Dirty Chase: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Brooklyn Brotherhood Book 2) (3 page)

I
see
the camera's flash and react instinctively, rushing the photographer and pushing him backwards with my right hand—though I grab his jacket and hold him up so he doesn't fall on his ass. He's off-balance, tilting backwards like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. I give his jacket a hard shake, distracting him so my left hand can jerk the camera out of his feeble grip. I hold it above my shoulders so the shorter man can't reach for it.

Not that he's even trying.

His eyes are wide and he looks like he's about to piss himself.

"What the fuck, man!" the paparazzo squeals.

"I'm going to let go of you," I growl. "Don't fall on your ass."

"What?"

I release his jacket and he stumbles backwards and—yep—falls on his ass.

"Fuck! I'm gonna sue you for all you're worth!" The paparazzo groans, rolling over onto his hands and knees, then reaching back to rub his tailbone.

I shrug and turn away. Now that I'm not holding onto him, he's suddenly got a big mouth. Typical for a coward. That's when I look up and see Elle's stricken face.

"What are you
doing
?" she cries.

"Fuck," I mutter. Normally, I aim for drama-free: in work, in life, and with women. I don’t explain myself. I don't put myself in situations where I
have
to explain myself.

But right now, staring at Elle's horrified face, some part of me feels…guilty. Not for roughing the guy up; but for making her watch.

Another part of me finds it hard to ignore her amazing curves. She's spilling out of that ridiculous, overpriced bustier, or whatever the hell she called it. And those skintight, ridiculous tights are making me hard all over again, despite the fact that her ass and thick thighs and long, gorgeous legs are covered with fucking cats.

Have I mentioned I’m a dog person?

And while I can't help but admire her heaving chest, her wild hair blowing in the gentle night breeze, my big head—the one I probably don't use that often when it comes to women—can't help but notice her pretty blue eyes are distressed. And that little frown, the way her light-brown eyebrows are pushed together, the way she's balling her fists down at her sides—it's driving me fucking crazy.

I want her chest heaving and her hands clenching for entirely different reasons. Not because she thinks I'm a violent asshole.

I'm not—unless I have to be. And never with women.

I just can't have my picture taken. Not in this line of work.

She'll never understand that. And I wouldn't want to corrupt her life to
make
her understand. It would be best for everyone if I ended things, right now, before even one night.

Despite her fucking amazing body, I should just drop her.

But somehow, I find myself explaining my actions. I can't remember the last time I had to do this, and it's making me fucking angry—at the entire situation, the fucking photographer, and the fact that I know, deep down inside, that Elle shouldn't be with me. I'm angry at fate, I guess.

But not at her. It's not her fault she's behaving like any normal, honest, law-abiding citizen would. Like anyone who doesn't mind having their picture taken.

I should leave her now, for her own good.

Instead, my legs move of their own accord and I walk up, put my hand gently on her face, tilt those pretty eyes up at me. She's frowning, but she doesn't pull away.

"What the hell, Chase?" Elle holds my gaze, doesn't flinch, doesn't look away. Her cheek is soft as fucking silk beneath my hand, and I can't help but imagine what other parts of her body might be even softer.

"I can't have my photograph taken, Princess. Not good for business."

Her eyes drift from mine, and I realize the photographer is behind me, talking his ass off. Fuck. What is it about Elle that makes me focus only on her?

That's also not good for business. Or for staying alive.

I should cut this off, right now.

Then those pretty blue eyes drift back to me, and she bites her lip, swallows hard. My body responds, gut clenching, cock getting hard, brain going fucking haywire.

I'm used to being the dangerous one.

But I'm beginning to think she's dangerous—for me.

"I shouldn't have dinner with you, Chase. I'm a kindergarten teacher and you're—you're—"

I'm an idiot, because I agree with everything she's saying. But instead of telling her that, I lean in and silence her with a kiss.

I know I'm trying to shut down my own damn doubts, even more than hers.

Unfortunately, it works.

Her lips are soft and sweet, and for a moment I'm too hard, too brutal—she resists, pushing back against my kiss, keeping those perfect pink lips closed against me.

Then with a rush, she opens to me. I tease her, sliding my tongue just a breath inside her. She tastes like champagne and feels like hot silk. And then she moans. Just a little, breathless sigh as we pull apart.

It sets me off, though. I go to attack her—and then I realize,
she's
attacking
me
. Her arms are suddenly twined around my neck, she's up on her tip-toes trying to reach me, inhale me, kiss me hard and harder.

