Bad Intentions by Tara Wyatt

1

July, five years ago

“Olivia! Holy shit. You look so freaking hot!” Olivia Walsh’s best friend Whitney Vanek pulled her in for a hug, then held her away, her eyes roving up and down Olivia’s body. “That dress is ridiculous! There’s no way Tyler doesn’t notice you in this.”

Blood rushed to her cheeks as she smoothed her hand down the front of the dress. It was made of red velvet and clung to her body, leaving very little to the imagination. Spaghetti straps held it up, and the front dipped into a deep V, exposing her cleavage. The straps crisscrossed over her back, meeting the fabric where it squeezed tight over her ass. It was a come fuck me dress if there’d ever been one, and she’d worn it tonight, the night of her 21^st birthday, because it made her feel sexy and grown up and ready to take on the world. After all, she was an adult now. Next year she’d finish her degree in art history, and she already knew that she wanted to go to Pratt to study interior design. She had an amazing group of friends, and it felt as though all of the elements of her life were coming together, snapping into place like puzzle pieces.

Minus the fact that she was single. Sure, she had the occasional hook up or after-bar make out, but that wasn’t what she wanted. She wanted a boyfriend. Someone to go on dates with and snuggle on the couch with and talk to about her life and her hopes and her problems. None of the guys she’d dated over the past few years had lasted more than a handful of weeks because they were just so…she didn’t know. They just weren’t what she was looking for. They were all too preoccupied with partying or hooking up or sports or whatever.

They all felt like boys. And she wanted a man.

With her arm looped through Whitney’s they stepped into the club, a small, upscale venue called the Canopy Lounge. She’d been to clubs and bars before, either joints that didn’t ask pretty girls for ID, or grimy bars where her fake ID was good enough as long as she had money. She’d never set foot in a place like this, with exposed brick walls, graffiti-style images of old-timey circus performers painted right onto the brick. Tea lights glowed from their recessed spaces among the bricks, and the furniture was all black leather and dark wood. A glamorous, art-deco style bar lined the far back wall, and a dance floor filled the space to the left. The entire VIP area was roped off with gold velvet rope, an enormous pair of balloons spelling out “21” coupled with a champagne bottle and a party hat floated in the far corner, just underneath an enormous black and gold sign proclaiming “Happy 21^st Olivia!”

Her father had recently invested in the hospitality company that owned this club—along with several other bars and restaurants in Manhattan—and had called in a favor from Prescott Group’s CEO in order to book out the entire VIP area for her birthday.

A wave of happiness and excitement crested through her as she took it all in, and she gave Whitney’s arm a squeeze. The VIP area was already packed with about forty people, including her closest friends, and…Tyler. Yay.

As she took a step forward, she cast a glance in Tyler’s direction, adjusting the fabric of her dress to show more of her cleavage. A black-clad bouncer unclipped the golden rope to let her and Whitney through and she spent the next several minutes running around and hugging everyone, accepting birthday wishes and compliments on her sexy dress. She’d had her hair blown out that afternoon, and it fell down her back in a glossy chestnut sheet. Because her dress was so sexy, she hadn’t wanted to overdo it with the makeup, keeping it pretty and subtle.

She felt gorgeous and grown-up and happy, as though she were on the cusp of everything she’d ever wanted.

“Liv!” She heard a familiar male voice and turned to find her dad standing on the other side of the golden rope, a giant, goofy smile on his face. It faltered slightly when he took in her dress, but he managed to smooth out his expression as she stood and walked toward him.

“Dad!” she said, flinging her arms around him and giving him a kiss on the cheek. “I wasn’t expecting to see you. Thank you for the party. It’s awesome.”

He stepped back and smoothed a hand down her arm. “You’re welcome, princess. I’m glad you’re having fun. Are you…are you cold? In that dress?” He frowned slightly and she laughed, shaking her head.

“No. I’m good.”

He sighed. “I can’t believe you’re twenty-one. I feel like just yesterday we were watching The Incredibles and reading Harriet the Spy.”

