Driven By Fate, Page 3

  “Frankie.”

  “—hmm. You drive around and pick up strangers in the city. Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?” He pressed two fingers to his temple. “Who allowed this?”

  She backed up a step. “All right, man. I’m seriously starting to think you flew here in a time machine from, like, Downton Abbey times or something. I have to go.”

  Time to cut the shit. This situation tonight had been unexpected, but at one time he’d thrived on the unexpected. Thrived on chaos. Time to get his head together and figure out just what he wanted from this encounter. Her. Yes, he wanted her. Furthermore, he had a way to accomplish that end. All it required was him pulling his head out of his ass. Objective number one? Convince her to go home safely and not pick up possible serial killers off the street in that yellow contraption. Two? Find a way to see her again so he could figure out why she seemed to…matter.

  She jiggled her car keys. “The offer of a ride is about to expire.”

  “I don’t need a ride,” Porter snapped, before taking a centering breath. “I do, however, have a proposition for you.” He expected another quip about his choice of language. Instead, her mouth parted, cheeks coloring. Her gaze dropped to his still-swollen cock, a hand rising to tuck a stray hair behind her ear. Such an endearing gesture, totally at odds with her confidence, making his fascination with her grow. “Come work for me.”

  Her head came up. “What?”

  “How much do you make driving this cab?”

  “That question is more personal than a spanking.”

  His right hand flexed just hearing the word, and the reminder it called forth. God, her sweet, round ass. “You need to pay back Preston. I need an assistant.”

  “Oh no. No way.” Her laughter echoed on the dark street. “I am not working for you. ‘Can I light a fire in the hearth for you, my lord?’ Fuck that.”

  He nodded at the cab. “Whatever you’re making driving this thing, I will double it.”

  She opened her mouth, closed it. Opened it again. “This thing has a name, you know.”

  “And that name is?”

  “Delta Burke. I drove her across town once and she was delightful.”

  “So you named your cab after this…person?” He held up a hand. “Never mind. Yes, I will pay you double what you make driving Delta Burke.”

  She folded her arms over her chest. “What’s the catch?”

  Porter took an experimental step toward her. Just like when he’d said the word proposition, her mask slipped and she turned into the girl she’d been upstairs. Breathless, green. Hungry for something she didn’t fully understand. She pressed back against the side of the cab, palms flattening on the door. An invitation to come closer? He took another step and she whimpered. Fuck’s sake. This girl needed more than a single, quick orgasm. She needed repeated fucking, and a man to ensure she received it. Cautiously, he allowed their bodies to align and she completely melted, her slight curves marrying his harder planes. His body took over, dipping and lifting to put his erection squarely between her legs. “The catch.” He looked her in the eye while he rolled his hips, absorbed her trembling response. “The catch is this. When the clock says five o’clock and your workday is over, the real work begins. You’ll spend the day making my cock stiff and the night relieving me.”

  “That’s an awful lot of my time you’re planning to take up.”

  “Yes.”

  “I-I have school.”

  He breathed against her ear. “I’ll work around it.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. “I didn’t plan on this when I came here. I thought—”

  “You thought what?” He pinned her against the cab with his hips, gritting his teeth when she moaned. “You thought you’d sneak into my room, get a taste, and walk away? Francesca, you liked it too much. You would have been back.”

  “I know that now. I planned on coming back.” Her eyes opened in degrees, focusing on him. “I just didn’t plan on the next time being with you.”

  Wrong thing to say. She knew it, too. He could tell by the way her mouth slammed shut. Possessiveness he had no right to feel rose inside him like an accelerated tide, drowning his common sense. Christ. What if she’d walked into someone else’s room tonight, instead of his? She’d obviously come to Serve hoping to learn something about herself and the possibility that someone else could have had the privilege of teaching her…it didn’t sit well. It made him sick, actually.

  “Only me from now on, Francesca.” He spoke flush against her lips, moving them with his own. “If you agree, it’ll only be me. A lot of me. As soon as five o’clock hits, I’m not going to stop fucking you. There will be begging and screaming and marks left behind. I’m not an easy man. Know what you’re getting yourself into.”

