Hell, it's probably true, but I won't let him see that.
“Royal McBride, my name is Lyric Rentz, and I'm the Deputy Mayor of Government Operations and Affairs for the city of Trinidad.” I force my mouth into a smile and decide it's probably best to ignore the whole pint-size comment from the Alpha Wolves President. I extend my hand and pretend that I'm not studying that handsome face, the rugged cut of that jaw, the ruthless, wry humor that surrounds the man's impressive form.
Royal gives me another once-over, like he's not quite sure what to make of me. This time, I feel his gaze diving deeper, trying to get under my skin and understand what I'm all about, what makes me tick. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that Mr. McBride reads minds.
“Well, well, well,” he says, his voice dropping a little lower as he goes in for yet another head to toe look. This time around, something in his expression shifts and I feel a little chill travel up my spine, dragging goose bumps down my arms. “Lyric … Rentz,” he says, my first name a verbal caress passing between his lips. My last name though … he says that like a curse. I know what he's thinking: Philip Rentz … Lyric Rentz. I have the same last name as the mayor.
Royal glances down at my fingers, searching, I think, for a ring. When he doesn't find it, he comes to some other conclusion and reaches up to take my still extended hand.
When our fingers slide together … oh God. His hand is rough and calloused, grazing the smooth skin of my own with an almost tangible spark that makes me jerk back like I've been burned. The guys around Royal chuckle and I jump; I almost forgot they were there.
“You're the mayor's … sister?” Royal asks casually, lifting his chin and tucking his fingers into the front pockets on his jeans.
“Daughter,” I correct, hating that that's the truth, knowing what people think when I say it. She got that job because her dad's the mayor. If they only knew … I got the job in spite of that. “Youngest of three.”
“Shame,” Royal says with another wicked little smile. “I guess you're off-limits then?”
“Off … limits?” I ask as the boys behind him laugh again, all of their eyes on me, amusement apparent in their gazes.
“Yeah, I mean, how would the mayor feel if I took his pint-size prodigy daughter to the bedroom and tore off that bloody awful little skirt of hers?” I knew it! British accent. It's faint, but it's there.
Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I stand there dumbfounded for a second. I'm not stupid, okay, but I work in a mayor's office. Talk about prim, proper, and politically correct. This man's like a shock to the system.
“No offense, Mr. McBride, but this bloody awful skirt belonged to Toni Gladstone, the previous deputy mayor. I might have inherited her position and her suit, but I'll be damned if I inherit her mistakes.” Royal stares at me for a moment, his brown eyes dark and deep and soulful, then throws back his head and laughs, like I'm the most ridiculous thing he's ever seen.
“Oh sweetheart, I promise not to do a bodge job on you. We'll take it nice and slow and easy, alright?”
“The only thing you'll be taking, Mr. McBride, is a few hours of my time and a look at the papers I've brought you. I think you'll find that a healthy relationship with the mayor's office and the people of Trinidad will be beneficial for all of us.”
“Oh, I don't mind getting into bed with the mayor's office,” Royal says, eyes twinkling, mouth twisted to the side in a wolfish smirk as he takes a step closer to me. “Only I'd rather get into bed with you.”
“That rat bastard,” I snarl, slamming my car door and glaring out the window at Royal's retreating back. “Sorry to say, I'm too busy for that today, love,” I mimic, hating that man with every fiber of my being. Maybe it's some sort of defense mechanism against the overwhelming attraction I feel for him. Never in my life have I had this sort of reaction to anyone before. I'm generally a pleasant person. But Royal McBride? Ugh.
So I rescheduled with the club secretary and climbed back into my car, watching in the rearview mirror as customers pull their bikes into the shop—the shop whose books are good, so good that the forensic accountant my father hired to go over them couldn't find a single discrepancy. Thing is, we all know that the club is up to no good. And they know we know. But any efforts to actually catch them doing wrong have gone badly—for us. This … business arrangement we're considering, it won't stop them from doing what they do, but it will help my father's chances at re-election, show the city that he's 'cleaning up the riffraff'.
I sigh and turn the ignition, well aware that the club's on their best behavior right now. It's not like I'm going to see them trafficking illegal weapons or making drug deals in the bright light of day.