My Guilty Pleasure

My Guilty Pleasure

Jamie Denton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Copyright

1

“HEY THERE, BABE. You come here often?”

By the sheer grace of what remaining patience she had left after a particularly rotten day, Joey Winfield resisted the urge to flip the bird at the scruffy biker with the tired old pickup line. She was in no mood for flirtations, harmless or otherwise. She’d come to Rosalie’s, a roadhouse located on the outskirts of Boston, for one reason—to blow off some steam. She’d wanted a place where no one knew where she came from, that she was one of “the” Boston Winfields. A place where the whiskey wasn’t watered down and where she could get rowdy if she wanted to or just sit quietly and contemplate the bottom of several empty glasses of bourbon. At Rosalie’s, no one would judge her every move.

Maybe she’d even kick a little ass at the pool tables tonight. She was in that kind of mood.

She manufactured a saccharine sweet smile for the biker blocking her path. “Not as often as you comb your hair,” she said saucily as she sidestepped the bear of a man and continued toward the bar before he realized he’d just been insulted.

Sidling up to the long mahogany bar scarred with age, she signaled for Mitch, the bartender. Perched on an empty black vinyl bar stool, she hooked the heels of her scuffed cowboy boots on the chrome rung. “Jack. Neat,” she ordered when the bald-as-a-cue-ball bartender, who made the scruffy biker look puny in comparison, worked his way down the bar to her.

Mitch’s bushy unibrow winged upward at her request, but he didn’t offer comment as he set a glass in front of her and poured a generous two fingers’ worth of whiskey. Hard drinking was a staple of Rosalie’s and Joey had every intention of doing some herself.

She fingered a twenty from the front pocket of her figure-hugging jeans and slapped it on the bar. “Better make it a double.” She slid the bill toward Mitch. “And a pack of Marlboro Lights while you’re at it.”

That unibrow rose another fraction as he snagged a pack of cigarettes from the rack near the register. “Bad day?” he asked, tipping the bottle of JD again.

More like a bad year.

“You have no idea.” She took a swig of Jack Daniel’s, then tamped the pack on the bar before ripping it open and withdrawing a cigarette. Her throat would feel like seared meat come morning, but she didn’t much care. She had a serious edge in need of smoothing out and could use all the help she could get in that department.

“How’s your sister?” About a year ago she’d met Mitch through his sister, Lissa, who’d been a resident of the halfway house where Joey mentored troubled girls. The bald, tattooed bartender was capable of keeping the roughest customers in line but was a giant marshmallow where his little sister was concerned.

“Keeping her nose clean, last I heard,” he said, offering her a light. “Phoenix is a good place for her.”

“Glad to hear it,” she said. Lissa had been a mixed-up kid who’d gotten in with the wrong crowd and ended up in trouble, despite her big brother’s efforts to the contrary. She’d served three months in County on an accessory conviction to a B&E, then had been released to the halfway house for the first six months of a three-year probationary period. Joey had been the one to convince Lissa’s probation officer to allow the girl to relocate to Phoenix to live with an aunt for a fresh start. It pleased her to hear the situation was working out well for Lissa.

“Anything else?” Mitch asked.

She shook her head and drew on the cigarette. “Thanks, I’m good.”

Mitch nodded then took off to answer the call for more drinks from a pair of weary-looking men at the other end of the long bar. She took another sip of whiskey, then glanced around at the smattering of tables. She didn’t recognize any of the patrons, but then she wasn’t exactly a regular at Rosalie’s, either.

She supposed she could’ve gone to Chassy, the trendy bar on Boston’s south side that her half sister, Lindsay Beckham, owned, but she wasn’t in the mood to be sociable or hang with the girls. Conversation wasn’t high on her list of priorities tonight. In fact, the last thing she wanted tonight was to be Josephine Winfield, born with a silver spoon up her privileged ass. Tonight she wanted to just be Joey, a girl looking to raise a little hell.

Just once she wanted to be herself and not worry about the consequences.

A sardonic smile twisted her lips before she drew heavily on the Marlboro. What a concept, she thought, blowing out a plume of blue smoke. But who did she think she was kidding? She’d been so tied up in being what everyone else wanted her to be, or thought she should be, she’d forgotten what the real Joey was even like. Maybe she never really knew, but one thing she did know with absolute certainty—she was so sick to death of pretending to be the good girl she could scream.