  Traffic passed behind them. She stared at his mouth, wanting to be kissed. He couldn’t, though. Could he? Kissing women had always been a means to an end, but kissing this one would be like cannonballing into a black hole. How did he know that? Her obvious disappointment when he didn’t kiss her slayed him.

  “I want a trial period. We’ll start with one day.” Her breathing was unsteady as she spoke. “Tomorrow. If I don’t feel like you’re paying me for sex, I’ll consider coming back.”

  “I assure you, there will be work completed. Agree to one week.” A realization rushed in. Only, it wasn’t a realization at all, really. It was something that never left him. A mental countdown. How had she managed to make him forget? “There will be an end date, I assure you. I’m returning to London for good in a matter of weeks. I have a business to run.” He gave a firm nod. “So you see, it won’t be indefinite if that’s what you’re worried about. A week is more than reasonable.”

  “One day.”

  The snapping behind his eye started again. “That really doesn’t work for my personality.”

  She shifted against him, eyelids fluttering when he gave her a little upward drive. “I get the feeling not much does work with your personality.”

  “I’m not an easy boss.”

  “I’m not an easy anything.”

  “Oh, you don’t say?”

  Her laughter was unsteady. It caused her tits to press against the front of her shirt, dragging his attention to her hard nipples. Jesus, he needed to step back before he sucked them in plain view of every car zipping past, but it was hard. Almost impossible. All too aware that he needed to play this right or she’d balk at his proposition, he put a few inches between them.

  When she looked as if she wanted to drag him back, he growled in his throat. “My office address is on the business card I gave you. What time are your classes tomorrow?”

  “Classes.” She shook her head as if to clear it. “Early. I could be at your office by eleven thirty.”

  “You could or you will?”

  She stayed still beneath his scrutiny. “I will. Although, I have no idea what I’m thinking.”

  “Yes, you do.” He rapped a knuckle on the roof of the cab. “I start paying you tonight. Please take Delta Burke home and don’t pick up any strangers along the way.”

  “Delta has a mind of her own.”

  The way she said it, Porter knew she referred to herself. He reached out and brushed a thumb over her bottom lip. “I said please, Francesca.”

  Her unsteady exhale bathed his thumb. “Oh, well in that case.” She pried open the driver’s side door, her hand slipping off the handle to steal her bravado. “Until tomorrow, my lord.”

  Porter stood on the sidewalk watching her taillights disappear before going back into Serve, collecting his tools, and going home to count the minutes until eleven thirty tomorrow morning. Not five o’clock, although he couldn’t deny a heady anticipation; eleven thirty appealed almost as much.

  Odd, that.

  Chapter Four

  “Over easy or scrambled?”

  Eight different answers were shouted back at Frankie from the kitchen table. It was six o’clock in the morning and her uncle’s frien
ds had once again descended on Casa De Luca for their free breakfast. One hour from now, they would all begin their shifts, hoping to pick up a fair in Queens on their way into the city before completing twelve-hour stints behind the wheel of their cab. Breakfast had become a tradition, and she was the designated workhorse. Never mind that she enjoyed cooking breakfast for their freeloader asses.

  “You’re all getting scrambled.”

  She greeted the grumbles behind her with a one-finger salute, one that earned her a smack on the shoulder from her Uncle Joe. “Knock that off. That’s not how I raised you.”

  “You’re right.” She set down the spatula and turned toward the men gathered around their kitchen table, giving them the double middle finger. “Better?”

  “Atta girl!”

  She turned back to the stove before they could see her smile. This was the game and she played it well. As long as she didn’t act too much like a girl, she was allowed into the boy’s club. It had been a long time since she tested that theory, but she wouldn’t. Ever. If she didn’t have these guys, she’d have no one, a fact that had been made apparent to her at age ten. One day, her mother had dropped her off at school and gone to the doctor for a routine medical procedure and never come home. Her uncle hadn’t been given a choice of whether or not to take her in; he’d simply done it, even if the sight of her tears had caused him to hide in the bathroom or work overtime those first few weeks. So she’d stopped crying and started pulling her weight. And she’d never stopped.

