Taking the Score(10)

“Hey, Ems,” Daisy said cheerily. At two in the morning, mind you, but Daisy had always lived on her own timetable.

Emma dug her nails into her palm, furious at her sister’s bonhomie. Drawing a deep breath, she asked, “How’s it going?”

“Okay,” she said, though she sounded wary. Perhaps she sensed Emma’s anger vibes all the way to the rehab facility she had stashed her in back in Pennsylvania. “Only one week to my ninety days. I’m gonna make it this time.”

This time. If Emma had a dime for every instance she’d heard that, she’d have no problem paying off that debt to Ray. This was her sister’s third trip to drug rehab, and Emma prayed it would stick. Every penny not going into Ray’s coffers went to getting her sister the help she needed, because Emma had threatened to cut off all contact if she didn’t get clean.

“So you’re eating well,” she said, that maternal instinct impossible to suppress. After playing mom for so long, it was always there above and beyond the rest of her mixed feelings.

“Yeah, the food’s all that health shit. Gluten free and whatnot. I could murder a Quarter Pounder.” She launched into a whiny recitation of the contents on the rehab salad bar Emma would give her right arm to be sidling up to right now. Her stomach growled on cue.

Daisy couldn’t possibly have heard that, but she hesitated and asked into the ominous silence, “So how was work tonight?”

“The usual assholes.” Oh, and I gave my boss the world’s worst lap dance and then let him fuck me boneless backstage. “We’re getting there, D.”

“You know, Ems, we could run. Soon as my ninety days is up.”

Run. They’d done it before. Escaped the bad influences of their ne’er-do-well family of criminals and the daily approbation of life in a small town in Penn.

“California or Florida,” Daisy said. “We could start over.”

“He’d find us.” She was sick of running to a standstill. She wanted to lay down roots, finish school, start her life. She wanted something of her own, unfettered by the familial chains forever holding her back.

Guilt at that treacherous thought pinched her chest. Daisy couldn’t help being weak. When Mom had up and left them as kids, Emma had to be the strong one. And when Dad had swapped his leathers for prison garb orange, Emma was the glue that held them together. She would find a way. She always did.

Ray’s unsubtle hint for her to work Brody and pay off her debt that way pinged her brain. She would never do that, and as she was likely out of a job, the Brody Kane option was no longer on the table.

Daisy’s next words were tinged with remorse. “You shouldn’t be doing this for me. I could move on and no longer weigh you down.”

As if that was a possibility. Emma could never let her leave. Daisy was her blood. Her life. If Emma weren’t around, she’d just backtrack to her bad habits.

“Right now, you focus on getting better. Take care of yourself and”—have an extra serving of salad for me—“stay out of trouble.”

“Will do, Ems. Love ya, sis.”

“I love you, too, Daisykins.”

On her chuckle at the endearment Emma had christened her sister with all those years ago, she hung up.

“It’s okay,” she insisted. Now she was talking to herself, because the cab driver sure as hell wasn’t listening. Daisy was getting healthy, and Emma was fulfilling her role of big sister and its primary function: do everything in her power to keep her charge safe.

But that would be tough without a real job and benefits. Tears stung the backs of her eyelids. She was going to have to get stripper lessons from Katerina.

Another buzz of her phone drew her attention and made her sex clench in memory. Brody’s text message blared from the screen: 8am tomorrow at the office. Don’t be late.





Chapter Seven

At 6:50 a.m. the offices of Score Property were darkly quiet. Brody wanted to catch Emma when she came in, and because she was usually so efficient and dedicated, he expected she would be in earlier than his 8:00 a.m. demand.

He hadn’t slept a wink.

While waiting for her last night at the club, he had propped up a very drunk Smythe-Osborne at the bar and had his shoes puked on for his trouble. Otherwise, he would have been all over that sweet tail of hers when she sent that text message fobbing him off.

Following the Brit Puke Machine drop-off, Brody had returned home to his penthouse at the top of the Wacker Tower, disposed of his vomit-covered shoes, and considered his next move. What he really wanted to do was find out Emma’s address, race over there at two in the morning, and have it out with her.

