Wilde Magic (Wilde Women Book 3) Read online

  “So, wait a minute. You met this guy at a party? What does that mean? You shook his hand and had a photo op?”

  Charlie giggled. “Actually, he found me raiding his pantry for some Skippy. Next thing I knew we were having a peanut butter picnic.”

  “A peanut butter picnic?”

  “Yeah,” she answered. “That and some other things.”

  “What other things?” Rhi instantly barked. “Please tell me you didn’t have sex with this, this … driver.”

  She chortled. “Fuck you, Rhi. I’m almost twenty-four. Don’t you think it’s time I cashed in my V-card? I mean, come on. That shit’s getting old.”

  “You will do no such thing,” Rhiann screeched. “Remember that summer we went to the Poconos? Mom and Dad rented a beautiful lake house. I still have the twig man and the little scrap of paper bag we used to make our list of the perfect man. We might’ve just been kids, but that was some powerful mojo we put out there in the universe. No random bed hopping for you young lady. Hear me? You’re destined for the charming prince and white knight scenario and don’t you forget it. And if this is about all those Italian hotties making you horny, just remember. A hand in the bush is better than a worthless dick.”

  She started laughing with real gusto. Rhiann had such a way with words. “Okay, okay. I hear you, and that’s kind of why I called. I need some advice.”

  “I’m all ears, sweetie.”

  “Okay. Here goes. We hung out for all of maybe forty-five minutes, so this does have a ships passing in the night quality. He asked how he could reach me, and I did that whole, if we’re meant to be thing.”

  “Uh huh. Typical hippie girl mumbo jumbo. Continue.”

  “Well, he must have pulled all kinds of strings because I just found out that my work assignment has been changed. Good-bye rugby hotheads and hello thrill seeker.”

  “Um, excuse me for being dense, but why does a racer need coloring books and museum visits?”

  Pfft. “Makes it worse that there’s a real reason, believe me. Apparently, he’s stalled in recovery following an accident. Thought surgery and prescriptions were going to make it all better. That’s where I come in.”

  “Smell the roses.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So, what’s the problem? Maybe you can help him …”

  “I probably can,” she interrupted brusquely. “I’m just annoyed that he’s manipulating the situation. I let him get kind of close, and,”

  “What? How close?”

  “Um, yeah. On his lap. Really, really slow, wet kisses.” She paused and didn’t continue.

  “Charlie.”

  She heard the warning in her sister’s voice. Gosh, and her heart was going crazy in her chest. I’m not a kid, she thought. Making out with a Mr. Sexy Pants was normal stuff for girls her age. Maybe she was making a big deal out of nothing. The pounding heart rate made a lie of that statement. What happened was a very big deal. For her. Rhi would understand.

  “Rhi. He has very nice hands. Big. Strong but gentle.”

  “Sweetie,” she heard her sister purr. “Oh, sweetie. Do you think he’s the one?”

  She didn’t have to draw Rhiann any pictures. Her sister got the gist of what Charlie was trying to say and would know full well the implications of her admission to enjoying a man’s intimate caress.

  “I could ask you the same question about your boss.”

  Rhiann sighed heavily. “What strange convergence of planets finds all three of us spinning out-of-control over men at the same time?”

  “Word,” Charlie mumbled. “I can’t do what you’re doing and avoid him. I’d get sacked in two minutes—so what do I do? It’s not all right that he came at me through my job.”

  Rhiann snorted with laughter. “Wake up, little sister. A man on the prowl will use whatever means available without remorse. Scruples be damned. Sounds to me like Paws has his radar set on you, little girl.”

  “Paws?” She let loose a burble of giggles.

  “Yep! Paws it is. Brynnie’s got the Butt Whacker so Paws seems fitting.”

  “So how do I play this? Paws off?”

  They both cracked up laughing.

  “Nah,” Rhiann exclaimed with delight. “That’d suck for you. Especially if he’s got the touch. Just remember who you are sweetie. This man’s fucking with the granddaughter of Bryanna Charles Baron-Wilde. All you need to ask yourself is, What Would Nana Do?”

