Scandalise Me. CAITLIN CREWS

it horror? “You could say I had a change of heart in the gym the other night.”

      “Men your age need to be careful,” she said as if agreeing, and he had to grin at the slap of it. Especially since he knew perfectly well she was all of a year younger than he was. “Your hearts aren’t what they were when you were young.”

      “I was visited by an apparition of annoying conversations past,” he said mildly. “She irritated me into coming here. It was that or sink into a coma of indifference.”

      Zoe smiled, slow and triumphant, and that was even hotter. It made him wish they were alone. It made him care less by the second about the fact they weren’t.

      “A coma might have been something of an improvement, Mr. Grant, all things considered,” she said, as if she could read his dirty mind. He hoped she could. He’d spent a significant amount of time imagining a different and far more satisfying ending to that hot tub encounter over the past few days. “Why don’t you follow me?”

      Hunter lost himself in the sway of her hips in that delectable skirt she wore as she turned and he followed. The sweet curve of her bottom. The way she walked—that confident swagger that made his whole body tighten—in those lickable shoes with the clever red soles that peeked at him with every step, like an invitation to the best kind of sin.

      He accepted. Happily.

      “You say you’re good at what you do,” Hunter said as she led him down the bright, airy hall toward her private office.

      “I don’t have to say it.” That razor-sharp curve of her lips, thrown over her shoulder, was the best thing he’d seen in years. It made even those great, dark spaces in him seem to sing with light. With heat. “My work speaks for itself, and usually on the nightly news. Or when I’m really good? Not at all. No news cycles. No whispers. Not even a speculative paragraph in the fringe tabloids, stuck in between UFO sightings. I make it disappear completely, as if it never happened at all.”

      “Like magic.”

      “Something like that. Just more expensive.”

      “I enjoyed that character assassination you treated me to in the strip club the other day,” Hunter drawled. “Is that how it usually works? Break the clients down into bite-size pieces so they’ll be grateful when you put them back together into your preferred image, whatever that might be?”

      “Don’t look behind the curtain, Mr. Grant,” she said, without looking at him this time, her voice filled with the laughter he couldn’t see. But he wanted to see it. He wanted to bathe in it. Again and again, as if it could finally wash him clean. “Just accept the wave of the PR wand. It’s as magical as you let it be.”

      “I’ve been on a few sports teams, Ms. Brook. I know you have to tear me down to build me back up. It’s Psychological Warfare 101.”

      “Then I expect you’ll be the model client, won’t you?”

      She waved him into her office and closed the door behind them. He looked around as she walked toward her desk, taking in the crispness of the white walls, the cold concrete floors with scattered area rugs in muted colors to cushion the chill. The frigidity was relieved only by the view of the city out her windows and the typical vanity wall of photographs featuring Zoe with various famous and/or powerful people. Happy clients, presumably.

      He recognized most of them, and noted that Zair was in the top left, his usual too-handsome, too-serious self, his unsmiling face on this particular wall another mystery that would likely never be solved. Her desk was scrupulously neat, made entirely of heavy sheets of metal and glass, and he suspected she knew exactly how formidable and untouchable she looked when she rested against the front of it, leaning back to regard him coolly.

      Trouble was, he didn’t respond to messages like that the way he should. The way he was no doubt intended to respond. He wanted to...mess her up a little. Make all of that chilly control bleed into something else, something at least as hot and as wild and as deeply foolish as the thing that hummed in him, demanding he go over there and lose his hands in that slick twist of her hair, take her wicked, argumentative mouth with his, pull those impossibly long legs around his waist and sink into her with those sexy red-soled shoes still on her feet.

      He wanted to know why she was targeting him, what she was after.

      What she thought she knew about Sarah.

      So he kept walking, over the cold floor that made his boots sound like drums, past the sitting area that was set up off to the right and was no doubt where she meant for him to go, to a low sofa that would put him at her knees.

      He didn’t think so.

      He moved closer and closer, watching the way she fought to keep from reacting, the way her fascinating face tightened and then smoothed out almost in the same instant, as if she’d had to order herself to stay so calm. He certainly hoped she did.

      And then he was looming over her. Wholly and unapologetically and inappropriately in her space. As if, should he crook his head just slightly, he might finally taste that smart mouth of hers. It would be that easy.

      She tilted her chin up to keep holding his gaze, but otherwise, showed him nothing but that cool wariness she wore like a shield. He wondered what it cost her.

      He didn’t know why he wanted to know, as if it was a desperate thing inside him, clawing its way out.

      “Perhaps,” she said, and though her voice was mild he could hear a darkness beneath it. A hint of something raw that shouldn’t have called to him, sung in him. “I should have been slightly more clear about what I meant by model client.”

      “Tell me why you came after me,” he said. “What you want.”

      There was nothing but a scant breath of space between their bodies, and he’d have bet his entire fortune that she wanted to stand up straight to regain a little bit of height, and her edge. But didn’t, because he’d know exactly why she was doing it. He imagined that was also the reason she didn’t tell him to back off. It would be too revealing.

      He smiled. He’d always been good at games like this. “Tell me, and I’ll behave.”

      “Is this an example of you behaving, Mr. Grant?” Her voice was light. Airy. Her gaze was not. “Because it feels a bit more like a crude attempt at intimidation.”

      “Not at all. I’m never crude.”

      The problem was, this close, he found it hard to concentrate on things like strategy. He could smell the faintest hint of lavender on her skin, and wanted to follow it. Taste it. Strip away her clothes and feast on the flesh beneath until they were both in pieces. On her desk, on the floor, wherever.

      He dropped his gaze to her mouth, which was fuller and more tempting this close. Like a beacon it hurt him to ignore. “This is the first step toward a bright and shiny new me. Just tell me what you want with me.”