I fucking like this.

This is
totally
my fucking style.

"Let's get inside," I say, my voice rougher than I expected.

I place her gently on her feet, then turn to look at the paparazzo.

"What the fuck are you doing back here? This area is private property."

The restaurant keeps all its paying clients going in and out the front door. This back entrance is for business associates only. And he's lucky it's me and not one of the New York families he just shot, because he'd lose more than his camera if it was a local.

"Just trying to make a living, man."

"Go back to the front of the building and don't let me catch you back here again," I say. "I'm gonna give you your camera back."

He looks visibly relieved, but then shouts as I flick open the memory card slot and remove the card with all his photos saved on it. I pocket the card then hold out the camera. "But don't fucking take my picture, or her picture, ever again. You hear me?"

"What the fuck, man?" The guys moves closer, dancing on his heels like he's gonna take a swing at me. He's half my height and half my weight, and I can tell the only boxing experience he has is from watching
Rocky
. "I need that card, man. It's got my whole night's work on it. It's not like you're even a celebrity. I can't sell your image. No one knows who you are."

I take two steps closer, so we're nose to nose. I glare at him. His hands drop and his eyes get wide. I could blow real hard and he'd fall over. Again.

"And that's exactly how I like it, asshole. Now:
Did you hear me
?"

"He heard you, Chase," Elle says quietly, behind me.

Her soft voice actually calms me down, but I don't have time to wonder about
that
because apparently having a pretty lady watch him puffs this motherfucker back up. He starts hopping on his feet again.

"Nah, man. You give me back my memory card, or I'm calling the cops. And suing your ass. And—and—fuck you!"

I clench my jaw. How-the-fuck-stupid is he?

"Actually," I growl. "Fuck you. And since you didn't get the message when I asked nicely, maybe this will get it through your thick, fucking skull."

I hold up his camera, high above my head. I let it tip down toward the ground.

"No, man, no—that's a four-thousand-dollar lens, man!"

I pretend to inspect the camera. Then I look back at him and watch his face as I throw it down, six feet onto the brick sidewalk. It lands with a satisfying crack.

"Looks like a four-buck lens now," I say.

He starts cursing again and threatening to call the cops, but doesn’t take one step to get near me.

I take my wallet out, pull out four grand, and throw it on the ground next to the camera. "Next time, when a man like me tells you what to do, you should listen. The
first
fucking time."

The paparazzo shuts up, dropping to his knees and grabbing his camera and the money, all the while keeping his eyes on me. Like I'm an animal that might attack—again—at any second.

That's certainly what I feel like.

I turn back, and I see Elle looking at me the same way. I don't like that she's upset. I don't like that there's uncertainty in her eyes, that she's looking at me like I'm a wild thing. I'd never hurt her. But it's only fair, given that I
feel
like an animal.

And now she's my prey, directly in my sites.

Some part of me is wondering why I don't just give her cab fare and send her home, back to her pretty, perfect, law-abiding little life.

Then Elle puts her hands on her hips, looks at me like I just kicked a fucking puppy, and says, "I don't date assholes. Or bullies. You've got exactly one minute to tell me why the hell I should stay here one second longer."

I grin. Suddenly I feel like I'm on top of the world.

Because if she really wanted to leave, she would have.

But she's standing here, and despite her hard-ass stance, she wants me. Just as much as I want her.

I shouldn't care about this. I shouldn't care about anyone, not even a little bit. Not in my line of work. Especially a pretty, young, defenseless
fucking kindergarten teacher
. Especially the best friend of the killer I work for. Especially a woman whose body makes me hard, but whose smile makes me feel…happy.

Still. I can't stop myself from walking up to her, sliding my hand around her hip, taking hold. She narrows her eyes and makes a huffing sound of displeasure, but I just squeeze tighter. There it is. A barely noticeable tremor runs through her. She glances up at me, probably hoping I didn't feel it.

I felt it down to the soles of my feet.

Maybe in my own damn soul. Or what's left of it.

I guide her toward the door, lean down and whisper in her ear, "I don't date assholes or bullies, either. In fact, I don't date. At all. You're staying because you desperately want to see what one night with me is like. No strings, all orgasms. Just like I want to see what one night with you is like."

Elle stops, right before we reach the front door. "Not good enough," she says. And despite the catch in her voice, the way she's taking quick, quiet, excited breaths, I believe her. I'm not fucking good enough for her.