“Hey,” she said, socking him on the arm. “Don’t get all mushy on me, okay? This mascara isn’t waterproof.”

He grinned and pulled her in for another hug. “Your mother would be so proud of how you turned out. You’re smart and kind and you’ve grown into a stunningly beautiful young woman.” He hugged her tighter, her own chest constricting at the mention of her mother. “You look just like her, you know.”

She nodded against him, not caring if her friends saw her having a moment with her dad. Her mother had died in a car accident when Olivia had barely been three years old and her father had raised her on his own. So other people could think she was lame for loving her dad the way she did, but she didn’t give a shit what they thought.

“Anyway,” he said, pulling away, his eyes bright, “I just wanted to stop by and make sure everything was going well. I’ll get out of your hair and let you have fun with your friends. Just…be safe tonight, okay? Don’t overdo it.”

“I promise,” she said, giving his arm a squeeze. “Thank you again for arranging this for me. And thank the club owner, too. The service has been amazing.”

He nodded and then smiled at something over her head. “Actually, you can thank him yourself. He’s coming over.”

She turned and it felt as though the entire world dropped into slow motion. The man who was approaching looked as though he’d just stepped out of the pages of GQ with his perfectly styled, thick, dark hair, meticulously groomed stubble and light blue button down tucked into a pair of navy pants. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, showing off a swath of tanned skin over taut, flexing muscle. An enormous, expensive-looking watch adorned his wrist.

But it was his face that had her pinned in place, her heart throbbing relentlessly. Deep brown eyes, cheekbones and a jawline most models would kill for, full lips that looked designed for sin.

He was, hands down, the hottest guy she’d ever laid eyes on. Ever. As he got closer, she could see subtle lines fanning out around his eyes, making him a bit older than she’d originally thought, but it only added to his appeal. He moved with confidence, with this assured, masculine grace that she wanted to watch on repeat.

His gaze moved from her father to her and the expression on his face changed, morphing from polite interest to wolfish hunger, his eyes seeming to darken, his nostrils flaring slightly. He rubbed a hand over his mouth, his heated gaze eating her up in a way that had her stomach dipping and swirling as though she were on the world’s sexiest roller coaster.

Her father held out his hand and shook with Mr. Sexiest Man on the Planet, and then laid a hand on the small of her back.

“This is my daughter, Olivia,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the Jason Derulo song pumping through the speakers. “The birthday girl,” he added, and she blushed.

The man held out his hand and she took it, her entire arm vibrating with an electrical pulse as her palm slid against his.

“Lucian Prescott,” he said, his voice deliciously deep and with a hint of a growl to it. “Welcome to the Canopy Club.”

“Nice to meet you,” she managed, her entire body alive with awareness. “And thank you. We’re having a really good time.”

He tipped his head as he slipped his hands into his pockets, flashing her a grin that had heat flushing through her body. “Happy birthday. Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be around.”

“Good. I mean,” she licked her lips, shaking her head. “Thank you. I’ll let you know.”

“Make sure she gets home safely,” said her father, slapping Lucian on the shoulder.

“Of course.” His gaze roved over her, skimming over her face, her cleavage, her legs and then lingering on her lips. “I’ll keep an eye on her.”

Her father nodded and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Have fun, princess. I’ll see you for lunch tomorrow, okay?”

She nodded, leaning into the kiss. “Thanks again, Dad. This is really awesome.”

He grinned at her, and she turned back to talk to Lucian, but he’d already retreated, his broad shoulders moving through the club toward the bar.

Screw Tyler. She knew who she wanted to go home with tonight, and it wasn’t some scrawny twenty-one-year-old kid. She’d been looking for a man, and good Lord, had she found one.

* * *

It was well after two in the morning, and the party was starting to wind down. Apparently even college kids got tired eventually, although Lucian was having a hard time remembering what it felt like to be that young. Normally he didn’t book out his venues for private parties, but Gavin Walsh was his company’s newest investor and had given them a massive influx of cash that would allow them to expand and grow, and he hadn’t thought it prudent to turn down the man’s request for a favor.

