Daring the Bad Boy

  Daring the Bad Boy

  Heidi Rice

  Daring the Bad Boy

  ©Copyright 2016 Heidi Rice

  Kindle Edition

  The Tule Publishing Group, LLC

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-944925-01-7

  Dedication

  To everyone who’s ever been without a hot date on Valentine’s Night.

  Good luck finding your own naughtily ever after.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Dear Reader

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from Tempting the Knight

  About the Author

  Dear Reader,

  When the lovely people at Tule asked me if I would like to contribute a novella for their Bad Boy Shorts series, I couldn’t resist. And pretty soon after that, Cal Landry came to mind, a fiercely hot American photojournalist returning to London after burying his father, he was a wounded man, in need of some company – the uncomplicated kind – on Valentine’s Night. And as luck would have it, who should be in the bar he decided to go into in Soho, but Rosie Smith – a sweet, slightly-sozzled art teacher in need of some company too. One game of kiss or dare later and several unforeseen complications and suddenly I had a story. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

  Heidi x

  Chapter One

  ‡

  “I’m allergic to Valentine’s Day.” Rosie Smith stared into her second strawberry daiquiri, which had failed to make the happy hour in the crowded Soho bar remotely happy – even at two-for-one prices. “Either that or I’m suffering from PTVD.”

  Her friend, Tash, spat out a mouthful of her own daiquiri. “Bloody hell, Rosie, have you been to the clinic to have it checked out?”

  “It’s not a communicable disease, you muppet. It’s worse than that,” Rosie replied. “I have Post Traumatic Valentine’s Day Disorder.” She glanced around the packed bar in London’s West End, festooned with enough pink and fluffy décor to make the Sugarplump Fairy barf. “Because anything red and sparkly and/or shaped like a love-heart brings me out in hives. And those penis-shaped deely boppers are making me want to puke.”

  A thirty-strong hen party had entered the bar ten minutes ago, each one shouting and laughing and proudly sporting phalluses springing from the alice bands on their heads – inadvertently making an ironic statement about how Valentine’s Day brought out the dickhead in every man, to Rosie’s way of thinking.

  She sighed, gazing into the vibrant red cocktail. “And when I woke up this morning I actually missed Vince. You know we broke up a year ago today? Which means my love life has now officially sucked for twelve solid months.”

  Rosie’s other bestie, Imogen – better known as Imo the Emo because of the Goth phase she’d never grown out of – sent Rosie a death stare through the eyeliner she’d OD’d on that morning. “You don’t miss Vince. Because Vince was a dick. And you’re probably just allergic to V-Day because, like every other single woman with more than two functioning brain cells to rub together, you’ve figured out it’s a corporate myth manufactured to sell greeting cards and overpriced flower arrangements.”

  “Spoken like someone else who hasn’t humped anything without batteries in over a year,” Tash replied good-naturedly, laughing off Imo’s death stare. “But our resident femi-nazi is right about one thing.” She laid a consoling hand over Rosie’s on the sticky table of the booth they’d managed to secure across from the long antique bar. “Not having sex for over a year is bad for your mental health.”

  “When did I say that?” Imo grumbled.

  “You didn’t, because you’re a lost cause,” Tash continued. “But Rosie isn’t. Not yet.”

  “Then why am I doing such a good impression of one?” Rosie asked, hating the miserable tone, but unable to shake it.

  How could she possibly be missing her ex-boyfriend? Vince had been a dick. Informing her after she’d cooked them a special meal on Valentine’s Day and even worn the seedy crotchless panties he’d bought her for Christmas, that he wanted more space in their relationship. Which turned out to be code for he wanted to shag the nineteen-year-old intern at his architectural practice without fear of reprisals.

  Vince hadn’t just been a dick. He’d been a dick with an appalling taste in lingerie, whom she’d been an idiot to trust. And she hadn’t thought about him in months. But this morning, when she’d woken up without a date on Valentine’s Day, or the prospect of getting one in the foreseeable future, Rosie’s neat, tidy apartment had seemed emptier than usual.

  And she’d actually become a tiny bit wistful at the memory of Vince’s dirty socks lying by the washing basket, the crumbs he’d always left on the countertop and the gunk he’d never cleaned off the bathroom sink after shaving. And it had been bringing her down all day.

  Why had she found it so hard to connect with anyone new in the last year? Was she on the shelf for life already, at twenty-six?

  She’d gone on a few dates, during her half-hearted spree of online dating a few months ago. But she’d never managed a second date and had eventually deleted her profile, bored with the email flirting that promised much, only to deliver either an interminable half hour of arduous conversation over a caramel latte in the local Starbucks, or a request for a Snapchat of her boobs.

  “You’re not a lost cause,” Tash said, interrupting Rosie’s maudlin thoughts. “But drastic action is called for or you soon will be. We don’t want your lady bits to dry up and desiccate like Imo’s.”

  “Piss off, Tash. Just because my lady bits don’t have ADHD,” Imo mumbled.

  “Exactly how drastic is drastic?” Rosie asked, because drastic for Tash might be a smidgen outside Rosie’s comfort zone.

