BargainWiththeBeast (2 page)

Shit.

His breath quickened. His heart stuttered. If he didn’t
leash his imagination, he would scandalize the good citizens of Boston by
tenting his tuxedo pants with a huge hard-on.

But then, his dead brother’s woman had always possessed the
power to make him desire something unavailable to him…something beyond his
reach.

Her.

For the first time in seven months—since the day his
ex-fiancée had cheated and left him for another man—he experienced an emotion
besides antipathy and bitterness toward a beautiful woman. Unlike others of the
fairer sex, Gwendolyn didn’t avoid his face as if one glance would transform
her to stone. She didn’t stammer well-bred phony excuses to extricate herself
from his company.

No. As she’d stated, Gwendolyn had come to see him. That
simple sentence shouldn’t have had the effect of a fist squeezing his cock.

“Well, you found me, Gwendolyn,” he murmured with a small
quirk of his lips. The puckered skin bisecting the left side of his face pulled
tight with the gesture and the reminder of the disfiguring scar destroyed any
warmth her declaration had ignited. “It must be important for you to brave the
beast.”

She scowled. “It’s not the scar that makes you a beast. It’s
your attitude.”

Anger simmered in his chest and he narrowed his gaze. “Watch
your tongue, Gwendolyn.”

“Or what?”

“Or you may just find it caught.”
By my mouth, then on my
cock.

As soon as the words whispered across his mind, he
envisioned her leaning over him, her full, sensual lips pressed to his, their
tongues engaged in an erotic duel. Pictured those same lips forging a damp path
down his chest and abdomen to his throbbing dick.
Jesus.
He fisted his
fingers as if to capture the imagined silken glide of her hair over his wrist
and hand. As if even now the hot, tight clasp of her mouth tightened around his
shaft and sucked him close to the beautiful edge of oblivion.

If she could perceive the desire and need shredding his gut
into ribbons, she’d shut the fuck up and run.

“I didn’t come over here for this,” Gwendolyn grumbled. She
lifted a hand, but stopped just short of thrusting her fingers through her
hair. Lowering her arm, she aimed another black scowl at him as if it were his
fault she couldn’t grab the bright strands. “I need to talk to you.”

“That’s what we’re doing.”

“In private.”

He surveyed the crowded ballroom in a long, exaggerated
sweep before settling back on her. “Now is not a good time.”

Damn, he enjoyed needling her. She had always stirred that
reaction in him. Even when she’d been engaged to his brother Josh, she’d been
the little sister he’d kidded and affectionately teased.

Well, maybe “little sister” was a bit of an embellishment…
After all, wondering what your sibling looked like naked was not only illegal,
but sick.

And for years, he’d wondered.

“It will have to be a good time, Xavier. You’ve put me off
for months now and I only have two weeks left.”

Her accusation jolted him from thoughts of soft, smooth
skin, tangled limbs and writhing bodies. “What the hell are you talking about?”

She sighed. “I’ve called your office at least a dozen times
in the last few months. I’ve dropped by only to wait for hours while you were
on a ‘conference call’.” She air-quoted with her fingers, a sure sign her
annoyance had ratcheted to royally pissed off. “Did it ever occur to you I
might not have been dropping by to shoot the breeze but because I needed you?”

Needed him?
Him? Shit.
She’d located and pressed his
Easy button.

“Fine,” he growled and hated himself for being
interested…for being susceptible to this woman. Gripping her upper arm and
ignoring how her bare skin branded the flesh of his palm, he towed her in the
direction of the small study off the ballroom. She stumbled behind him but
righted herself and kept up with his quick stride. Remorse assailed him and the
attack of guilt served as a reminder why he had to get rid of Gwendolyn
Sinclair.

Over the past year, he’d struggled with his father’s death,
his fiancée’s—
ex
-fiancée’s, damn it—betrayal, ostracism by his peers and
a disfigurement that sent kids screaming for their mothers. At some point in
the tragic clusterfuck, he’d grown numb. His heart had atrophied to a withered
lump in his chest where nothing or no one could hurt him.

Now Gwendolyn had shown up and gifted him with glimpses of a
happier past and ghosts of emotions he’d become accustomed to existing without.

