Free Wicked Pleasures by Lora Leigh Page B

suggested.
    He released her when she jerked at her arm. She barely glimpsed the surprise on his face, as she brushed past him and stalked through the formal dining room to the foyer beyond.
    Screw this job. Between the Robertses and her own weakness where Cam was concerned, the potential for destruction was much higher than the effects of bankruptcy.

     
    "Ms. Wright." The butler, Matthew, moved from the small office between the main mansion and the residential wing, his expression questioning. "May I help you?"
    "I need a cab." A polite smile, a gnashing of teeth. "I'll be waiting outside for it."
    His gaze glanced over her shoulder, then back to her. "It may take more than half an hour for one to arrive," he warned her. "Perhaps you could wait inside?"
    "I'll wait outside."
    She moved for the doors, only to come to a rather abrupt stop as a strong arm hooked around her waist, lifted her from the floor, and began to carry her toward the stairs.
    "Forget the cab, Matthew," Cam ordered, his voice cold.
    "Let me go, or I'll have you arrested for assault."
    "Stop threatening me, or I'll turn you over my knee and paddle your bottom," he grunted, as he moved past the staircase toward the back hall. "We're going to talk."
    "I don't want to talk to you." Her voice was shaking with anger and pain. "And you and Ian Sinclair can shove this job right up your . . . omph." His arm tightened around her just enough to shut her up and leave her fuming.
    "Let's not get naughty, Jaci," he drawled as he moved through the hall.
    "How about homicidal instead?" She kicked at his legs, only to hear his chuckle when her slender heels connected with a pair of tough boots.
    It was almost laughable. She had awakened with an enthusiasm she hadn't had in years, and now here she was, on the verge of bankruptcy and being toted through the Sinclair mansion like a misbehaving puppy by a man who couldn't even be bothered to stick around in her bed after fucking her half to death.
    His arm flexed beneath her hands and the controlled motion against her back assured her that her weight was barely noticed and her struggles didn't effect him in the least.
    "Here we go." He stepped into a sunlit office, closed and locked the door behind them, then sat her on her feet. "Don't bother trying to run out. The door won't unlock without the proper code."
    Her gaze flew to the door. There, on the side panel, was a security lock. She hated him. She hated herself because she wanted to stay, even as she wanted to run.
    "This is so juvenile," she informed him, as she straightened the thin summer knit shirt she wore over the band of her skirt. "Hauling me around like a damned sack of potatoes. Where the hell do you get your nerve?"
    "From a Cracker Jack box." He moved across the room. He was dressed in jeans and a white cotton shirt, his black hair lying loose around his face, brushing his collar and framing his dark face as he glanced back at her.
    "Now, why do I believe that?"
    Jaci crossed her arms over her breasts and glared back at him as he hooked a leg over the corner of the desk, perched on the edge, and watched her coolly.
    "So. Roberts?" He arched a brow.
    She rolled her eyes and shook her head. "I'm going to start making people pay me every time they ask me that question," she snarled. "I wouldn't need to work."
    His expression didn't change.
    There was none of the lover that had taken her the night before in his face. This man was different—as though the passion and lust they had shared had never happened. And she wondered if her heart could have broken worse seven years ago?
    "According to the congressman, you attempted to steal fifty thousand from the desk in his home office. When you were caught, you attempted to seduce him. His wife walked in and threw you out of the house."
    In reality, she had walked in on the congressman, his wife, and their secretary while the three were involved in some very nasty sex games. Black leather and attachments, and Rick Roberts