Swindled (Close Contact Book 1) by Megan Mitcham Page B

face flush with ecstasy as he slid inside her. The thrill worked him over in ways he’d never known existed in his thirty-five years, and twenty of those had been lived on the edge of legal and off the cliff of moral.
    The black-eyed, porcelain-faced beauty chucked the flute into the large planter, dropped the diamond into her purse, and stomped toward the hallway which lead to the restrooms. A grin quirked his mouth.
    “Let’s go.” He shrugged the women off his ear and hauled her behind him down the stairs, through the corridor, and to the entrance of the women’s bathroom. When he finally turned and looked down, her light blue eyes glittered mischievously. A little too much like his own. “You come, and then you go. You’re not the one who’ll change me or pin me down. You don’t love me. You don’t know me, and probably have no idea what love really is. Understand?” Her eager hand shot to his fly. “You. Not me.”
    “Okay,” she panted, flashing blinding white caps and batting fake lashes.
    So much in his world was fake, he longed for something real. This probably wasn’t the best way to go about getting it, but it sure stirred his blood.

    * * *
    D etermined to search the kitchen and back rooms before heading home, Harper flushed the toilet. The door opened and a giggle accompanied two sets of shoes. Reaching for her matching lace thong, she continued righting herself.
    “But someone’s in here,” a woman whispered.
    Harper hurried to smooth her dress and split before the chick pulled out a bag of smack. There was only one person worth arresting tonight, and his voice was deeper than that.
    “I know,” rumbled the voice she’d swear her mind conjured.
    She’d listened to that gooey caramel tone for hours on end. Following along with the translations hadn’t diminished its panty-dropping effect. But that couldn’t be Declan. Not after the stunt he’d pulled.
    A throaty moan split the air. Harper flushed rooftop-in-July-hot and clamped a hand over her own mouth. She didn’t want to get caught in the middle of a fuck-fest, unless she was center stage. If it was in fact Magnus Declan, she had to know. Yet, she couldn’t risk chasing him away by barging out of the stall unprepared.
    “Ooohhh yes,” the woman groaned, “right there.”
    Curse her body to hell and back. Harper’s lady boner swelled to life as though it garnered the attention being awarded another. Releasing her mouth, she inhaled a deep quiet breath and steadied one hand on the metal wall. With the other, she grabbed her clutch from the top of the paper dispenser. One more fortifying breath and she leaned toward the gap between the door and stall.
    Her heart ping-ponged between her belly and throat.
    Baron Magnus Declan’s hips nestled in the V of a woman’s legs. Her blue dress fanned on the counter around her bare bottom while her panties dangled from the tip of a jeweled, white Manolo. Only the angle allowed the full view because his breadth could easily hide a slight woman or two. The broad’s head arched toward the ceiling, missing the best part of the whole damn experience.
    The man’s face was the only thing in all of Manhattan worthy of being called art. His wide jaw looked like it could take a solid punch, while his lips could kiss any hurt away. And those azure blue eyes…
    O h god, he’s looking right at me.
    Thinking she may have been mistaken, Harper didn’t move. She didn’t want to draw his attention. But the longer she watched, the more clear it became. His fingers worked the woman splayed on the counter, but he stared into her eyes. The woman’s hips rocked. His gaze did not.
    An orange, spray-tanned hand coasted over his shoulder, and his gaze snapped away. “Grip the counter,” he demanded.
    Harper covered her heart with her hand, trying to stop the frantic rhythm. She only succeeded in stimulating her nipples. In a flash, his blue eyes returned to her. The attention seared hot in her core. He