could tie her to a worktop and force her to call him Trey.
The thought of her strong little wrists and ankles bound up in leather sent his excitement rocketing. Maybe he’d truss her all over, from thighs to waist to dark crisscrosses between her breasts. He pictured suckling her nipples, imagined rolling them on his tongue. His breath came from him in hard quick pants as he ground his ass cheeks into the office chair. The extra friction on his tailbone made all his sensations better; made him picture her in even more detail. Knowing he was nearly there, he tugged his cock faster. Though it wasn’t smart, the fantasy was so good he couldn’t let go of it.
I remember , she’d cry. I couldn’t forget you!
Then Zane would come up behind Trey and bugger him breathless.
He snapped so suddenly into climax he didn’t have a chance to grab a tissue. He spurted across his blotter, a long white arc that felt incredible shooting out. His cock blazed with pleasure at the contractions, then virtually melted with contentment. He wasn’t certain he’d ever felt as good before.
The good feelings couldn’t last, of course, not when he had so little chance of living out this scenario.
Hell , he thought. He was in big trouble.
THE line cooks of the world formed an effective spy network. They worked everywhere, knew everyone, and—most importantly—were bonded by a fellowship of incredibly grueling work. They were like cops in a way, only with knife rolls instead of badges. Nobody understood a cook as well as the guy who stood shoulder to shoulder with him at a blazing hot grill station.
Having spent a sleepless night that strengthened her resolve not to give up too easily, Rebecca stumped to her kitchen wall phone at daybreak. Her targets also roused early, so this was a good time to call. Within fifteen minutes, she had the information her plan of attack required.
Trey Hayworth’s limo driver, who bought his daily bagel and a cup from a cafe in Faneuil Hall, was ferrying his boss to his new restaurant’s site today. The decor was nearly finished, and Mr. Hayworth wanted to check on it.
Rebecca dabbed concealer on her under-eye circles and dressed herself for battle.
In her case, this meant throwing a light summer jacket over her standard white shirt and black trousers. Also, she swiped on lipstick with actual color. If she were careful, she wouldn’t gnaw it off too quickly.
She took it as a good sign that her old Nissan Versa agreed to start.
The address she’d been given was on Charles Street in Beacon Hill. Beacon Hill was quintessential old Boston, the most sought-after neighborhood for elite Victorians. People sought it out today as well. Cobbled streets delighted tourists, sidewalks were paved in brick, and Federal-style residences all seemed to sport historical black shutters. Here on Charles Street, swanky shops and restaurants were as common as ivy.
Rebecca thanked the parking gods for helping her find a spot just a block away.
The Bad Boys Lounge inhabited the lower floors of two adjoining brick row houses. An old fashioned wooden sign swung above the sheltered entry. The custom painting showed a pair of rakes in Colonial dress, escorting two buxom ladies in for dinner. The scene was happy rather than leering, and Rebecca smiled at it.
The door beneath was propped open by a potted topiary tree.
No need to knock then, and no chance to be tossed out before she had her say. Cautiously, she stepped inside the big dining room. Morning light slanted in from the front windows, cutting through the dimness inside. Her eyes took a moment to adjust. The soon-to-be restaurant was empty, a scatter of construction and design clutter indicating it wasn’t yet finished. Free to humor her curiosity, Rebecca looked around. As she did, her heart sighed within her breast.
However she might resent testosterone-based entitlement, the bad boys had a rep for doing things top-drawer. She’d known