Page 2 of House Rules
Apparently, not all the members are old men. How interesting.
He pauses outside the door and angles his head as he closes his umbrella. People crowd the sidewalk, and he glances around, sorting through the throng until his gaze meets mine—and holds. My knees wobble. Does he know it’s me, annoying Kennedy Lane from his teen years? I mull it over for a second and then decide: no way. Even I wouldn’t recognize this new version of myself. He turns, and it breaks the hold he seems to have over me.
Someone bangs into me and sets me back in motion. Still feeling dizzy from the effect of his stare, I turn and hurry to the hotel, my clothes, hair, and luggage completely drenched as I dart to the elevator and shift restlessly until it opens. God, I hate how I suddenly feel out of sorts. I shouldn’t let it bother me that he didn’t recognize me—that he never wanted me. I just wasn’t his type. Growing up, he hung out with giggling, Barbie-doll girls, and I’m so not like them.
Pushing down the unease climbing into my throat, I get off on my floor and hurry to my room. I flash the key card in front of the electronic lock, and when I step inside my suite, I forget how uncomfortable I am in my wet clothes and glance around.
My God, whichever friend sponsored this adventure certainly didn’t spare any expense. The room is bigger than my entire apartment. I drop my luggage and toss myself on the bed, but as I stare at the ceiling, my thoughts once again travel to Sean.
Did my sponsor know he’d be here, in the same hotel as me? Maybe my friend knew how much I lusted after him, and thought we could have a secret, weekend affair. I shut my eyes and envision myself in Sean’s hotel room, his hard body moving over mine.
A moan crawls out of my throat and my lids flash open. Jesus, stop reading too much into the situation. Running into him was a coincidence, nothing more. My mind is just conjuring up sexy scenarios thanks to all those romance novels I devour. Working diligently to put bossy, stuck-up Sean out of my mind, I unpack, grab a quick shower, pull on my pajamas, and slip between the luxurious sheets.
I reach for my e-reader but can’t focus on the damn words, not with the stupid invitation to the club staring at me from the nightstand—a club Sean obviously frequents. I roll and pick up the embossed card. If I dressed in the slutty clothes and danced at the club, I bet Sean would finally notice me as a woman, not an annoying kid. I scoff. Wouldn’t that be epic—having wild weekend sex with my childhood crush, with ropes involved?
Wait! What?
Even if I might want that, there is no way, no how, that I’d ever walk through the doors of Carleton House and go through with the destination adventure designed specifically for me.
Right?
Chapter Two
Sean
Sitting at a round table with my colleagues, I swallow my scotch and let it burn down my throat. As the men circling me talk business and investment strategies regarding Saturday night’s meeting with Cochrane Industries—a multimillion dollar medical supply company that is merging with a U.S. company—my thoughts are too preoccupied with Kennedy Lane, my kid sister’s best friend, to join in the conversation. It’s damn hard to contribute anything intellectual when all the blood has left my brain and settled down south. Yeah, she’d lost weight, ditched the braces and glasses, but I’d bet my ball sack that it was her on the street.
I gesture to the bartender for another drink, my eyes scanning over the pretty girl dancing on the stage. Carleton House isn’t my regular scene, but my company has a corporate membership, and when I’m in London on business, it seems to be the place where my European counterparts like to conduct meetings—among other things.
Kennedy Lane.
What the hell is she doing here in London, following me down the sidewalk and looking like a drowned cat, no less? Last I heard, she was in Chicago working for a museum not too far from Venture Investment, Inc.—headquarters for the New York branch I call home. I’ve visited the main office numerous times, and whenever I’m in Chicago I always find myself looking for Kennedy. Christ, I’ve even wandered around the museum a time or two, though it went against my best interest. When Kennedy hit sixteen and grew into a beautiful woman, I noticed her, but I was nineteen, and a three-year gap at that age might as well have been a chasm, which meant she was hands-off all the way.
I might not be a cradle robber, but she’s not a kid anymore, right? The sexy curves she’s sporting allude to a very grown-up version of Kennedy—one who has my cock hardening in the worst fucking way.
The bartender delivers my drink, and when I once again look at the pretty girl dancing, I find her staring at me like I’m a fresh slab of meat. My cock thickens and presses against my zipper. But it’s not because the brunette is climbing a pole and eye-fucking me. While I might have taken her up on her implied offer any other night, this time my cock is stirring because of Kennedy. Jesus, just knowing she’s in the same hotel as me is enough to make me hard.
How many fucking times did I abuse myself when she slept over at the house with Olivia, taking my bed when I wasn’t home for the night? Jesus, the scent she used to leave on my sheet. I had to ignore her, treat her like a sister, a damn nuisance, so she’d stop talking to me—staring at me when she didn’t think I was aware. Otherwise I would have lost my shit and dragged her into my room so I could do things to her. Dirty things that fill the thoughts of every teenage boy.
Christ, my father was a minister, and if he ever knew I spent my teenage years fantasizing about sweet little Kennedy he would have forced me to devote months to repenting. But, fuck, one glimpse of her tonight and I feel like that hormonal teen again.
“What do you think, Sean?” Dawson, my European colleague, asks, nodding toward the dancer who is still eyeing me. I’m a keen observer, good at reading a person’s body language, and understanding their needs is pa
rt of my job, so I get what she wants from me. A big fucking tip like I left last time. I don’t have a problem with that, really. I think the dancers should get a healthy paycheck for putting up with the likes of us dirty, ruthless bastards. “I think she’s looking to get you alone, my friend,” Dawson adds.
I grin and hold up my glass up for a toast. “Maybe so, but I just got into town and think I’ll take the night off.” Okay, so I have a reputation with the ladies. I’m hard-wired for hard work, and sex is how I let off steam, but I’m seriously getting tired of the kind of girls I attract. Most are more interested in what I have in my wallet than in me. And for God’s sake, it’d be nice to have an actual intellectual conversation occasionally.
“Yeah, well, it wouldn’t hurt to show up at the cocktail party tomorrow night with a pretty little thing on your arm. A fiancée would be even better. You know Cochrane is more likely to invest with us if he thinks you’re a family man. He likes a certain level of risk in his portfolio, but is more likely to trust a guy who understands commitment and self-control.” He takes a sip of his bourbon, lets it slide down his throat, then continues. “You know you have to sell yourself before he’ll climb into bed with us. This job is all about building relationships and gaining client confidence, my friend.”
He’s not telling me anything I don’t know. “I have a shit-ton of commitment and self-control,” I say. Well, mostly. Okay, not always. While I’m ruthless in the bedroom and the boardroom, my sex life and inability to commit shouldn’t have anything to do with business deals.
“Listen, pal,” Dawson says, climbing to his feet and putting a beefy hand on my shoulder. “I’m just giving you the heads-up. Cochrane is a hard-assed businessman and can hire any investment banker he wants to handle his overseas merger. Hell, you’re not the only guy trying to woo his company. If you want the job, and the big fucking bonus that comes with it, you damn well better not give him any loopholes.”
Fuck me.
Dawson is giving me good advice, I know it, but Christ, how the hell am I going to come up with a fake fiancée before Saturday night, just forty-eight hours from now? One who won’t just look pretty on my arm but can hold her own against a tough bastard like Cochrane.
Kennedy.
