Bad Intentions Page 2

  “I promise,” she said, giving his arm a squeeze. “Thank you again for arranging this for me. And thank the club owner, too. The service has been amazing.”

  He nodded and then smiled at something over her head. “Actually, you can thank him yourself. He’s coming over.”

  She turned and it felt as though the entire world dropped into slow motion. The man who was approaching looked as though he’d just stepped out of the pages of GQ with his perfectly styled, thick, dark hair, meticulously groomed stubble and light blue button down tucked into a pair of navy pants. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, showing off a swath of tanned skin over taut, flexing muscle. An enormous, expensive-looking watch adorned his wrist.

  But it was his face that had her pinned in place, her heart throbbing relentlessly. Deep brown eyes, cheekbones and a jawline most models would kill for, full lips that looked designed for sin.

  He was, hands down, the hottest guy she’d ever laid eyes on. Ever. As he got closer, she could see subtle lines fanning out around his eyes, making him a bit older than she’d originally thought, but it only added to his appeal. He moved with confidence, with this assured, masculine grace that she wanted to watch on repeat.

  His gaze moved from her father to her and the expression on his face changed, morphing from polite interest to wolfish hunger, his eyes seeming to darken, his nostrils flaring slightly. He rubbed a hand over his mouth, his heated gaze eating her up in a way that had her stomach dipping and swirling as though she were on the world’s sexiest roller coaster.

  Her father held out his hand and shook with Mr. Sexiest Man on the Planet, and then laid a hand on the small of her back.

  “This is my daughter, Olivia,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the Jason Derulo song pumping through the speakers. “The birthday girl,” he added, and she blushed.

  The man held out his hand and she took it, her entire arm vibrating with an electrical pulse as her palm slid against his.

  “Lucian Prescott,” he said, his voice deliciously deep and with a hint of a growl to it. “Welcome to the Canopy Club.”

  “Nice to meet you,” she managed, her entire body alive with awareness. “And thank you. We’re having a really good time.”

  He tipped his head as he slipped his hands into his pockets, flashing her a grin that had heat flushing through her body. “Happy birthday. Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be around.”

  “Good. I mean,” she licked her lips, shaking her head. “Thank you. I’ll let you know.”

  “Make sure she gets home safely,” said her father, slapping Lucian on the shoulder.

  “Of course.” His gaze roved over her, skimming over her face, her cleavage, her legs and then lingering on her lips. “I’ll keep an eye on her.”

  Her father nodded and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Have fun, princess. I’ll see you for lunch tomorrow, okay?”

  She nodded, leaning into the kiss. “Thanks again, Dad. This is really awesome.”

  He grinned at her, and she turned back to talk to Lucian, but he’d already retreated, his broad shoulders moving through the club toward the bar.

  Screw Tyler. She knew who she wanted to go home with tonight, and it wasn’t some scrawny twenty-one-year-old kid. She’d been looking for a man, and good Lord, had she found one.

  It was well after two in the morning, and the party was starting to wind down. Apparently even college kids got tired eventually, although Lucian was having a hard time remembering what it felt like to be that young. Normally he didn’t book out his venues for private parties, but Gavin Walsh was his company’s newest investor and had given them a massive influx of cash that would allow them to expand and grow, and he hadn’t thought it prudent to turn down the man’s request for a favor.

  And the favor itself had felt completely harmless until he’d laid eyes on her. Olivia Walsh.

  Twenty-one-year-old Olivia Walsh, he reminded himself as he sat down at the bar, finally allowing himself a drink now that the night was almost over. Not only was she the daughter of his newest investor, but she was eighteen fucking years younger than him. But that knowledge hadn’t been enough to stop him from watching her all night. He’d watched her laugh with her friends, her head thrown back, exposing the long, elegant column of her neck. He’d watched her dance, her outrageously sexy body moving in time to the music, breasts bouncing, hips swaying.

  He couldn’t remember the last time watching a woman dance had made him hard as fucking steel, like some sex starved teenager.

