Man Candy Read online

  “Yes, we’re fine!” Tiffany shrieks at him.

  He looks at me. I nod, so he leaves.

  “Fuck me, but I can’t stop laughing,” Tiffany says, pressing her hand to her stomach. “Best ab workout ever.”

  My purse buzzes. It’s a text from Nick: What is going on in there?

  Fun’s over.

  But hey, at least I made a new friend. Oh, and got rid of the chocolate nipple.

  I thank Tiffany profusely, and return to the party to find Nick at the center of a group of men, including Mr. Janssen. They’re all standing there, clearly enraptured as he speaks. He’s animated and charming, telling some sort of sailing tale in his Italian accent.

  I stand back and enjoy his performance. Not only is he Hottie McHotterson (or whatever the Italian equivalent of that is) in his tux, but he’s quite the showman. It doesn’t take long before I’m sucked in, holding my breath and waiting to hear how the story of that time he went overboard during an important race will end.

  He suddenly catches my eye and he stops mid-sentence. His face softens and his lips spread into a sexy grin that makes my lady parts take notice. Because it is directed right at me.

  “Cara.” He says the pet name in a way that nearly takes my breath away as he walks toward me and takes both of my hands in his. “There you are, my beautiful fiancée. I missed you.”

  He’s staring at me so intently. It’s unnerving. Also, heady. I nod, suddenly feeling like the only person in the room. This man knows how to charm a lady. Right out of her panties.

  God, is it hot in here, or what?

  “Cameron!” one of the men exclaims, his hand clapping onto Nick’s shoulder. “Finish the story! Don’t leave us hanging!”

  Nick has not taken his eyes off me. But he smirks and flicks his eyebrows up as he says, loudly. “I climbed back on the boat. We overtook the others and won the race. The end.”

  We are surrounded by guffaws as he puts his arm around my shoulders. “Come, darling, I want to show you the beautiful gardens.”

  He leads me to the giant French doors that open to the formal gardens—lit up and beautiful in the night. As we emerge onto the patio, we are met with the warm evening air, fragranced with honeysu— urk!

  “Come on!” The spell is broken as Nick whisper-yells. He yanks my hand and races down one of the side pathways

  “Nick!” I yelp. “Slow down! I’m wearing heels!”

  He slows—barely.

  “Where are we going?” I ask, breathlessly trying to keep up.

  “To do some investigating.”

  My pulse kicks. I’m both excited and terrified. “Lead the way.”

  Nick leads me around to the back of the house, and through a nondescript door. My heart goes from racing to racing and pounding as I look around the empty hallway. “Isn’t this the private wing?”

  “Exactly. And according to Jackson, the office is . . . this way,” he whispers, tugging my hand. A second later, we’re in front of a giant, very solid-looking wood-paneled door. He tries the handle. Locked.

  “Next room?” I say.

  Nick smirks at me. He lets go of my hand and reaches up to touch my hair. I hold my breath. What is happening?

  A second later, I feel a tendril of hair slide down my neck. He holds the stolen bobby pin in front of my face like a trophy, then sets to work picking the lock.

  Two breaths later, the door swings open.

  Is there anything this man can’t do?

  I have no time to think about it before he pulls me inside. It’s a large office. The room is dimly lit by the moonlight coming in through the tall windows. I squint. I’ve seen enough spy movies to know we can’t risk turning on the lights. But there is suddenly a narrow beam, thanks to Nick’s cell phone.

  He moves over to the desk. There are papers in neat piles around the edges and scattered over the blotter.

  “What are we looking for?” I whisper.

  “Anything that proves they stole Lainey’s recipes.”

  “That narrows it down.”

  He snorts. But keeps carefully looking at the papers.

  “I’ll check the drawers,” I offer, wanting to be helpful. A couple of them are locked, but I find one that’s full of office supplies and a couple of notebooks.

  Suddenly, voices come from outside.

  I freeze.

  Nick places a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Don’t panic,” he murmurs. “They’re probably just guests gone astray.”

  The voices get closer. Male voices.