And the favor itself had felt completely harmless until he’d laid eyes on her. Olivia Walsh.

Twenty-one-year-old Olivia Walsh, he reminded himself as he sat down at the bar, finally allowing himself a drink now that the night was almost over. Not only was she the daughter of his newest investor, but she was eighteen fucking years younger than him. But that knowledge hadn’t been enough to stop him from watching her all night. He’d watched her laugh with her friends, her head thrown back, exposing the long, elegant column of her neck. He’d watched her dance, her outrageously sexy body moving in time to the music, breasts bouncing, hips swaying.

He couldn’t remember the last time watching a woman dance had made him hard as fucking steel, like some sex starved teenager.

He’d also watched several young men try to flirt with her, and she hadn’t seemed even remotely interested in any of them. Instead, her big eyes had kept searching him out, lingering on him.

Interesting.

No, it’s not, he chastised himself, taking a small sip of his whiskey.

A luscious, red-velvet clad body slid onto the barstool beside him, his eyes roving over shapely, slender legs before he dragged them up her body to her face. Enormous brown eyes fanned with thick lashes, pert little nose, wide mouth that he’d watched spread into a gorgeous smile over and over again tonight.

She swung around to face him, her foot grazing against his shin. Twirling a strand of thick, glossy brown hair between her fingers, she shot him a coy smile. “Buy the birthday girl a drink?”

He stared at that strand of hair between her fingers, imagining the silky strands wrapped around his fist as he…

He cleared his throat and shook his head. Fuck, if she were ten years older, he would’ve taken her home over an hour ago.

But she wasn’t. She was twenty fucking one. Sexy as hell, but twenty fucking one.

She leaned a bit closer, her dress falling away from her chest and giving him a mouthwatering view of the soft, rounded tops of her breasts. “I don’t bite,” she said, then laughed softly. “I mean, unless that’s what you’re into.”

Oh, fuck. She was hitting on him, and he was only human. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

He squinted, studying her, weighing his options. She seemed nice and buzzed but not falling down drunk. Maybe if he agreed to a drink, talked to her a little, this burning spark would fizzle out and that would be that.

He tipped his head. “One drink, then,” he said, leaving her flirty remark deliberately untouched. Even as he imagined her sinking her teeth into his shoulder as he…

She’s twenty fucking one and Gavin Walsh’s daughter. Fucking stop. Now.

He signaled to the bartender, who quickly mixed up the whiskey sour she ordered.

She took a sip and then bit her lip, her gaze darting around the club. “Thank you again for hosting us tonight. You have a really nice place.” She stirred her drink, licking her lips, drawing his attention to her mouth and all the things he’d like to do with it.

“You’re welcome. Happy birthday,” he said, gently clinking his glass against hers. He leaned an elbow on the bar, facing her. “I hope you had a good time.”

She smiled, warmth pulsing through him. “I definitely did. I couldn’t have asked for a better birthday.”

He took a sip of his drink. “So you got everything you wanted, then.”

Suddenly, her hand was on his thigh, his skin tightening at the unexpected contact. “Well, maybe not everything.”

He chuckled and very gently removed her hand, placing it back on the bar. “I’m flattered, but I’m too old for you, sweetheart. Find a guy your age to go home with.” Even as he said the words, they tasted acrid in his mouth.

The corner of her mouth quirked up. “Not a huge fan of guys my age, actually.”

He took a healthy swallow of his drink and steered the conversation back into neutral waters. “Your father says you’re an art history major at Columbia.”

She held his eyes for a moment and then nodded. “I’m headed into my senior year and then I’m planning to go to Pratt for interior design.”

His eyebrows rose, his intrigue growing. Not only was she gorgeous, but she was smart and ambitious, apparently. “Pratt’s no joke,” he said. “Why interior design?”

