“You know why I came here tonight, Zach?”
Jen leaned against the brick wall, her face in shadows.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter.” She grabbed his shoulders, pulling him close. “I came here because I want you.”
Zach skimmed his gaze over her body, taking in the tight top and skimpy skirt. “You didn’t have to dress like this to convince me to be with you.” He smoothed his hand down her side, feeling the ridges of her ribs beneath the satin.
A half smile formed on her lips as she dragged the tip of her finger down his throat. “You don’t like the way I look?”
He dropped his gaze to the shadowed valley between her breasts. “Oh, I like it all right.” He covered her breasts with his hands and squeezed gently. “I was dying in there, watching all those men watching you. Wanting you.” He bent and kissed her neck, her flesh silken beneath his tongue.
“Do you want me, Zach?”
“You know I do.”
“Then show me.”
Dear Reader,
Inside every “good girl” is a bit of a bad girl waiting to cut loose. A lifelong good girl myself, I’ll admit to having my own “bad” side. And the older I’ve gotten, the easier it’s been to let my bad side show—speaking up for myself, putting my own needs ahead of others’ expectations and finding out what really makes me happy.
Those of us who love bad boys know that there’s a lot of good behind their tough exteriors. All it takes is patience and understanding for them to let their good sides show.
I received such positive reader response to Syd, a character in Just 4 Play, Blaze #82, that I wanted to write a story about a similar leather-wearing, motorcycle-riding bad boy. When Zach began to take shape, I knew I’d found the perfect edgy but vulnerable guy to write about. And who better to pair him with than a good girl trying to discover her wilder side?
As always, Jen and Zach had a few surprises for me in the course of the story. I hope you’ll enjoy reading about their relationship as much as I enjoyed writing it.
I love to hear from readers. Visit my Web site at www.CindiMyers.com, e-mail me at [email protected] or write me at P.O. Box 991, Bailey, CO 80421.
Cindi Myers
Good, Bad…Better
Cindi Myers
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue
1
THE TIME COMES IN EVERY woman’s life when she needs to shake things up a bit. This thought ran through Jennifer Truitt’s mind as she parked her VW Bug across from Austin Body Art on a Tuesday afternoon in late June. She stared up at the neon sign advertising Tattoos, Piercings and Custom Body Art and told herself her heart was only racing because she was excited, not because she was afraid.
She’d been doing what other people expected of her for years. Time to surprise them with the unexpected. She was twenty-three years old, ready for adventure, romance and excitement. A tattoo parlor seemed like a good place to start.
Taking a deep breath, she got out of the car and crossed the street. A string of temple bells sounded when she opened the door, and the man behind the counter looked up. “Hello.”
“Uh, hello.” She swallowed hard and tried not to stare at him. But he was the kind of man who commanded attention. His black leather vest fit closely about his torso, emphasizing his muscular arms and chest, which were decorated with intricate tattoos: tribal bands around both biceps, an eagle feather on one forearm and others she couldn’t make out.
Forcing her gaze up, she saw jet-black hair, worn in a single braid. The black sheen of his hair and eyebrows contrasted sharply with his pale skin. His black eyes seemed to look right through her. “Can I help you?” he asked in a voice that sounded like velvet over gravel.
A flush heated her face when she realized she’d been staring. She tried to moisten her dry mouth. “I—I’d like a tattoo,” she stammered.
“You would?” He came out from behind the counter, the heels of his boots echoing on the polished tile floor. His pants were leather, too, encasing long, muscular legs. A silver concha belt hung low about his hips. The heat from her face spread through the rest of her body as his gaze assessed her. If testosterone were a weapon, this man would be labeled “armed and dangerous.”
“What kind of tattoo?” he asked.
“Um, I’m not exactly sure.” She’d changed her mind about what she wanted at least a dozen times in the past few years. Now that she’d finally worked up the nerve to do the deed, she still couldn’t decide on a particular design. She sought inspiration in the samples posted on the walls, but nothing before her was what she’d expected. Instead of eagles, snakes and hearts, the display featured highly stylized sketches of animals, flowers and tribal symbols, reminiscent of the modern art she’d seen the last time her father had dragged her to the Kimball Museum in Fort Worth. On closer inspection, she spotted a section of the wall devoted to copies of famous artworks, from Andy Warhol’s soup cans to Munch’s The Scream.
“Wow, these are really amazing.” She turned to him. “Do you draw the designs yourself or do you, like, order them from a catalog?”
“No, I don’t order them from a catalog.” His expression was guarded as he took a step toward her. She could smell him now: leather and sandalwood soap and the sharp tang of ink. Exotic and masculine and definitely sexy. “Ever had a tat before?” he asked.
She shook her head, turning to study the designs on the walls once more. He hadn’t exactly answered her question, had he? “This is my first.” She winced at the words. They made her sound so innocent. And the whole point of this exercise was to declare to the world just how innocent she wasn’t.
He crossed his arms over his chest, giving her a too-close-for-comfort view of sharply defined muscles. Her knees felt wobbly. Honestly, she silently chided herself. You’d think you’d never been around a good-looking guy before. But it wasn’t the man’s looks that stirred her so much as his attitude. One look at him and you knew he wasn’t someone who let anyone push him around. Whereas, people saw her and just assumed she would be nice and go along with whatever they wanted. Because, obviously, she was a good girl.
She gritted her teeth and straightened her shoulders. Those days were behind her. From now on, she was going to do what she wanted, be her own woman. And this tattoo would be a kind of declaration of independence. “I want something right here.” She pointed to her left breast, to where the neckline of her tank top dipped down. No way would people miss it if she put it there.
His eyes zeroed in on the place she was pointing