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Naughty little thief, p.1
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       Naughty Little Thief, p.1

           Red Garnier
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Naughty Little Thief


  Naughty Little Thief

  Red Garnier

  Contents

  Introduction

  1. One

  2. Two

  3. Three

  4. Four

  5. Five

  About the Author

  Also by Red Garnier

  Copyright © 2017 by Red Garnier

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Introduction

  Dear Reader,

  This is a short, HOT, sexy story of mine I found recently when I was organizing my files. I had so much fun reading it that I thought I’d share it. Thanks for your support all these years,

  Red

  One

  Beckham Winters’s evening went from good to bad the instant he spotted Sandy Brown across the crowded night club.

  He blinked in disbelief as a flash of ebony curls bounced toward the bar in that little walk that could only belong to one woman in the world.

  The one that thank God got away.

  Annoyance flared through him as he remembered her.

  He had lived the past decade in peace and quiet, especially the last decade when Sandy moved to live with some distant cousins in Florida. It had been ten years since then. Ten.

  Why would she be back in Houston?

  She couldn’t still walk like that, fuck him right now.

  He stared down at his drink, wondered how many he’d had, then back at her, his chest roiling when he spotted her profile. Sandy Brown. Oh yeah, it was her alright.

  A thorn on his side.

  His sister Calli’s friend since young, as acid as Calli was sweet.

  He’d spotted her a while ago in a group of females, laughing and talking as she downed her cocktail. That woman talked so loud, Beckham could almost bet if he strained his ears through the loud music playing, he’d be able to hear her.

  She was more…rounded. Was wearing a strapless electric blue dress that would match her eyes, and heels that were dangling from one hand at her sides. What kind of woman went barefoot all around a club?

  Sandy Brown, that’s who.

  His eyebrows drew lower over the bridge of his nose. Sandy Brown never had any sense, as far as he was concerned.

  She was trouble, he’d warned Calli time and time again. Every time she came for a pajama party with Calli, one of Beckham’s belts, ties, or boxer shorts mysteriously disappeared from his closet.

  She had a thieving problem so far and wide, she didn’t even remember stealing things—according to Calli. But she’d easily taken more than a dozen of his things in her lifetime, and he suspected she’d taken so much more than he knew.

  Not only that, but when she was fifteen, and Beckham nineteen and visiting his family during the summer, she’d stolen at night into his fucking bed. He didn’t even know how long she’d been lying there, but he’d woken up with a groan and his usual morning boner, to find her big blue eyes were watching him from beneath the covers.

  He’d jumped out of bed like she was made of fucking fire. Hell, his parents had been only doors away. His sister sleeping right next door. Jesus, was she insane? he’d ranted.

  Her chin had trembled, and he’d almost thought she would cry. But no. She’d told him some choice curse words, acted like he was some sort of demon because he didn’t welcome her in his bed, and then marched off, only then making him realize she was wearing one of his gym sweatshirts. Damn her, he’d been so infuriated that day, it felt like nothing could calm him down, not even running or kickboxing, and definitely not the cold shower he’d had to take. Sandy was just too young to know not to mess with him, he’d told himself. But no. That girl was older and wiser far beyond her tender fifteen, and Beckham had moved out because of her.

  His fancy Houston flat was built with the latest high-tech security system, supposed to shield him from a nuclear bomb and other natural disasters, but he couldn’t think of a worst disaster than Sandy Brown. Knowing she’d been in Florida had been a relief to him for years, but now…

  His muscles contracted as she tossed back her hair and leaned on the bar. Her hair fell down her back in a crazy disarray that made one want to tame it as hard as the owner should be tamed, and her well rounded ass poked out in a way that screamed to be squeezed and fondled.

  He jerked his eyes away and rubbed the back of his neck. Uh, yeah. Fuck.

  He didn't care what she looked like now.

  He’d been damned glad to get rid of her and he’d be damned glad to ignore her for the rest of his life.

