Read an Excerpt
A Done Deal
Fiona Sheridan had a body created for sex and nothing was going to stop Rockwell from fucking her. At twenty years of age she was eleven years his junior, but something in his gut told him he had to have her, and he always, always trusted his gut.
She dove into the pool as Rockwell began his thirty-first lap and all he saw at first was a turquoise blur in a mass of bubbles. They swam the length of the pool neck and neck, but he stopped at the shallow end while she completed a neat flip turn and headed back. She had excellent form, sliding through the water like a mermaid. As she neared his side of the pool, he pushed off to swim next to her again. He paced himself to remain beside her until his fortieth lap, after which he stood again in the shallow end, one elbow resting on the edge as she completed a couple more laps and then stopped as well.
Out of breath, she slicked the water off her face and smiled at him. She had striking eyes the color of high quality jade, fringed by thick black lashes spiked from the water. Her smile knocked him on his ass.
"You must be Mr. Rockwell," she said, shaking hands with him. "I'm Fiona."
Rockwell flicked his eyes over her lush figure. Even in her modest one-piece suit, her tits were spectacular, the kind that inspired a man toward reckless behavior. She'd braided her long sable hair for swimming, but he could imagine how it would look loose and flowing. Perhaps spread out over his stomach and brushing his thighs as she leaned over to blow him, or rippling in the water here in the pool as he pushed his cock into her tight, wet pussy. In his experience, long hair on a woman came in handywhen she needed ... guidance or wanted a little light dominance.
"My stepdad told me you were here for the weekend."
"Yes, we might be doing some business together," Rockwell replied.
Her stepfather, Frank Stafford, had invited Rockwell to the family estate in Virginia to enjoy a weekend in the country and discuss the sale of Stafford's company.
As Fiona ascended the steps of the pool, her bathing suit rode up a little on her ass and he couldn't stop staring. She had a great set of legs, and as he thought about wedging himself between them to fuck her, he started getting hard.
"I usually have the pool to myself this early in the morning," she said, drying herself with a towel.
"You almost did anyway. I had a hard time finding it."
"I like the privacy," Fiona said, squeezing water out of her braid. "When I'm here, it's like I'm in Shangri-la and I can pretend the outside world doesn't exist."
The pool was remarkably secluded. Japanese maples, dense viburnum, and crepe myrtle with its explosive bright pink blossoms shielded the area from view, even from the house, and the entrance was cleverly hidden by more shrubbery. He hadn't seen the vine-covered gate until he was almost on top of it. Inside, more landscaping concealed a large cabana with towels, extra bathing suits, and a refrigerator stocked with beverages.
"I should get out of your hair, then," he said, getting out of the pool. He glanced down and saw his trunks clung to his half-hard cock, but that couldn't be helped now. Fiona apparently noticed, too. He caught her ogling him and she blushed and turned away to wrap herself in her towel.
"You don't have to leave on my account. I'm actually going to go study."
"Study?" said a voice. "It's summer, Fiona. You should relax."
Frank Stafford ambled up, dressed in slacks and a polo. He had a grin like a carnival barker and a personality to match, all bluster and veneer, with little substance underneath.
She slid some sandals onto her feet. "I can't. I need to keep my grade point average above 3.5 for the graduate program."
"What are you studying?" Rockwell asked.
"Fiona wants to be a dolphin trainer," Stafford said.
"Interesting career choice," Rockwell remarked, noticing the delicate silver chain with a dolphin charm that hung around her neck.
Stafford pulled a cigar out from his shirt pocket and lit it. "She's been obsessed with dolphins since she was a little girl. I think you own every book on dolphins ever published," he said to Fiona.
"I'm not obsessed. Just focused."
Frank sat on a patio chair and rested an ankle on his knee. "Her mother and I always expected her to give up on the idea. You know how kids are. They all want to be pro ball players and ballerinas. Eventually they realize that isn't going to happen. But not our Fiona." He chuckled, flicking ash off his cigar. "No sirree. She's stuck to her guns all these years. She's going to be a dolphin trainer or die trying."