But that didn’t mean she didn’t enjoy a few minor rebellions on occasion. Like Molly, the high-priced Bengal cat she’d bought because it kept her Great Aunt Josephine and her snooty daughter, Eve, who were both severely allergic, from dropping in on her unannounced. Or the sleek fire-engine red sports car she drove, which made her Grandmother Winfield frown with disapproval whenever she buzzed past the main house to the carriage house, located on the extensive grounds of the Winfield family home. But those were the only acts of defiance her family was aware of…of that she made certain. Her grandmother and great aunt’s blue hair would turn a shocking shade of purple if they knew that deep down, their little golden girl, little miss Harvard Law graduate, Josephine “Joey” Winfield was bad to the bone.

Maybe she should think about finding herself an apartment in the city. Despite the lack of real privacy she had by living on the family estate, the problem was, Joey actually liked living in the carriage house. She enjoyed the quiet, especially the view of the beautifully manicured grounds, particularly the English garden. During the warmer months, she often spent her weekend mornings outside on the little flagstone patio with her morning coffee, a toasted bagel slathered with cream cheese and the Times crossword puzzle. But Sunday mornings were her quiet time, something she looked forward to all week.

Later would be soon enough for quiet time. Tonight, loud was on her agenda. Rowdy, even. There was that crappy day to shake off, after all, and the sooner, the better.

Her day had started out like any other, until Molly had made her run late. Somehow her mischievous cat had managed to jump on top of the entertainment center. The stubborn feline had refused to come down, regardless of the fact she’d spent nearly ten minutes yowling in distress over her predicament.

A run in her nylons and a chipped nail later, she’d driven like a bat out of hell to get to the office in time for a meeting with one of the managing partners to discuss the status of an important case she had coming up for trial. She’d been stunned to learn that she wouldn’t be the lead trial attorney in the matter, but instead had been relegated to second chair, working with some new hotshot litigator the firm had spent weeks recruiting to head up their litigation department.

And what had she done about it? Not a damn thing. She’d very calmly expressed her disappointment, despite the fact she’d been seething inside. Not so much as a single forceful objection. Barely even a real protest, for that matter. She’d just sat there, saying nothing about the hours she’d spent preparing the case for trial, drafting motions and interviewing several witnesses, or the time she’d spent prepping her client for what promised to be a difficult cross-examination. She’d done what she’d been raised to do—be the good girl and not make any waves.

Well, she had once. An outrageous tsunami that she doubted she’d ever hear the end of, or stop feeling guilty about. She was a disgrace to bad girls everywhere.

Angrily, she stubbed out her cigarette and downed another swallow of her drink. What she should’ve done was told Lionel Kane III to take the case and shove it, along with her position at the firm. But she hadn’t. God help her, she knew she wouldn’t. Gilson v. Pierce was an important case and although she wasn’t thrilled to play second fiddle to the firm’s newest flavor of the month, at least she hadn’t been removed from the case. To make matters worse, the managing partner had rubbed salt into an already open wound. Since trial was starting in another week, she’d been told it was up to her to bring the new guy up-to-date.

She hadn’t thought her day could get any worse, but she’d been wrong as it continued to spiral downward. The judge had denied her request for bail for one of the girls she mentored from the halfway house who’d been arrested on a possession charge. Not only did Ginny Karnes have to spend the weekend in the county jail, but the nineteen-year-old now faced revocation of her probation, which could result in her serving out the remainder of a five-year suspended sentence behind bars.

Things became even more chaotic when her secretary had gone home sick, having been struck by a particularly nasty flu bug making the rounds of the office. A meeting with one of the firm’s clients had gone badly. Then, to top off the end of a really nasty day, an impromptu dinner with her sisters had resulted in the announcement that her younger sister, Katie, and Liam James, Boston’s most eligible bachelor, were now engaged.