  God, she loved her sister. “W-W-N-D. I love it! Better add that one to our expanding list of snark-ronyms.”

  “Snarky Acronyms for everyone!” Rhiann bellowed through the phone.

  “On that note, I’m signing off. Getting a technology headache.”

  “Come home soon, Charlize.”

  “Love your face, Rhiann.”

  A week later she was in full diva mode as she suited up for her initial getting-to-know-you meeting with her new client and his physician. He wanted to play with a marked deck? Fine. She’d be happy to demonstrate just who the hell he was dealing with.

  Destroying her tiny closet in the process, first she’d considered one of her Coachella-inspired outfits. The bohemian-gypsy look suited her well but discarded the choice when she saw how short it was.

  Next, she tried on her favorite vintage jeans with rips in all the appropriate places, pairing them with a smart-looking fringed jacket and a sexy lace camisole.

  That outfit also landed in a pile on the floor of her little bedroom. After a couple more misses, including a frumpy skirt and vest she thought made her look like a granny, Charlie prayed for inspiration.

  She needed something that gave at least a hint of the real her but also looked grown-up enough that the doctor would take her seriously. In the end, she went with an oldie but goodie: black tights, over the knee boots, and a short flowery dress with a cute denim jacket. Her usual array of necklaces and bead bracelets went on automatically. She rarely went anywhere without at least one crystal. On a whim, Charlie wrapped a long purple scarf around her neck several times. Fall was coming, and though the days were still quite warm, the temperatures plummeted once the sun went down. They were meeting late afternoon, so the scarf was practical.

  Posing before the mirror on her bedroom door, she undid her ponytail, shook out her hair and studied the reflection. This is who she was. A little bit rock ‘n roll, a double dose of 70’s chic and the finishing touches of a stage actress. There was nothing overtly sexual about her outfit unless you scored the short dress with extra points. The tights were opaque and not at all sheer, so no provocation there.

  It would have to do.

  She was an artist and for money taught others how to slow down and find enjoyment in simple things. There were plenty of studies and articles written about the benefits of artistic pursuits rivaling those associated with practicing yoga. Was what she did a bit unusual? Depends on which side of the holistic argument you sat on.

  Slinging a leather satchel with a cross body strap over her head, she swiped on some glossy lip tint and went out to meet her destiny.

  “THAT WENT WELL, DON’T YOU think?”

  Cal offered the enchanting art therapist a glass of wine, though her crinkled nose let him know his offer would be ignored.

  The meeting with Dr. Andriotti had been a nightmare, and none of his lame attempts to spin it otherwise were going to score any points. ‘tessa had been in a right, royal snit the moment she arrived. The team’s doctor only made things worse. Despite signing off on Cal’s request for special therapeutic services, Andriotti made it clear that he found her methods highly problematic. Calling her style, “unusually American,” he’d pretty much dismissed everything she said.

  Fuck him. Shuffling the pudgy Italian dottore out the door as soon as he could, Cal focused on just one thing. Getting the blonde beauty to smile at him again.

  Pursing her lips, signaling that she was about to put him on blast, he watched as she crossed her legs noticing immediately that she was shaking one
foot in an excited fashion.

  Ignoring the wine he offered, she sat back with a huff, crossed her arms and surveyed him with the complete lack of a readable expression. The look was practiced. He could tell. A defensive move for when she wasn’t sure of her situation. He wondered if she played poker. With that deceptively blank face she could take down a high stakes tournament without breaking a sweat. It scared the fucking shit out of him. Nothing ever shook him up. Not after everything he’d been through.

  “What do you want, Ty?” she snapped. “Why am I here?”

  Cal leaned against the desk at his back and clasped his hands in front of him. He was struggling to manage a ferocious erection that surged to life ten seconds after she came through the door. Surprised that he couldn’t control his response, he worried that he was coming on too strong. And then she got all snippy with him and the blood in his head rushed straight for his dick.

  Fan-fucking-tastic. Turned on by a pissed-off wild child. What the hell?

