Fire in an Amber Sky Page 3

  A spate of silence whistles by as Cash goes vacant. His eyes see right through me as that pencil nearly snaps between his fingers.

  “I would love revenge, Macy. I’m just not convinced of the proper tools to obtain it. Revenge is a tricky road to navigate. You go full throttle, without thinking things through, and you’ll be the one getting burned.” He comes out of his quasi-comatose state and gives an easy smile. “Go on, get some coffee, soak in the place before the big meeting. I’m sure you’ll have the time of your life here.” His brows dip with a marked sadness. He waits until I get to the door before clearing his throat. “Macy? I’m sorry about what happened.”

  And there it is. Bradley and Leah’s stench is unstoppable, crossing county lines, twisted L.A. freeways, and seamlessly shoving itself down the throat of this oversized cat I’ve crawled into.

  “I’m okay,” I say as I leave.

  It’s only a partial lie.

  * * *

  Jinx is far too big to properly explore in an hour, and the thought of coffee brings bile to the back of my throat. I’m convinced I’m the only person on the planet who doesn’t really care for the necrotic-tasting beans. Instead, I rove around the hive, observe the impossibly beautiful girls with their glossy straight hair, the pale blondes, the dramatic brunettes. Half of them seem to have an effortless beauty, and the other half a manufactured look with their baked-on tans, false lashes long enough to rake the leaves with, commercially bloated lips, and dramatic contours that divide their faces like state lines. It makes me want to reach into my purse for a makeup sponge and blend, blend, blend.

  The door at the end of the hall catches my attention, quiet and unassuming with a stocky woman sitting out front with a pushed-in chin, pouty lips, and a slightly upturned nose that might make people look twice. The brass plate on the door reads Lincoln Lionheart, large and clear—make no mistake about it—he is here. I almost want to laugh at the bravado of it all.

  “Are you his nine o’clock?” The secretary hardly looks up while sorting through a stack of files. “You’re late. He’ll see you, but take the warning. He isn’t happy. He has a meeting in an hour, and he usually likes to take his time with these things.” She inspects me from head to foot with a mild look of disgust. “Go on. No use in making it worse.”

  The good girl in me—Old Me—says, Explain to this woman you’re not whom she thinks you are, and then apologize profusely for no good reason. That’s what good girls do; they apologize away their existence until the Grim Reaper shows up one day, and they realize they had nothing to be sorry for. My stomach sours at what a pushover I was, what a perfect welcome mat for Bradley and Leah to wipe their fornicating feet on.

  New Me clears her throat.

  “Thank you,” I say, breezing right in with my heart already in my ears.

  A large black chair sits turned to the wall, hiding any trace of the big bad lion waiting to devour the rest of the company. The office itself is a replica of the one Cash holds; only this one has a south-facing window with a view of a hillside and a glimpse of the parking lot. It’s clear Lincoln Lionheart the Great did not gain any favors from his sister when he rammed his way in and stole my uncle’s company from beneath him.

  The oversized leather chair spins, revealing the man behind the name, and my stomach drops roller coaster style, leaving me breathless and light-headed all at once. Old Me and New Me collide in a cosmic fit of emotions that neither of us is prepared to deal with.

  Lincoln Lionheart is a broad-chested, blue-eyed, blond-haired god with the bone structure of Michelangelo’s David and the framework of Hercules. Well-played, Mr. Lionheart, well-played.

  His brows tweak with amusement as he slowly rises from his seat and makes his way around the desk.

  He gives a tug at the lapels of his Italian navy suit. Impressive as hell.

  Wow, is all my frothy brain can muster. Just wow. No wonder Cash harbors such vehement hatred for him. It’s obvious a man like Lincoln is eating into his supply of estrogen and high heels. No doubt Lincoln here does just fine with the ladies. I bet if Leah were me, she would have him pinning her to a mattress by midnight—hell, she might not have waited that long. My stomach turns at the thought.