For anyone.

But when has that ever stopped my selfish ass before?

I take a step back. So she's not easy. But I'm finding out that while I'm
used
to easy, I'm liking this challenge.

Even if it's just for one night. I can't give anyone more than that. It would be a danger to them—and to myself. I'm a loner, and that's how I stay alive.

"Well, if sex isn't enough to make you stay, what if I promise the world's best tiramisu?"

Elle's resolve is melting, just like I imagine her melting in my arms.

"It had better be the best. The best in the world. And no beating up the wait staff. Or anyone else. I don't care if you are"—she pauses, glances around, then leans forward to whisper—"
in the mob
." You'll behave like a gentleman."

I smile back, put my hand on the small of her back, run a finger along the soft, bare skin that's showing between her tights and the bustier. She shivers and I don't bother keeping the giant grin off my face.

"I can't promise to be a gentleman, Elle—never been one, never will. But I can promise to treat you like royalty tonight. You just let me know when you want me on my knees."

I
can't believe
he just smashed that guy's camera. And then threw thousands—it had to be thousands—of dollars on the ground. I mean, what the hell was that all about?

I can't believe he works for the mob.

I can't believe I'm still going to dinner with him.

What am I doing?

Yes, Chase is pure sex on a stick. But I'm not the kind of girl who just
falls
for a guy. But I've never—never, not once in my twenty-four years—met a man who has just
rocked
me to my core. With just one look.

Is it so wrong to have one wild night? Chase is obviously not boyfriend material, on
so
many levels. But he's got my hand in his hand and I can't remember anything ever feeling so right.

I'm used to men chasing me. But for some reason, I want to let this one catch me.

One night. Is that so wrong?

Chase leads me through the restaurant's back door, which opens onto a dark hallway. There's a huge man in the shadows, and it takes me a moment to realize he's a guard of some sort. A guard in a black suit, with a Bluetooth speaker in his ear. He nods at Chase—or manages as much of a nod as he can, with his thick neck. Chase nods back and pulls me inside.

To our left, I catch a quick glimpse of the bustling kitchens. We keep moving, and up ahead, through a doorway, I see a large dining room, packed with intimate tables, fine china, white tablecloths, white napkins. Expensive-looking art covers every available space on the stark white walls.

Each elegant table seems to be packed with powerful men and gorgeous, immaculately dressed woman. Jesus, I think one appetizer here must cost more than my entire weekly food budget. One woman's shoe probably costs more than my entire wardrobe.

What the hell does Chase do, that he can afford to eat at one of the most exclusive restaurants in a city full of exclusive restaurants?

And what the hell is he doing here, with me?

But instead of leading me into the dining room, he turns, and I see we're at the base of a back stairwell,

"Mr. Masters," a young waiter greets us, looking surprised. "You going up? Is there a meeting—"

"Just two of us, Joey," Chase says.

The young guy nods and follows us as we climb the narrow flight of wooden stairs. As we round the landing, I realize we're heading into a small, private dining room. There's only one table, perfectly set, and two upholstered dining chairs. The walls are royal blue, and I glance back at Chase's eyes.

They match. I wonder if he discovered the room, or if they painted the room to match his eyes. It's a crazy thought, but I feel like this man can do crazy things. Move mountains, get people to bow down and do anything for him…even redecorate a dining room to set off his eyes.

Don't forget. He might hurt people. Kill them
. I shiver. I shouldn't be here, despite the crazy sexual tension. I know what madness and violence can hide beneath a beautiful face. But, despite the fact that Chase works for the mob—I think—I feel safe with him.

I step into the private dining room.

Chase pulls a chair out for me, expertly pushing it in before taking a seat next to me.

Without looking at the menu, he tells the Joey, " Bring us up some appetizers—whatever Rafe recommends—oh, and oysters on the half shell." Chase pauses and raises his eyebrows at me. "Unless you don't eat fish?"

I shrug. "I eat everything."

Chase smiles back. "What a coincidence, Princess. So do I."

He winks at me and I'm certain he's not talking about food. Chase puts his arm across the back of my chair, his hand lightly caressing my bare shoulder. It's like he can't stop touching me. His lightly calloused fingers play a silent sonata across my skin.

With his free hand, Chase picks up the drinks menu and scans it.

"What's your drink of choice, Princess?"

