Chapter 19

Nineteen

"What now?" I lean against the kitchen counter as I talk to the open door of the bedroom. My voice is firm and crisp, like I'm the one in control here. Which, of course, we both know I'm not. "I seem to recall a big speech about getting me past all of my baggage. And, oh yeah, getting me three million dollars in less than two-and-a-half days."

My stomach tenses as my mind comprehends just how short a time that is.

"That's the plan," he calls back, his voice perfectly pleasant even though my words were said with full-on bitch undertones. And not the accidentally bitchy tones that tend to pop up when someone else is being a prick.

No, that's not why I'm being bitchy. If Teresa were to ask—and I'm sure that she'd be very proud to know that I've mastered this bit of self-analysis—I'd tell her that I'm bitchy because I'm vulnerable.

Because I've shown him too much of me.

Because I'm a woman who had all her control ripped from her, and now I've gone and surrendered it again.

All true. All exactly what I would tell Teresa if she were here.

It's also a big fat lie.

No, the real reason I've slid into bitch-dom is that with each passing moment I'm more and more attracted to this man who continues to surprise me. And, frankly, that scares me to death.

With effort, I force myself to ignore my spinning thoughts and concentrate on Ash. " That's the plan ," I repeat. "Okay, fine. That part I got. But can you narrow it down a bit for me? Like, oh, what exactly is the plan? When will you show me—I don't know, an account balance so I can quit stressing? And—for the zillionth time—you do have immediate access, right? This isn't a have to sell stock and wait for the trade to clear kind of thing, is it? Because my deadline is really, really firm."

Now I've done it. Just saying all that out loud has sent panic shooting through me all over again. The same panic that had left the building when Ash promised he could help.

I guess it's moved back in.

He's silent when he returns to the combined kitchen and living area. He stops right in front of me, and I instinctively lean back so that when he moves even closer, I'm trapped between him and the counter. His fingers go to my thigh, and he slowly eases the hem of the knee-length sundress up. My breath quickens, but I say nothing, and when he meets my eyes, I hold his gaze, lifting my chin a little in defiance. Because I know what he's trying to do. He wants me to beg. Or break. I'm not sure which.

I'm not sure it matters. Right then, all that matters is the way his fingers have found the soft skin of my thigh. The way his hand is now under my skirt, sneaking slowly up my inner thigh. Higher and higher.

I force myself to breathe regularly. To keep my eyes open. To not moan or squirm or otherwise show that I want this. Oh, how I want this. I want everything I ran from at the airport. And more. So much more.

He's right there—right at the juncture of my thigh and my core, and I'm wildly aware of my clit, swollen and sensitive. Just one brush of his fingertip would send me over. And, oh yes, I want to go. I want to fall off that precipice and into his arms.

But his finger doesn't move. His eyes stay locked on mine. His mouth doesn't claim a kiss. But for one beautiful, painful, arousing, frustrating moment, he seems to be a part of me. "Immediate access," he whispers. "Absolutely."

Then he backs away, the slightest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Prick," I say, but it only makes him laugh. "You're torturing both of us, you know. And who's to say I won't excuse myself and take care of the situation on my own."

"No," he says, at my side again in seconds. "I won't make you promise, but you won't do that. And neither will I."

My mouth is dry. "Why not?"

"Anticipation," he whispers, then taps a kiss to my lips. It's close-mouthed and quick, like the perfunctory kiss of a relative. Yet in that moment it seems like the most erotic touch I've ever experienced.

"Are we clear?"

I nod.

"Good. Then it's time to go."

"Go? Wait, what? Go where?"

"Austin."

I stand up straighter, my sappy, dreamy demeanor hardening with confusion. "As in Texas? We're going to Texas? Why?"

"My office is there. And my accountant. We'll make a stop in Vegas. I have a meeting there tonight. We'll head to Texas after that, and then we'll have all day Thursday, so you don't have to panic. You'll have the money by your Friday deadline at the latest."

I gape at him. " Tonight . You have a meeting tonight?"

"Vegas doesn't sleep."

"So we're flying?"

"I build engines and race cars," he says, turning and heading back into the bedroom as I follow. "What do you think?"

The very idea boggles the mind. "We're driving… to Texas ?"

"To Vegas. We'll decide about the rest of the trip once we're there." He heads into the bathroom and returns with a shaving kit, which he hands to me. "Toss that in the bag for me while I grab a few other things."

"Oh, sure. No problem. Sex slave and servant girl. Happy to oblige."

He ignores my snark and heads back into the bathroom. I take the kit to the bed and plunk it in the duffel. As I do, a pair of rolled up jeans shifts, revealing a glossy red that looks strangely familiar. I push the jeans aside, then suck in air.

My book .