Except he knew where that would lead. Having it out would invariably lead to whipping it out and slamming his raging cock into her again and again. All so he could drag his name from her lips as she dragged a mind-splintering orgasm from him. What the hell had he been thinking? He had fucked his assistant to keep her from giving crazily bad lap dances to anyone else.

Where was the logic in that?

No logic, just an intense possessiveness that had grabbed him by the throat when confronted with her insistence to finish her shift. At the fucking strip club. Bizarro World Emma was a stripper. With tattoos. And a brazen insolence that made him want to dominate her.

The next day should have brought clarity, but his brain was still cloudy with a chance of going nuclear. Sitting at his desk, he read a zoning report. Cleared out his in-box. Looked out the floor-to-ceiling window of his office, doing the “lord of all he surveys” impression. He didn’t feel very lordly, though. He felt like a jerk.

Preying on a woman who was clearly in dire enough circumstances that she needed to moonlight as a stripper—how fucking low could you go, Kane? What if she didn’t show this morning? The things he’d said to her, the dirty talk he’d whispered in her ear. What woman would want to endure that from a lover, never mind the man who signed her paychecks?

Thoughts of his former fiancée intruded: her horror at his lack of control, his need to hold her down, whisper sweet, filthy nothings, use her body to slake his overwhelming lust.

Just like last night. He had lost all reason with Emma and hadn’t used a condom, a lesson he should have learned after his nightmare with Kerry. The one time he’d slipped in unholstered with his ex… He condemned that memory to a dank recess of his brain. Hell, he even had a cherry-flavored one in his wallet, courtesy of one Flynn Cross.

Flynn, who’d also given him the card to that strip club. Flynn, who’d gleefully informed him about its cock-destroying women. Did his friend know Emma worked there? Had he seen her gyrating her sweet, cuppable ass over some other guy’s junk? The idea that Flynn had even witnessed Emma in anything less than a burka made Brody want to punch him into the grave.

No one should see her like that. No one but Brody.

Seven twenty-three. He should go over to Emma’s apartment. Tell her that her job was safe, that they would fix this. Whatever this was. Sixty seconds later, he was looking at her personnel file on his computer, checking on her address. Humboldt Park. Not the nicest of neighborhoods, one of those areas that were threatening to blow up pricewise but still hadn’t made the next level. Starbucks had yet to move in.

Curiosity drew him to open up her résumé. He hadn’t paid it much attention when she interviewed three months ago, too concerned with ensuring he wasn’t attracted to her. After Kerry, the last thing he needed was some vacuous, pretty young thing around the office distracting him with her too-tight skirts and fuck-me heels. Impressed with Emma’s sober demeanor, her undoubted knowledge of the workings of an office, and the fact his dick remained steadfastly disinterested, he’d hired her on the spot. She had been perfect.

But not for long. He’d lasted about a week before rubbing one out—Ms. Strickland his fantasy fodder.

Ignoring the renewed ache in his cock, he turned his attention back to the résumé. Her previous jobs were in Philadelphia, her bachelor’s degree in business from Penn State. Her references had checked out. All fabulous on paper, but now he knew different.

Emma Strickland was not who she seemed. He intended to find out more, unlock whatever secrets she was keeping inside her sexy halter and shiny hot pants. Without removing her sexy halter and shiny hot pants, because that would be wrong. With a capital W. He checked his watch again, the worry about whether she would show niggling at the edge of his brain.

A noise in the office suite put him on alert.

He headed out, relief soaking his chest at finding Emma. But it was immediately canceled out at realizing what she was doing. The jacket he’d placed on her shoulders last night lay slung over the back of her chair. An empty paper box sat on the desk. She was scanning the drawers, no doubt looking for exit souvenirs.

“Post-its make a nice memento.”

She jumped at the sound of his voice. “Shit fuck!”

Slowly she turned, wide-eyed, astonishingly fresh-faced compared to six hours ago. Her dark hair, streaked with fiery tinges of auburn, cascaded over her slim shoulders, and he knew he never wanted to see it in a damn bun ever again. As he suspected, she had not come here to work. She wore exercise pants, stretchy ones that molded to her body, reinforcing and imprinting on his brain that everlasting image of the curves he’d become acquainted with last night. The ones he’d imagined, along with her smell, taste, and feel, as he jacked off in his shower this morning. Her tee read, “If your dick was as big as your mouth, I’d be interested.”