  “Wasn’t the office supposed to be locked?” I hear someone say.

  My heart stops, but I don’t have time to freak out because suddenly Nick is shutting off his phone and grabbing me by with waist, yanking me around the side of the desk. “Just go with it.”

  “Just gowithwrghhhh?”

  I don’t get to finish the question, because two things happen all at once. The door swings open, and somebody walks in.

  And Nick bends me back over the desk and kisses me passionately.

  9

  Alice

  Nick’s lips brush against mine, soft at first, but then harder. Deeper, his tongue probing along the seam of my lips until I open and meet his mouth with mine.

  Hello, lover. Where have you been my whole life?

  He tastes like champagne and chocolate, like the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted. And never mind his mouth, because his hands . . .

  They grip my waist firmly, then slide down, lower, over the curve of my ass. I fall back against the desk, losing myself in the heat and wild, heart-pounding adrenaline. I want to tear his shirt open and feel every inch of that broad, muscular chest. I want to—

  The overhead light goes on. It’s so bright, it’s like one of those bat signal lights that reach space.

  Nick groans.

  “Do you mind?” he barks, kissing my neck this time.

  My eyes are squeezed closed. I know this is all for show, but fuck, it feels real to me right now. My arms are around his broad back. It’s my new happy place. I smile into his skin. He smells so good. Against my better judgment, I taste him right over where his pulse is thrumming. Just as I suspected: delicious. Forget chocolates, this man will be the death of me.

  My lips linger on his flesh.

  He stiffens. I mean, his hands on me stiffen.

  “Oh, sorry, sir,” the man says.

  Oh yeah, we’ve just been busted.

  I take a peek. They’re both wearing security uniforms. Nick turns with a sigh. “Can we have some privacy?”

  The guys don’t move. “Mr. Janssen has asked this room be closed to guests. It should have been locked.”

  “We’ll be out in five minutes,” Nick says, adding a bunch of Italian-sounding muttered curses. He is unapologetic. His tone says he will not accept anything less than full compliance from these men.

  And to my surprise, they agree. “Yes, sir.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  The light goes off. The door closes.

  And Nick releases me.

  “That was close,” he says, looking relieved—and totally unaffected by that hot-as-hell encounter we just had.

  I can’t help feeling a little rejected, but I pull myself together. “What now?”

  He blows out a loud breath and looks toward the window. “I could eat. Want to hit Chinatown?”

  What?

  I cross my arms. “Seriously?”

  “There’s not much more we can do here without getting caught.” Nick gives a casual shrug. “I made contact with Janssen and we’re going to play golf. Hopefully Jackson’s having luck listening in.”

  I guess it’s more than we came with. But: “So wait. You’re going to blow off a ten, no twenty-thousand-dollar meal to go to Chinatown?”

  He gives me that killer lopsided smile of his. “What can I say? I love dim sum.”

  Twenty minutes later, we’re sitting in a grubby little dim sum joint in San Francisco’s Chinatown. I’
m still in my gown, and Nick’s still in his tux—though his bow tie is untied and dangling on either side of his neck—but nobody gives us a second glance. It’s packed and noisy, and now that my panic has faded, I realize I’m hungry as hell.

  “ . . . And the shumai, and the pork, and the pot stickers . . .” I tell the waiter, practically drooling.

  Nick looks amused. “What?” I protest. “I’ve barely eaten since . . . the flight.”

  “Then we better make it two orders of the moo shu.”

  As we wait for our order, I take a gulp of iced jasmine tea. It’s cooling and exactly what I need to help me get myself together after everything that just happened back at the party.

  Day one, and already I’ve schmoozed with CEOs under a fake identity, mortally offended the boss’s wife, and—oh yeah—had a hot makeout session while trespassing.

  Just a normal day at the office, then.

  Nick lounges back in the booth and takes a gulp of beer. “So,” he starts, eyes twinkling. “Glad you came?”

  I didn’t, but if we’d kept going in that office, it was a distinct possibility.

