Bartholomew: A Forbidden Dark Romance

2

Not truly, anyway.” I closed the folder. “I’ll stop by. See what I find.”

I sat in my car across the street.

Her small office was wedged between a clothing store and a café. Through the front window, I could see men's and women’s shoes on display, along with handbags and wallets. There was clothing too. Jackets, because it was still a little chilly outside, but also some lighter stuff because of the approaching warm months.

I sat there for two hours, and from what I could tell, no one kept tabs on her.

She was entirely on her own.

I crossed the street and looked through the glass before I walked inside.

She stood at the counter, the phone pressed to her ear while she scribbled notes on a notepad. She was in a sweater that only covered one shoulder, and her hair was in loose curls over her exposed skin. When I stepped inside, a quiet bell rang overhead, and she continued to talk like she didn’t realize I was there.

“Got it.” She continued her notes. “Cynthia. Cynthia, just listen to me, alright?” she said with a note of humor in her voice. “How long have you been coming to me? A long time, right? Because you know I know what I’m doing. I know how to make a man beg. And trust me, that piece-of-s**t ex-husband of yours is going to swallow his tongue when he sees you. Come in next Tuesday, and I’ll show you what I got. Bye, girl.” She hung up the phone, finished her notes, and then looked up at me.

Her vibrant mood faded once her eyes settled on me. She was like a deer caught in the headlights, unsure what to do at the sight of me. Something about my appearance clearly unnerved her. I was in my leather jacket and boots, so I didn’t exactly belong there with her designer dresses and purses.

She came around the counter and approached me, sizing me up like she was taking my measurements in her head. “Let me guess. Your wife threw you out, and this is all you have.” She wore light-colored jeans and pumps, smelling like a rose garden. She looked me up and down, her arms crossed over her chest.

“I’m not married.”

“Anymore, or…?”

Her eyes were like magnets. I couldn’t stop staring at them. They had a smoky look to them, her lashes thick and dark, perfectly complementing the natural color of her eyes. There was more to it than that, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. “Never been married.”

“So…what’s with the outfit?”

I walked into a lot of serious situations, but I’d never been thrown off my game like this. My eyebrows dropped over my eyes. I could feel just how confused I looked. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Well, it’s broad daylight, and you look like you’re about to head to the club. That’s why I asked if you were married. Maybe you were out late last night and came home to all your stuff burned in the fireplace. Not the first time it’s happened…” She looked me up and down again, her arms still squeezing her narrow waist. “I get that sort of thing a lot. No one appreciates a woman more than a newly divorced man who realizes how much she did for him only when she’s gone. Doesn’t even know how to pick out his own clothes.”

It was hard not to stare at her face. Those eyes. That confidence. The front of her sweater was slightly tucked into her jeans so I could see her hips. Womanly hips. No one had ever spoken to me like this, but I imagined if she knew who I was, she would still speak to me like this.

I was f*****g intrigued.

“Let me take your measurements. We’ll go from there.” She turned around and headed to the counter to get her measuring tape.

Maybe it was just the jeans, but this woman had an ass I’d never forget.

She returned to me and started with my arm, measuring the length from my shoulder to wrist. Then she checked the thickness by wrapping the tape around my biceps. She checked my shoulders, my back, the length of my torso.

Then she moved to her knees.

Right in front of me.

She wrapped the tape around one of my thighs.

I stared down at her, imagining her tugging down my jeans as fast as she could so she could eat my d**k.

She measured my inseam. My outseam. My jeans were suddenly a little snugger. I was sure she noticed—and I hoped she did.

And then she was back on her feet again. “What line of work are you in?” Her hair fell back slightly when she straightened. Her shoulders were poised, her stomach tight, her spine straight.

I got lost in her features as I tried to think of an answer. Well, an appropriate one, at least. I was a straightforward guy, telling people the truth with blunt trauma. “Pharmaceutical sales.”

“So, you’ll need a couple dress shirts and slacks for work, and then some casual outfits. You know, so you don’t look like the Terminator.” Her lips tugged up in a smile, and her eyes brightened just a bit.

I think she was teasing me.

