Beached with the Bad Boy (Bad Boys on Holiday #3) (4 page)

S
weat rolled
down between his shoulder blades, the ocean breeze chilling his skin despite the sun’s punishing heat. He was panting hard, tearing up the shoreline with every stride, trying like hell to outrun his ghosts.

Never worked.

At least it kept him in shape, and gave him a reason to escape the situation in the house.

Trick couldn’t believe how stubborn that woman was being. Did the beach house mean that much to her that she was willing to share it with a total stranger for a week? He didn’t like pulling the celebrity card, but maybe he should—drop a few names, wave a little more cash around, get the managers to remove her once and for all.

Just give her the cottage, asshole.

Gabe again, his ever-present voice of reason, right on schedule.

No can do,
Trick thought.
I was there first.

That, and he couldn’t stop thinking about her. God, that woman. He didn’t even know her name, but unlike most of his conquests, this one was a face he’d never forget.

Because unlike most of your conquests, she doesn’t want you, dickhole.

Yeah, that much was obvious. And probably for the best.

Trick wiped his brow with the bottom of his shirt, pushing himself to run faster. He needed to stay focused, eye on the prize. Anything less was putting his whole career at risk, and
no
woman was worth that.

He’d enjoyed getting a rise out of her this morning, but he certainly couldn’t keep that up all week. He had serious work to do, and no way could he get anything done with her around. She wouldn’t budge. He knew the type: uptight as hell, total control freak. She’d either drive him crazy or set him on fire in his sleep.

Or get you so worked up you
can’t
sleep.

That too,
he thought.

Well, none of that shit sounded promising—not if he wanted to get his song written. If he didn’t finish this album, then all of it was for nothing. The voice lessons that left him raw and sore for days. The grueling all-night practices. Gabe, ordering him around like a drill sergeant, one chord progression after another. All the chances he took, the risks, just hoping for the big payoff. The golden ticket.

When he got his first deal, it had felt like winning the lottery. And though Gabe had been working just as hard—harder, even—he’d never hit that jackpot for himself. When it came to technique, Gabe was eons beyond Trick—the man worked the strings so fast, his fingers were no more than a blur—but he always said he didn’t have the soul that Trick had. The raw stuff. The part that made people ache inside when they heard Trick play.

Trick didn’t know about all that, but Gabe was so certain. And the man didn’t have a jealous bone in his body—he’d always said that as long as one of them made it, it’d be like both of them had, and Trick had believed him.

He still believed him.

On the day Trick left California for New York, Gabe made him promise that he’d never look back.

Now, he just didn’t want to let him down.

Trick cocked his head, ear toward the sky, wondering if Gabe had any more thoughts.

Give her the cottage.

The voice in his head always cut to the damn chase.
Right on schedule, prick.

Trick sighed. Yeah, giving up the cottage was probably the right call, much as he hated to admit defeat. There was just no point fighting this battle—he had his own demons to worry about. Fuck it. He loved the beach, the ocean view, but a hotel would probably be more conducive to productivity anyway.

By the time he finished his six miles, Trick had decided he’d be a gentleman about it and let the woman have her way. But the moment he got back and saw what she’d done to the place, the gentleman thing blew the fuck out to sea.

She was on her hands and knees in the living room, brandishing a tape gun like a weapon, her hair fuzzy and wild, eyes sparking like a crazed warrior queen.

Pointing the tape gun at his chest, she said, “Don’t you dare take another step forward. Not until you’ve agreed to the terms and conditions. Signature required, Boy Band.”

Trick pinched the bridge of his nose, grumbling into his hand. “You have
got
to be fucking kidding me.”

“
D
oes
this look like a joke to you, Trick Harper?”

Layla tore off the last piece of blue masking tape and pressed it firmly to the floor in the living room, setting the boundaries. She’d done the dining room and patio as well, and made a sign-up sheet for kitchen and bathroom times to ensure they didn’t cross paths any more than absolutely necessary. Obviously, she’d be staying in the bedroom—a place he wasn’t allowed to set foot in, tape or no tape—and half of the living room was his.