"There aren't many jobs in that field," Rockwell remarked.
"Yeah? Well, all I need is one," she said, a determined glint in her eye.
Chuckling, Rockwell recognized in Fiona the type of ambition and resolve he prided himself on.
"That's the spirit," he said. "Persistence will pay off."
Fiona raised her brows at her stepfather. "See? He knows what I'm talking about." She turned to Rockwell. "Frank's a hedonist and he thinks everyone else should be one, too."
"Actually, although I'm extremely focused on my business," Rockwell said, catching Fiona's eye, "the pursuit of pleasure is also very important to me." He held her gaze unwaveringly.
Obviously flustered, Fiona glanced away, rewrapping the towel around herself.
Frank took a puff. "So, he agrees with me," he said, blowing out smoke. "You're only twenty. You should loosen up and enjoy your youth while you have it. Appreciate the fact that you have the financial freedom to do what you want."
"I do appreciate it," she said. "I appreciate very much the fact that I can concentrate on my studies without having to get a job. That I can afford my own apartment without the distraction of roommates, and that I can catch a plane home for the weekend whenever school gets to be too much."
Rockwell tossed his towel on the chaise. "As long as you maintain a balance between work and play. If you don't have balance in your life, you're bound to get into trouble."
But even as he said that, he hoped she'd get into some trouble with him.
After dinner that night, Fiona joined her stepfather and Mr. Rockwell in the game room. The men played a friendly game of pool on the far side, while Fiona sat on the antique fainting couch near the door leading to the hallway. She'd brought her book on oceanic ecosystems in the guise of studying, but in reality she was observing their guest. She didn't usually make a habit of lusting after her stepfather's business associates, but Rockwell was not like the others--much older men with potbellies and reflective scalps. Nor was he like guys her own age, physically mature, but emotionally stuck in high school.
Fiona tapped her highlighter on the book. No, Rockwell was in a class of his own. It wasn't just his muscular body or handsome features. He exuded a power that made her body hum with awareness. Confidence, intelligence, and a dominant stance called directly to her femininity and if he'd been a wolf, there was no doubt in Fiona's mind that he'd be the alpha male.
Impeccably dressed in a dark plum shirt, black tie and slacks, Rockwell leaned on his pool cue, waiting for his turn. He seemed at ease, concentrating on the game, so Fiona took the opportunity to admire his physique, knowing exactly what he looked like under his shirt. Before diving into the pool that morning, she had watched him cutting through the water with athletic grace, and afterward, she couldn't help staring at the muscled planes of his lean body as he toweled off and how the wet trunks clung to him. In fact, she hadn't been able to focus at all on her studies all day, nor could she look at him without fantasizing what it would be like to be fucked by him. Not made love to. Not slept with. Fucked.
She knew that Rockwell would be demanding and authoritative in bed. He was polite and deferential in company, but everything about him, his stance, his expressions, even his sardonic laughter, spoke of power. This was a man who was used to getting what he wanted and that turned her on. She got wet whenever she was in the same room with him.
As she watched Rockwell chalk his cue, an erotic fantasy flickered in her head. She and Rockwell would be here in the billiard room while outside a thunderstorm raged, sheets of rain beating against the windows. The room would be dim, except for the low light of the sconces. Rockwell would be in shirtsleeves, his tie loosened. He would be so crazed with lust for her that he wouldn't waste any time with preliminaries. He'd just bend her over the pool table without asking, lift the hem of her dress, rip off her panties and drive into her hard.
The crack of billiard balls hitting each other snapped her out of her fantasy. She looked up to see Rockwell staring at her. For one heart-stopping moment she felt as if he was going to round the table and act out in real life what she'd just been picturing in her head, but a second later the look was gone as if it had never existed.
"Shit. Look at that," Frank said. "I lined it up for you like a goddamn Christmas present."
"Why, thank you, Stafford," Rockwell said with a chuckle. "Eight ball in the side pocket."