  His eyes flicked back to her, and she was touching the tattoo on the barista’s wrist, and Beckham’s face hardened with rage. His hand almost crushed the glass of gin, and when he realized this, he downed out in one gulp.

  “Oh my god, is that Sandy?” From her place in the booth, Calli leapt from her on-and-off boyfriend Harrison and turned wide eyes to Beckham. “It’s Sandy, isn’t it?”

  “How the hell should I know?” he said in a cold, stiff voice, giving a good, long look to the fucking turd who’s tattoo she’d been fondling just now.

  “It’s her! And I thought you might know, because you’ve been scowling at her for the past ten minutes, idiot!” Calli laughed. “Nobody makes you so angry, of course it’s Sandy! I’ll be back in a bit, Harrison, don’t look at any hot women.”

  Harrison, Beckham’s best friend, chuckled. “No, baby, I’ll just watch your sweet ass from here.”

  “Jesus, get your eyes off my sisters’ ass,” Beckham grumbled, once again taking his seat as soon as Calli slid out of the booth.

  His sweet, angelic-looking sister—dressed aptly in white—plunged through the crowd in the direction of Sandy, and Beckham watched in rapt attention as Sandy turned to spot his sister approaching.

  Even from afar, Beckham could make out Sandy’s even white teeth, almost hear that cackling laugh of hers. His stomach felt the heat of the embrace she gave Calli, and he could almost feel her fingers touching him as they touched his sister’s shoulder.

  Fuck, Sandy pressed all his buttons and then some.

  Yep. Houston, we have a problem.

  A big boner growing—and fast.

  Harrison said, “She the one? The thief? The one that always comes up when you’re drunk?”

  “Yeah. But not always, man, I’ve probably mentioned her once.”

  “Once every goddamned minute,” Harrison shot back in amusement.

  “Shut up, fucker, you don’t even know what you’re talking about when it comes to this chick.” Beckham shifted in his seat and only then did he realize he was now hard as hell. And he refused, absolutely refused, to acknowledge who this wood was for.

  But he was in trouble and he knew it.

  Sandy was no longer the fifteen-year-old thorn on his side. She was older now, and the thorn had grown with her, morphed, into a damned knife in the goddamned guts.

  Just fuck him right now.

  “Sandy, he keeps looking at you,” one of Sandy’s friends said.

  “What did you do to him?” the other wanted to know.

  “Honestly I’ve never seen two people hate each other like you two do!” a third one chimed.

  “Ignore him,” Sandy told her friends. “Beckham can’t stand that I grew up in a trailer park while his ass was being wiped with sterilized, silk wipies.”

  “Calli, why does your brother scowl at Sandy?” one of them asked Calli as she approached and gave her a huge hug.

  “Oh, he’s been in a mood all night,” Calli said dismissively when they finally pulled free.<
br />
  “Ever since he saw me,” Sandy drawled.

  “Whatever. You should go say hi and wipe that scowl off his face.” Calli grinned.

  Sandy rolled her eyes heavenward. “Right.”

  “Sandy! Go give him a lap dance,” one of her friends chimed again.

  Sandy stared at him. Gorgeous. So damned gorgeous. All that dark hair and gypsy tanned skin did wonders for his looks. But the rest of him sucked. Mr. High and Mighty. Mr. big-dick-I'm-such-a-shit-and-in-every-Forbes-magazine Beckham Winters. She remembered how he’d got into snit because she’d borrowed some of his stuff when he’d had like thousands just like them. Selfish twad. She was going to return them eventually!

  But he kept glowering at her across the night club now, his face hard. She’d never seen him look so angry at anyone other than at her. He was so gentle and sweet to Calli. Her stomach roiled uncomfortably and her chest tightened as she held his gaze, but the more it hurt, the more she smiled at him, happy when he scowled even deeper. Well, she was here because of him, after all. She might as well go say hi.