It was, admittedly, a bit over the top. Honestly, she was just hoping it was enough to scare him off for good. They’d gotten off on the wrong foot before—her cowering in the bedroom last night, then practically coming undone in the kitchen anytime he got close. She was just unnerved. Now that the shock had totally worn off, she was feeling more herself.

And he needed to know who he was dealing with here. She was Layla freaking Hart. International bestselling author. Creator of worlds. Weaver of tales. Maker of spreadsheets. A woman
not
to be trifled with.

Trick had just come back from his run, and now he stood in the living room, eyeing up the pile of his clothing and the duffle bag she’d taken the liberty of relocating. He was half naked, as usual, his chest gleaming with sweat, a T-shirt tossed over his shoulder, his running shorts slung low on his hips.

Layla forced herself not to follow the trail of hair from his bellybutton down to… the place she wasn’t allowed to think about. She’d seen enough last night.

And dreamed about it enough, too…

“Is this…” Trick lowered his hand and took in the scene, his eyes finally landing on hers as she tossed aside the empty tape gun and got up off her knees. “Are you… are you serious right now?”

“Not like I had a choice,” she explained, dusting the sand from her hands. “You’re refusing to vacate my rental, thereby making this a shared living arrangement. We need clear boundaries and a fair system, so I came up with one. Problem solved. Enjoy your run?”

She’d meant for it to come out dripping with sarcasm, but it sounded more like curiosity. She couldn’t help it—despite the circumstances, everything about him made her want to know more. His presence intimidated her as much as it enraged her.

As much as it turned her on.

Ugh, the whole thing was so damn distracting. She’d managed to avoid men for two years. What was it about this jerk that had her suddenly boy-crazy?

Trick closed the distance between them in two long strides, stopping just inches away from her. Heat radiated from his body, and it was all she could do not to reach her hands out and touch him, run her fingers down his slick, muscled chest, the ridges of his abs, that line of soft, blond hair…

“Explain,” he said, nostrils flaring. “Now.”

Layla took a step backward, the backs of her thighs connecting with the couch. He closed the gap again, his eyes boring into her.

They were gray, she could see now. Bluish-gray, actually, with a ring of darker blue around the outside.

The color reminded her of the ocean.

“It’s simple,” she said, forcing her eyes away from his hypnotic stare. She gestured at the perimeter she’d marked off in the living room, a square around the couch and coffee table that she was willing to sacrifice. “This part in here is your bedroom, so I’ll steer clear.”

She stepped out of the taped perimeter, putting some much-needed distance between them.

“My bedroom is obvious,” she continued, “the door being the logical boundary, and that door will remain closed and locked at all times while I’m inside. I’m on a very tight deadline and I can’t be disturbed.”

“That makes two of us,” he said.

“Great. All the other areas in the house are shared, meaning we each get half—I’ve marked off those boundaries as well, and I expect you to respect them without argument.”

Scrubbing a hand over his mouth, he said, “Which one of us gets the shower? Or are we sharing that?”

Layla felt her cheeks flame.

“The kitchen and bathroom have schedules,” she plowed on, “since you can’t really divide those. So you’ll see on the chart here…” She scurried over to the dining room table and grabbed the chart she’d written up, along with a list of house rules for him to sign. “You’ll see what time slots you’ve got for bathroom time and meal preparation. Oh, that reminds me. You’ll need to pick up your own groceries, do your own dishes, laundry, et cetera. We also have quiet hours. It’s all here in the rules.”

He took the papers from her hands, scanning her notes, scrutinizing them line by line. The muscles of his shoulders were tight, his forearms flexing as he flipped the pages.

With his eyes on the paper, she took a moment to take in the scenery, following a bead of sweat as it slid from the hollow of his throat, down the center of his muscled chest. Again she fought the urge to touch him, to trace that same path with her fingertip, to feel his muscles clench and release in response to her lightest touch.

“Wow,” he said suddenly, breaking into her thoughts. When she looked up, she found him watching her, barely containing a smirk. “You’ve been productive today, Sunshine.”

She folded her arms over her chest and nodded, barely suppressing her own smirk. She knew the tape was over-the-top enough; the schedule and terms were just the icing on the crazy cake. There was no way he’d sign it, no way he’d be willing to put up with her antics for an entire week.