  “Drastic as in, we need to get your sex life fully operational again.”

  “My sex life isn’t the Starship Enterprise, you know.”

  “Au contraire,” Tash said, grinning. “If we could boldly get Chris Pine’s Captain Kirk to go down on you your problems would be solved.”

  Rosie all but choked on her daiquiri as Imo laughed, but she couldn’t deny the definite spark of something hot and fluid.

  While she and Vince hadn’t had a spectacular sex life, she had missed the flesh to flesh connection that couldn’t be provided by her top-of-the-range vibrator – or even an X-rated Trekkie fantasy.

  Tash refilled Rosie’s daiquiri glass to the brim from the pitcher on the table. “But in the absence of Chris, we need to get your sex life back up to warp speed with what’s on offer.” She clinked her glass against Rosie’s and took a healthy sip. “Here. Tonight.”

  “But I’ve already tried dating,” Rosie pointed out, not ready to jump back into that shark tank again while she was feeling vulnerable. “It was a lot of time and effort for no return.”

  “We’re not talking dating. That was your first mistake with Vince, thinking you wanted to keep him. What you need right now is Hot Shag Against a Wall Guy – not Cheating Asshole Who Moves In With You Guy.” She craned her neck, to look past Rosie’s shoulder. “So let’s check out the available talent and see if we can find a willing victim.” She coughed, theatrically. “I mean a likely candidate.”

  “Good luck with finding any talent in this dump,” Imogen said, but the interested gleam in her panda eyes as she craned her neck too told a different story.

  Rosie sipped her daiquiri, not convinced, as Imo and Tash scanned the bar, which was packed on a Friday night with the two-for-one cocktail hour crowd, the penis-wearing hen party and assorted tourists and Valentine’s Day revelers. But as her friends began suggesting and then discarding the few likely victims on offer, the pleasant buzz of too many daiquiris had Rosie actually considering Tash’s outrageous suggestion.

  Would it be so bad to cut loose just this once? She’d never had a one-night stand before, always more interested in making an emotional connection than a sexual one. But there was no law that said you always had to be looking for the long-haul? And if one hot night with a hot guy would ensure she never again got melancholy about not having shaving gunk in her sink, perhaps it was worth a shot?

  Her spirits slumped. That said, Imo and Tash would have to find a likely candidate first.

  “Oh-My-Fucking-God, over there at twelve o’clock.” Tash yanked Rosie’s arm hard enough to slosh daiquiri over her hand. “We’ve found him.”

  “Shit, Tash, try and at least be a little subtle, or he’ll see us.” Imo hunched, being a bit disingenuous for someone who made themselves up everyday to look like Rocky Raccoon.

  “There! Right behind you,” Tash said in a stage whisper, her only concession to subtle, as she pointed over Rosie’s shoulder. “This end of the ba
r, wearing the leather jacket and the sexy scowl. He’s abso-fricking-luscious. Check out those shoulders. And those hands. If he doesn’t have a huge willy and know exactly what to do with it, I’ll eat my tits. That guy’s not just smokin’, he’s on fire. As are my lady bits right now.”

  “Well spotted,” Imogen agreed, which for her was like erecting a shrine to the guy.

  Rosie swung round to take a look, ready to be unimpressed. Her standards were a good deal higher than Tash’s. But as her gaze landed on Mr. Abso-Fricking-Luscious – because it had to be him – her heartbeat slowed to a crawl, and then galloped to light speed.

  He certainly had the wow factor. Because even though Rosie’s lady bits had never been as combustible as Tash’s, they were definitely doing a Snoopy dance.

  Day-old stubble covered a chiseled jaw and sculpted cheekbones, complementing the thick dark hair that flowed down to touch the collar of his jacket. Rosie dug her nails into her palms, to contain the urge to run her fingers through the unkempt waves, which looked tactile and sexily disheveled instead of stiff with product. The black jeans and battered jacket completed the rough-around-the-edges look, fitting his muscular body and wide shoulders to perfection.

  And every single thing about him screamed: I couldn’t give a shit about Valentine’s Day.

  Rosie’s pulse jumped. Mr. Abso-Fricking-Luscious wasn’t just hot, he was a badass. No wonder he stood out from the Soho crowd – who probably thought going to a party in Peckham after dark was a walk on the wild side.

  Then again, what single person wouldn’t feel surly after walking into a bar decorated in heart-shaped balloons and packed to the rafters with boozy women sporting sparkly penis-shaped deely boppers?

  Rosie smiled, recognizing a fellow hostage to the loved-up party atmosphere and the warm glow of kinship combined with the heady blast of sexual awareness.

  The vision of kneeling in front of him to locate the zip tab on his jeans with her teeth blasted into her brain and sent all the blood spiraling south.

  James T. Kirk, eat your heart out.

  “He’s even hotter than Chris Pine,” Rosie murmured.

  Tash did a fist pump. “Excellent, we have a winner. Now let’s figure out how to hook you two up for the evening.”

  But then the stranger lifted his fingers to attract the barman’s attention. And the barman instantly detached his gaze from the cleavage he had been chatting up most of the evening as if responding to his master’s voice.

