Dangerously Bad (Dangerous #3)
Eden Bradley
CHAPTER
One
“BE CAREFUL THERE, Frankie—that’s my baby you’re lubing,” Duff called out.
The short, stocky mechanic he was considering hiring for the new motorcycle branch of SGR Motors looked up, a retort on his lips, but he seemed to think better of it. “I’ll take good care of her. Hey, you from Ireland?”
Duff laid a hand over his heart, as if he were mightily offended. He was—a bit. “Irish? I’m a good Scotsman. Well, maybe not so good. But I arrived here from Edinburgh a couple o’ months ago to go into business with my cousin Jamie next door—they rebuild vintage muscle cars over there. He owns the auto shop and has half a hand in this place, too. And don’t say ‘Irish’ to him, neither—he was born in Scotland, same as I was.”
“Ah. Sorry ’bout the mistake. Couldn’t place your accent.” Frankie ran a hand over the sleek black fender of the ’48 Harley WL Bobber. “Did you bring the bike over with you? She’s a real beauty. They sure don’t make ’em like this anymore.”
“Yep. That’s why we’re opening SGR Motorcycles—we’ll be working exclusively on vintage bikes, so your skills had better be up to it if you want to work here. My cousin and I both appreciate the way they used to build machines. We’ll expect our mechanics to have the same respect. And the knowledge.” He leaned against the counter at the edge of the work bay. “How’s that chain look?”
“Good, good. No runout. Tight as a teenager. Looks almost new.”
“It is. Nothing but the best for my baby. Be sure you take her off the jacks like she’s made of china. And be sure you treat all our customers’ bikes the same way—and mind the crude remarks. This place won’t be just another bike shop.”
Frankie looked up, one blond brow raised. “That mean I have the job?”
“Yeah, it does, at that. Go talk to my cousin Jamie next door and he’ll have you fill out your paperwork. After the bike is off the jacks, of course.”
“Of course. Boss.” Frankie cracked a gap-toothed smile.
Duff stroked his chin. “I like the sound of that. ‘Boss.’”
“I’ll bet you do.”
He whirled around at the unexpected feminine voice—and was stunned into sputtering silence when he saw Layla Chouset standing in the doorway of his half-built shop.
Oh, yeah, he knew exactly who she was. The woman he’d seen on his first trip to The Bastille, New Orleans’s most exclusive and notorious BDSM club. The woman he’d seen there twice more, locking gazes with her each time. The woman who’d starred in his darkest, hottest fantasies as he’d wanked off to her image nearly every night since he’d first laid eyes on her.
He went hard, took in a breath and willed his treasonous cock down.
She was all creamy chocolate skin and burning spitfire. Green eyes and sass. Gorgeous curves and breasts he wanted to fill his hands with. And she was a Domme. Which only made him want to bury his fists in those twining curls that spilled around her shoulders like dark silk and pull until he had her on her knees.
Not happening.
Maybe . . .
He cleared his throat and moved toward her, but his six-foot-seven frame did nothing to intimidate the delicate beauty—she stood her ground, her chin lifting.
“Can I help you, Layla?”
“You seem to think so. I’m here to tell you to back the fuck off.”
He cracked a smile—he couldn’t help it—and enjoyed watching the fire in her eyes flare. She took a step toward him.
“You think I’m funny?” she demanded.
“It wasn’t a smile of amusement, darlin’. I was simply pleased.”
“Darlin’? Seriously?”
She took another step toward him, and he realized up close how tiny she was, no more than five foot three or four. He could have picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder easily enough. Or over his lap. His cock wanted to growl.
He felt Frankie’s attention to the conversation from behind him.
“Let’s move this into my office,” he said, gesturing with one hand.
She crossed her arms over her chest, but it only made the tops of her breasts spill from the lacy edge of her black tank top. After a moment she huffed and dropped her arms. “Okay. Fine.”
He led the way into the unfinished office at the front of the shop. A wide window looked out onto the quiet street outside, and he distracted himself—and his damn hardening dick—a moment by letting his gaze rest on the coffee place across the way before settling onto the enormous metal desk he and Jamie had moved in the day before. The room still smelled faintly of paint and was piled with boxes of office supplies and the new computer he hadn’t set up yet, but there were two chairs in front of the desk.
“Sit down if you like,” he offered.
Layla’s shoulders squared. “I don’t need to sit—this won’t be a lengthy visit. I’m just here to tell you—”
“To ‘fuck off’?” He moved closer, until he could smell her perfume—or maybe it was simply her skin that smelled of fresh flowers and the night. Like something he wanted to lap up, savor, swallow. “You can tell me again, if you like, but I’m fairly certain you wouldn’t be here if that was your only purpose.”
“Oh, really? And what do you assume is my other purpose?”
He took one more step closer, then another, until he was almost on top of her. He had to give the woman credit—she didn’t even flinch. “I think . . .” He kept his voice low. “I know I saw you watching me at The Bastille. More than once. Which is all right by me, since I was watching you.”
From the corner of his eye he saw her hands ball into fists, then release. Oh, yes, she was a little shaken up, which was exactly where he wanted her. Well, fuck if that wasn’t a lie—he wanted her naked and bent over his desk, but this would do for a start.