Make Me

  An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

  www.ellorascave.com

  Make Me

  ISBN 9781419912924

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  Make Me Copyright © 2007 Sierra Dafoe

  Edited by Kelli Kwiatkowski.

  Cover art by Syneca.

  Electronic book Publication October 2007

  This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

  Make Me

  Sierra Dafoe

  Trademarks Acknowledgment

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  Birkenstock: Birkenstock Orthopaedie GmbH & Co.

  Brooks Brothers: Retail Brand Alliance, Inc.

  Chapter One

  “See Me Now Promotions, can I help you?”

  The sun wasn’t even up yet when Larissa strode into her agency, and already the damn phone was ringing. Christ, she hated the holiday season, which for her really got jumping in early October as boutiques and retailers geared up for their Christmas ad campaigns.

  Swear to God, sometimes she didn’t care how good the money was—by Thanksgiving, she knew, she’d be tempted to chuck the whole thing.

  Darlene, her secretary, cupped her hand over the phone, shooting her an inquiring glance. Larissa shook her head sharply. Hell no. She hadn’t even had coffee yet. No way was she going to deal with some prick who thought his needs were so crucial he called at—she checked her watch—7:03 in the morning, before she’d even had caffeine.

  Larissa started toward her office but Darlene motioned frantically, tucking the phone between shoulder and chin as she scribbled a note. “I’m sorry, but Ms. Hardy won’t be available ’til the office opens at eight… Uh huh. Uh huh…”

  Bending over Darlene’s shoulder, Larissa glanced at her hurried scrawl.

  Man—waiting in your office. Said it was urgent.

  “Damn it, Darlene!”

  Covering the phone quickly, Darlene whispered, “I couldn’t keep him out! He was waiting outside when I got here.”

  “At seven a.m.? Jesus Christ.”

  Darlene opened her mouth to add something, but just then the second line beeped. Rolling her eyes, she spun back to the desk and spoke into the phone. “Yes, can she call you back? Great. Thanks… See Me Now Promotions, can I help you?”

  Shit, Larissa thought as she paced down the hallway. Early morning was her best brainstorming time, and she’d counted on having her usual hour before opening to work on the Diamond Exchange account—a major coup for her, that one. Besides, she was in a piss-poor mood at the moment—and slightly hung over, thank you very much. Once again, her latest dating prospect had crashed and burned, and the last thing she was in a mood to be was pleasant to anyone, much less a prospective client.

  What the hell was the problem, anyway? She was everything men always said they wanted—or what they said they wanted in personal ads, anyway. She was articulate, self-confident, attractive enough if no raging beauty—and pretty damn successful if she said so herself. She should have had a dating calendar as crammed to the gills as her client roster. But instead, the guys she went out with invariably discovered somewhere around the third beer that what they really wanted was some meek little pushover who’d bat her eyes up at them and make them feel like a real man. Quote unquote.

  Larissa snorted. So far as she was concerned, a real man wouldn’t be intimidated by her height, her smarts or her determination. The only problem was she hadn’t met one yet. And when these “Oh, look at me, I buy my suits at Brooks Brothers” Johnny-Come-Quicklies started in with the song and whine about how maybe she ought to try acting a little more feminine, Larissa couldn’t resist baring her teeth and saying, “Make me.”

  The bitch of it all was that not one of them was bright enough to realize she meant it.

  Her snort petered out into a deep-drawn sigh. The thing was, she wanted to be overpowered by a man. Hell, even Scarlett had had her Rhett. All she ever seemed to get were Ashley Wilkses. But unlike Scarlett, Larissa was smart enough to recognize weakness when she saw it—and not one of her Ashley wannabes had the sense to so much as grab her and give her a single good, solid kiss. They were always too busy either trying to impress her or being pissed that she didn’t flutter her lashes and coo like a goddamned dove.

  So no, being polite to some asshole who muscled his way into her office at seven a.m. in the damn morning was nowhere on her list of priorities. Coffee was.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, putting on her best I’d looove to talk to you, really smile as she pushed open her office door, “but we’re not even open for another—”

  The man standing in her office turned around, and Larissa felt her smile freeze on her face.

  Oh…dear…God.

  It wasn’t just that he was tall—he was, though, tall enough that Larissa could have worn her high heels and she’d still be looking up at him. Tall and perfectly proportioned, with wide, powerful shoulders under a suit that decidedly had not come from Brooks Brothers, taut thighs, a lean waist…

  No junior executive desk paunch here, she thought faintly. Nope. Not a bit.

  It wasn’t even his face, although saying he was handsome was like saying Mount Everest was big. His features were commanding, with a high-bridged, rather European nose, a strong jaw that swept back to perfectly shaped ears—she had a weakness for ears, for some unfathomable reason—and a broad, even brow. Above it, thick waves of raven-black hair fell in an artful tousle to the collar of his jacket, and his lips had a wicked little upward curve to them that made him seem like he was perpetually imagining something, well, naughty.

  No, what really made her stop in her tracks, forgetting about coffee, forgetting her words, forgetting about the damn wimpy-assed second-tier stockbroker yesterday evening who’d dithered and fidgeted and still couldn’t get up the nerve to kiss her good night—was his eyes.