She took a long drink of her whiskey. Not that she’d ever begrudge any of her sisters a chance at real happiness. She was thrilled for Katie, but her little sister’s engagement to Liam only served to remind her that she was still painfully single with no prospects in sight. She suspected Brooke and David weren’t far behind on the matrimonial trail, either, for as much time as the two had been spending together the past couple of months.

Tired of feeling sorry for herself, she grabbed a couple of ones from the change Mitch had left on the bar and wove her way through the increasingly growing Friday night crowd to the jukebox. A country ballad blared through the speakers, but she wasn’t in the mood for a cryin’-in-your-beer song. Tonight it had to be rock—the harder, the better.

She slid the bills into the slot, then scanned the choices before making her selections. She settled on the latest from Korn along with a few of her other favorite rock bands.

“Excuse me, but I think you dropped this,” a deep male voice said suddenly from beside her.

Joey let out a sigh and turned, a “buzz off” comment hovering on her lips, half expecting to find the burly biker again. Instead, she found a stranger with traffic-stopping looks holding up a five-dollar bill between his long, slender fingers.

Bedroom eyes, she thought instantly. Rich, like smooth, dark chocolate. The kind that promised lust and sin, two of her favorite pastimes. The “get lost, creep” she’d been about to deliver immediately evaporated from her vocabulary.

He had the kind of build she found impossible to resist, too. All wide shoulders and lean hips. The kind that held up to the promise of that lush, dark gaze. Better yet, the cocky half smile canting his mouth had her toes curling inside her cowboy boots.

One look at that mouth and her imagination took off like a shot. Despite her foul mood, she smiled.

Mentally, she attempted to calculate how long it’d been since she’d gotten laid. After counting back six months and not coming up with a single memorable experience, her answering smile faded slightly.

Six months? That had to be a record.

For her anyway.

Considering everything that had been going on in her life, both personally and professionally, it was no wonder she’d been lacking in male companionship lately. Her mother had passed away in July after a brutal battle with pancreatic cancer, followed by the discovery of a half sister given up for adoption that she, Brooke and Katie hadn’t known existed. Only last month they’d been delivered another shock when they’d learned Brooke, her older sister, was only her half sister biologically. Not that Brooke’s parentage made a lick of difference to her or Katie, but they’d still been stunned by the news, especially Brooke. The Winfields, her mother in particular, apparently had more skeletons lurking behind their closet doors than a centuries-old mausoleum had tucked behind its marble walls.

She shuddered to think what might fall out next.

“I don’t think it’s mine,” she finally said. She had a few folded twenties still tucked into the front pocket of her jeans, her AmEx card in her hip pocket just in case and her cell phone hidden in the inside pocket of her suede bomber-style jacket along with her keys. Her smile returned. “But nice try.”

His smile deepened, crinkling the corners of those drown-in-me-forever brown eyes. “Too bad it didn’t work.”

“Maybe you should’ve made it a hundred,” she replied sassily, then headed back to the bar with his laughter ringing in her ears. He had a nice laugh, she thought as she slid back onto the bar stool. Open. Free. Like he used it often.

God, was there anything sexier?

She signaled to Mitch for a refill. A stab of disappointment pierced her when the money-wielding stud didn’t follow her to make another attempt to pick her up. Probably for the best. Her plan to blow off steam didn’t include sex with an anonymous stranger, no matter how good-looking or intriguing. That reckless, she wasn’t.

Or was she?

Using the long mirror behind the bar, she searched for Hunky Warbucks. She finally found him, seated in the rear of the bar near the pool tables. A slow smile tugged her lips again. Lordy, but he was nice. Nice and hot.

Mitch arrived with her fresh drink and she downed half of the fiery liquid in one gulp. “Let me have some quarters for the pool table,” she said, tugging another twenty from her pocket.

Mitch obliged, albeit from the look of warning in his eyes, begrudgingly. “No trouble tonight, Joey.”

“What trouble?”

His unibrow hiked skyward again over a disbelieving expression. “Yeah, right. The last time you came in here and shot pool you caused a fight.”

“Oh, like it was my fault those two goons thought I was the prize?” she scoffed. “Just give me the quarters, Mitch.”

“Do me a favor and be specific this time if you want to make it interesting, okay?” His hazel eyes narrowed. “No hustling the customers or I’ll eighty-six you from the place.”

