The Diary of Brad De Luca (2 page)

“More like brilliant,” Rebecca said. “Going off her Facebook page, she’s got an active social life. So she either lives off no sleep, or doesn’t have to work hard for that 4.0.”

“A boyfriend?” He looked up from the file to meet her eyes.

“Does it
matter
?” she said, with the voice of a disapproving parent.

“I’m not in here asking about her because I need a new file clerk. Answer the question.”

“It isn’t in her application,” she pointed out.

“Neither are her Facebook status updates.” He gave her a hard look.

“Fine. She just ended an engagement,” she said flatly. “So she’s vulnerable. Not looking for someone to waltz in and fuck with her head.”

He shot her a wounded look. “You give me no credit.”

“Wrong, Mr. De Luca. When it comes to fucking, I give you all the credit.” With that, she snatched the folder away, shutting it and pushing it to the side. “We’re good, right? You’re going to behave? Keep to this wing and let her keep to hers?”

He regarded her carefully, his eyes unfocused, and pondered the question.

the chase

Thursday: two days later.

He couldn’t get away from this girl. She was a vice that followed him around, from her Tuesday appearance in the East Wing to the Wednesday early morning call. A call from his cousin, digging for information on Julia for a man named Bob. A call that had stuck with him, the forbidden fruit becoming more enticing the more he discovered.  

Broward’s intern, who apparently hid a sexual fire beneath that sweet cardigan. Another man hot on her trail. Calling around, asking questions.
Competition
.

He had gone straight to the office after the call, finding her in the west kitchen, butter on her lips, the scent of fear coming off her skin. But she’d had bite, shrugging off his advances, pushing away despite the attraction that flickered in her eyes.

It was there. Heat between them. And when he had pulled up to her in the garage? Ordered her to get in the car and go to lunch? She had obeyed, as she should have. He was a senior partner, she an intern. She should have wiped drool off her mouth and scampered in, ready to assist him in any way that he deemed necessary.

But she didn’t behave. She was unimpressed, sarcastic. Not swooned by Centaur’s grandiose entrance or the restaurant’s exorbitant prices, she had looked him in the eye when she spoke and called him out on his bullshit. She had been, simply put, fascinating. He wanted more, wanting to know what made her tick, what her story was, if she was a local college slut or the innocent that her flushed cheeks portrayed. And what he really wanted, what he thought about every time she put a piece of meat into her mouth, or sipped the glass of white wine, was putting his hands and cock on every part of her body. Making her quiver, making her grip his skin and scream his name.

And now, the third day of her spell, he was stepping into Kent Broward’s wing, glancing at his watch. He had ten minutes, max, before the staff started to arrive. Ten minutes to talk her into a second date.

She wasn’t alone in her office, and he stared at the pair, Julia nervous, her gaze flitting from him to the man, then back again. The man also quaked, his hand shaking as it smoothed down the hair on his soon-to-be balding head. This must be the man whom his cousin had called him about. The accountant who was head over heels obsessed with the intern who would soon be Brad’s.

What did she see in this weakling? His pressed suit, fresh haircut, and girly scent practically screamed whipped. Maybe she liked that, maybe she wanted to run over her partner, have him scurry around whenever she barked. He met her eyes, seeing the flash in her depths. She had fire. He liked fire.

He spoke, allowing his words to come out as a grumble, the threat in them causing the scrawny man to widen his eyes. “I need to speak to Julia if you are both done here.”

There was an awkward goodbye, and then the man was gone, and Brad and Julia were alone in the office. She crossed her arms and stared at him with a look that was meant to be intimidating. “What, pray tell, did you need to speak to me about that just couldn’t wait?”

He ignored her question, tilting his head in the direction of the exit, guessing at the answer to his question before he finished speaking. “Who is he?”

“Bob. He is a—”

“I know who he is. I meant who is he to you?”

Her eyes narrowed. “He is nothing to me.”

“Are you dating?”

“Is that any of your business?”

“It is if he’s visiting you at work.”

She threw up her hands, turning to her desk. “Oh, please! Don’t even pull that card.”

He repeated the question, intent on finding the answer. “Are you dating?”

“No.”

Her conviction and attitude satisfied him, and he leaned against the doorway, letting his eyes roam, traveling from perfect feet upward, past long legs, a navy dress that hugged the firm outline of her body, before settling on devourable lips, perfect features, flushed cheeks, and eyes that challenged him to make an inappropriate comment. He had the sudden desire to push her back on her desk and claim her body right now. His mouth moved without provocation, words coming out before he could harness them. “Come to Vegas with me this weekend.”

“What?” She looked at him like he had three heads. He wanted to ask himself the same question. This was a horrible idea, one that would certainly bite him in the ass.

He rephrased the question, cursing his psyche with every word flowing smoothly off of his traitorous lips. “I’m going to Vegas this weekend. Why don’t you come?” He tried for a welcoming tone, but the words came off more as an order.

“Are you serious?”