  Nobody’s eyes are that green…are they? Green like emeralds, rich and deep and crystalline clear. A green that pierced through her like lightning, bypassing her brain altogether and slamming straight to her cunt.

  “Fifty-four minutes,” he said.

  “Huh?”

  “You don’t open for another fifty-four minutes.”

  “Yes, I know that.” His words pissed her off, for which Larissa was deeply grateful. Okay, she’d felt her fair share of instantaneous attraction—an attraction that usually petered out somewhere about the second dull, unfulfilling fuck—but this was ridiculous! Her knees were literally about to buckle, and frankly she’d always thought that was a myth.

  And what really pissed her off was that this bastard looked like he knew exactly what effect he was having on her. His eyes gleamed as he studied her, his gaze trailing far too intimately down her body.

  “Look,” she continued sharply, propping her hands on her hips. “You can’t just come barging in here. I’ve got a lot of work to do this morning. You’ll have to make an appointment.”

  “No.”

  “What?”

  “No. I don’t have time for an appointment. I need you to do a campaign for me—”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t simply take on clients like some people adopt stray dogs.” Her words were tarter than she’d meant them to be, but the corners of the man’s mouth lifted in a brief, sardonic smile. “If you’d like to come back later, Mister…”

>   “Dane. Adrian Dane.”

  Naturally, Larissa thought. Your parents couldn’t have taken it easy on me and named you Phil or Henry or something like that. Of course not.

  Worse, the sound of his voice was quickly completing the job on her knees. It was deep, rich, with a faint gravelly harshness to it that seemed to wake every single one of her nerve endings up in a hurry, no coffee needed. Her nipples, she realized uncomfortably, had tightened to hard, tingling points.

  “I’ll pay you a ten-thousand-dollar advance, plus whatever fees and expenses you feel are appropriate. Now, can we get down to business?”

  Absolutely, her traitorous mind whispered. How does the desk sound? Or the floor? Or we could do it standing up, that’d be fine, too.

  Larissa glared. “Okay, I’ll give you ten minutes—”

  “I’ve only got five.”

  “Talk fast, then,” she snapped. “What’s your budget?”

  “Whatever it needs to be.”

  Either you’re clueless or you’re insane. She wished he’d sit down. Having him tower over her was decidedly unnerving. “For a major campaign we could be talking seventy, eighty grand, easy. That’s print only, no air time.”

  Adrian just gazed at her flatly, waiting, his expression clearly saying, Can we get on with it, please? The number hadn’t even fazed him. “Fine,” she said, turning toward the counter above her drafting table where—saints be praised!—Darlene had already started her coffeemaker. Not that she was sure she still wanted any; her heart was already beating triple time as it was. “What’s the project?”

  “A vampire ball. I’m opening a nightclub called Sang Rouge.”

  “Blood Red,” Larissa translated as she poured. “That’s not bad.”

  “Thank you.” His lifted eyebrow, though, seemed to say, Did I ask your opinion? “The vampire ball’s just a gimmick to kick it off. I need someone to advertise the event, and I heard you’re fast.”

  His eyes were definitely short-circuiting her brain, because before she’d thought about what she was saying, Larissa quipped, “That’s not a very nice thing to say about a lady.”

  Oh dear God, did I just flirt with him? She was appalled. But Adrian merely grimaced and looked at his watch. “Do you mind if we skip the pleasantries? I’m almost out of time.”

  Skipping pleasantries was something Adrian Dane would be good at, she’d bet. Even with him standing a good six feet away, she could feel the heat radiating off his body. He probably wouldn’t even waste time taking off her skirt—he’d just push it up over her hips, grab her panties, yank them down… A sudden explosion of wetness between her thighs dragged Larissa’s thoughts back to the present, and she realized her fingers were trembling badly. Hastily setting down her coffee cup, she replied, “Sure. Whatever you say. When’s the opening?”

  “Halloween.”

  She stared at him, mouth agape.

  Christ, she hated people like him. People who had no idea what her job entailed, who thought you could just book prime ad spots at the drop of a hat or toss up a few flyers and call it good.

  “That’s impossible,” she snapped. “Halloween is next Wednesday.”

  Adrian gestured impatiently. “It’s only Friday. You’ve got the weekend.”

  The way he said it staggered her—as if he was suggesting something as simple as putting together a bake sale. Throw up a few card tables, frost a few cakes… “Do you have any idea,” she demanded, “what it takes to launch a new nightclub in this city? There’s no way to put that kind of campaign together in six days’ time! You should have started planning an advertising blitz months ago.”

  His jaw tightened, his eyes flashing green fire, and Larissa suddenly wanted to step back about half a mile. Either that or rip her own clothes off to spare him the bother.

  “I’m not interested in what I should have done. I’m interested in what you can do. I’ll pay you ten thousand up front, right now. We can discuss the rest tonight at the club.”

  “No,” she said, even though her knees were trembling so badly she was afraid she might collapse in a puddle right at his feet. And how would that look?

  “Excuse me?”

