Cold hearted bastard, p.1
Cold Hearted Bastard, page 1
Cold Hearted Bastard
Jennifer Dawson
Contents
Praise for Jennifer Dawson
Cold Hearted Bastard
1. Jackson
2. Gwen
3. Gwen
4. Gwen
5. Jackson
6. Jackson
7. Jackson
8. Gwen
9. Gwen
10. Gwen
11. Gwen
12. Gwen
13. Jackson
14. Jackson
15. Gwen
16. Jackson
17. Jackson
18. Gwen
19. Gwen
20. Gwen
21. Gwen
22. Gwen
23. Gwen
24. Gwen
25. Gwen
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Internet Stalking Made Easy
Also by Jennifer Dawson
About the Author
COPYRIGHT
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The author has asserted their rights under the Copyright Designs and Patent Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book.
Copyright © 2018 Jennifer Dawson
Edited by Mary Moran
Cover Design by Alvania Scarborough
All rights reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
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Praise for Jennifer Dawson
USA TODAY calls Crave and Taken a must-read romance
“Crave gets the balance between lust filled scenes and a meaningful plot just right. Neither takes from the other and together they just add up to a very satisfying and emotional read.” —Between My Lines
“If you love Foster, Kaye and Dawson’s Something New series you’ll love Crave and the Undone series.” —Caffeinated Book Reviewer.
“Every character in this book (Sinful) is amazingly written. ” —Bookish Bevil
“You know why I love this author? She takes something absolutely mundane like a “Best Friend’s Sister” romance and turns it into a masterpiece.” —For the Love of Fictional Worlds
“Crave by Jennifer Dawson is a darkly erotic and deeply moving romance.”-—Romance Novel News
“Jennifer Dawson’s Sinful has amazing scenes that get my heart beating and calls for a cold shower, but the love story that is evolving between Leo and Jillian is amazing.”—Courting Fiction
Cold Hearted Bastard
Book One of The Bastard Series
Meet Jackson McKay…
There’s only one thing you need to know about me. I’m a cold hearted bastard that will never love you the way you deserve. And I’m sorry to say, bastard beats nice guy, every time.
I never lie. Never deceive. I lay out exactly what will happen. My only promise is that I’m a one-night stand. That this is will be our first and last time together. Then I stand back and let them walk. But they never do. Because they all want to believe they will be the one to change me.
And, Gwen Johnson, the woman that will be his demise…
There’s only one thing you need to know about me. What I want, I get. End of story. I didn’t come to own one of the best restaurants in the city of Chicago before the age of thirty by taking no for an answer. And what I want is for this cold hearted bastard, and culinary genius, to work for me. I don’t care how difficult he is. I’m going to figure out what makes him tick, what he needs most, and then I’m going to go in for the kill.
The way I see it, you either own it, or it owns you…
1
Jackson
Trouble.
I don’t give a goddamn how gorgeous the redhead across the bar is, she’s trouble. Even from a distance I can smell it on her. There’s no other reason for her arrival than to create havoc.
Like everyone else, I saw her the second she walked in. She’s an outsider, and deep in the heart of Louisiana, we can spot a Northerner a mile away.
Although I’m the only one that knows who she is.
Gwen Johnson, restaurant darling of the Chicago scene. Her place, smack dab in the middle of restaurant row called Fulton Market, has a six-month waiting list and wins rave reviews.
I ate there once, about a year ago. It was all right for one of those small-plate places.
I could do better. I won’t. But I could.
While her arrival may be a mystery to everyone else, I’d known as soon as she walked in she was here for me. I’ve been ignoring her ever since.
Whatever she’s selling I’m not buying.
Long, daggerlike, red fingernails clutch my arm, digging into my skin. Pulling my attention away from the woman across the bar. I look down at the blonde, raising a brow. “Yeah?”
“Another Bud.” She curls her over-glossed, plumped-up lips into a smile.
I grab the bottle from the cooler and pass it to her before walking to the register to get her change. She’s pretty enough. Certainly fuckable. I can tell by our brief conversation she’s one of those eager types that will do anything for approval. I can work with that. Best of all, she won’t be a hardship to leave in the middle of the night.
The top contender on my list of tonight’s entertainment.
I don’t claim to be a nice guy.
In fact, the most common words to describe me are cold-hearted bastard. They’re not wrong. But the hard facts are, for guys like me, being an asshole doesn’t get in the way of sex. If anything, it improves my odds. Here’s the truth, women don’t like to admit it, but bastard beats nice guy every time. Without fail.
Because every woman who crawls into my bed believes she’s the one to change my evil ways.