  “Frankie, how goes the business model presentation?” Her uncle’s friend, Phil, fluffed his hair. Well, imaginary hair. The man was completely bald. “You need a beautiful assistant to earn you some points with the judges?”

  “They’re not judges, they’re my professors.” Frankie scooped eggs onto multiple plates. “And if I needed a beautiful assistant, I’d go with Sanchez. He’s got way better legs.”

  Hoots and catcalls broke out around the table. Frankie used a set of metal tongs to remove bacon from grease sizzling in a cast iron skillet and divided it equally among eight plates. She was grateful for the distraction this morning. She’d woken up wondering if her encounter with the inexcusably sexy brit had been an elaborate dream. But no, her ass was sore as hell. Not to mention, his business card had been propped on her nightstand. Crazy. Going to see this man she’d just met had to qualify as crazy. She’d been looking to dip her toe into the world of BDSM last night and instead she’d found herself in the deep end. Porter Evans was an arrogant, demanding son-of-a-bitch. Yet the mere thought of him sent an arrow of lust right to her middle. He wanted to do rough, unfamiliar things to her body. God, she wanted to let him, too. Her curiosity and magnetic attraction to him had forced her to agree to his highly irregular job proposal.

  That, and she’d stop at nothing to pay the loan back. Nothing. In addition to leaving behind her child, her mother had left a mountain of credit card debt and it had fallen squarely on her uncle’s head. Frankie didn’t leave debts unpaid. She made them right, with added interest. Which was where her business model proposal came into play. If she had her way, she would make every man in this room rich by the time she turned thirty.

  “When is the presentation?” her Uncle Joe asked around a mouthful of bacon. “I’m taking the day off to come watch.”

  “Next Friday,” she answered, hoping she sounded cool. The damn presentation was going to be nerve wracking enough without her uncle—the reason for coming up with the idea in the first place—sitting in the auditorium. Her uncle didn’t even know the specifics of her proposal. What would he think? What if she failed and he was there to witness it? “No need to take the day off. I can let you know how it goes. Besides, who would keep these jerks in line?”

  “I’m taking the day off, too,” Sanchez piped up.

  “Me, too.”

  “Me, three.”

  Frankie gulped down half a glass of orange juice. “Jesus, there won’t be any cabs left on the road. People are going to be forced to take the subway.”

  Her uncle made a dismissive noise. “Ah, they’ll learn to appreciate us more.” He jerked his chin toward her outfit. “What are you dressed up for? Aren’t you taking a shift when your classes end today? Can’t drive a cab in heels.”

  “They’re not heels.” She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “They’re boots…with, like, a thing that elevates the back a little.”

  Great, now she looked and sounded like an idiot. Rooting through her closet this morning, she’d decided ripped jeans weren’t acceptable for the first day at an office job. Possibly her first and last, depending on how things went with Porter. There it was again, the hot live wire in her belly. The real reason she’d ripped the never-worn pair of black leggings out of their plastic package, pairing them with a soft, white tunic shirt. Not a dress. A shirt.

  She cleared her throat. “Yeah. Been meaning to talk to you about something.” The lie felt pointy in her throat. “I can’t work today.”

  Forks clattered onto plates. Eight sets of eyebrows lifted. For good reason, too. She never, ever, missed a day of work. When she’d started in the business program at Columbia, she’d merely shifted her hours. Frankie drove her cab with the flu, on Christmas. Hell, even when the President came to town, and gridlock alert had every avenue locked down, she drove. She cursed Porter for giving her just enough of a taste last night to make it essential she get another.

  “There’s an internship credit I need to fulfill.” Frankie reached into the spiral notebook she’d tossed onto the counter before starting breakfast. Inside, she’d written down Porter’s address without his name or any details. She ripped it out now and handed it to her uncle. “This is where I’ll be. Might just be for the day, depending on what the guy needs done.”

