“You asked for it, cousin.”
Duff grinned to himself as Jamie left his office. He kept his gaze on Layla in her hot red Mustang as she slammed both hands onto the steering wheel, and he didn’t mind if it was out of frustration with him or pure anger. She was responding to him like crazy one way or the other. And if he could make her feel something—didn’t really matter what it was at this point—then he knew he had her. She’d shown up at the shop, hadn’t she? If she’d simply been irritated with him, he had no doubt a strong woman like her would have marched up to him at the club to confront him. No, this was an excuse to see him, he was certain. What he wasn’t as certain about was the odd melting sensation swarming his belly as he simply watched her through the window. The raging heat that had gone through him when he’d held her delicate wrist in his hand. The way he’d been almost unable to pull away after kissing her.
As besotted as a teenage boy, that’s what you are.
It was true. But it was also true that he would have her. He’d damn well find a way.
? ? ?
YOU IDIOT!
She’d thought she could go face-to-face with Duff Stewart, but Jesus fucking Christ—he had been so much more than she’d bargained for. He hadn’t been in New Orleans more than a couple of months, but he’d already developed a reputation as a bit of a man-whore, so she’d written off what she’d heard about him being a natural Dominant who made all the submissives swoon. That fact had only fueled her fire—she wasn’t about to be looked at as anyone’s plaything, damn it!—and she’d come storming into his shop, guns blazing, only to discover the man was the real thing, wearing his dominance like a second skin. And only to have her body completely betray her in the face of his linebacker build, his ridiculously handsome face and what she was having a hard time denying was charm. And the Scottish damn accent! Why was an accent always so sexy? She’d been on the road for a full ten minutes, but even the purr of her beloved ’66 Mustang had done nothing to soothe her. If anything, the rumbling vibration of the big engine she could feel against the backs of her thighs—and elsewhere—was making things worse. Or better. Depending on how one looked at it.
Stop it.
“Okay,” she muttered to herself over the music blasting from her stereo, “he may be the most insanely desirable man I’ve ever seen, but I have enough self-control to ignore that. Don’t I?” She hit the brakes just in time to prevent herself from running a red light. “Damn it.”
She gripped the steering wheel, trying to calm her buzzing body, every nerve on high alert. But all she could think of was his wicked, sensual mouth. The spectacular, strong bone structure set off by his shaved head, the muscular breadth of his shoulders, his hazel eyes glinting with a dangerous metallic gleam, gold and silver simultaneously. She’d never seen eyes like that on a man, framed in dark, sooty lashes. And Jesus, dimples on a man like that were simply not fair.
The light changed and she hit the gas a little too hard. She eased off so she wouldn’t get a ticket, then cursed again and grabbed her cell phone from her purse, hitting the button that dialed her best friend.
“Allure Salon,” her friend answered in her soft Southern drawl.
“Kitty, it’s me.”
“Hi, honey. What’s up?”
“Do you have a client in the chair? Can you talk?”
“I’m in the middle of a highlight. Can I call you back in . . . No, I’m booked for another hour after that. Are you okay? You sound funny.”
Layla sighed. “I feel funny, and not in the ‘ha-ha’ kind of way. Can you meet me after work?”
“Oh crap, hon—I can’t today. You know I’d drop anything for you if I could, but I’m teaching tonight at the beauty school. One of their instructors is on maternity leave. I’m sorry.”
“Tomorrow night?” Layla asked, taking a deep breath. She’d just have to handle things by herself until she had a chance to talk to her friend.
“Of course. Our usual place?”
“Sounds good.”
“Okay. See you there about five thirty. You gonna be all right until then?”
“Yep. I always am. I’ll see you when you’re done with work tomorrow.”
They hung up, and Layla headed toward the Pontchartrain Expressway to catch the 10 out of town—hitting the road hard for a while would cool her off. It was either that or go home and pull out her collection of vibrators and spend the next two hours coming as hard and as many times as she could.
“This is ridiculous.” She accelerated onto the on-ramp, the big engine picking up speed with a satisfying rumble. “I am in control,” she reminded herself. “I am in control,” she repeated, hoping to convince herself of the blatant lie.
The long, fast drive along with some blasting music and a firm talking-to with herself finally helped to calm her down. She kept driving, taking the 10 through Baton Rouge, moving with the music, letting her car take her down the highway. She was most of the way to Lafayette when she realized she’d better head home. By the time she got there, she was exhausted. With driving. With thinking. With the sensual rage simmering in her body.
She didn’t dare go to bed—bed was too tempting. Instead, she flopped down on the big white sofa in her living room, tossing some of the exotic brightly colored pillows onto the floor as she reached for the TV remote. Flipping through the channels, she settled on an old romantic comedy, scooting aside a small bronze sculpture of the Hindu god Kali—one of her own pieces—to rest her feet on the edge of her coffee table, which was a slab of thick glass framed in reclaimed barn wood.