It's Reveries at Dawn . Right there in Ash's bag. And from what I can tell by the bookmark, he's at least three-quarters of the way through.

I push the jeans back and make sure the shaving kit is covered. I'm not sure why I don't want him to realize that I know he's reading my story. Maybe I'm afraid he's ultimately not going to like it.

Except that's not it at all. In fact, it's the exact opposite. It feels like a bond between us, all the more potent because Maggie was right about one thing: the sexy anti-hero who Bethany falls for? Yeah, he was totally modeled after Ash.

"Ready?"

I leap backwards. "You scared me!"

"Yes, this is a terrifying home, full of unexpected dangers."

I cross my arms and look him up and down. "You already made that perfectly clear."

To his credit, he laughs. "You make a good point, Ms. Bernstein."

I roll my eyes. "And to answer your question, no. I'm not even close to ready, considering I didn't know I'd be traveling to freaking Vegas today. We need to go to my house so I can pack, and I'll need my laptop, and I want to make sure Aria will be around when the workmen show up tomorrow, and?—

"Are you on any meds?"

I blink at the non-sequitur. "No."

"Got your phone?"

"You know I do."

"Need stuff for your period you can't grab at a drugstore?"

"Ash! Jeez! I'm not on—No!"

"Then you can text or call Aria from the car. You can borrow my laptop to write if you're on a deadline—and don't even try to tell me you don't save your work to the cloud—and anything else you need we can get on the way or in Vegas." He flashes the same smile I've seen so many times in newspaper and magazines. "My money, my way."

"I already agreed to the terms to get your money," I remind him. "Those weren't among them."

"But to fulfill those terms, you have to be physically present with me. And I'm leaving. If you want my money, you'll have to come with me. If you've changed your mind, I'm happy to release you from the terms of our arrangement."

"A lawyer would have a field day with that argument."

"Probably. But by the time a court rules, your deadline would be long gone. I may not know why you need the money—though you're going to tell me—but I'm confident time is of the essence. So give it up, sweetheart. I've won."

"Fuck. You," I say, which only makes him laugh.

"That's definitely a possibility," he says. "But let's not get ahead of ourselves."

"Holy crap," I say, staring at the piece of automotive artwork parked in front of us. We're in the Bat Cave, otherwise known as Damien's massive underground garage. It's cavernous and houses I-don't-know-how-many cars. All I know is that there are rows and rows of them. This one shines brighter than them all.

"Sweet, isn't it?"

"It's gorgeous," I say, though the word is completely inadequate. The body is molded in waves of black and orange and what might be blue but could just be a trick of the light playing off the shiny black depths. Looking at it, I'd totally believe this thing came from outer space. Or the future. Or, I don't know, Car Heaven, maybe.

"It's a McLaren P1 GTR-18," Ash says to me, which might as well be gobbledygook. I do, however, get the general drift. Translation: This is one seriously amazing car. And probably cost more than, oh, a space shuttle trip around the globe.

"When did Damien get this?"

"He didn't. It's mine."

"As in you designed it?"

He shakes his head. "No, I bought it. Technically, it's a track car, but I've done some modifications to make it street legal and add in a bit of comfort."

"Just a fun new toy?"

He quirks a smile. "I like toys. And I wanted to get familiar with her."

I glance at him, then run a fingertip over the sleek body. I've never been someone who considers cars sexy, but this beauty has completely changed my mind. "You're working on a collaboration," I guess. "Pitching them your motor."

"Am I?"

I tilt my head, studying him. "Either that, or you're gunning to be a driver when this baby's entered in races."

"And wouldn't that be sweet?" he says. But I notice he doesn't deny it.

I frown. I don't know much about racing, but I do know that Ash is an excellent driver who really shouldn't be on a track.

He was the youngest driver ever to win the Daytona 500, but he quit racing because of repeated crashes and because he knew he was reckless.

And not just in a car. Where Ashton Stone goes, a story follows.

Some are pretty damn cool—like how Hollywood's approached him a zillion times over, but he flipped them off because he didn't want to get sucked into that life.

Some are bad—like the rumors of the dead woman in his past that Maggie had alluded to. I'd heard those whispers before—the hints of scandal. Of a police investigation. Of pay-offs. And I have to admit—if only to myself—that I wish Maggie had pushed the question. I want to know what really happened, because I don't see that kind violence in Ash, but I'm not sure if that's because it's not there or because I'm intentionally averting my eyes.

All I do know—though I don't even want to admit it to myself—is that I'm attracted to him. A man with a dark and reckless reputation. A man shrouded with secrets. A man who comes from a family that's about as fucked up as they come.

A man who's definitely not the safe and stable port that I need after all the shit I've been through.

And there it is—the reason why I'm certain that Fate is one cruel bitch. Because the first man I'm truly attracted to is a man I shouldn't let anywhere near my heart.