Page 17 of Wicked Attraction

She shrugged and downed the shot set in front of her. “That’s what criminals always say. It’s how you justify doing bad things.”

“I never need to justify my actions. I do what needs to be done to achieve my goals. Same as you.”

“Not exactly the same,” she shot back, cynical and amused.

“The only difference is you believe what you’re doing is good simply because the law says it is. There are many instances throughout our history where the right thing, endorsed by the government, wasn’t good at all.”

“Okay, fine. I’ll give you that good and legal aren’t always the same thing, but your family is unequivocally illegal.”

“Then why the fuck do we send money to the IRS for our casinos, restaurants, gun shops, and all the other businesses registered to us? Pretty sure you can’t pay taxes on illegal businesses, Agent Beck.” I smacked my lips together and shook my head, leaning in just a little closer.

“That’s the part I don’t get. You all make a ton of money with all those legitimate businesses, so why not just let the illegal businesses go?” She downed a few more gulps of beer and turned to face the bar.

I took advantage of that move and slid my arm on the back of the stool, suddenly grateful for Thomas’ suggestion to make the stools more comfortable in this room so the drinkers spent more time and money here.

“The question you should be asking is why doesn’t the government legalize and tax those businesses.”

She opened her mouth and let out a husky bark of laughter.

“Don’t say because the government cares about its citizens because it’s cliché and not true. The opioid problem indicates otherwise, yet you’re not banging down the door of Big Pharma.”

She laughed again. “You have answers for everything, don’t you?”

“Not everything,” I told her, my voice low and deep. “For example, I don’t know how much it’s gonna cost me to get rid of you.”

Her head fell forward and Addison laughed. “Even the Ashby family doesn’t have that kind of money.”

“Try me.”

People always used that line. They thought it made them sound cool, but to me, it only said there was a number, and I just had to find it and talk them down just enough to make accepting the money palatable.

It wasn’t easy to say no when someone offered to double or triple your salary for a lot less work.

Her smile faded. “I’m not for sale, Mr. Ashby.”

I laughed. “Are we back to Mr. Ashby now?” I shrugged off her expression and moved forward because that’s how I got shit done. “If it makes you feel better, don’t think of it as being for sale.”

“Yeah? And how exactly should I think of it?”

“As getting what you’re owed for years of hard work, of the sexism you had to put up with as a woman working for the FBI. Think of it as a bonus to help you pay off your student loans.” And there it was, that flash of recognition that meant shedidhave a number, and even better, she was thinking about my offer.

I smiled like the predator I was, smelling the blood in the water. “I can give you more money than you can make in a lifetime, and all you have to do is walk away. Leave my family and me alone. Leave my businesses alone. You’ll live a long healthy life, maybe fall in love with a guy who can’t give you an orgasm to save his life, push out a few ankle biters, all while working for the FBI, being the best little agent you can be.”

Her gaze slammed into mine, her lips pulled into a straight white line that slowly curled into a smile. “Why do I have to marry a man who can’t give me an orgasm?”

Ah, the agent wanted to flirt, to play. I could indulge. Fucking her might be easier than paying her. “Because you, Agent Beck, are not a sexual being.”

“You don’t know that. You know nothing about me.” The pulse at the base of her neck kicked up and her pupils dilated.

“I know that a woman who hides those tits and a fit figure under those suits doesn’t want men looking at her and thinking, I’d like to put those sexy legs over my shoulders and make her scream my name.”

“Vulgar,” she replied, but she still smiled.

I leaned in close and whispered in her ear. “No, Addison, vulgar would be wondering out loud if your nipples were the color of strawberries or if they were darker, like raspberries. Vulgar would ask if you keep a little bush over your pussy or if you wax religiously. Vulgar would ask you if your panties are wet with the cream of your arousal or if one thick finger could pull an orgasm from you in under a minute.”

She gasped, and when she turned, our faces were no more than a few inches apart.

“You think very highly of yourself.”

---