  He’d also watched several young men try to flirt with her, and she hadn’t seemed even remotely interested in any of them. Instead, her big eyes had kept searching him out, lingering on him.

  Interesting.

  No, it’s not, he chastised himself, taking a small sip of his whiskey.

  A luscious, red-velvet clad body slid onto the barstool beside him, his eyes roving over shapely, slender legs before he dragged them up her body to her face. Enormous brown eyes fanned with thick lashes, pert little nose, wide mouth that he’d watched spread into a gorgeous smile over and over again tonight.

  She swung around to face him, her foot grazing against his shin. Twirling a strand of thick, glossy brown hair between her fingers, she shot him a coy smile. “Buy the birthday girl a drink?”

  He stared at that strand of hair between her fingers, imagining the silky strands wrapped around his fist as he…

  He cleared his throat and shook his head. Fuck, if she were ten years older, he would’ve taken her home over an hour ago.

  But she wasn’t. She was twenty fucking one. Sexy as hell, but twenty fucking one.

  She leaned a bit closer, her dress falling away from her chest and giving him a mouthwatering view of the soft, rounded tops of her breasts. “I don’t bite,” she said, then laughed softly. “I mean, unless that’s what you’re into.”

  Oh, fuck. She was hitting on him, and he was only human. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

  He squinted, studying her, weighing his options. She seemed nice and buzzed but not falling down drunk. Maybe if he agreed to a drink, talked to her a little, this burning spark would fizzle out and that would be that.

  He tipped his head. “One drink, then,” he said, leaving her flirty remark deliberately untouched. Even as he imagined her sinking her teeth into his shoulder as he…

  She’s twenty fucking one and Gavin Walsh’s daughter. Fucking stop. Now.

  He signaled to the bartender, who quickly mixed up the whiskey sour she ordered.

  She took a sip and then bit her lip, her gaze darting around the club. “Thank you again for hosting us tonight. You have a really nice place.” She stirred her drink, licking her lips, drawing his attention to her mouth and all the things he’d like to do with it.

  “You’re welcome. Happy birthday,” he said, gently clinking his glass against hers. He leaned an elbow on the bar, facing her. “I hope you had a good time.”

  She smiled, warmth pulsing through him. “I definitely did. I couldn’t have asked for a better birthday.”

  He took a sip of his drink. “So you got everything you wanted, then.”

  Suddenly, her hand was on his thigh, his skin tightening at the unexpected contact. “Well, maybe not everything.”

  He chuckled and very gently removed her hand, placing it back on the bar. “I’m flattered, but I’m too old for you, sweetheart. Find a guy your age to go home with.” Even as he said the words, they tasted acrid in his mouth.

  The corner of her mouth quirked up. “Not a huge fan of guys my age, actually.”

  He took a healthy swallow of his drink and steered the conversation back into neutral waters. “Your father says you’re an art history major at Columbia.”

  She held his eyes for a moment and then nodded. “I’m headed into my senior year and then I’m planning to go to Pratt for interior design.”

  His eyebrows rose, his intrigue growing. Not only was she gorgeous, but she was smart and ambitious, app
arently. “Pratt’s no joke,” he said. “Why interior design?”

  Her face lit up, and it was like watching the sun rise after a long, dark night. “Because I think everyone deserves to have a comfortable, welcoming home that reflects who they are. We spend so much time in our homes, and my goal is to make those spaces as beautiful as possible while still being useful and comfortable. If you don’t feel comfortable and at ease at home, that’s hard.” She licked her lips and then sighed. “My…my mom was an interior designer. She died when I was really little, and…I don’t know. Having the same career ambitions as her—and they are mine, I’m not doing this out of some kind of misplaced grief—it makes me feel a little closer to her.” Her eyes were unfocused, distant. He felt a tug in his chest, an echo of the pain she must’ve experienced growing up without a mother. She shook her head, tearing herself out of whatever memory had consumed her just now. “Sorry. TMI. That’s a lot more answer than you bargained for.”