  “You’re late.” He leans against his desk while his eyes roam freely over me. They sear their way down my flesh, back up, and swallow me whole, licking me in my secret places where no eyes and no tongue have dared to venture. It feels invasive as a touch the way he’s intimately exploring me with those baby blues. It feels erotic, necessary on some level, as if this were the proper initiation for working at NuJinx the Lusty Lionheart rendition. “You’re a redhead.” A quick frown comes and goes. He studies me with a scrutiny reserved for presidential security. “You don’t have any freckles.”

  “Freckles?” Is he for real?

  “Yes, you know. Your people usually have freckles.”

  “My people?” A laugh somersaults in my throat, never quite making its way out. “I guess my people didn’t pass down the gene.”

  “Delilah knows redheads are on my no-fly list.”

  “No-fly?” I’m more amused than I am insulted. “What exactly does my hair disqualify me from, Mr. Lionheart?” His name feels intimidating coming from my lips, powerful as thunder.

  “No-fly zone. No-fuck zone.” His brows furrow. A bored look of contention crosses his face. “All right, Red. You’re mouthy. I like that. I’ll break my rule just this once for you.” He ticks his head as if summoning me over.

  I’m sorry, but I’m still stuck in the no-what zone? Why does this Delilah person sound like a madam?

  The tremendous weight of the truth sits over my chest. Oh God. It’s because she is a madam. A groan escapes me without warning. Men are such pigs. When they’re not sleeping with your stepsister, they’re dialing up prostitutes for a pre-boardroom hookup. Disgusting.

  Old Me screams, Abort the mission! Abort! Abort! New Me says, Bend over and let him do you like a roadside whore.

  I waver for a moment, unsure of which extreme to settle on. Old Me shouts, Find the fucking door! New Me says, Lose everything you worked so hard to save and give it away to a corporate god named Lincoln—the very bastard who stole the steak right off your family’s plate, and then, just maybe, you can infiltrate just enough to snatch it right back.

  I shake the ludicrous thought away. It’s obvious New Me has a lady boner to contend with. New Me is very aroused at the thought of a dirty office rumble before we touch down in the boardroom.

  “Red?” I take a step forward, the seduction already locked in my hips. “Oh, come on. A cheap phoned-in cliché? Is that all you’re good for? A smart boy like you can do better than that. Give it another try.” I stride all the way over to him until my nervous fingers tug at his tie, smooth silk, navy with fifty shades of grey running through it. I give a private smile at the innuendo. I can feel my synapses snapping, crackling like a bullwhip at the thought of this man touching me. The scent of his cologne may as well be called Testosterone the way it sends its erotic charge straight down into my bones.

  Lincoln takes a breath as if my banter is refreshing. Something tells me that it’s a rare occasion when Lincoln Lionheart has to work for a good time.

  “Firecracker,” he says with an affirming attitude, but I shake my head and flick my finger for him to take another stab at it. “Ginger.”

  Another audible groan escapes me, and this time I make sure he hears. “Really? That’s an insult.”

  “It’s a spice—a root,” he corrects. “Besides, I was thinking of a certain redhead that happened to be trapped on a desert isle. Not an insult. A compliment. She’s gorgeous”—he winces, looking deep into my eyes as if he were really seeing me, seeing past the formidable Ginger root layers—“and so are you.” It comes from him cold, but his cheeks force his eyes to smile, even if the rest of him insists on holding back.

  “Fine. If you’re stuck on a boilerplate platitude, then Ginger it is.” I give a little s
hrug. “What’s next, cowboy? Tell me how to navigate this rodeo. I’ve never been in this arena before.” I’m almost sickened by the metaphors pluming from my lips. Old Me curls into a ball and clenches my vagina while New Me spurs this charade on like some bimbo cheerleader about to score a touchdown with the star quarterback.

  “Come here.” His displeasure with me seems to rise like mercury, but his bedroom eyes, those haughty lips, that alpha male attitude—they’re telling me they are very much pleased with what they see. A taste of Ginger is what they crave, and knowing what I do, they have an hour to get it.

  I step in closer until my chest grazes over his. I’m a lot less ready to seduce and a lot more ready to run. My heart thumps like a steel drum, and my skin enlivens with a level of ecstasy that I have never known.

  Our eyes lock for a moment, and I hook my gaze into those vibrant kaleidoscope eyes that are comprised of a series of deep aqua Xs over a charcoaled backdrop.