  “Yes,” I reply, ignoring the blush as I think about how badly I wanted to violate that desk. “It’s going . . . well?”

  His left eyebrow rises.

  I laugh. “Okay, so not exactly good just yet. I’m still getting the hang of things. You did tell Olivia you wanted someone without field experience.” I make awkward jazz hands. “Voila!”

  Nick laughs. “I did. But tonight was fine. You managed to lure Veronique away when I needed. Getting him alone so I can build a relationship with him is the first step. An important one.”

  “Still.” I sigh, coming back down to earth now. “I didn’t actually do much.”

  Aside from put my foot in my mouth—and chocolate all over my boob.

  “You did what I needed you to do.” Nick smiles.

  “Right, stand still and look pretty,” I say, joking, but Nick nods.

  “Exactly,” he agrees, digging into the edamame. “If I showed up as a single guy, then I’ve got the distraction of women trying to get my attention. I need to stay focused on the job.”

  Arrogant, but true. He’s way too hot to be left alone in a sea of cougars and socialites. I didn’t spend much time in that ballroom, but I saw a lot of female heads turn when we entered it. And they sure weren’t looking at me.

  “But I want to help,” I remind him. “Not just be . . . whatever the female equivalent of a cock block is.”

  “You will.”

  Our food arrives, and I fall on it like a rabid animal. For a few moments, we eat in silence, which I love. Some guys want to keep up a conversation even through dinner. Because I really want to be making small-talk about my hometown while sneaking bites of food.

  But soon, I’m sated—for now, anyway—and I sit back with a satisfied sigh. “So, how did you get into this work?”

  Maybe Nick is too focused on the moo shu pork to keep up his “man of mystery” routine, because he swallows and wipes his mouth. “It’s in my blood, I guess. My dad and his brother had a PI agency when I was growing up. My other uncle is a forensic accountant. Grandmother worked for the CIA. Grandfather was military. Also intelligence.” He ticks it off with a grin.

  “Wow. So you were destined for it.”

  I pluck a couple more dumplings from their baskets and deposit them into my china bowl. No casualties. If only I had such good luck back at that chocolate fountain.

  “You look like you know what you’re doing,” Nick says, nodding toward my chopsticks.

  “Not my first time, cowboy.” I smile at him. “Not yours, either.” Because he handles his chopsticks like a pro.

  “I lived in Hong Kong for a while. Also, Beijing. Did some traveling around. Europe, too.”

  “And settled in San Francisco?” I ask, trying to be casual.

  Nick pauses, a dumpling held between his chopsticks halfway to his mouth. It slides out and falls onto the plastic tablecloth with a squishy plop.

  He chuckles as he picks it up again and tosses it into his mouth.

  “Settled?” he finally says after chewing. “Been here a while, but I wouldn’t say I’m settled.”

  “That condo looks pretty settled,” I say, making a wild guess.

  “It’s a lease. Came furnished.”

  Bingo. He didn’t just move in for the job, on Lainey’s dime—he’s been living there a while. Which means . . .

  Nick Cameron is loaded.

  Not that it matters. I’ve seen enough billionaires to know money doesn’t buy you happiness. Or a soul. Just really great Bay views.

  “So, where did you learn your lock-picking technique?” I ask, changing the subject. For some reason, Nick’s guard is down tonight, and there’s no way I’m going to let this chance pass me by.

  He gives me a sheepish grin. “My uncle. He was in charge of all the . . . let’s just say . . . legally questionable things at our agency. He taught me how to pick locks, hot-wire cars, that sort of thing. Some cons, too. Even close-up magic—it’s all based on the same principles.” He pauses. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this stuff.”

  I wiggle my ring finger at him. “We’re engaged, remember? You have to tell me everything.”

  “Right.” He grins. “Honeybun.”

  “So, you’re a highly trained operative,” I say, teasing. “Is there anything you can’t do?”

  I mean it as a joke, so I’m surprised when his smile falters a little. He looks away and shoves another dumpling into his mouth.

  Huh.