I never lie. Never deceive. The first thing I do before I kiss a woman is to lay out how our time together will go down. I tell her I will rock her world, make her come harder than she’s ever come in her life, but before the sheets have cooled, I’ll be gone. The only thing I promise her is that I’m a one-night stand. That this will be our first and last time together. Then I step away and give her a chance to walk.
They never do.
No, they come to me willingly. They work real hard in bed to change my mind, pulling out every trick in the book to impress me, failing to understand I’ve seen them all and won’t be swayed.
Not my fault they don’t listen. Women hear what they want to hear, but that’s not my problem. It’s theirs.
I make no apologies about the fact that I’m a stone-cold bastard. I’ll ruin them for other men and leave. That’s my MO. Everyone in a hundred-mile radius knows it, and I can still grab any female in the place and be fucking her in five minutes flat.
Because they all want to believe.
So yeah, the woman with the long red nails is a contender. Only…the nightmare that walked through the doors is pulling at me, like an insistent tug at my back. I glance in the mirror over the register, scanning down the bar until my gaze locks with Gwen’s.
Instant fucking lust hits me like a two-by-four.
Like it did when she walked in.
Like it did when I locked eyes with her five minutes before.
That hair of hers is pulled back off her face in a high ponytail and still falls heavy halfway down her back. Down, it has to go almost to her waist, and I immediately think of what it would look like spread across the white sheets used by the nearest motel where I’m guessing she’s staying. Hair like that could only have been designed by god, but unlike other natural redheads she’s not pale, her skin is a light golden color. Her eyes a piercing blue, her lips full, her cheekbones high.
Her body is long and lean, her legs are endless.
I’m not going to lie.
She’s the most beautiful woman I have ever seen outside of a magazine, and I once slept with a Victoria’s Secret model from Venezuela.
Which is why she’s trouble.
There’s only one reason why Gwen Johnson would be deep in the heart of central Louisiana looking for me, and it’s got nothing to do with my cock.
Our eyes are still locked, and I realize I’ve been standing here for a full minute with the change in my hand, unable to tear myself away.
I shut the drawer and swing around to the blonde whose name I can’t remember.
And just like that, she’s off the list.
In fact, they’ve all fallen off the list.
I hand over her change, and she gives me a smile that speaks of seduction, and a ten-dollar tip. As though her generosity will sway me into taking her to bed. “Thanks, honey.”
I walk to the middle of the bar and put it in the tip jar. My Uncle Beau, owner of this establishment, and I are supposed to share, but he hands them all over to me whenever I work, claiming they’re mine anyway. I don’t protest. I can’t afford to.
The man in question strolls over and grips my shoulder with a hard squeeze before jutting his chin over his shoulder. “I’d go talk to red over there before she’s swallowed up whole by this crowd.”
Oh, I’m going over there.
I glance in the mirror again. She’s looking to the side, her neck long, her profile patrician and sexy at the same time. Not sure how she manages that one. As though she senses me, her head turns and our eyes meet
It’s unfortunate I’ve never wanted to fuck a woman more. Not that it will stop me from saying no to whatever she thinks she has to offer, because it won’t.
She raises her glass and toasts me before downing the rest of her drink in one gulp.
The woman is daring me.
Beau puts a bottle of Maker’s in my hand. “Try not to break anything.”
“No promises.” I don’t give a shit what she wants but I’m not above taking her to bed.
Bottle in hand, I turn and make my way toward her. Her head turns as she watches me. There’s no coyness in her expression. There’s not even seduction. Her blue eyes are steady and intent on me.
I don’t say a word, just come to stand in front of her, and put the bottle down in front of her empty glass.
Then, there’s nothing but silence.
And lust.
It’s Saturday night, the bar is packed. Music blaring, you practically have to shout to be heard, but between us you could hear a pin drop. Her eyes are such a startling blue they are almost hypnotic. I can’t deny they suck me in.
I’m curious about her game plan. She’s hardly the first person from Chicago, New York or San Francisco to track me down and make me an offer they’re sure I can’t refuse, and I doubt she’ll be the last. People never seem to understand I left for a reason—and if I wanted to go back to that life, I’d make a few calls and have my choice of offers.
What they say about me is true. When it comes to cooking I’m just as much an asshole as I am when it comes to women. I’m that talented.
Have you ever seen the movie Like Water for Chocolate? Where they weep into their food and drown in lust over their meal? That’s what it’s like to eat something I’ve made.
It’s a talent I’m wasting, but it’s my choice, and Gwen Johnson isn’t going to change my mind. I don’t care how hot she is. The only question I really have is on her approach. If she’ll be direct and honest, or if she’s going to try and play me.