  “You think I won't?” she told her friends with fake bravado. That was her. All bark, no bite. She’d rather pretend she was an asshole rather than let anyone suspect she was a weenie. But she wasn't going to let Beckham scowl at her all night. She’d been having a great time, especially when her friends had told her he was checking her out like mad, especially hooked on her ass, but when she’d turned to see that look of total fury in his face, her fun had quickly plummeted to nil. Nope! She wasn’t going to let him get away with making her feel like shit this time.

  “Watch me,” she said. “But if I do go, someone’s paying for my drinks.”

  She had three hundred dollars to last her all weekend and she really needed to stretch them—so she might as well let the girls invite her to a round.

  The dark-haired Harrison had left the booth, and Beckham didn’t move a muscle as Sandy wound through the crowd, the drink she’d wheeled free from the bartender in her hand. Her heart pounded incredibly hard, incredibly fast. Beckham Winters…

  He had the looks to match the scowl—virile. Cold, almost icy. Unapproachable. But not to Sandy. Nope, not this time.

  His black button shirt stretched over his broad shoulders, the V at his throat revealing smooth, golden skin that even now made Sandy’s mouth run dry. He had been her every friend’s fantasy. Every time the get-together was at Calli’s, there would be ooing and ahhing as they all fantasized about seeing Beckham.

  Even Sandy had fantasized.

  Oh, she’d fantasized.

  But that was a long, long time ago, before she realized she wasn’t good enough for him, and women like her would only ever be diversions for men like him. As she closed the last steps, she remembered all times he’d rejected her in tons of little ways. And then a big way.

  No more dreaming of Beckham….

  She needed to prove to herself he had no power over her anymore. She was a woman, not a girl. And she had a life waiting for her back in Florida. One she would gladly get back to once she got the closure she needed here.

  “Hey Becky boy,” she told him, eying him with a smirk as she dropped into the booth across from him. “I’m surprised you’re not surrounded by groupies. You must be losing your touch.”

  “And yet here you are, Sandy,” he drawled with a smirk of his own.

  Did he just call her a groupie? And he was looking at her as if he knew intimate secrets about her too?

  Well you did one time climb, in nothing but a pair of panties and his warm gray sweatshirt, into his bed…

  Her heart pounded as his eyes, all-seeing twilight in color, remained fixed solely on hers. Not even on her breasts, a bit too exposed in her strapless. She was dressed to kill. Instead she was the one dying because Beckham had only grown more and more handsome. His voice deeper. His nearness making old fifteen-year-old Sandy surface along with every want and vulnerability he’d made her feel.

  Swallowing, she set the drink on the table beside his empty glass and bent across the table. “Is that all the hello I get, Becky? I thought we were better friends than that.”

  “Friends?” He leaned back and regarded her steadily. “Well….friend,” he mocked lightly, “ forgive me if I try to hang on to my wallet, I don’t want to be found penniless and with the tab.”

  She clucked saucily, stood and made to seat beside him, and he halted her swiftly with one hand on her elbow, his touch buzzing through her unexpectedly.

  “That seat’s taken?” she asked when she recovered. “Aww. You want me on your lap, don’t you,” she said, her voice soft, and then she climbed on top of his lap.

  Feeling very much the evil seductress, she bent her head to his ear and felt him go motionless beneath her. “See? A part of you wouldn’t mind to go slumming with me. Don’t you hate me for being so pretty, Beckham?”

  He grabbed her hips and she expected to be raised and shoved aside, but instead, angry hands pulled her down harder to his lap, shocking her.

  Steel pressed into her buttocks and it took her a heart-stopping, toe-curling moment to realize it was his cock. Fully erect on his lap.

  His voice tumbling into her ear, his finger’s biting into her hips, he warned her in a deadly voice, “If my sister weren’t watching, I’d show you right here and right now what would make me immensely happy.”

  A streak of lightning rushed through her as his voice reached her core and he pumped his hips upward so she could feel him.