Yeah, he would listen to her for old time’s sake, as well as
Josh’s. But after that, she had to go.

And never come back.

“My name is not ‘My Lord’,” replied the monster, “but
Beast…do not imagine I am to be moved by any of your flattering speeches. But
you say you have got daughters. I will forgive you, on condition that one of
them come willingly and suffer for you.”—Beauty and the Beast

“Blackmail is such an ugly word. Effective…but still
very ugly.”—Xavier St. James

“You have five minutes. Starting now.”

Xavier shoved his hands in his pants pockets and the motion
drew his jacket away from his chest. Damn, it was wide. Gwedolyn dragged her
gaze over his flat stomach, slim hips and down to…
Whew, boy.
She
glanced away from the impressive bulge even the most artful cut couldn’t hide.

Jesus, what was wrong with her? One glance at his crotch and
she was hot with anticipation.

“Time’s a-wasting.” The taunt jerked her attention to his
face.
Focus, dammit. Focus.
His hooded scrutiny and the grim line of his
mouth were inscrutable. Oh sweet baby Jesus, did he know where her eyes had
been trained? Or worse, what thoughts had flirted through her mind? She groaned
silently. God wouldn’t be so cruel. At least she prayed He wouldn’t be…

“I’ve been trying to get in touch with you—”

“Been over that.”

“To ask for your help,” she gritted and bulldozed ahead
despite his rude interruption. “The community center is in need of a grant.”

“The community center? A grant?” His eyebrows slammed into a
dark vee and incredulity smothered his voice. “You need me because of money?”
He tipped his head back on his shoulders and emitted a sharp bark of laughter
she would have been an idiot to label humorous. “Isn’t that just fucking
perfect?”

“I don’t need your money…or rather your family’s foundation
money,” she corrected. “The community center does. If we don’t receive funding,
we’ll have to close our doors.”

“Same difference.” He tilted his head forward and his
emerald stare studied her as if she were splayed on a glass petri dish under a
microscope. “The foundation has a committee to determine who receives the
money. It’s not my decision. Go through the application process like everyone
else.”

“It
is
your decision. You have your finger on
everything that bears the St. James name.” She stole closer. “It’s the
community center, Xavier. Where you, Josh and I met. You learned how to play
basketball there. It’s just as important to the neighborhood now as it was
then. If not for the center, so many kids would be in gangs instead of on
teams. Or receiving a destructive education on the streets instead of the
tutoring needed to help them graduate high school. We need that grant, Xavier.”

Her voice wavered with the passion burning in her chest. But
the huge, old building settled smack in the middle of Roxbury
was
her
passion. As chief administrator and program director, Gwendolyn spent much of
her time at the center. Just like she’d passed most of her afternoons and
evenings there as a child—her single-parent mother too preoccupied with chasing
the youth she’d accused her daughter of robbing.

Renee Sinclair had resented the child she’d birthed at
seventeen years old. By the time Gwendolyn turned eight, Renee valued
nightclubs and various boyfriends over her daughter. In her mother’s list of
priorities, Gwendolyn ranked beneath sex, men and alcohol, but above church—and
only because Renee was usually too hung over to attend a Sunday service.
Survival had taught Gwendolyn to cook simple meals of omelets and hamburgers,
clean their cramped, lonely apartment and get herself to and from school.

She’d met the St. James brothers at the center one hot June
afternoon—twelve-year-old Xavier and ten-year-old Joshua. Their father had been
heading up a construction project nearby and instead of having his sons hang
around the demolition site every day, he’d sent them to the neighborhood
community center. One summer had turned into years. She had become best friends
with Joshua, and Xavier—as the older brother—had looked out for both of them.

Though from different backgrounds, the three of them had
established a tight bond. And when Xavier, and then later she and Joshua, had
gone off to college, their friendship had endured. If not for the community
center, she would’ve never had the St. James brothers in her life.

Maybe she alone cherished those memories of happier days.
She scanned the harsh, severe lines of Xavier’s face, the flat, shuttered eyes.
She might as well have been asking a mountain to feel, to empathize. Come to
think of it, a rock probably contained more emotion.