“I never hustle,” she said in her best blue-blooded tone as she hopped off the bar stool. She picked up her drink, tucked the cigarettes and a book of matches into her jacket pocket and winked at Mitch. “I just play to win, is all.”

2

HER ASS WAS the sweetest thing he’d seen in ages. After having lived for several years in Miami, Sebastian Stanhope considered himself an expert on the subject.

The blonde bent over the pool table and attempted to line up a difficult shot. Curvy, he thought, eyeing that luscious behind. And firm. He’d bet a month’s salary that her sweet and curvy and firm ass would fit his hands to perfection.

Sebastian tipped back the beer he’d been nursing for the better part of the night in an attempt to cool his climbing temperature. It proved to be an exercise in futility the minute the sassy blonde bent forward again to take aim and make the winning shot. Damn if she didn’t sink the eight ball into the corner pocket like a pro, and look mighty fine doing it, too.

“That’s another fifty you owe me, Bose,” she said to a rough-looking biker.

All night Sebastian had been watching her hustle anyone foolish enough to accept the challenge. The woman didn’t know how to lose. He liked that.

“Damn, Joey,” the big man complained good-naturedly. He slipped two twenties and a ten from the wallet chained to his dirty jeans. “How’d a babe like you get so good at pool?”

“I played a lot in college,” she said, pocketing her winnings. “But hey, don’t worry—” she chalked the tip of her cue stick “—I’ll give you a chance to win your money back.”

Bose shook his head and laid his cue over the table. “Nah,” he said, “you’re too rich for my blood.”

A concept Sebastian understood all too well. He might have the Stanhope name, but the family fortune never had been, and never would be, his. What money he’d accumulated, he’d done so the old-fashioned way. He’d worked his tail off, putting in twice the billable hours as most of the other associates in the Miami law firm he’d joined right out of law school, and had hired a damn good broker to build up his portfolio. He wasn’t rich by old money, Bostonian standards, but he no longer had to hustle pool games to survive, either.

He finished off his beer and stood. Sauntering over to the pool table, he laid a buck’s worth of quarters down on the polished edge of the table.

Bose inclined his head in Sebastian’s direction. “Looks like you’ve got a new pigeon waiting to be plucked.”

The blonde looked over her shoulder at him, no doubt to size up the competition. Her blue eyes sparkled with excitement as a slow, easy smile spread across her pretty face.

“You play?” she asked.

He was no pigeon, which she’d find out soon enough. “A little.” Not exactly a lie, but hardly the truth. He just hadn’t played much lately, in part because it hadn’t been necessary to his survival. There’d been a time, not all that long ago, when a wager at the tables had been the difference between sleeping in his car or making the rent.

A definite gleam entered her gaze. “Care to make it interesting?”

He’d expected no less. The woman was a shark at the tables and had to be a good two to three hundred bucks richer in the time he’d watched her play. Not that he suspected she needed the cash. The woman smelled like money, from the expensive cut of her hair down to a pair of high-quality, albeit scruffy, boots. And he’d spent enough time with his nose pressed to the glass to know the difference.

“What did you have in mind?” he asked her.

She reached into her hip pocket and peeled off five twenties. “Interesting enough for you?” She tossed the bills onto the black circled mark on the green felt of the pool table.

He picked up the cue her previous challenger had left behind and tested the weight in his hand. “Not exactly what I had in mind.” He circled the table to her side.

She slipped a hank of honey-blond hair behind her ear. “I don’t know you well enough for that kind of wager.”

He set the base of the cue on the floor between his feet. With his hands wrapped around the stick, he leaned slightly forward, breathing in her scent. Amid the acrid odors of spilled beer and stale smoke that permeated the air, he caught her subtle fragrance, a light floral mixture. Expensive, too. Funny, but he’d pegged her for something more spicy and exotic. “No, but I’d bet you’d like to,” he said.

The blue of her eyes darkened, giving him all the answer he needed.

“Arrogant, aren’t you?” She angled her cue against the table while she dropped the quarters into the slot and waited for the balls to tumble into the tray.

He plucked the rack from the other side of the table and set it on the felt near the stack of twenties. “See? You’re getting to know me already.”