  He didn't sound angry but he sounded incredibly aroused. It frightened her. It aroused her too. That definitely frightened her.

  She leapt to her feet and spun around ,unsettled, unsure of what to do. She grabbed her cocktail from the table and dumped the contents on his head.

  “Don't count on it, Becks, I like my men with balls enough to take me when I climb into bed with them.”

  And before he could react, her heart roaring wildly in her ears, she grabbed something from the table that probably belonged to him, and she blended into the crowd.

  “Oh my god, why did you do that? What did he say?” her friends exploded.

  Too late she realized they had all been watching. Even Calli.

  “He said um, n-nothing. I’m sorry, Calli, I just…” She realized she’d taken his keys. Oh, God, she’d thought she was over this issue. But he made her too anxious and… “Can you please give these to him?” She put the keys in Calli’s hands and then she stumbled around and headed outside, her throat constricting painfully tight.

  So she was back to stealing?

  She hadn’t stolen anything in ten years.

  She didn’t seem to steal anything from anyone except…him.

  She didn’t understand why.

  She swallowed as she searched her phone to call for a taxi. She didn’t want to spend the money on taxi but she didn’t want to stay here after what she’d done either. She wanted to make peace. Some sort of closure. But her impulsive attitude with him would get her nowhere. This was such a bad idea, she didn’t even know why she’d thought, a few weeks ago, that it was a good one.

  The taxi halted, and as she slid inside, someone slid behind her and slammed the door shut, putting out a hundred dollar bill and barking out an address.

  Sandy turned, her mouth open in protest, but Beckham grabbed her lips with two fingers and urged them closed. “Not now,” he growled.

  Two

  He was dripping in whatever shit had been in her drink. Margarita, it tasted like. It was in his hair, sliding down his face. He was fuming, trembling with his rage. And he was also hard as fuck. Even after the stunt she’d pulled, Beckham stared at her oval-face and her stunned, slightly-scared blue eyes and her wacky curly hair and he wanted nothing more than to fist his hands in that hair and put his mouth right on top of that sassy, infuriating mouth of hers.

  At his side, she rode quietly, turning away and taking a slow, long breath.

  She’d stolen his fucking car keys. He ha
dn’t even realized she’d done it until Calli came back with them. Rage unlike any other mingled with lust and all he knew was that nobody got to him this way.

  He wasn’t Mr. Merry but he was definitely not the Grinch, except with Sandy he never failed to go ape-man. She never had to do much to get him there, really.

  He noticed how her slender frame shook and the urge to put his arms around her niggled at him so hard, he fisted his hands at his sides. He knew his natural male instinct was to take care of females. He’d always been protective of Calli. He’d always been very respectful of his female employees. Even with the women he had sex with, and even when he played them hard, he took care of them afterward, ensuring they were all right, that he hadn’t hurt them. But he’d never felt the instinct to protect a female so strongly, and hurt her at the same time.

  Like with this one.

  “Where are we going?” she demanded.

  He couldn’t speak to her yet, was breathing roughly through his nose. She was glancing anxiously out the window, until she laughed. “All right, fine. Wherever your taking me, I won’t settle for less than the Four Seasons. I have standards and all. I get rashes if I don’t sleep on Egyptian cotton.”

  He didn’t answer her, knew it was bullshit, didn’t know what part of her was real except that the stealing was real. The way she infuriated him was real. The way she pushed him, taunted him, challenged him. Was fucking real. He’d been eighteen and green, and definitely too considerate of a little virgin. But she’d been in his bed and he hated how much he’d liked her there, and hated how much effort it had taken not to take the soft, pliant body she seemed to be so willingly offering. He’d almost lost the battle.

  He was a hard man now.

  He wasn’t going to be played. Not by Sandy Brown. Not by anyone.

  But she had to know that he was no longer a boy, and this was a man she was taunting. She could get hurt.

 
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