  “It’s okay. I obviously never knew her, but I’m sure she’d be proud of you.”

  She bit her lip and nodded. “I hope so.” She took a sip of her drink and then swung that bottomless gaze back to him. “So you own a bunch of restaurants and clubs? That’s your thing?”

  He nodded. “Prescott Group is a hospitality company, so we own and run restaurants, bars, nightclubs. We’re expanding into other cities, mostly thanks to your father’s investment.”

  “You must be doing well if he invested. He’s a lot more risk averse with his investments than he was even five years ago.”

  Lucian blinked slowly, once again blown away by her seemingly off-hand comment. “We’ve been pretty successful, yes. I started out with a single restaurant that I opened when I was twenty, and it grew from there.”

  Her eyes widened. “You opened a restaurant at twenty? That’s impressive. Even more so that it was successful, given how ruthless the restaurant industry is.”

  He grinned. “I’m good at what I do.”

  “Are you married?” she asked suddenly, shifting on her stool.

  He shook his head slowly. “No. I’m not married.”

  “Girlfriend?”

  “Olivia—” he started, knowing he had to nip this in the bud.

  “Boyfriend?” she asked, undeterred.

  “No. I’m straight and I’m single.”

  The light in her eyes shifted, heat blossoming as her eyes took a slow walk up and down his body. Then, she slid off the stool and stepped directly in front of him, practically standing between his legs. He clenched his jaw, fighting back the urge to slip his hands around her waist. She slid her hands up his arms and around his neck, making his dick throb.

  “Well, in that case…” she leaned in closer, so close that he could smell the warm vanilla scent wafting off her skin. “I think you’re really sexy.”

  He shook his head slowly, pretty sure he was on the verge of cracking a molar. “I’m too old for you.”

  “How old are you?” She shifted a little closer and he lost the battle he’d been fighting, his hands landing on her hips. She swayed into him slightly, making his blood roar through his veins.

  “How old do you think I am?” he asked. He lifted one of his hands from her hips and wrapped a lock of her soft hair around his finger.

  “Thirty-five?”

  He shook his head. “Thirty-nine. I’ll be forty in January.”

  She shrugged. “That doesn’t bother me. Besides, isn’t it up to me to decide if you’re too old for me?”

  “Mmm,” he said, toying with the lock of her hair. His cock strained against his zipper, his blood scorching. It felt as though all of the oxygen were being sucked out of the room as he fought against himself. “Then you’re too young for me.”

  “Don’t pretend you don’t want me,” she said, leaning closer and bringing her lips to his ear. “Don’t pretend you’re not hard just thinking about me in your bed.”

  God, she was undoing him, and that was a dangerous thing, for so many reasons. Decision made, he stood and took her hand in his.

  “I have an Uber waiting outside,” he said, leading her through the club, not letting himself think about how good her small hand felt in his. “You’ve got your purse? Keys, phone?” She nodded and then followed him, letting him lead her to the club’s front doors and out into the warm summer night. The Uber he’d called earlier for her was waiting by the curb, idling.

  He opened the rear passenger door, holding it open for her. But instead of sliding in after her, he shut the door, then leaned into the open front window.

  “Take her home. Goodnight, Olivia.”

  He turned around and headed back into the club, glancing over his shoulder to watch the car merge into traffic. Away from him and all of the depraved thoughts screaming through his mind.

  2

  Present Day

  Lucian pulled his sleek, black Aston Martin into his reserved spot in the parking garage on West 31st Street and cut the engine. It was a steamy July morning, and with the car turned off, he immediately missed the cool air filtering through the vents. Gathering his laptop bag from the passenger seat, he opened the door and stepped out into the muggy air. There was nothing quite like Manhattan in summer. The entire city seemed to shimmer with heat, all the pavement and concrete absorbing it and bouncing it off the steel and glass, amplifying it until it felt as though the entire island were under a magnifying glass. The trees in the parks were a bright, vibrant emerald green, lush with the fullness of summer. The sun rose early and set late, stretching the days out into long, meandering things that melted into hot nights. Summer was Lucian’s favorite, and not just because he basked in the heat, but because it was the most profitable time of year for the company he’d built from the ground up, Prescott Hospitality Group.

