Dirty Dealer - Kacey Shea Page 0,7

isn’t until this moment that I appreciate his appearance. Really take him in. Hot damn. This man is heart stopping. His suit is tailored to what has to be a spectacular body. His deep, soulful brown eyes would be easy to get lost in. But it’s his hair that completely steals the show for me.

The length of his brown locks are long enough to tug on. They’re styled and slicked back with gel, but a few more inches and the man could rock a top knot. I’ve always wanted to be with a man with hair like that. My thighs clench with the possibility. My Thor obsession knows no bounds. God, I’m getting turned on over a stranger’s hair. No. No, ma’am. I am not allowed to be turned on by this stranger. The cocky, arrogant and infuriating man who reminds me all too well of every man I’ve ever dated. “What’s your last name, Jude?”

“Lawrence.”

I hold up a finger while I wait for my phone’s search engine to load. I don’t expect to find much, but to my utter shock, my browser fills with photos of him—Jude Lawrence—the man staring at my astonished face. My jaw drops open. “You’re famous.”

He shakes his head. “Hardly. I do happen to keep the company of some well-knowns in the entertainment industry.” He’s being modest. Downplaying his popularity completely. I know because I’m scrolling through dozens and dozens of gallery photos with his face. Timberlake. Pratt and his new wife. Musicians. Actors. Freaking Oprah. Jesus, does he know everyone?

“Breathe, Rachel. It’s not that big of a deal.”

My eyes widen as more photos load. He fraternizes with enough of the rich and famous to get invited to Grammy’s. Fuck, Emmy’s too. “You’re like really famous.” No wonder he’s such a cocky bastard.

“Something like that. Let’s go.” The muscles of his throat clench, his smile gone. He’s annoyed. Maybe embarrassed? But why? I don’t know him well enough to understand. Fuck me. He’s being mysterious. It’s a catnip I can’t deny. Like an addict, my body thrills in response to the hint of his drug.

I want him. I’m attracted to him. I don’t even know him, yet I imagine how good it’d feel to have his face between my legs. Shit. Is this how Stockholm syndrome begins? “Wait.” I turn to Iron Maiden.

“Come on, sugar.” Jude runs his hands through his hair. “Enough with the excuses.”

“It’s not that.” I walk to the back of my Buick and pop the trunk. I turn to his expectant gaze and pull out the first case of many. “My makeup.”

5

Jude

I’ve known women who couldn’t leave home without their toiletries—hell, once I dated a girl who insisted on packing a full suitcase every time she spent the night—but this is extreme. In fact, I’m a little scared. It can’t be healthy to haul this much crap around. I eye the pile of cases Rachel’s stacked outside the back of her vehicle.

“I’ll just grab my purse and lock up the car,” she says, and before I can argue she’s already squeezing her tight, curvy body dangerously close to the cars whipping by.

“Jesus.” I can’t look. Instead, I take hold of the collapsible dolly she’s stacked all her shit on and wait for a lull in traffic to safely get around my SUV and pack it all in the back. By the time I make my way to the driver’s seat, she’s sliding into the passenger side. “Sure you don’t have anything else we need to grab first? A Russian doll collection? A small family of raccoons?” I signal and at the next break merge back into traffic.

She chuckles, and smiles maybe for the first time since we’ve met. I’m tempted to stare a little too long. I would if I could get away with it and not wreck the vehicle. If I thought she was gorgeous before, she’s absolutely radiant now.

“My trunk size is impressive, isn’t it?” she says.

I glance to her butt, disappointed I can’t admire the full shape what with her sitting and all.

“God, don’t be a pig.” She rolls her eyes.

I hike my thumb toward the back of my vehicle. “That can’t all be for you.” I’m hoping she’s not psychotic, and not just for the sake of my well-being, but for the gratification of my dick. She’s gorgeous. Not my usual type. But her sharp tongue and full mouth practically beg for dirty things, and I hope to discover all of them. Tonight. In my bed.

“Oh, it’s