Score!

Layla was immensely pleased with herself. She had him right where she wanted him. She just needed to hear those three little words:

I’m outta here…

“Got a pen?” he asked.

“A… a pen?”

“I’m not going to sign this in blood, if that’s what you’re waiting for.”

Reluctantly, Layla pulled a pen out of her bun and handed it over, dumbfounded. Was he seriously thinking about staying?

Maybe I should’ve used more tape…

“You know,” he said, scribbling his autograph on the last page with a flourish, “if you spent this much time on
actual
work, you might be able to meet those tight deadlines of yours, Layla Hart.”

He handed over the pen and papers, then left her gaping after him like a beached fish.

I never told him my name. I haven’t even signed this stupid contract yet…

He stepped into the bathroom and turned on the shower, tossing his shirt and shorts out into the hallway.

A moment later, he was leaning out through the doorway, his arms and chest glowing. Behind the doorframe, he was totally naked again, ready to hop into a hot, relaxing shower.

“Hey, Layla?” The gravely, seductive sound of his voice sent a burst of heat through her body. “I’m
real
good with sharing, so feel free to take me up on that shower invite now. Or tomorrow. Consider it an open invitation. No expiration.”

With a rakish smile and a wink that warned of the best kind of trouble, he was gone again, the bathroom door open and the invitation hanging between them, desire pulsing between Layla’s thighs like a steady drum.

Layla closed her eyes, trying to bring herself back to reality.

You’ve got a deadline.

He was singing now, riffing some old rock ballad in the shower, just loud enough for her to hear.

You’ve got to stay focused.

His voice was so raw, so sexy.

It’s a bad idea.

Layla bit her lip, imagining what it would feel like to just throw her inhibitions out to sea, strip off her clothes, and step into the shower with him.

You can’t. You promised yourself you wouldn’t fall again.

Fall? No. She didn’t want to fall. She just wanted to feel strong hands on her body, sliding over her wet skin, touching her, commanding her.

Keeping her eyes closed, she imagined him singing softly in her ear as he slid between her thighs, his weight crushing her deliciously against the shower wall. She ran her hands across her breasts, brushing over the nipples that had stiffened in the wake of his invitation.

Layla nearly groaned in pleasure. It had been so long since she’d taken a lover, her nights so lonely.

It didn’t have to mean anything. All she had to do was take ten steps, drop her clothes, and—

“Hey, you okay?”

Layla yelped, her eyes flying open at the sound of Trick’s voice. She was still standing right where he’d left her, so wrapped up in her fantasy that she hadn’t even heard him turn off the shower.

Another missed opportunity.

He was back in a towel again, his hair dripping water all over his shoulders and onto the hall floor, watching her curiously as he awaited her response.

“Fine,” she snapped. “Just… I’m working. Visualizing. Are you… are you finished in there?”

Trick nodded and turned toward the bedroom before realizing his mistake, then turned right around and stalked into the living room, his strides long and purposeful. He smiled as he passed her, the clean scent of his soap trailing in his wake.

Turning his back to her, he dropped the towel.

“Oh my God!” she shrieked, forcing herself to turn away. “What is it with your constant need to expose yourself?”

“What is it with
your
constant need to hang out in my bedroom?” he asked. “Last night, today… Some guys might get the wrong idea.”

Layla looked down. Sure enough, her feet were inside the perimeter again.

Damn it.

She took a step backward, cursing her own stupidity.

From the corner of her eye, she saw him fish out a pair of basketball shorts and a clean T-shirt from the pile of clothes she’d left for him on the couch.

“Show’s over,” he said, finally dressed. He bent down to pick up the towel. “You can stop pretending that you weren’t watching.”

“I
wasn’t
watching.”

“Maybe I should sell tickets.”

“I mean, it’s kind of hard to avoid when I’m standing right here and you’re just indiscriminately dropping your towel. Your room doesn’t have a door.”

“Hey, you made the rules, Sunshine.” Trick flashed his infuriating, panty-melting grin. “Now you gotta live with them.”