As the black ball dropped into the leather pouch, her stepfather inclined his head in defeat. "Good game, Rockwell. We're even now, one to one. I'm going to get another bottle of brandy before we start the tiebreaker."
After Frank passed by her on his way out, Fiona felt an immediate shift in the atmosphere. She and Rockwell were alone for the second time that day. They both had more clothes on, but for some reason she felt more exposed and unnerved than she had this morning. At the pool she'd felt so flustered, she'd retreated to her room instead of studying outside like she had planned. That annoyed her. She was used to having the upper hand with guys. It was child's play to manipulate the boys she met at school. But maybe that was the point. They were boys. Rockwell was a man. The question was, did she have the courage to try her skills on him?
She put her book aside, deciding she did.
Rockwell regarded Fiona with an enigmatic expression on his face. He leaned his hip against the pool table. "Do you play?"
"No," she replied. "I'm not really a big game player."
"So, you're more into ... watching, then," he said with a sidelong glance.
"Oh, I wouldn't say that," she replied, her heart thumping. "I like participating as much as the next girl."
Rockwell's bass chuckle sent a shiver down her spine. "Good to know."
After replacing his cue on the wall rack, he crossed the room to stand behind the fainting couch. She felt his gaze on her breasts. She'd chosen her clothes with care tonight, deciding on a low-riding short skirt and a spaghetti strap top that toed the line between propriety and invitation. Although she forced herself to sit still, inside she felt anxious and aroused.
"So, what do you do when you're not studying, if it's not games?" His low voice floated down from behind and seemed to caress her.
"I like to ride," she said with a deliberate pause. Then, recklessly, she added, "I like the feeling of a powerful animal between my legs."
Again, Rockwell's amused chuckle rumbled. "I can imagine you do."
He leaned down until his mouth was beside her temple. She smelled his aftershave and the brandy on his breath.
"For me," he said, "I like the power play. My mount might want to do one thing, but I might have other ideas. That struggle can be very ... entertaining."
Fiona tried to control her breathing. It wasn't easy. His voice seemed to cling to her like black silk, molding itself to her body, seeking the private places, searching for secrets. And oh, how she wanted to give in to him. She wanted to spread her legs and slide her hands up her thighs to signal her surrender.
But it was supposed to be the other way around, damn it.
Determined to turn the tables, Fiona rested her head on the low arm of the divan.
"You like to be in control," she said, looking up at him.
While his gray-eyes were riveting, she fully intended to win this staring contest. She slid down so that her skirt rode up. He narrowed his eyes then let his gaze slither down her body. Wet heat pooled between her legs and her breath hitched as he walked around to the foot of the couch to look down at her.
"Nice," he remarked as he leaned forward, placing his knee between her legs and one hand next to her head. His tie brushed against her breasts, and boldly, Fiona took hold of it and tugged until his face was inches from hers, but when she opened her mouth to utter a teasing remark, Rockwell swooped down and sealed his mouth to hers. His tongue thrust inside as his hand cupped her mound, one of his fingers sliding down her slit, right over her soaking wet panties. Fiona inhaled sharply through her nose as desire flared, but almost immediately, Rockwell withdrew, his lips wet, his eyes as dark as smoke.
"I'll come up to your room later," he growled.
Realizing she was no longer in control of the situation, Fiona tried to pull her skirt down, but Rockwell's hand was still there, his finger stroking her clit enough to make her hips shift restlessly.
"Oh, no," she said, a little panicked. "I-I don't think so." Her heart raced and she felt like a kid who had played with matches and accidentally lit the curtains on fire.
A frown darkened his brow, but before he could reply, footsteps sounded in the hallway. Fiona sat up quickly, yanking down her skirt, but Rockwell, unperturbed, straightened smoothly, one hand on his tie, just as Frank entered the room with a bottle of brandy.
"Well, I found a good bottle, Rockwell. A '66..." Frank said, entering the room. "But, you know, I'm more tired than I thought."
Without a glance at Fiona, he approached Rockwell and handed him the bottle of brandy. "So, good night. I'll see you both in the morning."