  The offended hauteur in his face was really too much. Larissa stalked past him, heading for her office door. “I said no, Mr. Dane. Now, if you’ll—”

  Quick as a snake, he reached out, grabbed her arm and dragged her to him. His green eyes blazed down at her and his voice was a low, dangerous murmur. The sound sent a tingle all the way from her scalp to her throbbing clit. “Do you really want to tell me no, Ms. Hardy?”

  Christ, but he was arrogant! And nice-smelling, too, her distracted mind noted. His heat surrounded her, enveloping her in a warm, spicy aroma that made her think of exotic markets, mythical islands…and sex. Definitely sex.

  If he tilted his head just two inches more…

  Larissa’s spine stiffened. Who the hell did he think he was? Did he think he could just intimidate her into caving in? Hell, she couldn’t even count the number of men who’d tried to tell her she couldn’t run her own agency, that she wasn’t experienced enough or well-known enough or just plain tough enough.

  She was tough enough, all right. Tough enough to have built See Me Now Promotions into one of the best boutique agencies in New York. And if this asshole wanted an ad campaign in five days, then Goddamn it, he’d have one.

  But he wouldn’t intimidate her.

  “Fine,” she snapped, yanking her arm from his grasp. “You can leave a five-hundred-dollar check with my secretary. That’s my usual one-hour consultation fee. What time tonight?”

  Unexpectedly, Adrian grinned—a quick, almost feral flash of gleaming white teeth—and damned if that didn’t make her hornier than ever. “You’ve got steel, Ms. Hardy. Nine o’clock.”

  With that, he turned and strode out of her office, leaving her clinging to the narrow support of the counter with her knees shaking and her brain whirling helplessly somewhere between fury and full-throttle lust.

  * * * * *

  Leaving the agency, Adrian scowled at the sky and slid on his sunglasses. Down here, the streets were still wrapped in shadows, but far above the towering buildings the clear October blue of the sky was already dangerously bright.

  He’d have to hurry.

  He hadn’t meant to stay more than five minutes at the agency. Then again, he hadn’t expected to meet such resistance to what was, after all, a straightforward business proposal.

  Damn the woman, anyway! The way she’d stood there staring him down, all but coming right out and saying he was mad to be launching a nightclub on less than a week’s notice. Maybe he was—but was it her place to tell him so?

  Adrian didn’t think so.

  He’d liked what he’d heard about Larissa Hardy. Tough as nails, but she gets the job done. That had been one comment, uttered in a tone of begrudging admiration by a local shopkeeper. The man had been right about that, Adrian was certain. Competent, determined—and honest. Ninety-nine people out of a hundred would have taken the ten grand in something less than a heartbeat. Larissa, on the other hand, had practically thrown his money back in his face.

  But the main reason he’d chosen her was simply location—her office was only four blocks from the nightclub. That, and the fact that she invariably showed up an hour early. He had to open Sang Rouge on Halloween. He had to. Adrian didn’t know how he knew this, any more than he knew why the derelict brick building had first called to him. He didn’t weigh decisions or make careful, drawn-out calculations—he went with his gut. And the moment he’d seen the building, his gut had told him instantly that here, on Halloween night, he would find his mate.

  He’d purchased and redone the place lavishly, sparing no expense in his drive to have it completed on schedule. He didn’t have time to be distracted by some stubborn businesswoman who obviously felt his plans ought to fit into her neat preconceptions.

  Adrian’s lips curved in a rueful smile. None of the boutique owne
rs he’d talked to had thought to mention the unexpectedly luscious curves of Larissa’s body—curves she obviously tried to disguise under her no-nonsense business suit—or the way her hazel eyes sparked with fire when she was challenged. And nothing could have prepared him for the way his cock had immediately hardened when she’d challenged him, eyes flashing, chin raised in defiance.

  It had been all he could do not to bend her over her desk and take her right there. Only the impending sunrise had kept his lust in check.

  Cutting smoothly through the early-morning press of pedestrians, Adrian glanced at his watch. 7:16. That really was cutting it fine. But as he swung around the corner, he could see the sign the workmen had hung only yesterday halfway down the block, its understatedly elegant lettering picked out in gold paint.

  Sang Rouge.

  He’d long ago lost the insatiable appetite of the newly turned vampire, the frantic bloodlust that had led him to feed on whatever prey he could find. For long, long years now he’d been hunting for more than just meat. He was looking for passion, intelligence, companionship, desire…

  An equal. A soul mate. And he was damned if he’d let Larissa Hardy derail his plans.

  He could still see her standing there, her long, shapely body rigid with defiance. Its uncompromising posture and unexpected softness had almost seemed to dare him, saying in the wordless language of flesh, Come on, then. Come on and make me.

  His balls still throbbed with the desire to do exactly that. In fact, his cock was so erect it strained at the waistband of his trousers, and he was painfully conscious of his testicles, heavy with unspent come, rubbing against the fabric. The sensation tormented him as he strode the last few yards to the club, just ahead of the sun’s first rays.

  Then he stopped short, finally hearing the message his aching balls were sending. His eyes widened in shock. Glancing up at the sign hanging over the entrance, Adrian laughed aloud at the irony of it all.