She returned to her place behind the calendar and made some notes. “I think I can have everything to you within a week. I offer free delivery, so I can drop it off at your place.” She looked at me, her eyes expectant.

Let the enemy see where I live? Sure, why not? “That would be convenient.”

She grabbed a pen and wrote down my address. “Thank you for your business. I have all clothing tailored to your specifications, so you’re going to love everything I pick out for you.”

I’d throw that s**t in the closet and never look at it again. “Your name?”

“Laura. Yours?”

“Bartholomew.”

“Wow, that is a very unusual name.”

“I’ll see you next week, Laura.” I walked out of the shop and onto the sidewalk, my movements slightly hindered by the enormous rod in my pants.

A week had come and gone, and I sat on the couch in my living room in just my sweatpants, waiting for my guest to arrive with the stupid clothes I would never wear. I’d never worn slacks in my life. Even at black-tie events, I wore whatever the f**k I wanted. And if I ever touched a collared shirt, it was because I was strangling someone with it.

One of my men entered the room. “She’s arrived, sir.”

I gave him a nod in dismissal. The news was on the TV. Tonight’s story was about a shooting that took place in a bad neighborhood. Cocaine was sprinkled in the street, like bullets had pierced the bricks. Police were on the scene, they would book everything into evidence, but of course, it would never lead anywhere. There were no witnesses either—because I killed all of them. Imbeciles thought they could sell my product at a higher price and start their own business.

Bitch, please.

I turned off the TV.

Heels echoed from the other side of the floor, so I knew Laura and my butler had stepped off the elevator.

A moment later, they emerged, Laura carrying several outfits on hangers with a protective covering. “Special delivery.” Her voice was as perky as those t**s.

I rose to my feet and approached her, studying her reaction to my bare chest.

Her eyes remained focused on me, as if in defiance.

A stretch of silence passed between us.

I finally took the clothes out of her hands. “Thank you.”

My butler immediately took them and carried them to my bedroom.

“How much do I owe you?”

“You don’t want to try them on first?”

Why? I was just going to drop them off at a donation center. “I trust you.” I grabbed the checkbook off the table, wrote down the total with a generous tip, and handed it to her.

She didn’t check the amount before she pocketed it. “Thank you, Bartholomew.”

I liked the way she said my name, pronouncing every syllable like she was trying to memorize it and get it right.

I could help her with that in my bedroom right now.

“You know where to find me.”

She stared.

I stared.

I wasn’t sure what I expected to happen. I wanted her in my bedroom, her luscious thighs squeezing my hips, her ankles locked right at the top of my ass, her nails buried deep in my back as she said my name over and over again…

But I didn’t know how to make that happen.

She wasn’t a w***e, so I couldn’t pay her.

And she was my enemy, so that was a bit complicated.

Bleu appeared from another room. “Bartholomew.” He didn’t say anything more in front of Laura and walked away.

She glanced at him then turned back to me. “Good night.” She turned around and returned the way she came, her nectarine ass snug in her jeans, especially with those pumps.

I stared down the hallway until I heard the light hum of the elevator.

She was gone.

I stepped into the parlor where Bleu waited for me. “Rick just called. They’ve got a situation over at the docks.”

“What kind of situation?” I asked calmly, still thinking about p***y.

“The cops are patrolling the dock, and we have a delivery tonight.”

I released a sigh. “The cops don’t usually interfere unless we make it public.”

“I guess they have a new chief. Really strict on crime, especially drugs. Apparently, his son died from an overdose.”

I rolled my eyes. “Only idiots die from overdoses, and if he doesn’t want to join his son, he better back off. I don’t like to kill cops, but I’ll slaughter each and every one of them if they make me.”

“I know.”

I paced the parlor, thinking about work and not about p***y. “Tell Rick to change ports. We’ll work out the rest.”

“Got it,” Bleu said. “And what about the girl? Now would be a good time to grab her.”

She’d walked right into my lair without protection. Didn’t even have to snatch her off the street or sneak into her apartment and drug her. I could keep her as a prisoner until I was ready to use her.

But I didn’t do any of those things.

“Let her go,” I said. “I want to have some fun with her first.”