Taryn Taylor - Wicked Pleasure

Cynical words. AJ’s brows lifted as she realized for the first time that he was a little itchy, too. “Huh.”

“Huh, what?”

AJ turned to face him, leaning a hip against the balustrade. “Just drinking in the astounding realization that the tech world’s most infamous international party boy hates his own parties.”

He shot her a what-are-you-talking-about look and he lifted his drink. The muscles in his throat worked as he swallowed. “What makes you say that?”

“Besides the fact that you’re up here talking to me instead of mingling? I’m good at reading people. And I have a doctorate in the nuances of cynicism. You just bypassed world-weary and jumped straight to jaded .”

He considered that for a moment. “Some might argue that talking to a beautiful woman is well within the definition of mingling.”

“You’ve purposefully ignored three flirtatious waves and the arrival of a senator.”

“Impressive. I could use you on my security team.” Liam blew out a breath, and AJ didn’t miss that his gaze went directly to said senator, who was holding court next to one of the tiered fountains that dotted his property.

“So is that what you think of me?” Liam asked. “Jaded international party boy?”

She didn’t buy the casual spin he put on it. It sounded like a real question, and she let her femme fatale act slip for a minute. “Isn’t that what I’m supposed to think?”

The world went still for a second, as though the brief flash of understanding that passed between them in that moment had been captured, a photograph in time. Then AJ blinked, and real life resumed.

“I’ve always found it a tactical advantage, the ability to disappear into the stereotype.” Liam’s gaze turned pointed. “Much easier to get what you want when people underestimate you, don’t you think?”

Danger prickled along AJ’s spine, and for the second time that night, she had to actively loosen her muscles. Rhetorical question. He didn’t know anything. First rule of surviving on the street—if you act guilty, you get caught. She might not pick pockets anymore, but she’d do well to remember the lesson. “You don’t seem like a man who has too much trouble getting what he wants.”

“Not usually.” He eyed her attentively. “But I guess we’ll find out.”

That trickle of lust she’d been fighting since he’d walked into his office upgraded itself to a gush, but before she did something monumentally stupid, his phone vibrated, and they both dropped their gazes to his chest.

“Aren’t you going to get that?”

Liam shook his head, and AJ tipped hers to the side, studying him. “I’ve never known a titan of industry to ignore the siren song of a phone call.”

“Do you know many? Titans?”

“A few.”

His phone vibrated again. AJ stepped closer, reached toward him, and when he made no move to stop her, she slipped her hand inside his suit and pulled out his phone.

“Dom,” she announced, reading the contact info on the display. “As in dominatrix? Are you late for a bit of the whip and tickle?” The phone continued to buzz insistently against her palm. “You must be a good customer. She seems eager for contact.”

“Dom as in Dominic. Business acquaintance. He could probably pull off the leather, but judging by his golf game, I doubt his mastery with the riding crop. He’s not very athletic.”

“Well, color me disappointed.” With a twist of her wrist, she held the phone out to him, screen up. “Might be important.”

Liam took the phone and tucked it back in his suit without so much as glancing at it. “Work has a tendency to consume you if you let it.”

AJ turned back to the balcony, leaning her forearms against the railing. She liked it when work consumed her. Kept that bad shit from creeping into her brain. “You don’t let it?”

“As I believe we already established, I live to party.”

She laughed at that. “You’re so full of shit.”

She felt his eyes on her profile, the burn of their focus. Barroom talk was out of place at a cocktail party. She probably shouldn’t have said that.

“You see?” he asked, his voice deliciously husky. “I told you.”

The tease worked, and she gave in to temptation, looked over at him. He had a tiny jagged scar on his chin. “What?”

His gaze roamed her face in the dim light. “I’d remember you.”

Something in his eyes, so dark, ran through her like an electrical current. Her laugh sounded fake, even to her own ears. “Sure you would. Just like you remember everyone else at this shindig?”

Liam flickered a surveying glance at the grounds, teeming with people. His easy shrug of confirmation sharpened her focus.

“There’s got to be two hundred people here.” Two hundred and twelve, according to her research. All required to RSVP for the code that would grant them access tonight. And another thirteen who’d politely declined, which had essentially nuked their bar codes so they’d been of no use to her. This had been a tough party to crash.

“Give or take,” he said, with a sip of bourbon.

She turned toward the terrace railing and rested her elbows on it, staring down at the busy garden below. There were people milling about, but her eyes snagged on a mismatched couple almost directly beneath her, illuminated by the fancy lights strung all over the grounds.

“Who’re those two?” she asked, with a head tip at a stout, balding man who’d cornered one of the waitstaff so he could raid the shrimp platter while the gorgeous woman on his arm guzzled champagne with alacrity.

Liam turned to see her pick, and the sleeve of his jacket brushed her upper arm, unleashing a wave of goose bumps across her skin. “Phillip Henderson and his much younger wife, Tara Billings-Henderson.”

Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “You could be saying any names. How would I know if you’re full of shit or not?”

He leaned forward on the railing and raised his voice a little. “Phillip. Tara. So glad you could make it tonight.”

The mismatched twosome lifted their heads like a couple of well-trained Labradors at the sound of their names, eager for their host’s attention.

“Wouldn’t miss it!” boomed the bald guy, yelling much louder than necessary and affording AJ a full view of all his teeth and his mouthful of masticated shrimp. “You always throw the best parties!”

The blonde dropped her husband’s arm like she’d been burned, executed a shampoo-commercial-worthy hair shake and waggled her fingers. “There you are! I’ve been looking for you all night. Save me a dance?”

In a nonanswer, he raised his glass to them, took a sip of bourbon and turned his whole body to face AJ.

“ Super classy guest list,” she complimented, hoping the irony didn’t make her sound petty. At least they were on the guest list.

A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips.

The sexy pulse of the base-heavy track the pool-deck DJ was spinning spilled through the night, making her want to dance like she did in the club. She wanted to wrap her arms around his neck and sway with him while his hands rode the small of her back, the curve of her ass, pulling her close so she could grind her hips against his while he kissed her neck...

Shit.

She was in big trouble, and the look on his face did nothing but confirm it.

“I’m Liam.”

AJ almost laughed. “Oh, I know.”

“Then it appears you have me at a disadvantage.”

Her hand tightened on her glass at the accuracy of his statement. But it wouldn’t be true for much longer if she didn’t get her shit together. She wasn’t here for his animal magnetism, she was here for his tech.