  “You know why you’re here, ‘tessa,” he murmured unapologetically. She huffed and swung her foot more determinedly. “Would you prefer that I lie?” he asked softly.

  He watched her closely. The blank expression wasn’t sustainable—not once her emotions kicked in. Cal noted the second she realized being a bitch wasn’t going to get her anywhere. The flash of relief in her gaze intrigued him. The Contessa didn’t like to play hard-ass. Good. Would save him the effort of having to break her down.

  Finally, after a minute of tense silence during which she never relaxed or stopped shaking her foot, she sniped, “That doctor is a boob.”

  When he heard the word, “boob,” Cal instinctively looked at hers. She narrowed her eyes and glared at him.

  Thalia told him to agree with everything she said and maybe do a bit of groveling to make up for throwing his considerable and unfair weight around. Okay. He could do that. Nodding, so she’d know he agreed with her opinion of the team’s doctor, he went with hopeful sincerity in his answer.

  “That’s why I asked for you. Physical therapy alone is a joke. I’m stronger now than before the accident but managing the pain is a real issue. My brain comprehends that there’s no reason for it but my body hasn’t gotten the memo. What you do is supposed to help.”

  “Mind-body integration,” she said with a brief nod.

  He didn’t give a shit what she called it as long as it led to her spending the next few weeks working with him on a daily basis.

  “So this is for real, then?”

  He cringed at the doubt in her voice. Smart girl. He liked that she wasn’t about to take any bullshit. After all, there was no use in pretending he didn’t have a fuck-load of ulterior motives. Cal felt the drumbeat of arousal inside him kick up a notch.

  “The universe wants you to fix me.”

  Now, in his defense, it’d taken most of last night to come up with that line. He thought it was pretty cute but the frigid expression and arched brow meeting this statement suggested she didn’t agree.

  “Are you making fun of me, Mr. Tyler? Because if that was your intent, fuck off and die.”

  A crash and burn warning bell clanged ominously in his mind. What did Thalia call him? An oafish American? Shit. He googled the word to make sure he got the pejorative wisecrack right.

  Was he stupid? Not really, but sometimes his cerebral humor sailed over others heads.

  How ‘bout uncultured? Well, maybe at one time but he’d been living in Europe for several years and knew how to play the game.

  And then there was clumsy as an oafish descriptor. That one stuck like a spitball hurled from the past. His older brother Jax got all the smooth moves while Cal was left to rely on looks, wiseass charm and a dick that performed well, even under pressure.

  Yeah. He was definitely blowing this. ‘tessa wasn’t like anyone he’d ever known. Cal tensed uncomfortably. Thinking he could dazzle her with his signature seduction was a bone-head miscalculation.

  Grinding his jaw, he thought, Okay, ya dumb fuck. Think! What would Jax do? Fending off the belly laugh that threatened when his imagination lit up like a neon marquee with the acronym W-W-J-D was hella’ hard.

  Soberly as he could, without sounding like a cartoon character, he addressed her direct challenge while consciously leaving any oafish behavior at the door.

  “Actually Baroness, I foolishly thought I was being cute.” Gallantly bowing—bowing made him seem cultured, right?—he offered a mea culpa of sorts. “If I didn’t believe your therapy approach would help, you wouldn’t be here.”

  He caught the flare in her eyes and relaxed. She might be pissed off that he’d manipulated the situation, but that didn’t mean she was there under duress.

  Grinning at her like an idiot, he quipped, “I would have found another way to spin my web.”

  Her soft smile at the reminder of their fly and spider repartee was almost as exhilarating as a victory lap.

  When her expression wasn’t on lock down, she had expressive eyes. Eyes that gave a lot away about what she was thinking and feeling. He felt bad for all of about a nanosecond that he could read her so easily. Unfair advantage? Absofuckinglutely. But just like on the track, he’d use whatever he had to cross the finish line.

  ’‘tessa wanted to cut him a break. It was written all over her face. But he could also see that she was trying to reconcile the obvious attraction between them with her professional responsibilities. Another way she was different.