“So you want to bypass the application process and have me
influence the foundation’s decision on your behalf.” He twisted his lips into a
merciless caricature of a smile. “Based on what? Basketball memories and you
fucking my brother?”

The cruel words punched a hole in her chest. Pain and
humiliation radiated from the jagged wound. Of course the accident and the
events following the crash—his father’s death, his fiancée’s abandonment, the
rejection of his “friends”—had affected him. But the man staring down at her
with cold, pitiless eyes didn’t resemble the Xavier St. James she’d known…and
the difference had nothing to do with his scar. Warm humor, kindness and
compassion had been integral aspects of his personality, but those traits had
disappeared, leaving this aloof, cynical stranger who wore her childhood
friend’s face.

Gwendolyn sucked in a shallow breath. Fine. In her mind, she
snatched off her earrings, dragged her hair into a ponytail and donned her
sneakers—the classic “sista” move symbolizing she was ready to box.

“Far be it from me to impose on sentiment you don’t
possess,” she cooed in a tone her mother would have termed nice-nasty. “But
when I’m the only one playing fair in a process where the door is closed to me
before I even knock then yes, I have no problem with circumventing that same
process.” She bared her teeth in a feral smile. “And instead of memories, how
about I base my request on discrimination and prejudice? Or disenfranchisement?
Do those words work better for you?”

“Two minutes.”

The cool reminder of the elapsing time detonated her temper
like a lit match tossed onto a batch of napalm.

“It must be nice to dwell in an ivory tower where you can
lord over the world but not be a part of it. Pretend the dirty masses don’t
exist except to keep your empire running.” The anger poured from her lips in a
furious torrent of uncensored words and resentment. She should care, should put
a halt to the furious tirade. Yet the diatribe, now started, could not be
contained.

“But the people who enable you to live like a prince are the
same ones in need of your foundation’s help. Not the Beacon Hill Beautification
Society. Or the local country club women’s polo team. Real people with real
issues, like finding resources that will provide a way out of poverty-stricken
and crime-ridden neighborhoods. Like equipping children with a sufficient
education when their schools have a shortage of textbooks and supplies.”

Gwendolyn stalked forward until mere inches separated them.
Heat radiated from under his white silk shirt, but it was like banked embers
under the gleam of his intent gaze. Under normal circumstances, she would have
proceeded with caution. But these weren’t normal circumstances.

“What are you talking about?” he asked quietly.

An ominous shiver skated down her spine. For a heavy moment,
silence descended over the room like the lull in a storm right before it struck
with full force.

“Have you bothered to check and see where your community
service funds have been allocated?” Her anger hadn’t dimmed, but she regarded
him like prey keeping a wary eye on a stalking predator. “Your family’s
foundation was established to serve the needs of the greater Boston community.
That community stretches past Charles Street, Xavier. For the past four years,
your foundation’s committee has awarded grants to two country clubs, a
beautification society and an Ivy League polo team. I don’t know about the
other applicants who don’t hail from such wealthy, gentrified origins, but I
was given the runaround for weeks about the status of my application before
being informed I was mistaken. I had not applied.”

She closed her eyes at the helpless fury consuming her even
a week later. Throw in Xavier’s refusal to intervene in the slanted, shady
practices of his family’s charity and she wanted to rail at him, cause him
physical harm to siphon off some of the frustration and bitterness welling
inside her.

“Gwendolyn.”

She opened her eyes and met his gaze again. The rigid lines
of his face remained stoic.

“What?”

“I’ll look into it. And if what you say is true, I promise
you the review and decision process will change at the foundation.”

She believed him. Xavier might be a cold bastard now, but
he’d always been a man of his word and she didn’t think something so elemental
could have been altered by the accident.

However, his assurance did little to alleviate her
predicament. “Thank you. I’m sure your query will certainly help someone next
year. As for today, it doesn’t change anything. If the community center doesn’t
receive aid, it will close in two weeks.”

He regarded her for long, silent moments. Gwendolyn endured
the disquieting inspection though she longed to avert her gaze to the floor,
the ceiling, the damn wallpaper—anything except his distant, gorgeous face.

“What are you willing to do to save the center, Gwendolyn?”