  He slung his laptop bag over his shoulder, eyes skimming the quiet parking garage before setting out to make his way around the block to Penn Plaza, where his company’s offices were located. Twenty years ago, he’d started out with a single restaurant, Downtown, and had gradually expanded, adding restaurants and nightclubs across Manhattan. Today, Prescott Group owned seven nightclubs and ten restaurants in NYC, along with a restaurant and a nightclub in Chicago, and three restaurants and a nightclub in Los Angeles. The expansion into Las Vegas was almost complete, with two restaurants and three nightclubs all set to open within the next eighteen months. Over the past two decades, he’d built a successful business worth nearly $300 million dollars, and he’d done it with sweat and hard work—mostly. He’d started from almost nothing, seeing as he hadn’t been gifted a hefty trust fund like the rest of his siblings—not that they knew that. They assumed he’d been given what they had, and he’d never disabused them of that notion. He’d been a success on his own, without his so-called father’s money. Granted, some luck had been involved, not to mention the event twenty-five years ago that had set everything in motion. He’d been on a very different path then, and in the course of one night, everything had changed.

  Sometimes he wondered what would’ve become of his life had he not been in the right place at the right time. He didn’t believe in fate or destiny or any of that shit. Life was what you made of it. But still, he wondered—what would he have made of it if he hadn’t saved the lives of the heads of the Italian and Irish mafia and prevented a mob war from consuming Manhattan? If one pull of the trigger hadn’t set him on a totally different course?

  He stepped inside the busy lobby of Penn Plaza and took the elevator up to the thirty-seventh floor, where the company was headquartered. They’d opened a satellite office in Los Angeles last year and would likely follow suit with one in Las Vegas once the new venues were up and running. But he had no plans to leave the city. Manhattan was home. It always would be.

  “Your messages, sir.” His executive assistant, Chloe, stood from behind her desk just outside the door to Lucian’s office, handing him a neat stack of papers. Chloe had been with the company for five years now, and while she’d ca
sually expressed interest in Lucian, he hadn’t returned that interest. It didn’t matter that she was young and pretty and available. He didn’t get involved with employees, and his thoughts were fully occupied with someone else. Someone he couldn’t have.

  “Thank you,” he said, taking them and sifting through them absently, already prioritizing them. Returning any calls would have to wait, though. It was Monday morning, and every Monday, he met with his inner circle to discuss the week ahead. It was a crucial meeting, for more reasons than one, and he never missed it. “Anything else?” he asked when Chloe didn’t immediately sit down.

  She nodded. “Gavin Walsh phoned just a few minutes ago wondering if you’d have some time for him this morning. He said he has a favor to ask you and wanted to come speak to you. I told him I’d have to check your schedule and get back to him.” She glanced at her computer screen. “You do have some time between your regular Monday morning appointment and the update meeting with the architects working on the Vegas project.”

  Favors. His entire world hinged on favors, and while sometimes it was a beautiful thing, it could also be tedious. He felt as though entirely too much of his brain was taken up with a ledger of sorts—who he owed, who owed him, what the balance was and how it might be shifting.

  He sighed and nodded. “Fine. Tell him to meet me here at 10:30.”

  She nodded. “Will do.”

  His mind buzzing with everything on the agenda for the day, he set his things down on his desk and then proceeded down the hall to the corner conference room. The room was small but offered a spectacular view of the city rising up around them, sunshine pouring in through the lightly tinted windows. A rectangular white table sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by eight gray leather chairs, four of which were already occupied by the men who helped him run both his company and his more dangerous dealings. They were his brothers in arms, and Lucian trusted them with his life. He’d once saved each of them, had given them shelter and protection, a new life and a fresh start when they’d needed it most, and they paid him back with loyalty and dedication.