyes have seen her offering. Mostly I want to spank her ass until it’s pink and raw and she’s unable to sit down for a week for this display she’s putting on right now in my club, uninvited.

Last week I turned her down for a reason, and if I don’t pick up the gauntlet in here, twenty men are likely to offer her assistance in my place—men who can’t possibly pay her father’s debt off the way I can and still offer her protection in exchange. The thought of another man exacting payment irritates me. Clenching my jaw, I’m mad because she’s forcing my hand by teasing these hacks, and I don’t like it. I hate it, and yet I admire her tenacity. When the jacket falls from her graceful shoulders like a fallen angel who lost her wings, I stand up.

“Dec, what are you doing?” Neil grabs the arm of my suit jacket, wrinkling silk and wool.

I sneer, shaking him off.

My club.

My rules.

My woman.

I shake off the last sentiment. She isn’t my woman—not really, and not any more than she could be some yuppie frat boy’s girlfriend, for all I know. It’s as if she’s begging to be treated like a woman instead of a girl with kid gloves. Maybe there is a bit of a lioness within her, and I won’t let her get away with it. She is a complication I don’t want or need.

I glare sideways at Neil, the voice of reason, and say, “I’m going to make sure the pretty girl understands what happens when she disobeys me.”

“Easy, Dec, she has no idea the monster she’s awakened,” Neil warns.

Of course she doesn’t. Nobody does.

“Then she should have stayed home to wash her hair tonight.” I straighten my shoulders and stalk toward the stage, my eyes never leaving my prey caught under my spell. Her hips sway in time to the music and her body reveals slim lines barely covered in garish red silk and lace that reveal far more than it possibly conceals. A blood-red corseted bustier cups small breasts, not quite a handful for me, but sufficient to get the job done. Breasts are still breasts, and her nipples peeking between taught floral lace beg for my attention. A scrap of pathetic silk covers her mound, visible under the sheer skirt that’s nothing more than a joke. Matching garters in red complete her ensemble, with heeled navy patent pumps that buckle at her delicate ankles. The contrast between red and navy make me think of a schoolgirl at detention. I rub my thumb across my lips to stop myself from speaking and wanting to touch the indentation of her ankle.

God, I dream of fucking her raw in those shoes until she cries for mercy that will never come.

Yes, Sydney Meadows is in a shitload of trouble with me, and nothing—not even God—can save her from my wrath. My cock presses against my suit pants and I run a tired hand through my hair and over my face and chin, deciding her fate.

I ask her the most obvious question: “Just what am I to do with you, Miss Meadows?” The song continues to play and I take a dangerous step toward her, ready to pull her down into a hell of my own creation.

She leans in and uses her hand to tap my chest. “Knock, knock, Declan.”

I smell the faint odor of alcohol and sweet mint. I think she’s drunk, maybe buzzed by the pupils in her eyes. Yeah, she’s light years away from heaven’s door as her lips pout, same shade of fuck-me red as her lace, and I haul her ass off the stage, angry with myself more than her at this point.

“Infuriating little imp.” I pick up her jacket from the floor, letting it whip and hit my thigh, castigating myself. I grab her by the arm, marching Sydney off the stage and right down a hallway that leads deeper into the club. Men jeer and boo as I steal their entertainment for the evening.

Too fucking bad for them.

“Oww! You’re hurting me.” She struggles to break free, hopping after me.

“Good—it’s no less than you deserve, showing up here painted like a little whore fresh from the corner,” I grit between my pressed lips, attempting to keep my cool until we’re out of sight of the club floor.

She snorts and I turn so fast she bumps into my chest, almost falling back until I catch her.

“I’m not a whore,” she mumbles, but the shame of being here is in her eyes and stains her cheeks.

“No? You’re certainly drunk,” I muse. If I’m hurting her, that will be the least of her worries tonight, because her luck has run out.

She gasps, pulling away and knocking into the wall. “I’m not drunk. I had one shot.”

I grab her by the back of her neck, squeezing none too gently. “You play in my house, Sydney, you play by my rules.”

Her legs tangle, nearly tripping her as I throw her over my shoulder, stopping her struggles with a swift spank to her virtually bare ass. Her ass is aimed at the room for all the salivating dogs to admire, pissing me off when it’s mine. I toss Sidney into my office, slamming the door behind us and blocking out the catcalls still coming from the stage. My heart pounds in my chest. I’m out of breath from the excitement of the chase hunting her down. Her jacket lands against the wall, falling to the floor in a heap like her dignity will be when I’m finished with it. She might have won this round, but I will win the war.