She still doesn’t speak, still doesn’t look away. A woman that looks like she does is used to guys salivating all over her and I’m ninety-five percent sure she’s waiting for my line to decide her strategy. So I refuse to give her one.
After we silently stand off for a good couple of minutes, and tension, so hot it’s almost tangible, thickens the air between us I pick up the bottle, pour her a drink, then turn away.
I expect her to stop me.
She doesn’t.
I put the bottle back in its spot, serve a few more drinks, and when I look in the mirror…
She’s gone.
Gwen
So, yeah, after coming face-to-face with Jackson McKay, I need a minute to regroup and refocus on my plans. My reasons for being here. Whatever happened back in the bar will not do at all.
I’m looking for him to come work for me. To lure him back to the culinary world, attraction has no part in my proposal.
Back in Chicago, before I’d set out on this quest, I’d done my research. I’d scoured every inch of Google, looking for information on Jackson, learning everything I could about the man. Since he’s gorgeous, he’d been constantly photographed, and I’d seen a lot of pictures.
Not one had done him justice.
At six-four, his broad shoulders filled out the faded gray T-shirt he wore before tapering down to narrow hips. His jeans had molded to him like they’d been custom made for him.
And while his body rocked, it was his face that held me. Whiskey-colored eyes, high cheekbones, full lips, and dirty blond hair.
But his genetically blessed features aren’t supposed to matter.
Once hailed as one of the culinary masters of my generation, Jackson had worked under some of the top chefs in the entire world, including three star Michelin restaurants, before deciding, for some unknown reason, to drop out of society and become a bartender in the small town he grew up in.
The general consensus is that he’s a complete asshole, has a god complex, and is, unfortunately, a genius.
I want him. Not in my bed, but as the head chef for my new restaurant. I’m a determined and driven woman. If he joins me, people will line up from all over the world to get a table.
I didn’t get where I am in life standing by and waiting, so I’d come straight to the source.
Since I’m a planner, and I’d prepared for everything.
I’d prepared for his looks.
Prepared for the oozing sex appeal.
The bruising testosterone.
And, yes, I’d prepared to find him impossibly attractive. I’d approached it as a big ol’ so what. Hot men are a dime a dozen.
This is business. Hormones have no place in business.
Unfortunately, I did not prepare on my hormones disagreeing.
The sounds of music and the crowd at my back, I walk out into the gravel parking lot and take a deep breath, slowly exhaling into the night air.
For the love of god it’s hot out here. I’d thought Chicago was humid, but it has nothing on Toulon, Louisiana.
Okay, I am not off my game. I just need to think for a second. Figure out my best strategy now that I’ve seen the devil in his eyes.
The devil I can handle, but that’s not all I saw.
I saw us. Tangled in sweaty sheets, and sex. So much sex.
I have nothing against sex. I love sex. Such a good workout, and you can’t complain about orgasms. I just don’t want to have sex with this guy. Any other guy is fine, but not him.
Why is the universe messing with me? I need this guy to come work for me. How can I accomplish that when looking at him messes with my head? How can I control him and be his boss when looking at him makes me want to do filthy things?
This is…asinine.
I spent five minutes in the equivalent of a staring contest with him because I couldn’t think of anything to say. Nothing. All my charm and flirt failed me and my brain had emptied of all thought.
Well, that’s not entirely true. I thought about hauling him across the bar and demanding he take me.
I wasn’t above charming him into a false sense of complacency, getting him on my side, all warm and friendly like, before I made him my offer, but that only works if he has no effect on me.
And that man has an effect on me. Too much. Completely out of proportion and illogical.
I need to talk. To figure this out. I pick up the phone and press Jillian Santoro’s number. She’s my best friend and knows every single thing about me; she’ll help me set this straight.
On the first ring, she picks up and gets right to business. “Did you conquer him already?”
“I wish.” At the sound of her voice, I relax a little. She always settles me.
“So, how’s it going?”
I lean against my rental car and put my hand to my forehead. “Jillian, I’m in so much trouble.”
“What's wrong?” Her voice turns urgent. “What happened? Are you hurt? Do I need to come get you?”
“No, it’s not that.” I love having a best friend that would literally drop everything and get on a plane to come rescue me. “It’s him.”
“What about him?” She knows my plans. She told me I was crazy and helped me plan anyway. That defines our friendship that began as mischievous toddlers and has stood the test of time. She’s standing by me in this crazy scheme of mine, just like I stood by her when she was fixated on her now husband Leo even though I believed she’d never get him to cave. When he finally submitted to the attraction between them, I cheered her, happy to be wrong.