  “Bend over, Sin.” His warm breath touches my cheek, minty, something nice I wouldn’t mind bathing in if I had to.

  “Sin?”

  “As in sinful—cinnamon.” He lifts a lock of my hair with his fingers and lets it drop. “I hung up the phone.” He tweaks a brief smile. “Decided to shelf the clichés and give you something custom that fits.”

  A dull laugh rattles through me. “I’m only slightly impressed. But cinnamon is far from sinful.”

  “Not today.” His lids grow heavy, his lips press together as if he’s already savoring me. “Today it’s going to be very, very sinful.” He tousles my curls. His finger drips slowly down my neck, down lower still, and a fire ignites in my belly, racing right up to my throat.

  “I bet you’re wondering if the curtains match the carpet.” God, that was so seventh grade. I can feel my cheeks heating up as bright as my hair. And, yes, the curtains very much match the carpet—as do the blushing cheeks on my ass to the ones on my face. This is panning out to be humiliating, and a part of me wants it to be. A good girl avoids humiliation at all costs, but a carefree girl welcomes a little humility and laughs right along with it. That’s who New Me wants to be, carefree.

  “I thought you hated clichés?” he muses, running his finger over my jawline.

  “It was an honest question—one you’re avoiding.”

  “Okay, Sin, I am curious. Do the curtains match the carpet?” All traces of a smile dissipate, making him that much more alarmingly handsome. “Turn around, face-first on the desk—pick up your skirt. Let’s end this mystery.”

  A breath hitches in my throat as a fire of embarrassment rides from my quivering thighs to the top of my scalp, but I most certainly obey.

  I may have spent a majority of my life in fear of dissolving shadows, but now more than ever, I’m no longer afraid, no longer the passenger watching life swirl by from between my frightened fingers. I’ve taken the reins. I’m not just along for the ride; I’m driving this runaway train.

  I’m sure this gorgeous man, who has taken to barking out orders, has never feared a thing in his silver-spooned life. But now I’m here, bent on reclaiming myself, bent on revenge.

  Unbeknownst to him, he does have something to fear. Lincoln Lionheart will learn to most certainly fear me.

  “It’s your rodeo, cowboy.” I land my palms onto the cool glass overlay and slowly lay myself down, feeling the icy sting as my body adheres to the glacial surface. “But you’re going to have to lift my skirt yourself. I’m a big believer in working for your keep.” Clearly, New Me has kicked the beehive of my sanity, and now these strange words are buzzing from my mouth.

  My body is bent, my legs already parted to greet Lucky Lionheart.

  “All right, Sin. You’re a big talker. It’s time to pony up. I’m going to make you feel things that will make you scream whatever shit they shout at rodeos.” His hands glide up my thighs, warm and rough. His firm fingers dig into my flesh. “You’ll figure it out soon enough.”

  He slips into my panties and touches over that intimate part of me that no man has ever trekked.

  Oh my. Shit. My eyes widen as I stare straight ahead, wondering what kind of a mental institution I should check myself into first.

  Run! Old Me hyperventilates the word out.

  Lincoln traces his fingers over the most sensitive part of me, making me jump in my heels, my hands begging to claw at the glass.

  The room sways. My heart thrashes against my chest.

  He rubs his hand over my slicked flesh, and my thighs clamp over him before easing to his touch.

  I can’t stop. I won’t stop. This is happening.

  Old Me screams, Not like this. Not with him.

  New Me says, Welcome to your newest, latest, perhaps greatest mistake. It’s time to lasso in your virginity and end the stronghold you’ve let it have over you. It’s time to let go of your sniveling, timid schoolgirl past. It’s time to take back all of your power. Today we dive into the future. You were never who you thought you were. You were always me.

  I believe it.

  Mostly.

  Lincoln

  I’m no cowboy. I can count on one hand how many times I’ve ridden a horse, and that was under the lax supervision of a nanny. But if this beautiful little filly demands it, I will don a ten-gallon hat and ride her until the sun sets and rises once again. Who am I to say no?