"Good night," Rockwell replied.
As Frank left, Fiona got off the divan. Her supine position left her far too vulnerable. Unfortunately, four inches taller than she was, Rockwell was no less intimidating and aggravated now to boot.
He turned to her and grasped her chin. "For a girl who doesn't like to play games, you're playing a very dangerous one now."
"Dangerous?" she said, suddenly angry and, damn it, a little frightened. Jerking her chin away, she tried to laugh. "Don't threaten me, Mr. Rockwell. This was just some harmless flirting. We only met this morning."
One corner of his mouth curled up. "That's immaterial, Fiona and you know it. Every night of the week people meet in bars and fuck each other after only a half an hour of chit-chat."
"Well, I don't," she said with a semblance of firmness. Backing away, she got her book and hugged it to her chest. "I'm very sorry if you misunderstood, Mr. Rockwell, but don't come to my room later. I really don't want you. Good night."
The next morning, Frank Stafford realized he needed to do some major damage control. He prided himself on his knowledge of wine, his full head of hair, and his ability to accurately judge a woman's bra size by sight, but he was a spectacularly lousy businessman. When his wife died, he'd taken the helm of her family's textile company, but she'd always been the brains behind its continued success. For the four years he'd been in charge, the earnings reports had shown a steady decline and Frank didn't see any way he could change that, barring enrolling in an MBA program, which he wasn't about to do. Selling seemed the ideal option, and Rockwell had made his fortune buying and selling businesses.
Up until now, the weekend had gone well. Rockwell seemed to enjoy himself, and their discussions about the merits of Sheridan Textiles proceeded so nicely that Frank's hopes of ridding himself of the company to the tune of hundreds of millions of dollars had risen so much, he'd begun considering buying a new yacht to celebrate the sale. Something in the ninety foot range. He liked the idea of puttering about Chesapeake Bay, drawing envious glances from the middle class.
This morning, however, the tension in the room was thicker than the cream Frank was adding to his coffee. Fiona ate quickly and said little, and when she was finished, she wished Rockwell a pleasant trip back to New York and left. Rockwell's visage, as he stared out the French doors at the terrace, resembled one of those inscrutable stone heads on Easter Island.
Luckily, Frank had prepared for this last night. He got some more bacon and another piece of toast from the sideboard, then closed the doors. He needed privacy for what he was about to say.
"I have a little proposition for you, Rockwell."
Rockwell continued to stare out the window. "I already have your proposal, Frank. I told you I'd make a decision by Wednesday."
"True, but I thought I'd add something to sweeten the pot," Frank said. Sweat rose on his palms, which he wiped on his napkin.
Frank sipped his coffee, wishing he'd spiked it, and said, "If you buy Sheridan Textiles, I can arrange it so you can have a night with Fiona. The two of you, alone in her room."
"What in the hell are you talking about?" Rockwell snorted and turned his head. "Does Fiona know about this?"
Frank hedged. "Are you denying you're attracted to her? She's a virgin, you know."
Rockwell blinked in surprise. "How do you know she's a virgin?"
"I read her private journal."
Rockwell shook his head. "Frank, you're such an asshole."
Frank bristled, refusing to feel guilty for his minor invasion of privacy. If Fiona didn't want her journal to be read, she shouldn't leave it on her bed for anyone to look at.
"Do you want her or not?" Frank asked, knowing the answer. Last night the sexual attraction between Rockwell and Fiona had permeated the room like smoke in an opium den. He was banking on the fact that the rumors he'd heard of Rockwell's voracious libido were true. Plus, the man liked to win, and judging from the snippet of conversation he'd overheard last night outside the billiard room, Fiona had gotten the upper hand.
"I have to admit, Frank, Fiona is quite a piece of work, but Sheridan Textiles is in deep, deep shit. Shit that you piled on due to mismanagement. It's going to cost me a bundle to dig it out, and frankly, I think that's worth more than one night." Rockwell picked up his spoon and stirred his coffee. "In fact, I think I should get a full week."
Frank steepled his fingers and smiled.