Surprise snatched the air and words from her throat. An
image swam before her—a cat with emerald eyes batting its paw at a mouse,
toying with the unlucky rodent that bore an uncanny resemblance to her.

Leery and more than a little suspicious, she studied him.
“I-I don’t know what you mean.”

“Exactly what I said. What are you willing to do—to
sacrifice—to save the community center?”

The better question would be what
hadn’t
she
sacrificed to save the center? She’d agreed to a cut in salary, had extended
her hours to compensate for the teachers’ shorter shifts. She opened the
building at seven a.m. and locked the doors well after seven p.m. When she
dragged into her small Dorchester apartment each night, her feet ached, her
stomach grumbled and her head usually throbbed with worries about parents,
bills and funding.

But right on the heels of those sacrifices came the rewards.
The laughter of the children as they played kickball. The pride straightening
the shoulders of the older teens as they walked across the stage to accept
their high school diplomas. The gratefulness in a parent’s eyes as they picked
up their child after work, knowing their son or daughter had been safe instead
of in trouble on the streets.

“Anything,” she vowed. Yes, she was long on hours and short
on pay, but the rewards couldn’t be numbered…or lost. “I’ll do whatever it
takes to keep it open.”

A calculating gleam entered Xavier’s eyes and she almost
retracted the pledge.

Oh God. So that’s what the devil looks like when he buys
a soul.

“I can’t interfere with the process at this late date,” he
said, drawing his hands from his pockets and crossing his arms. “Whether the
committee’s actions were right or wrong, to step in now would penalize the
recipient and, regardless of how the decision came to be, that’s not fair.”

Tough shit.
She snorted and Xavier arched an eyebrow.

“There’s another alternative.” He paused and she resisted
the urge to glance over her shoulder and measure the distance to the door. Once
again she was the mouse to his cat. Except he’d surpassed the toying stage and
was licking his paws in preparation for dinner—
her
. “I’ll personally
fund the community center for a year. I’ll donate a check in the exact amount
of the grant.”

Joy soared in her chest even as relief flooded her veins,
washing away the stink of desperation she’d worn for months. She hadn’t
expected him to—

Suspicion delivered a ringing reality slap. Wait a minute.
She narrowed her eyes. The offer was generous yet the man she’d encountered
this evening didn’t strike her as the magnanimous kind. Niggling doubt warned
her a booby trap loomed one step after her agreement to his gift.

“That’s generous of you,” she hedged. Then paused. “What’s
the catch?”

“You,” he murmured. “You spend seven days and nights with
me…in my bed.” His lashes lowered and he stared at her from under a hooded gaze
that promised sex and sin. The timbre of his voice had deepened, conjuring
images of dark, hot nights and naughty acts she’d read about, dreamed
about…touched herself to. “In other words, Gwendolyn, give me your body for the
next week and your precious community center remains open.”

* * * * *

Even as he spoke—as his lips shaped the words—part of him
couldn’t believe he’d vocalized the ultimatum. God, how far had he sunk? This
was Gwendolyn, for fuck’s sake! He’d watched her grow from a knobby-kneed
eight-year-old into a woman. Yet as her shock faded and fury tighten her face
into a contemptuous mask, lust rose up beside the shame, capsizing the guilt
until only need remained.

She was a bright, living flame—searing, passionate…damn, so
much passion. She gave everything, held nothing back. Could he survive being on
the receiving end of such fierce heat? Shit, he wanted to find out. He
hungered
to find out.

Since Evelyn left him, his sexual encounters had been
reduced to escorts, well-compensated to pretend they found him irresistible.
But he could only con himself into believing he didn’t notice their flinches of
revulsion or pity for so long. Fucking his fist had become more preferable…and
less humiliating.

Gwendolyn didn’t ignore his disfigurement or avoid direct
eye contact. No. Instead she squared off with him, challenging him. And it was
hot as fuck. He skimmed down her smooth shoulders, slender arms and clenched
fingers. Her wine-colored dress draped in clean folds down her full breasts,
narrow waist and hips. His cock throbbed in greedy anticipation and he resisted
the urge to fist his erection and squeeze to alleviate some of the ache.