I half-wish he'd stop calling me that; it sounds too intimate, his voice low, gravelly, perfect. And yet, I love the nickname. In real life, I'm nobody's princess. I'm a teacher, I'm Kat's best friend, and I have a ton of work friends and drinking buddies. But I have no family, not anymore. I go home alone every night.

And sometimes I wonder: if one day I just disappeared amid the great, gray racket of this enormous city, would anyone miss little old me?

"I think I'll stick to water. I have a feeling I'll need my wits about me." I mean it as a joke, but when Chase gives me a sexy, sidelong glance—and I feel a corresponding tremor between my legs—I decide it's actually a good idea.

"Alright, then. Water for the lady, and I'll have a Scotch."

"Very good, Mr. Masters," the boy says before disappearing.

Chase's arm is still around me, and we're sitting so close together that our legs are almost touching. He's looking only at me. With his left arm behind me, and the table in front of me, we make a tiny circle. I'm barely aware of the flickering candlelight, the ice in the water glasses slowly melting, the sounds of the street far below us.

Chase looks at me with a sexy half-smile, like his mind is full of naughty, delicious ideas, but he won't share them with me. Yet. He runs one finger around and around the edge of his wine glass, and his other finger around and around the suddenly sensitive skin on my shoulder. The tension is so thick I feel like I'm either going to kiss him again or run the hell away.

I clear my throat. "So, you…work with Gray? Or is it one of those,
I can tell you but then I'd have to kill you
sort of deals?"

He grins. "I think you only hear that line in movies. It's more like, I could tell you—but then you might reasonably expect a subpoena someday, be dragged into court to testify, and damn lawyers cost a lot of money."

I bat my eyelashes. "Stop it, bad boy. All this talk of subpoenas. You're turning me on."

He laughs, an addictive sound. "I'm currently in town helping Gray out with…a little project."

"So you're not—" I can't help but whisper. "—in the mob?"

"Why don't we just say I'm a freelancer? I'm in town for a few months, then I'll move on to my next…gig." He leans closer and lowers his voice. "Why are we whispering again?"

I laugh. "I don't know? So I don’t get subpoenaed?"

Chase continues tracing patterns on my shoulder. I glance at the tattoos snaking out from under his T-shirt. It's like he's branding me with his own invisible designs.

"Don't worry, Elle. This place is safe. We can talk about lawyers all you like." He takes a sip of his drink. "But I'd rather talk about you. You've known Kat a long time?"

I nod. "Since high school. I moved to Brooklyn halfway through my senior year in high school. Which, you know, is an awesome experience—"

Chase raises one eyebrow.

"Said no one, at any time, ever," I joke. "But I met Kat, and we hit it off, and when my mom—" I stop suddenly, not wanting to go there. I chance a look at Chase's face. He's studying me, he notes my awkward silence, but he doesn’t push me.

"Left town, I stayed here. Went to college. Became a teacher. I guess that's me, in a nutshell."

"I doubt that even scratches the surface," Chase says. "You like teaching?"

"I love it. I work at Holton Preparatory in Brooklyn Heights. I'd always wanted to work in the public schools, kind of give back more, you know? But I also have a lot of student-loan debt, so this pays the bills. And the kids are crazy but cute…" I trail off, biting my lip. I don't want to bore him—or depress myself—thinking about college debt or my mother or, really, anything but this moment.

"I bet you're a great teacher," Chase says softly. "And I know you're a good person."

"I don't know about that." If I was a good person, would I be sitting with a mafia freelancer right now?

Would I be considering taking him home tonight?

I glance at the blue walls and try to lighten the mood. "So, do you bring ladies here all the time? Just so they can
ooh
and
ahh
about how the blue walls match your eyes?"

Chase glances at the walls and looks incredulous. "I never noticed before."

"Sure," I tease. "I bet you had them painted just to match."

"You think I'm that influential—that a famous New York restaurant would do that for me? Or maybe you think I'm that vain."

"That vain. Definitely. You probably, I don't know, condition your beard, too."

Chase grins. "Wondering if it's soft, Princess? Or if it'll leave rug burns on your delicate skin?"

Then he leans closer, so close that his beard brushes over my bare shoulder and onto my neck. He moves his left arm off of me, but then uses it to pull a thick wave of my hair away from my neck.

Opening me up to him.

His lips drift close to the shell of my ear, and he lets them hang there—an almost-kiss—for one moment before speaking.

