Talk Dirty to Me. Dakota Cassidy

rose to her feet, hurling her large handbag over her shoulder. That settled that. “Good for you, Richie Rich. Unfortunately, I do.” Wow, did she. After her drive here to Plum Orchard, her checking account was nothing but the kind of change you find in the cushions of your couch.

      She needed the money. But did she need it enough to become a phone-sex operator?

      Weren’t you the one organizing an ad for your kidneys on Craigslist just three short hours ago?

      But what if she didn’t want to play Mistress Leather to dirty old men and oversexed college boys as a way to get herself out of this mess?

      What if? What if you want to live the rest of your life never making the things you’ve done wrong right? What if you just sweep it under the carpet like you’ve always done? What if you just skip this part, the hard part, and fix something else you’ve broken instead? Something smaller, less difficult, maybe?

      No. She didn’t have to do this. She could skulk back off to Chicago and continue to lick her wounds in her studio apartment with the peeling pink paint, a stove that had only one working burner, a shower that dripped exactly two drops of water per minute, and a punk neighbor who sold pharmaceuticals for someone named Dime.

      She absolutely could go right back to living just barely above the poverty level while she tried desperately to pay back money she’d charmed out of her mother’s connections. Money she’d promised to handle with care—promised in the way the old Dixie promised everything. Loosely—offhandedly—with little regard for anything but what she wanted.

      No. This was a way to finally do something because it was right.

      Still, the more she played with the idea in her mind, the easier it was becoming to convince herself she could do this.

      If getting back on her feet meant spanking a chair with a fly swatter for effect while she whispered the words, “You must be punished for disobeying me,” into a phone, she’d do it. It was either that or starve at this point. Food won. Food and a warm place for Mona and Lisa, her twin bulldogs to sleep. “So, it’s settled? I win. You lose. Where do I sign, Hank?”

      Hank gave Dixie another “Hank look” translating to “not so fast.” “Let’s not be hasty. You have twenty-four hours to think about it, Ms. Davis. Mr. Donovan, too. Landon insisted upon a waiting period of sorts. In the meantime, Landon has offered his house and staff at your full disposal—to the both of you—while you mull this opportunity over. He wanted you both to be comfortable while you considered his offer.”

      She’d already had two years of broke since her restaurant had gone bust. Why waste time? Dixie shot her hand upward to avoid more naysaying. “I don’t even need twenty-four seconds. I’m in. Pass the pen.”

      But Hank shook his head. “I’m sorry. Landon insisted that you both take the time to thoroughly think this through and get your affairs in order. He knew the two of you well, Miss Davis. His notes, and there were many, many notes—” Hank held up a stack of paper “—claim, on occasion, you’re quick to jump before you think. Especially if it comes to any sort of competition with—”

      “With me,” Caine interjected with confidence, quite obviously pleased with himself.

      Hank’s lips pursed at Caine’s interruption. He held up the ream of paper again and pointed to it with a short-clipped nail. “Yes. Landon did say that, but Ms. Davis wasn’t the only one he left remarks about. He also mentioned you’re quite easily baited by—” he looked down at the paper, shifting his glasses “—the lovely and irresistible Miss Davis. His words, right here.” He tapped the mountain of white again.

      Dixie shot Caine a triumphant gaze. If there were notes to be had, she was grateful she wasn’t the only one worth noting.

      Caine’s fingers flexed and cracked, signaling his legendary simmer.

      “Thus,” Hank continued, “he asked that you both take a hard look at his proposition. Landon was quite aware you both have lives and jobs elsewhere.”

      Well, one of them did.

      “So please, each of you use the maximum time given, and we’ll meet back here tomorrow at six with your decisions. Now, Landon had all the locks changed on the big house just prior to his death. I’ll go get the set of keys he had made for each of you so you can settle in after such an emotionally trying day.” Hank rose, whisking out of the office on expensively clad feet, quite obviously relieved to get away from Landon’s tawdry business dealings.

      Em rushed to stand next to Dixie, peering down at her with an expression of guilt. “Before you rush to callin’ me a traitor, yes, I was the one who had the keys made and called the locksmith to change the locks. But I maintain, I only knew Landon owned a phone-sex company and he was leaving it to you two to fight over. I thought Cat and the girls were going to show you the ropes temporarily. He left me a beautiful letter to thank me for facilitatin’ his...his passin’, but there was nothing about keeping Call Girls here permanently.”

      Dixie’s smile was as ironic as her tired nod. She patted Em’s hand. “You don’t owe me an explanation, and either way, I’m not staying at the big house.” Not with Caine. Not knowing he’d sleep in one of the eight or so bedrooms—naked. He always slept naked.

      A fleeting visual of his wide chest with a sprinkling of dark hair and thickly muscled thighs spread wide to reveal his most intimate body part shuttled through her mind’s eye unbidden. Dixie bit back an uncomfortable groan.

      “But the big house is so nice with every luxury available. Butlers and maids and a full-time chef,” Em said, as though all those things in a gloriously opulent setting would make it easier to answer to the name Mistress Leather. “And bidets. He has bidets. Who can resist a bidet?”

      Dixie pulled her purse closer to her side, running her fingers over the surface. She knew everything Landon had. Scratch that. Almost everything. “Yes, I know Landon has a bidet, and a slide in the pool, and a screening room, and a camel named Toe he couldn’t bear to part with when he left Turkey so he hired a zookeeper to care for him at the big house. He told everyone all the time what he had. I’m not interested in his possessions—just the predicament he’s left me in.”

      Dixie breathed deeply, pushing air in and out of her lungs to assuage her anxiety. “I don’t want to stay at Landon’s, and I don’t care about the chef.”

      “You just care about the money, right, Dixie?” Caine interrupted, rising from his chair to saunter with liquid grace toward them. As confident as ever, he’d added a dash more smug to his repertoire.

      Nice. Veiled innuendo.

      Fine. She deserved all of the mud he could sling.

      As she turned to look him directly in the eye for the first time in almost a decade, Dixie mentally reminded herself to stand strong and fight the bone-deep lust that never failed to consume her whenever Caine was in close proximity.

      The way he moved with the sensual grace of a panther, the light bronze of his skin beneath his white shirt and navy suit, the ripple of his thighs, pushing against his trousers, still affected her.

      But resist she would. Not an easy hurdle to jump when he moved in even closer and gazed down at her, waiting.

      No. He wasn’t waiting. He was laying down a dare in much the way she had earlier, but his wasn’t based on desperation. It was steeped in anger.

      Automatically, Dixie’s chin lifted, her pride raising both metaphoric fists to the sky even as a wave of shivers covered her arms and the back of her neck. “Don’t be coy about it, Boom-Boom. If you want to insult me then do it, but do it well. I’m not ashamed to say I need a job. So what?”

      “And you’re willing to call men you don’t know ‘Daddy’ for employment?”

      Her cheeks went hot, but her mouth flew open. “You’re just shy of accusing me of hooking for cash, aren’t you?”

      Caine’s dark eyebrow rose while he