  What the hell am I thinking? She’s a whore, a hooker, a girl who gets paid by the hour. This isn’t a one-trick pony—pun intended. In fact, she’ll be a worn-out mare before she’s crested twenty-five.

  I don’t usually dig into the bowels of my contact list, but today I needed a girl who wouldn’t think I was inviting her into my life. The workspace is intimate. A club girl might have thought this was phase two of our non-existent relationship and dubbed it progress. There is no such thing, nor will there ever be. This is sex, clean and simple. The way I like it. The way I demand it. The importance of banging a hooker just before boardroom playoffs is the level of smug satisfaction it brings when I walk into that meeting. It also serves as a metaphor, because when I’m through, Lionheart will make the Cannon brothers its own personal bitches.

  I unbuckle my belt, pull my hard-on out, and roll on a condom before the girl sprawled over my desk changes her mind. Not sure why I think she might, but something in me says she’s a runner. Not that I’ve ever had a call girl run on me before. Delilah has served up some delicious treats, and none of those were runners. They weren’t mouthy, either, although that only seemed to get me going that much quicker. As much as I’d like to paint the girl I’m hovering over as a bottom feeder of society, I can’t seem to squeeze her into that box. There’s a natural sweetness about her. A freshness you don’t find in used girls that have had their share of ready and willing dicks swinging in their direction.

  I plunge my finger deep inside her, and she flinches. A moan comes from me, deep and guttural, as my eyes close to take in the full sensation. She’s wet, warm, and tight as a glove if it were three sizes too small.

  “You’re wet and ready for me,” I whisper, ready to lose it like a virgin on prom night. “Good girl.” I try to squeeze a second finger inside, and my eyes open to her pink, perfect ass staring up at me. She’s damn tight. A Chinese yoyo. Once I get myself inside, I may never get out. Not that I’d mind. She’s the right kind of girl to get stuck inside if you have to. I stab at her with my cock a few times before carefully pushing my way inside. Oh, fuck. She’s too small. I can’t seem to navigate this train to the homeport. My muscles tense. I’m shaking because I can’t remember the last time I wanted it this bad.

  “You sure you’ve done this before, sweetheart?” I give a little thrust, and she lets out a hard yelp. “Jeez.” I pull out and note a smudge of blood on the condom. What the? I examine my hand, but it’s clean. “You’re not ready to start your period, are you?” Words I never thought would leave my mouth, not with a club girl, not with one of Delilah’s daily specials.

  “No.” Her voice
trembles, and it’s only then I notice she’s quivering beneath me.

  One thing is for sure. I don’t do blood.

  I stuff myself back into my pants and give her bottom a light tap.

  “All right—rodeo’s over. I’ll catch you next time, maybe.”

  “What?” She spins into me with her chest heaving, her face filling with relief. Her fingers tug down her skirt until her body is well concealed once again. “That’s it? Did we?” She gives a slight nod. Her eyes are wild, her lips a brilliant shade of pink. “Did we have sex?”

  Shit. Knew it. She’s a virgin.

  No redheads, and no virgins. Those were the only two things on my do-not- fucking-send-me list. Shit, Delilah. You had one job.

  “Get out,” I say as I head to my desk. “I have a meeting in forty minutes. I need to prepare for it.” Prepare for it as in heading down to the gym and jacking off in the shower. I look right at her. “I need some relief, Sin, and I refuse to steal it from you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Her eyes shine like crushed emeralds. Her lips blush the same dark rusted shade as her hair. She’s glowing from the inside out, a youthful, healthy flush that screams, I’m too fucking beautiful for this, for you, for my own good and safety.

  “It means get out.” My voice chips through the silence like a hatchet. “Don’t worry, I won’t say a damn thing to your boss. You’ll live to”—I pause, glancing down at her clearly unused crotch—“do whatever it is you do every day. I’ll make sure you get a bonus,” I whisper that last half because it felt wrong to say in the first place.

  “Make it a big one.” Her voice cracks like she might cry as she speeds out the door.

  A part of me demands to go after her. To tell her to chase after her dreams, not a potential case of syphilis—not that she’d catch it. Delilah is infamous for running every medical exam known to man. The condoms she requires almost seem like an afterthought.