  Rosie gulped down another mouthful of daiquiri – with a hefty dose of reality. “I’m not approaching him.” She was a booty call virgin, for goodness sake. Running before she could walk would risk getting a slap-down that could flatten her ego for good. And she really didn’t need to feel any more inadequate. Tonight of all nights.

  “Don’t be daft, why not?” Tash asked. “He’s perfect. You said so yourself.”

  “No I didn’t. I said he was hot. But there’s hot, and there’s too hot.” She gave Tash her best ‘duh’ look. “I don’t want to get burned. I should start with someone less intimidating…” She nodded towards a thin bespectacled guy playing on one of the bar’s vintage pinball machines, who she vaguely recalled Tash and Imo discarding earlier. “How about Bill Gates over there?”

  “Bill is out.” Tash was adamant. “He’s probably more interested in getting onto the leader board than scoring a touchdown with you. And those glasses have definite nurture-me vibes. Too hot is what you want, or you’ll only get hooked into his nerd drama and go into share and discuss mode. That’s how you ended up letting Vince the Dick move in with you, remember? When he told you that sob story about his mother which wasn’t even true.”

  Fair point.

  Rosie’s gaze landed back on Mr. Too Hot. “But what if I get hooked into this guy’s drama? He looks sort of lonely don’t you think?” The surly look had to have a cause? She wondered what it could be? Had he been dumped on Valentine’s Day too?

  “Rosie, focus.” Tash snapped her fingers in front of Rosie’s nose. “You won’t get hooked into anything as long as you follow the three golden rules of booty call engagements.” Her friend held up her fingers to count them down, as if instructing the pottery class at the art college where all three of them worked on how to make the perfect throw down. “No surnames. No personal questions and under no circumstances are you to consider keeping him. Remember this is a use-him-then-lose-him deal. No relationship agendas allowed. Or you could end up getting hurt again. And that is not what this is about.” Tash’s gaze locked back on her prey. “But I don’t think you need to worry. I can spot a bad boy at thirty paces. If that guy ever had a mother, he’s not looking for another.”

  “Right,” Rosie said.

  Could she crush her curiosity about him? Ignore that blast of kinship? Put her desire to nurture on lockdown? Could one night of anonymous sex really cure her V-Day allergy and re-boot her love life?

  She shot back the last of the chilly daiquiri to ease the dryness in her throat and refilled her glass. Then asked herself the toughest question of all.

  Could she hook up with a complete stranger to find out?

  Her pulse raced, as she listened with half an ear to her friends composing the ‘perfect chat-up line’, the hum of excitement surprising her.

  An exceptionally hot complete stranger…

  But then she saw the hot stranger’s brows draw down as he spoke to the barman, making the surly frown even hotter. And her anticipation raced straight back into that brick wall called reality.

  Forget perfect. This chat-up line is going to have to be super-human if it’s going to get a badass like him to want to hook up with me.

  *

  “Give me a glass of whatever beer you’ve got on tap,” Caleb Landry shouted above the collective shrieking of the party of women behind him wearing bouncing pink dicks on their heads.

  “Sorry, mate, the taps are out,” the barman replied. “We’ve got bottles of cherry-flavored lager or strawberry cocktails left and that’s about it.”

  Cal scowled at the guy, who looked about seventeen. Son of a bitch, who did he have to kill to get a drink that wasn’t fucking pink tonight? “Guinness?”

  Baby-face nodded. “Bottled, yeah. Although I can’t guarantee it’s cold.”

  “Not a problem, I’ll take one.” Cal had worked for six months in a pub in Temple Bar eleven years ago, back when he’d first arrived in Europe, age eighteen, looking for anonymity, adventure and a chance to take his photography to the next level. The pictures he’d taken in Dublin’s tourist mecca had mostly been of gullible tourists and hammered rugby fans, but while there he’d discovered the smooth, rich, restorative qualities of Ireland’s favorite stout. And smooth was what he needed tonight, to blunt the jagged edges after six days spent handling his old man’s affairs and dealing with the ghosts of his childhood, and twenty-four hours spent traveling back to London from the no-hope small town near Buffalo in Upstate New York where he’d grown up.

  Drinking alone tonight would be bad, because of all the stuff he didn’t want to think about after burying his father – not to mention the nightmare that had accosted him at the funeral. So he’d jumped off the subway from Heathrow at Leicester Square and headed into Soho. Forgetting tonight was Valentine’s Day had been his second mistake. But he was stuck in the eye of the hurricane now until he got hammered enough to be able to face his empty apartment alone. Drinking anything pink, though, was out, because he did not need another reminder that every guy in this place was liable to get lucky tonight except him.

  Hell, probably even Barman Baby Face.

  What he wouldn’t give to have a warm body to take home and slide up against tonight. A body which was soft and round in all the right places and smelled of perfume and sin and could help take the emptiness away, no questions asked. But that wasn’t going to happen, because women always had questions, even when it came to one-night hook-ups. And anything resembling conversation was off the agenda after a week spent talking to funeral directors and lawyers and IRS bureaucrats … And that bastard, Decker.

  We need to talk, son.