  Cal didn’t think he was a man-whore but some of his more questionable hook-ups came close to falling into the unsettling category. When the lead reporter for a Bolivian news team flat out told him she’d fuck him senseless for an exclusive, he’d taken her up on the offer and been a cocky bastard about it after.

  He wasn’t completely brain dead. Even the slightest suggestion along those quid pro quo lines and his ‘tessa would be out the door in a flash. And most likely with his crushed balls tucked into her satchel.

  There were times when pushing at the edges was a successful maneuver. Every driver knew that. And there were other times when easing off and holding back showed the path to victory. Watching her closely, he downshifted enough for her to have some space. Let her think about things and see which way she wanted to go.

  What surprised the shit out of him was that he had no trouble handing her the pole position. He wasn’t a take directions or follow along kind of a guy. That’s not how you sustained a ride or got to the top of your game. But with her, he couldn’t deny the appeal of giving the sweet girl a chance to run the show. Lead the field, so to speak. His dick agreed. As usual, his fucking brain fired up with an erotic montage of possibilities. Most of them involved being naked.

  When she relaxed a bit and sat back in her chair, he saw the winner’s circle come into view. Part of him was happy dancing inside his head that she wasn’t going to shut his lame attempt to lure her in down, without giving him a chance. The other part was deciding how difficult getting into her tights was gonna be.

  Watching her legs cross in the other direction, Cal had a hundred fantasies crowding his thoughts about her and those thigh high suede boots. Her and nothing but those suede boots, wide legged and bent over the hood of his vintage 1970 SS 454 Chevelle.

  Jesus. Where the hell did that thought come from? The Chevy was in his parent’s garage and would stay there until or if, he ever decided it was time to go home. Go home and be Caleb Merrill again.

  “Is there a case of Skippy in your web, Mr. Tyler?”

  She asked the question with such an air of innocence that his brain briefly short-circuited. Ignoring the warning lights flashing on his mental dashboard, he bit off a smirk as he went and stood directly in front of her realizing belatedly that his arms crossed posture more or less shoved a blatantly obvious erection in her face.

  “Case of Skippy. Twelve-pack of Diet Coke. Box of Nutter Butter cookies.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “Standard web items. Now, if we’re talking about what’s stashed
in my bedroom,” he drawled. “That’s where the good stuff is. M & M’s. Peanut butter cups. Beefy Jerky,” he said with an eyebrow waggle.

  “Impressive, um … supplies.” She crossed her arms just like his and smiled so sweetly his teeth hurt just watching her.

  “I aim to please.”

  She colored to a deep rosy blush but didn’t look away.

  “Is that so?” she quipped with a starchy sniff. “Well, we’ll see about that.”

  Why did he feel like the tables just turned on him?

  Fiddling with the ends of her purple scarf, the one she’d unwound from her neck and draped around her shoulders, Charlie carefully considered the best way to put Mr. Sexy Pants and his know-all, see-all eyes in his place.

  She’d never survive an entire day with him if he kept up with the clever innuendos and obvious seduction campaign. Swatting back and staying one step ahead of that sort of shit was Rhi’s forte. Not hers.

  On reflex, her hand swung to touch, then clasp, the crystal necklace. A hippie girl through and through, crystals and hand-strung beads were her signature wardrobe and stylistic go-to since she could remember. She had a case brimming with crystal and gemstone jewelry that she switched out and changed up according to her mood. The stone she chose today was an amethyst, which she swore vibrated when negativity or evil invaded her aura.

  Did she consider Cal Tyler some sort of threat? No. Not in the classic sense of what danger meant. Being a natural blonde didn’t mean she was entirely daft. Even without a lot of experience in this area, she knew that for all intents and purposes, she was in way over her head with a man like him. Best come armed with whatever would keep him from just plowing her over from the sheer force of his overwhelming masculinity. Masculinity that at times scrambled her thought processes. Having him looming so big right in front of her face threw her off balance. The sly smirk on his face told her he knew damn well he was rattling her cage.

  Men. So friggin’ cocky. It’s like they think they own that crap or something. Sighing, Charlie gave the purple stone one last squeeze before meeting his eyes.