  “Huh.” Her uncle scrutinized the paper. “Tudor City. Nice spot. What does he do?”

  Hopefully me. “Antiques,” she choked out. “I’m, uh, supposed to ask questions about his business model and write a paper on possible improvement methods.” As usual, when she started getting specific about school, her uncle’s eyes got that far-off look. She’d lost him at ‘antiques.’ Good. At least she’d gotten him the address, just in case. Porter’s behavior hadn’t set off any alarm bells—hell, he’d backed off on the street when she’d been ready to strip naked—but common sense dictated that she tell someone where she was going. And there was something dangerous about Porter. No sense denying it. Power radiated from him. It was possible she was too turned on by it to see beneath the surface.

  …

  Porter’s door buzzer went off at exactly eleven thirty. Damn, it was as though she knew punctuality turned him on. Although, it paled in comparison to the swift punch of arousal that assaulted him when she walked into the office. He’d expected the ripped jeans again. Rather absurdly, he’d kind of been looking forward to them. The leggings she wore instead didn’t give him a peek at the tanned flesh of her legs. Legs he would have wrapped around him by the end of the day.

  Francesca took two steps into his apartment and stopped, dropping a hideous gray backpack onto his carpeted floor and crossing her arms. “This isn’t an office, monocle man.”

  “It is indeed an office and you will stop calling me that.” This was getting off to a fine start. “It’s a duplex. My office is upstairs, my living space downstairs. You buzzed the wrong entrance.”

  “Hmmm.” She sauntered into the living room and turned in a circle. “I thought you’d have stuffed animal heads hanging on the wall. Maybe a suit of armor. Not that I was picturing where you lived,” she rushed to add. “Just an observation.”

  He watched the sexy flush darken her neck and wished he hadn’t imposed the five o’clock rule. It was going to be a long afternoon. Those leggings were already doing a bang-up job of distracting him, hugging her ass and thighs like they’d been painted on. His memory really hadn’t done her justice, had it? When she stood in the midday sun, her eyes were translucent, her skin achingly
fresh. He wondered if she’d worn white to taunt him, make herself appear more like a sacrifice than a conquest. Because that’s exactly what she was to him. A conquest. Never mind that he’d never gone to these lengths before to take a woman to bed.

  It had to be her unusual nature. She kept her hands in fists at her sides as she took a turn around the apartment, running her gaze over his belongings, but never her fingers. For some strange reason, he would have liked to see that, her touching things he owned. Whatever she meant to convey, the hard, tight-lipped expression only made her lips pout, made her look even younger.

  Bad. This was so very bad. He was only thirty, not quite so much older than she. But in terms of experience, he’d hazard a guess he had a decade on her.

  Around the time she’d been born, he’d been spending his birthdays alone, celebrating with his caretaker of the moment and a store-bought Yorkshire pudding. He would love to forget the memory of that first solitary birthday, but he held onto it stubbornly. He’d just been rejected by the exclusive primary school where his parents’ career-driven friends sent their children—every single one of them. When the letter had arrived, his parents hadn’t said a word, merely passing it back and forth. Then they’d gone to work…and they’d never stopped working. By his fourteenth birthday, he’d gotten used to keeping himself company. Preferred it, even. Without the pressure of making others happy, he couldn’t fail at it, the way he’d done with his absent family.

  So he’d begun to fail on purpose.

  Francesca stopped at a picture of him with the Prime Minister and arched an eyebrow. “You have some interesting friends.”

  “Actually, he’s rather dull, to be honest.”

  Her burst of laughter made him frown, mainly because it made him want to smile. This being the first time he’d invited another person to his home, he was surprised to find he didn’t mind her exploring, so long as she didn’t ask questions. The private security firm he’d built in London after his four-year stint with the military tended to be a sore subject. Returning to his business, repairing the damage that had been inflicted on his reputation by a mistake he hadn’t committed, weighed on his mind enough of the day. No need to entertain those thoughts now. Not when she’d miraculously managed to crowd them out.