Her face lit up, and it was like watching the sun rise after a long, dark night. “Because I think everyone deserves to have a comfortable, welcoming home that reflects who they are. We spend so much time in our homes, and my goal is to make those spaces as beautiful as possible while still being useful and comfortable. If you don’t feel comfortable and at ease at home, that’s hard.” She licked her lips and then sighed. “My…my mom was an interior designer. She died when I was really little, and…I don’t know. Having the same career ambitions as her—and they are mine, I’m not doing this out of some kind of misplaced grief—it makes me feel a little closer to her.” Her eyes were unfocused, distant. He felt a tug in his chest, an echo of the pain she must’ve experienced growing up without a mother. She shook her head, tearing herself out of whatever memory had consumed her just now. “Sorry. TMI. That’s a lot more answer than you bargained for.”

“It’s okay. I obviously never knew her, but I’m sure she’d be proud of you.”

She bit her lip and nodded. “I hope so.” She took a sip of her drink and then swung that bottomless gaze back to him. “So you own a bunch of restaurants and clubs? That’s your thing?”

He nodded. “Prescott Group is a hospitality company, so we own and run restaurants, bars, nightclubs. We’re expanding into other cities, mostly thanks to your father’s investment.”

“You must be doing well if he invested. He’s a lot more risk averse with his investments than he was even five years ago.”

Lucian blinked slowly, once again blown away by her seemingly off-hand comment. “We’ve been pretty successful, yes. I started out with a single restaurant that I opened when I was twenty, and it grew from there.”

Her eyes widened. “You opened a restaurant at twenty? That’s impressive. Even more so that it was successful, given how ruthless the restaurant industry is.”

He grinned. “I’m good at what I do.”

“Are you married?” she asked suddenly, shifting on her stool.

He shook his head slowly. “No. I’m not married.”

“Girlfriend?”

“Olivia—” he started, knowing he had to nip this in the bud.

“Boyfriend?” she asked, undeterred.

“No. I’m straight and I’m single.”

The light in her eyes shifted, heat blossoming as her eyes took a slow walk up and down his body. Then, she slid off the stool and stepped directly in front of him, practically standing between his legs. He clenched his jaw, fighting back the urge to slip his hands around her waist. She slid her hands up his arms and around his neck, making his dick throb.

“Well, in that case…” she leaned in closer, so close that he could smell the warm vanilla scent wafting off her skin. “I think you’re really sexy.”

He shook his head slowly, pretty sure he was on the verge of cracking a molar. “I’m too old for you.”

“How old are you?” She shifted a little closer and he lost the battle he’d been fighting, his hands landing on her hips. She swayed into him slightly, making his blood roar through his veins.

“How old do you think I am?” he asked. He lifted one of his hands from her hips and wrapped a lock of her soft hair around his finger.

“Thirty-five?”

He shook his head. “Thirty-nine. I’ll be forty in January.”

She shrugged. “That doesn’t bother me. Besides, isn’t it up to me to decide if you’re too old for me?”

“Mmm,” he said, toying with the lock of her hair. His cock strained against his zipper, his blood scorching. It felt as though all of the oxygen were being sucked out of the room as he fought against himself. “Then you’re too young for me.”

“Don’t pretend you don’t want me,” she said, leaning closer and bringing her lips to his ear. “Don’t pretend you’re not hard just thinking about me in your bed.”

God, she was undoing him, and that was a dangerous thing, for so many reasons. Decision made, he stood and took her hand in his.

“I have an Uber waiting outside,” he said, leading her through the club, not letting himself think about how good her small hand felt in his. “You’ve got your purse? Keys, phone?” She nodded and then followed him, letting him lead her to the club’s front doors and out into the warm summer night. The Uber he’d called earlier for her was waiting by the curb, idling.

He opened the rear passenger door, holding it open for her. But instead of sliding in after her, he shut the door, then leaned into the open front window.

“Take her home. Goodnight, Olivia.”

He turned around and headed back into the club, glancing over his shoulder to watch the car merge into traffic. Away from him and all of the depraved thoughts screaming through his mind.