She chuckled softly, then started loading the balls into the rack. “Time to put up or shut up.”

He slipped his wallet from his hip pocket and pulled out a crisp hundred-dollar bill to match her bet. “Satisfied?”

Her smile was positively wicked, red-lining his libido. She scooped up the cash and set it on the side of the pool table, then removed the wooden triangular rack before retrieving her pool stick. “Your break,” she said, as was customary.

He lined up the shot and sent the cue ball soaring across the table. “So you come here often?” he asked above the loud crack. He kept his attention on the scattering balls and watched the four ball roll into the corner pocket.

“Boy, if I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard that line.” She stepped out of his way when he circled the table looking for his next shot.

He took aim on the two ball and missed, distracted by the subtle scent of her perfume. “Better than ‘what’s your sign?’” But if he were guessing, he’d say a Taurus, or maybe a Scorpio. The tilt of her chin and the glint in her eye indicated a stubborn streak. Not that he was seriously in to astrology, but when he was growing up, his mother had never left the house without first consulting the obituaries and the astrology section of the Boston Globe.

“I’ll give you that.” She took aim and easily sank the eleven ball. “And, no. I don’t come here all that much. You?”

She didn’t strike him as the barfly type, but he couldn’t help wondering what someone like her was doing in a place like Rosalie’s. The place was a roadhouse in the truest sense of the word.

“New in town,” he said as she set up her next shot. Another half truth. He was full of them tonight.

“From where?” She sank the nine ball with a difficult bank shot.

“Miami.” He inclined his head toward the table. “Nice one.”

“Thanks.”

She slowly walked toward him, holding his gaze with every step. Damn if he didn’t have trouble remembering how to breathe. She bent forward to line up her next shot. Her slender fingers wrapped around the cue and she slowly slid the stick back and forth. His imagination headed south.

He cleared his throat.

She took aim, then missed. “So you get a sudden hankering for a long cold winter?”

He shrugged. “All that sunshine can wear on a guy after a while.” He hadn’t planned on returning to Boston, but when the offer from Samuel, Cyrus and Kane had come his way, he never once considered declining. Come Monday morning, he’d be the youngest partner on the letterhead of one of the city’s oldest and most prestigious firms, and heading up their litigation department. Not a bad gig for a guy like himself.

She made a sound that almost seemed like laughter. “Boston won’t disappoint you then.”

He leaned forward to line up his shot, then looked up at her. “So far it hasn’t.”

That wicked smile of hers returned. He shot and scratched.

She laughed again then effortlessly cleared the table, making one difficult play after the other until only two of his solid-colored balls and the eight ball remained. “In the side pocket.” She grazed the eight ball and sank it exactly where she’d called it.

“Thanks.” She scooped up her winnings and tucked the wad of cash into her back pocket. “Hello, Manolo,” she said, her grin widening. “Worthington is having a sale.”

“Play again?” he asked.

“Thanks, but no.” Her grin wavered slightly. “I really should be getting home. Maybe next time.”

She turned and walked away, heading toward the bar. He stared at the gentle sway of her hips in tight denim until his common sense took hold. What was wrong with him? He couldn’t let her get away just yet. He didn’t even know her name.

He caught up with her by the time she reached the bar. “You think you should be driving?” She hadn’t had a drink in at least ninety minutes. Her eyes weren’t glassy and her stride had been steady when she’d walked away from him. Honestly, he didn’t think driving under the influence was an issue at this point, but it was the best excuse he could come up with under pressure.

“Excuse me?”

He gave her his best winning smile. “Why don’t you let me buy you breakfast?”

“Thanks,” she said with a shake of her head, “but no. I’m fine.”

Yes, she was. Which was exactly his point. “There’s an all-night diner across the road. Just breakfast.”

She hesitated. He took that as a good sign in his favor.

“Coffee?” he offered.

“Maybe I could use some coffee.”

He smiled. “Good idea.”

“Hey, Mitch,” she called out to the bartender. “You want anything from the diner?”

Smart girl, Sebastian thought.

“No, I’m good,” the bartender answered, then looked him over and gave him a hard stare, leaving Sebastian with the distinct impression he’d suffer a severe pounding should anything happen to the blonde under his watch.

