Talk Dirty to Me. Dakota Cassidy

voice. Leaving. So he could do what he’d intended to do when he came back for the funeral. Stay a while. Catch his breath. Reevaluate where his life in Miami was going, or rather, wasn’t going.

      There was something missing from it these days. Something big. Something important. He wanted to know what that something was.

      But now, he was back in the room with them all, hearing words like Landon figured he’d think this was all some joke. Which meant it was no joke.

      Damn, Landon.

      Dixie leaned forward, her beautiful face masked in more apprehension, and it made his chest tight, despite his wish that he could ignore it. She was thinner, almost fragile, maybe. Something she’d never been, but it wasn’t just physically. It was in her posture, once straight and confidently arrogant, now a little slumped.

      Shit.

      Don’t get sucked in, buddy. Don’t you damn well do it. You know what it’s like when she wants something. She could out-act Meryl Streep on an Academy Award–winning day if it meant she’d get what she wanted. Or have you forgotten all those tears she cried when you broke off your engagement? They looked damn real, pal. She’s good. Too good.

      Caine shifted in his chair and forced himself to ignore any and all signs Dixie was suffering any more than he was over Landon’s death—or suffering over anything at all.

      But there it was again, her voice a little small, a little hoarse when she asked, “What if I don’t have an attorney because they cost money, ridiculous money, no disrespect to you—” She gave Hank an apologetic wave of her hand “—and there’s no possible way I can afford to have someone review this? What if, as utterly shocking as I’m sure this will be for some, I don’t want to work at Call Girls?”

      Dixie didn’t have any money? Bullshit. He’d heard about her closing her restaurant, but she came from one of the richest families in the South. She’d just ask her mother for more. Wasn’t that what all women like Dixie did? There was a game here. Caine just didn’t know what it was.

      Hank’s expression didn’t budge when he gazed at Dixie. “If you don’t want to participate, then you forfeit your ownership to Mr. Donovan, and he owns Call Girls and the profits from such in its entirety.”

      Aha.

      Those words, so calm, so beautifully articulated tripped all the triggers Caine suspected Landon had counted on. He and Dixie in a hand-to-hand combat situation where, if it killed one of them, they’d do almost anything to win.

      As it once was, it always would be.

      Now he got it.

      Dixie slipped to the edge of her chair, drawing Caine’s eyes to her legs. He snapped them shut and instead listened to her ask, “So he gets everything if I decide to bail because I’m not game to pretend I’m Mistress Leather?”

      “Mercy,” Em muttered, letting her head drop to her chest, kicking up the momentum of her makeshift fan a notch.

      Hank rolled his tongue along the inside of his cheek. “That’s correct. And Landon suggested you use the title Lady. I believe—” he shuffled through more papers on his desk, tapping one before putting his glasses on “—yes. There it is in my notes. Landon thought Lady Lana would suit you, Ms. Davis. My notes here say he thought it was the perfect name for someone with ‘a voice meant for sinning’.” Hank slid his thin index finger into the collar of his Brooks Brothers shirt, loosening it to clear his throat.

      Caine smirked, looking directly at Dixie. Lady Lana. Nice, Landon.

      Yet, his victory was short-lived. First, when he remembered, even after their ugly breakup, Landon had kept their friendships on equal footing for the near decade they’d refused to speak to one another. Second, when he saw Dixie’s pretty eyes finally spark, he knew he was in for it, too.

      In the name of fair, Landon wouldn’t play favorites.

      “Really,” Dixie drawled, her Southern lilt reappearing. She leaned forward toward Hank, her gaze captivating his, her body language, a glowing halo of sexy. Just like the old Dixie.

      Caine relaxed a little. Nothing had changed. It was just another ploy.

      She let her eyelashes flutter to her cheeks in that coy way that made his pulse thrash. “And did Landon have a name all picked out for Mr. Donovan, too? It would only be fair.” She smiled at Hank—the smile that was both flirtatious and subtle, one she’d used often to get almost anything she wanted back in high school. One she’d used on him.

      One you fell for, dummy.

      Caine eyed Hank’s reaction, at first taken aback. Really, who wasn’t when Dixie poured on the charm? But it was only a momentary lapse before he read her playful tone. “How well you knew him. In fact, he did, Ms. Davis.”

      Caine gritted his teeth, bracing himself. Damn you, Landon. I hope you’re getting your pound of flesh up there.

      Dixie cocked her eyebrow upward in smug anticipation. “You have Mistress Leather’s full attention,” she cooed, using her husky-honey voice to encourage Hank to spill. She swung her crossed leg and waited, smoothing her hand down along her calf to her ankle before pointing her toes.

      Jesus.

      Hank looked to Caine. “Landon’s suggestion was Candy Cane, with a play on Caine, but he was also partial to Boom-Boom LaRue.”

      How do ya like that for some boom, Boom-Boom?

      Three

      Caine gripped the arms of his uncomfortable chair. Damn her, after ten years, for not only still being so sexy it made his teeth grind together, but for possessing the ability to suck any man—even staid Hank Cotton, into her vortex of charm.

      Boom-Boom. The hell, Landon?

      Why wasn’t he getting the hell up, forfeiting everything to Dixie, and going back home to Miami? He could reevaluate his life anywhere in the world. It didn’t have to be here. He didn’t need the money. He didn’t want the money. He wanted Dixie to go home and Landon alive so he could take him back out.

      Worse, why was she still stirring things up in him better left unstirred? Just the brief glimpse of her with Em today at the funeral home dragged him right back to their short but tumultuous engagement.

      When they’d both come home ten years ago, and she no longer felt like his kid sister, their constant sibling antagonism turned to something much bigger than he’d ever thought possible. When he’d stupidly believed Dixie wasn’t the reckless, cruel, entitled kid he’d left behind.

      He mentally dug in his heels while she sat in her chair, daring him with her flashing eyes to come play the game. Not a chance she was going to sucker him again. Which brought him back to the same thought as he watched Dixie watch him. Why wasn’t he hauling ass outta here?

      “What’s the matter, Caine Donovan? Are you afraid I’ll beat you just like I did when you bet I couldn’t spit watermelon seeds farther than you?” Dixie pointed to her pink-lipsticked lips, full and pouty-smug. “That’s right—this mouth beat you by almost eight inches.”

      Caine made a fist of his hand, flexing and unflexing the tense muscles to keep her from seeing she was getting under his skin. “Your mouth was as deceptive as the rest of you. And you stood on a chair, Dixie. Hardly fair.”

      Dixie tilted her chin toward her shoulder, letting it nestle in her long red hair, gifting him that smoldering eye thing she used to do, knowing damn well it made him crazy. “Why, where in the rules for watermelon seed spittin’ did it say I couldn’t use a chair, Caine?”

      Caine’s jaw tightened to a hard line, shifting and grinding. Resist. “I don’t need Landon’s phone-sex company, or the money it makes. No matter how much.”

      No amount of money was worth being around Dixie again. No amount of money was worth the constant reminder that he was an asshole who couldn’t