Still a Bad Boy: A New Adult Romantic Suspense

Ada Scott

Published by Ada Scott

Copyright 2015 Ada Scott

Cover Design: Kevin McGrath

http://www.kevindoesart.com/

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License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Disclaimer

All characters and events are entirely fictional and any resemblances to persons living or dead and circumstances are purely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

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Chapter 1

Kendall

I didn’t dare move for fear of breaking something.  If I did, I’d probably have to declare bankruptcy.  It was only a waiting room, but I’d never seen such lavish attention to detail before.

If I wasn’t mistaken, that was a real Van Achthoven painting on the wall.  Even the receptionist’s desk looked like something the President might have to save up for.

All glass, it seemed to be custom made to show off her long legs from all angles.  She had them crossed, making her short skirt ride high as she tapped away on the keyboard in front of her, sometimes pressing the button on the wireless headset to answer calls.

Back home in Woodville I felt small.  When I moved to the city, I felt tiny.  Now, especially under her occasional disdainful glance, I felt positively microscopic.

I wrung my hands in my lap, second-guessing myself for the millionth time about the big move.  I’d thought I’d show my family that I could be something, but I’d been here for months and I was still just an intern at The Weekly Enquirer.

My funds were evaporating fast.  If my boss, Mr.  Kinsley, didn’t give me the actual job he’d promised me soon, I’d have to go home with my tail between my legs.

So why did he send me to interview Jace Barlow, the mysterious man who took his one hundred and eighty million dollar lottery winnings and quickly turned it into an empire pushing at a billion dollar valuation?

Was it because he liked my “moxie,” as he liked to say to the people he actually paid to work? Because he saw some untapped potential in me? No.

As Mr.  Kinsley said in the meeting room in front of everybody, as if I wasn’t even there, Jace Barlow had scheduled and cancelled meetings with every major publication you could think of dozens of times.  It was like a joke to the new multi-millionaire to screw with the media.

So send me to the appointment, and then when Barlow cancels again, at least nobody important will have wasted their time.

The receptionist’s headset beeped and she pressed the button.  “Yes sir? Of course, sir.  Yes I’ll tell her.  One moment.”

This was it.  I looked over at the tall blonde as she unhooked the headset from her ear and stood up, smoothing her skirt.  Was she going to escort me all the way to the elevator?

“Miss Brookes?” she asked.

“Yes?”

“Mr.  Barlow will see you now.”

I had to let that set in for a moment as my heart seemed to say “Right, I’m outta here” and tried to make good its escape via my throat.  Swallowing hard, I managed to get it back down.

“What?”

“Mr.  Barlow will see you.  Now.  You’ll have to hand over your phone, and do you have any recording devices?”

I fumbled at my little handbag.  “Uh… I’ve got a…” My mind went blank looking for the word.  “Dictaphone!” I blurted out.

You could almost see the concentration in the receptionist’s face as she tried not to roll her eyes at a so-called journalist who couldn’t remember what a Dictaphone was.  With shaking hands, I opened my handbag and took out the offending items.

The receptionist walked around her desk with a supermodel sashay and reached out for them.  “I’ll keep them in a secure container until your meeting is finished.”

This couldn’t be happening.  A nobody like me doesn’t interview the most elusive man in the city.  Mr.  Kinsley didn’t even give me a questionnaire, he was that sure this was going to be a bust.  I had nothing prepared to ask him and I was about to walk into an interview that famous journalists would kill their own mothers to conduct.

She confiscated the forbidden electronics and put them in a drawer before beckoning me through the door behind her desk.  Once on the other side, I could see that the horizontal strips of mirror on the wall of frosted glass were actually one-way, so you could see into the waiting room like you were peeking out from a bunker without being seen.

There was no time to contemplate that though, as I was led at a brisk pace down a long hallway.  At the end was a door, flanked by two men wearing suits and looking for all the world like Secret Service agents.  One of them told me to hold my arms out to my sides as he waved a metal detector over me, while the other inspected my handbag for contraband.

I felt like it was a pretty thorough inspection before walking the plank.  What would they do to me back at work when they heard I actually made it into Jace Barlow’s office? I racked my brain trying to think of everything I’d heard about him, trying to come up with something halfway relevant to ask.

About a year before I would have been ready, the security men were apparently satisfied that I wasn’t an assassin, and gave me the all clear.  The receptionist knocked on the door and opened it, ushering me through before standing at my side.

If I thought the waiting room was expensively decorated, it had nothing on Jace Barlow’s office.  Everywhere I looked were sleek, sophisticated lines, fine furniture and tasteful art.

The man himself was sitting behind his desk, and my breath caught in my throat.  I’d seen pictures of him before, of course, usually with a woman who looked like this receptionist on his arm.  So I knew he was handsome, but I never could have expected what it would feel like to have those eyes on me in person.

All the luxurious surroundings and art in the world couldn’t hide the fact that he wasn’t born with a silver spoon in his mouth.  I could see the edges of tattoos on his neck and arms, lurking just under the Armani, like snakes waiting to ambush unwary prey.  He looked like if he flexed his muscles the suit would explode off of him as if he was a bomb.

Behind those dark eyes, I swore I could see thoughts beneath the surface that contrasted just as starkly with the cool exterior.  None of the guys back home ever looked at me like that, and in this big city I was practically invisible.  I almost felt naked in front of him.

It’s a shame that the more you try to stop a blush, the worse it gets.  I hated standing next to this beautiful tall woman.  It was impossible not to notice the contrast between the two of us.  She looked a lot like my sisters, and that was one of the comparisons I’d been desperate to get away from my whole life.