“TWO EGGS OVER EASY. Bacon, crisp. Rye toast,” Joey told the waitress.

“Pancakes and eggs for me,” her breakfast companion ordered. “With a side of sausage links.” He handed the waitress the menus.

Joey admired his long slender fingers and took a sip of hot coffee. “So, you have a name?”

He stirred cream and sugar into his own mug. “Sebastian.”

“First or last?”

“First. You?”

“Joey,” she said. Just Joey.

He set his spoon on the saucer. “I gotta ask. What’s a nice girl like you doing hanging out at a roadhouse like Rosalie’s?”

She hid a smile behind her mug. “What makes you think I’m a nice girl?”

“You made sure the bartender knew you were leaving with me,” he said, then took a sip of his coffee.

“Caution does not necessarily equate to being a nice girl.”

“You trying to convince me you’re a bad girl?”

She shrugged. “Maybe.” Maybe she’d take him home and screw his brains out. That ought to convince him.

The possibility intrigued her more than it should. Not that a tumble in the sack with him would be a hardship. Far from it. There wasn’t much about the man she didn’t find appealing. Even his arrogance was sexy.

He chuckled. “I think maybe not.”

She tried not to feel insulted. “You don’t know me.”

“I’d like to,” he said, then took another sip of his coffee. “Get to know you, I mean.”

And she’d like to get to know him. But then what?

The waitress returned with their meal, saving her from having to conjure up an answer. Still, she couldn’t help wondering how long she’d hold his interest. Until he discovered where she came from and became so intimidated by the Winfield name, and all that it implied, that he’d ditch her cold? He wouldn’t be the first guy scared off by her family’s wealth and reputation. The Winfield name was as old and prestigious as Massachusetts itself. Rumor had it they had roots as far back as the Mayflower. Thanks to her ancestors, and a ridiculous fortune made in the shipping business, she had more money in her trust fund than her grandchildren’s children would ever be able to spend.

Or maybe until he realized she wasn’t the clingy type and was perfectly content living alone? Or maybe until he learned that aside from her family, her career ranked at the top of her list of priorities?

“Are you allergic to cats?” she asked suddenly.

He slathered butter on his pancakes. “No. Do you like dogs?”

“Very much,” she said. Brooke was allergic, but Katie had recently acquired a cocker spaniel, which she’d taken to spoiling whenever she visited her sister.

“I know you like hard rock,” he said, pouring a generous amount of syrup over his pancakes.

She salted and peppered her eggs, then mixed them with her hash browns. “My tastes vary,” she admitted. She liked everything from hard rock to hip-hop to the stuff from the sixties and seventies her mother used to play so often, in addition to classical and opera. In fact, she was supposed to accompany her grandmother to a chamber music performance Sunday afternoon. “Let me guess, you’re a country boy at heart.”

He shook his head and his grin turned sheepish. “Motown. None of those CD remakes or compilations, either. Vinyl or nothing at all.”

She’d like to see him in nothing at all. “Temptations or Four Tops?” she asked, reining in those baser thoughts that could lead her straight to a broken heart.

“Temptations. Especially the earlier stuff before they cut David Ruffin loose.” He cut into a sausage link, then dragged it through the syrup pooling on his plate. “And before you ask, Smokey Robinson is a songwriting genius.”

“If we’re talking old school, I prefer Lennon and McCartney. Or Elton John and Bernie Taupin. But a man who knows his Motown…?” She plucked a strip of bacon from her plate. “Impressive. So what brings you to Boston, Sebastian? Escaping an ex-wife? Girlfriend, maybe?”

His crooked smile had her pulse thumping pleasantly. Among other, more intimate places.

“Is that your way of wanting to know if I’m single?”

She took a bite of her bacon, smiled and nodded.

“Single. Never been married. You?”

“Same,” she said. Although, she’d been close once. Dangerously so. Two and a half years ago she’d been twenty-four hours away from walking down the aisle at the perfect society wedding when she’d discovered her fiancé hadn’t stopped dating. The jerk.

“And you’re in Boston because…?”

“Work,” he said, cutting into his pancakes.

“Work? What kind of work?”