  Something’s going on there. But his face is an even smile again. Closed for business. My instincts tell me he’s already told me more about himself than he meant to.

  You really are a mystery, Nicholas Cameron, I think as I reach for another dumpling.

  But one I’m determined to solve.

  By the time we finish at the restaurant, it’s not super late. Except I’m still on New York time. And I’ve been awake for approximately a zillion hours. So it feels super late.

  I nearly fall asleep on Nick in the car, but force myself to stay awake. Barely.

  “I need to sleep,” I mutter as the elevators door open into the condo. I kick off my shoes and shuffle down the hall like a zombie.

  In record time, I wash my face, take down my hair, and change into my pjs. I’m about to crawl into bed when I realize I left my clutch purse by the elevator. With my phone in it.

  Leave it, I tell myself.

  But I can’t. I need to set an alarm, because Lord knows I’ll sleep until noon at this rate. With a sigh, I slide my feet into my bunny slippers and head down the hall.

  The TV is on in the living room, and when I arrive, I find that Nick has changed into a faded T-shirt and sweatpants, and is watching a movie, something dark and actiony. He looks different like this—comfortable and very much at home. Cozy.

  Husbandy.

  Fake husbandy, I correct myself.

  He looks up, curious. “You need anything?”

  “Just grabbing my phone.” I do so, and grab a bottle of water from the fridge, too, then drift over, watching the action on screen.

  Without a word, Nick pats the couch beside him.

  I almost join him. I have a sudden vision of snuggling into him on that comfy couch as we watch whatever. It could be a documentary on pouring concrete sidewalks, for all I would care. He would smell amazing. He’d probably even put his arm around me . . .

  Then, one of two things would happen: I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands and lips to myself. Or I would fall asleep and drool all over him.

  Neither scenario is a good idea.

  “Too tired,” I say. “See you tomorrow.”

  And then, with superhuman self-control, I go to bed.

  Alone.

  10

  Alice

  It turns out that Janssen’s luxurious helicopter ride down the coast is boys-only, and so is all the other schmoozing
that Nick does, which means I spend the next few days rattling around on my own. While the building has a nice pool and gym, I soon get bored of staying put—waiting for Nick to call and tell me he needs me by his side ASAP—so I head out into the city, hitting all the big tourist spots, and discovering the best sights in town.

  OK, the best food in town.

  Today, I was hoping Nick might need me for some assignment, but I wake to find another note on the counter.

  Take the day off, have fun!

  I crumple it up and sigh. Bond never has to sit around and wait. He’s always out doing things, catching bad guys. His only downtime is when he’s in bed—never alone.

  Not like I have that option, either.

  “Hey, Gems.” I call my sister, wandering over to the windows. “What are you doing today?”

  She groans. “I’m sorry, I know we were going to get together, but I’m working overtime with a new client. The other stylist is out sick,” she explains, sounding harried. “So I’ve inherited all her work, too.”

  “That’s OK,” I tell her. “You need to hustle while you can.”

  “Tell me about it. But why don’t you come over tomorrow? Oh, shoot,” she corrects herself. “It’s Chick Flick Club night with the girls.”

  “It’s what now?” I ask.

  Gemma laughs. “Chick Flick Club. It’s a tradition, we meet every month to drink wine and watch cheesy rom-coms. You should come!”

  “I don’t want to intrude . . .”

  “Are you kidding? My friends would all love to meet you. Full disclosure: Zoey needs accounting advice for her food truck, but that just means you can expense all that expensive wine you’ll bring. Being older, and with stable employment . . .” she teases.

  I laugh. “Hint taken. And I’d love to come.”

  “Fab, see you then!”

  I hang up. That’s my plan tomorrow, at least, but as for right now . . .

  Not that I haven’t done anything useful since I arrived. I am a master researcher, after all. I built expanded dossiers on the CandyShack execs. Also on some of the partners who stand to profit from the company’s growth. From their Brazilian cacao suppliers, to local distributors, franchisees, to the company that manufactures the foil wrappers. I turned a lot of stones.