Page 2 of Like a Hurricane

“I can have it completed in a week.” I tell him.

“A week!?” He chokes, “Why so long?”

“Because Mr. Lauder, I need to understand their patterns and movements, need to ensure a clean and thorough job or you’ll end up exactly where you are now, dwindling profits and clientele.”

He huffs, “Fine, but no later. I want that bastard and his son gone. They’ve taken enough of my business.”

“And I’ll make that happen.” I assure him, pulling the card from my pocket, “Pay the advance into this account, I assume I don’t have to tell you to keep it dark.”

He nods and picks up the phone, dialing someone who answers on the first ring. It’s as he is speaking with whoever it is, that I hear the very feminine clip of heels on tile. The rhythmic sound has my head turning slightly so I can look over my shoulder.

And when she fills the door frame, her long cobalt blue dress clinging to every curve and dip of her body, glossy black hair pulled across one shoulder and a pair of sunglasses covering her eyes, I lose my breath.

Because the woman that just entered, has sucked every ounce of air from my lungs and stolen the oxygen right out of me.

I feel it when her eyes, still hidden behind the glasses despite the weather outside, land on me and her lush plump mouth curls up on one side in a sultry little smirk.

“Dad,” She turns her focus to the man behind the desk once he’s finished on the phone, “I need to speak with you for a moment.”

My phone pings with a familiar sound – money being deposited into my account – and I stand, turning to face the woman head on.

Breathtaking – that’s the only way I could describe the woman. Utterly devastating. Like a hurricane wreaking havoc on a poor small town.

“He’s all yours,” I tell her as I turn my focus back to her father, “I’ll be in touch.”

Chapter One

“Asalad for my date,” the man across from me orders, folding the menu as if he has any right to choose what I eat.

“I think the fuck not,” I hiss, snatching the menu he has refused to let me look at since I sat down at the table. I scan the items, “I’ll have the twelve-ounce ribeye,” I tell our server, “Medium rare.”

I feel the eyes of mydateglaring into me from across the table. I don’t even know why I bother dating sometimes, they always end one bad way or the other. This one just happens to be ending right before it can begin. I’ll be the bad guy I always am, and rumors will circulate, like they always do.

“Listen carefully now, James,” I address him when the server has scurried away and not in earshot to listen to me dress down the dumb fuck in front of me, “Do not ever, and I say that literally,ever, believe you have the right to order food for a woman. Do not think you have any opinion on what she puts in her mouth or body, and do not believe I will sit here and let you control how this evening goes.”

Red blotches his cheeks as his eyes widen, but I don’t let him spew whatever sentence is on the tip of his tongue as I continue.

“I am a grown ass fucking woman,” I growl at him, “I can eat and drink and do whatever the hell I want to. I am a prize. You… You’re nothing more than entertainment for me, I was very bored when I accepted this date and I realize now, I would have been better off with a tub of ice cream and an episode ofSons of Anarchy. At least Jax never lets me down.”

I sip my white wine and lean back in my seat, watching the mix of emotion wash across his face. First, it’s confusion…How could this happen to me? Me!? I’m rich and drive a Benz, I have a pool house!Then it’s anger…Fucking bitch, I hope she chokes on an olive.

And finally, we have –let me placate the girl so I can still get her on her back, and tell my buddies I railed the ice bitch from the Lauder Hotel.

“Arryn, sweetheart,” He starts, “I just assumed you were a salad girl. I won’t make that same mistake next time.”

I scoff, “Next time? There isn’t going to be a next time. In fact, there isn’t even athistime. I checked out of this date five minutes ago, I’m just here for the steak, girls got to eat after all.”

“You’re a bitch,” He sneers, screwing up his napkin and throwing it down onto the table, “Pay for your own food!”

“I was going to,” I stare down at my manicured fingers, buffing them to a shine on the breast of my silk dress I’d chosen for this evening, “After all, I do earn more than you.”

His face turns a shade of red to match the color of the sports car I crashed last month, “Fuck you!”

“Ta-ta now, Jack.”

“My name is James.”

“Close enough.” I shrug.

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