“Dead serious.” And suddenly he was, the desire to rip off that dress and have her naked in his hands too tempting to resist.

She smiled demurely. “I appreciate the offer, but I’ll have to pass.”

He smiled. “Think it over. I’ll have you back safe and sound by Monday.”

Those damn arms crossed again, the motion pressing her breasts together and offering them up to him. “I appreciate the offer, but no.”

He raised his eyebrows and looked at her, noting the steel in her gaze, the challenge only making her more appealing. “No boyfriend?”

“No.”

“Think it over.” He flashed a smile at her, the smile that normally weakened women’s resolve and had them ready and willing to do whatever he proposed. He turned on one heel, his brain begging for one final look at her, and left, heading back to his domain.

She would come. Now that his brash mouth had issued the invitation, there was no alternative but to make sure she came. Brad De Luca didn’t get rejected. Especially not by a twenty-something intern who had probably never been properly fucked in her life.

It was a horrible idea, flying an intern to Vegas. Kent Broward’s intern especially. If this came to light,
when
this came to light, there would be hell to pay. But that woman back there, her feisty attitude and tight body … one night with her could very well be worth the downfall.

The aftermath, when she would turn needy and want more than sex … the constant calls, persistent emails, those would not be worth it. That would be a headache that his schedule wouldn’t have time for. He swallowed, pushing open the double doors to the East Wing, regretting the invitation with every step he took away from her.

the city of sin

52 hours later: Vegas

2:45 AM. Too damn late. He collected a stack of chips and let them fall through his hand, watching them bounce and drop on the green felt.

“Your luck has turned,” the heavyset man before him said, gathering the cards. “You should stop for the night.”

Brad looked up, shaking his head and sliding a single black chip forward. “Another hand.”

He reached for the glass, downing the remaining bit of bitter liquor. It was out of his norm—continuing to play when his luck had turned. But he needed to be down here and out of the suite. In the suite was she … and he didn’t know how to handle her.

A waitress materialized at his side, setting another cold glass before him. He nodded, passing her a tip, and tapped on the table, asking for another card. He stared at his hand, trying for the hundredth time to rid his mind of her image.

They had checked in late, heading up to the room first, the bellman putting away their bags. He had expected them to go out, for dinner or drinks, when she had come to pieces, standing in the middle of the suite, her eyes welling with tears, her mouth basically accusing him of bringing her here for sex. It was like she expected him to bend her over the sofa as soon as the door closed behind the bellman.

He swallowed another mouthful of whisky. Her concerns were well-founded. He had assumed they would fuck, but he was in no rush. It wasn’t something that needed to happen on this trip. This trip had been intended more for … hell … he didn’t know why he had brought her here. The whole damn thing didn’t make any sense. All he knew was that look in her eyes—that fragile, terrified expression—told him he needed to be careful. Keep his distance, keep her clothed, untouched. She was not one of the women who lay on his desk and begged for a fucking. She was, apparently, fairly inexperienced. And she would take the sex as more than it was.

Stay away. Keep his distance. An easy decision to make when he sat thirty-two floors below her, alcohol and hours of distraction between them. It might be a different story when he was in her presence again.

He pushed the remaining chips towards the line. “All in. Last hand.”

“Good luck,” the dealer said with a somber look.

“Thanks. I need it.”

His new resolution lasted long enough for him to stumble upstairs, his pockets heavy with winnings, and collapse on the bed in the extra bedroom. He woke five hours later with a headache and sheet imprints on his face. He rolled over, rubbing his face, and sat up, wincing at bright light that poured through the windows.

Jacking off helped, his hand stroking his cock under the hot spray of the shower. He directed his thoughts to Bethany, his latest fuck, thinking about her soft breasts against his body, the slap of them when she rode him to completion. He avoided any thought of the brunette one room over, gritting his teeth as he came, the evidence of his satisfaction washed down the stone walls with the spray of water.

He was proud of himself, of his control, his resolution fully in tact. He walked in the bedroom, wearing boxer briefs, and headed to his suitcase. He stopped, just inside the door, his eyes on her, his feet moving and carrying him to the side of the bed, his hand gently lifting the covers slightly until her face was revealed.

Dark hair cradled a sweet face, impossibly perfect in its features, relaxed and angelic in sleep. No hint of her feisty personality shown. In sleep she looked innocent and untouched. He glanced at the clock, his desire to join her in the bed tempting.

He shouldn’t. He should dress and leave her, putting a door or two in between them until she was awake and dressed. But he had never done what he should, the appeal of danger much more interesting. He pulled the sheet back, settling his body over hers, one knee on either side of her body, and leaned forward, pressing his lips to the open skin of her neck. He promised himself that if she stiffened, if she resisted, he would roll off. Stand up. Walk out of this suite and away from this woman.

A moan. The woman moaned, and it was the most carnal sound he had every heard. Her body shifted beneath him, her pelvis lifting up slightly, and he lowered his body to meet it. He moved his lips to her ear, wanting to reassure her. “This isn’t about sex, I promise.”