I'm frozen, holding my breath, a molten statue. What will he do, what will he say? He leans in, his nose gently rubbing against the back of my neck, and
oh my God
,
is he smelling my hair? My skin?

His voice is low, smooth, with a hint of a Southern drawl that feels like a caress. "There's only one way to find out, darlin'."

I laugh, even though I'm melting on the inside. I'm sure he can see my wildly beating heart, or hear it. It's ringing in my ears.

I turn toward him. "You should know something, Chase Masters. I don't do relationships. Especially not with bad boys."

Chase grins, igniting a slow burn between my legs. I try not to lick my lips, which suddenly feel oh-so-dry.

"We have so much in common, Princess. I don't do relationships with bad boys, either."

I roll my eyes.

"Or relationships, period. I spend one—and only one—night with a woman."

Even though I just told him I don't expect anything—I still feel a stab of unease when he lays it out like that. I try not to let my emotions show, but I must be frowning, because Chase reaches up and rubs his thumb gently between my eyes, where my frown lines form.

"I'm not giving you a line, Elle," Chase says. "You know who I work for. You're a smart girl. I'm sure you can imagine that I'm not exactly wearing a suit and tie to work. That I don't list what I really do on my taxes."

I have to break the tension. I remind myself,
I don't do relationships either
. What am I getting so worked up about?

"You pay taxes? And I thought you were a hardened criminal."

Chase laughs. "Let's just say I do some creative accounting."

Chase gently pries open my hand and rubs his thumb in slow circles in the cradle of my palm. I realize that, despite looking like he's the most laid-back guy in America, a part of him is constantly on the move. There's like a secret river of tension coiling through him. Something in him can't stop moving.

Though right now, his eyes are focused only on me.

I look at all the details on the table—the white linen napkins, the clean white plates so round and spotless they glow like the full moon outside—anything so I don't have to hold his intense stare. It's too much.

He's too much.

He puts his hand under my chin, gently turns my head to look at him. Smiles like he's on the red carpet.

"Chin up, Princess, or the crown might slip."

I smile back, despite myself. I keep forgetting about the damn thing. I reach up to make sure it's even, but Chase grabs my hand.

"Let me," he whispers.

And then his hands are in my hair, brushing back those annoying little ringlets that always get in my eyes. And then he's leaning in, guiding me toward him, and I'm letting him.

He kisses me, surprisingly gentle, on the side of my lips. Just a teasing caress.

"You know," he says, between teasing kisses. "We could just skip dinner. Go back to your place."

I pull back. That old, familiar fear returns. I want him—desperately—but I'm suddenly guarded. It's like a schism in my brain: wanting to lose myself in sex, but never wanting anyone to get close to me.

Instead, I run my mouth, getting defensive and edgy.

"Chase, I have no problem with one-night stands, but you're kidding yourself if you think I'm going to sleep with you two hours after meeting you."

I lean forward. God bless him, I can feel my breasts basically spilling out of this top, but he doesn't look down. "Even if I really, really, really—" I pause, bite my lip, look him up and down. "Want to know what that beard feels like between my legs."

He swallows. Hard.

Fuck yeah. I know I'm messed-up in the head. I'm loving the power I have over him. I'm almost—almost—helpless against his charms.

But as usual, I'll run away when things get too intense.

Then he smirks. "Princess, I think you want me as much as I want you. I think we're looking for the same thing. And," Chase pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and looks at the time. "By the time dinner's over and we get back to your place, we'll have known each other for at least five hours."

I laugh. "Well, that's some creative accounting right there. But I think I'm going to have to turn you down, Chase Masters. Thanks for the offer, though. I'm flattered." I reach up and take off the tiara, setting it on the table in front of us. "Thanks for making me feel like a Princess…even it was only for two hours."

I start to stand up, when Chase's hand clamps down on my wrist. His hold is strong, firm and confident. He doesn't hurt me, but he stops me.

For the first time, his face is serious.

"Don't go," he says, intense. Hungry. Like looking into a mirror of what I feel inside.

Then it's like someone snapped their fingers, and he's got his casual-as-fuck mask on again. I realize I probably do, too. It's easier, and less painful, to coast through life. If you don't care too much, you can't hurt too much.

Maybe having some fun with a man who seems to act like I do would be perfect—neither one of us will get hurt.

Maybe you'll both be forced to take off your masks
, some devious voice inside me says. I frown. I should go.

"Let's make a bet," Chase says. "Have dinner with me. If I can make you come three times, you'll
consider
spending the night with me."