The Player's Club: Lincoln Read Online Free PDF Page B

to the bathroom. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Clothes first, or makeup? Makeup. She quickly dusted her face with some powder, fluffed peach blush over her cheeks and lids, slicked on the world’s quickest coat of lip gloss. She was just stripping out of her sweats when she heard his low, insistent knock on the door.
    “Coming!” she called, cursing under her breath. She tore the tank over her head and grabbed the first handy garment she could find—a simple, slinky dress that was too simple to be dressy, but still a little too seductive to be casual. Feeling like an idiot, she forced herself to smile. She glanced through the peephole, and saw his tall, imposing figure through the tiny glass. Was it a distortion of the lens, she thought, or were his shoulders really that broad?
    She opened the door. “What a surprise,” she murmured, gesturing him in. “You wanted to talk about the club?”
    He nodded. “It should only take a few minutes.”
    “Fine. Can I get you a glass of wine?”
    “No, thank you.” Instead of sitting on the proffered couch, he walked to the windows. “Nice view.”
    “I like it.” She felt nervous…and impatient. “So. What brings you to my doorstep at this hour, Lincoln?”
    He turned to look at her.
    “I want to know what you really want with the Player’s Club, Juliana,” he said softly. “And I’m not leaving until I’m satisfied.”
     
     
    HE’D TAKEN HER BY SURPRISE, which was the point. Lincoln sat on her couch, trying to remain focused. Still, he couldn’t help but stare at her, wearing a silky, skimpy little plum-colored dress. It looked too dressy to be a nightgown, too seductive to be worn outside the house.
    Did she have company? He felt his body tense angrily at the thought, then scolded himself. Why the hell do you care? It’s none of your business.
    She was rebounding. It was one of the things he had to admire about her—she was quick on her feet. Her smile was minxlike and quick.
    “Trust me, most of the men leaving my condo are satisfied,” she said, and she strode barefoot across the room, her burnt-honey waves tumbling around her bare shoulders, her silky dress whispering against her skin. He wanted to reach out, tug her down next to him on the couch. Pull her taut against him and just taste her. Just take her.
    He shook his head. “I’m serious, Juliana.”
    “I’m usually serious about satisfaction,” she shot back mischievously, sitting at an office chair and shutting the laptop. He frowned as he got a glance at the screen before she closed it.
    “Looking me up on Google?”
    “What?” she asked, trying for innocence, then shrugged.
    “Don’t lie to me, Juliana,” he warned in a quiet voice.
    She sighed, her expression of innocence blurring into one of gentle irritation. She got up, crossed her arms. “I was trying to find out who the hell you are, and what your problem is.” She tilted her head, violet eyes surveying him with frustration. “Apparently, you’re a frickin’ ghost.”
    He smiled grimly, even as the thought of her researching him had his throat clenching. He kept his face passive, keeping the instinctive worry at bay. “I just like my privacy.”
    “Unlike me, you mean.”
    He’d heard plenty of men use the cliché “You’re beautiful when you’re angry,” on television or in movies. This was the first time it actually made sense to him. Her face was faintly flushed, dusting rose on the burnished gold of her skin; her eyes gleamed like amethysts in firelight, and her pupils dilated like a woman in the throes of sex. Her breasts heaved gently as her breathing quickened.
    His body tightened uncomfortably as he wondered how difficult it would be to shift her energies from one form of passion to another.
    “I wasn’t taking a shot at you,” he said, trying desperately to keep the thread of the conversation. “But since you mention it, I will point out that a woman routinely followed by the paparazzi is not a