House Of Payne: Scout (3 page)

“Of course.” His voice was soothing, his smile non-threatening, and his eyes…

Blank.

Like always.

That was what set off her trouble alarms, Scout realized, her frown deepening. Sure, she liked the look of him—killer blue eyes, sculpted square jaw and suave manners that belonged in some hoity-toity chateau. Hell, what wasn’t there to like? By anyone’s definition Ivar Fournier was totally drool-worthy.

But…

There was nothing there in his eyes.

How could there be
nothing
?

The one thing she’d always been able to do was read people. It wasn’t unusual for her to know what people were going to do before they did it. Because of this, she could get out in front of a problem if someone chose to create one. It was one hell of a tool to have, especially when she was determined to make sure House Of Payne was bulletproof.

But with Ivar… things were different.

She couldn’t tell which way he was going to jump. And that worried her, because this had happened to her once before—the only time her gift had let her down.

No, that wasn’t quite true, though that was difficult to admit, even now. She’d chosen to ignore all the alarms and warning signs. That was when she’d learned the lesson that if she ignored the signs, she wound up in a place she didn’t want to be.

When House Of Payne first became a sensation, she’d fallen hard for a guy who went by the name Vishous. He’d been an edgy kind of guy, a bad-boy fantasy come to life with his smoky dark eyes and a dirty mouth that got her hotter than the surface of the sun. For weeks he made certain she believed she was the center of his universe, and it wasn’t until she’d been sucker-punched with an exposé Vishous had written for
Rolling Stone
magazine that he came clean with what he’d really wanted.

And it had never been her.

In point of fact, that asshole had even laughed that she’d bought his line of bullshit.
Laughed
, for God‘s sake. The way he’d told it, she’d been nothing more than the gatekeeper he’d needed to get around in order to have free reign in the tattoo world’s version of Wonka’s candy factory. The slimy bastard.

It had been a hard, hard lesson, but she’d learned it. And she’d never forgotten it.

This latest potential threat, though, was different.  She couldn’t get a bead on Ivar. Maybe it was because this time around, the threat was wrapped up in a sophisticated, blue-blooded package of masculine perfection. Time and again she tried to read him, but she always came up as blank as his eyes. Either the guy was hiding something that she wasn’t going to enjoy—like, at
all
—or he was simply unplugged when it came to basic human-to-human emotion.

All things considered, those two choices sucked. Either he was up to something that could potentially hurt House Of Payne, or he was a sociopath.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

“If you still want to pursue this idea you’ve got, I suggest you take it up with Payne personally.” When in doubt, dump trouble on Payne’s doorstep, she decided, pushing to her feet. If Payne thought the guy’s plan was kosher, and a few select clients were willing to share their tattoos and the personal stories that went with them, so be it. But she was tired of dealing with Ivar, as of now. “I’m on vacation for the rest of the month, so I can’t help you. That means it’s time for you to leave.”

“Scout.” He joined her by the elevator, looking the picture of regret with brows drawn together and mouth tight. But did his eyes reflect any of that? Nope. Blank as new glass. “Clearly I have hurt your feelings. That was not my intention.”

“What is your intention?” Baffled, she searched his face, trying to see past the killer supermodel looks. But damn, it was hard not to be distracted by so much masculine perfection. “Why are you really here?”

For an instant, something flickered in those icy blue depths. It could have been labeled as surprise, but his half-step back—the body’s language for caution—told her it edged closer to alarm.

Hmmm.

“I did come here today in the hope of convincing you to speak to Payne on my behalf. If you’re on board with my project, it’s all but certain that Payne will give it the green light.”

“Okay. Since I’m the House’s gatekeeper, that sounds legit.” The elevator doors opened when she hit the button. “How did you know where I live?”

“The internet is an amazing thing, and I’m highly motivated. With House Of Payne unveiling its 3D art as the latest, hottest trend in tattooing, now is the time for me to strike.”

She grimaced, well aware through her own troubleshooting sessions online that just about everything was up for grabs if a person looked hard enough. “Thanks, at least, for not continuing to pass off being in my neighborhood as some freaky coincidence. Anything less would have been insulting.”

“I believe I have insulted you enough.” His accent deepened, and when she glanced up at him she could have sworn she saw a hint of genuine regret. “I want to make it up to you. You lost your coffee when you were mugged, yes? Allow me to buy you another and we can start over.”

“It was tea, and I’m so freaking
done
talking about anything work-related. I told you, I’m on vacation. You know, the thing that you go on to escape from your work?”

“As much as it pains me, I promise I will not mention my project again,” came the solemn vow. “I too, would be angry if anyone reminded me of work if I were on holiday. I promise to be on my best behavior, while at the same time doing all that I can to make up for my poor choice of words.”

“I…” She was sorry she’d lost her tea, but she could easily make more for herself, despite Leo’s suspicion that she was incapable. The fact was, she simply liked the social connection of going out for it, and grabbing some tea with high class eye-candy like Ivar Fournier was a social connection to be wished for by any female with a pulse.

Not to mention if she got him to relax his guard, she might be able to figure out why he set off her trouble alarms…

“Okay. As long as we can stop by a flower shop along the way, I’m game.”

Chapter Three

As he watched Scout roam through the displays of fresh-cut flowers, Ivar studied her every nuance.

He’d almost ruined everything.

The moment he’d seen the storm rise in her eyes, he realized his mistake. Scout wasn’t like the women in his world; so many of those women were spoiled, vapid brats who were used to being revered. They assumed that every word spoken had to be a compliment to their greatness, even when it wasn’t.

Scout Upton was the exact opposite. She believed every word he spoke was an attack.

She didn’t trust him. That was new, and he didn’t like it. Nor did he understand why she was so on guard with him. With the exception of his family, he’d been able to charm every female he’d come across from the time he’d learned to smile on command. His grandmother had forced him to show the world what she called the “Fournier charm,” and no one had ever seen past it.

Trying to look past his charm was all Scout ever did.

He couldn’t allow that to happen. No one got to see the monster behind the mask.

“These hyacinths are
gorgeous
.” She plucked up a bundle of conical flowers on long stems that looked like giant purple, pink and white Q-Tips. She buried her face in them and inhaled deeply. “Wow, that’s heaven right there. You just can’t beat springtime for flowers.”

So those were hyacinths. She knew their name on sight. “I thought most women preferred roses.”

She slid him an unimpressed side-eye. “First off,
puh-lease
. Stereotypes show a decided lack of imagination, so I’m not even going to go there. Secondly, I
do
love roses—just as much as I love honeysuckle, lilacs, cherry blossoms and tulips. Or, in this case, hyacinths.”

“Ah.” Again, she’d been less than bowled over by him. What the hell was with her? “A nature lover in the heart of one of this country’s largest cities, eh?”

“I don’t know about the entirety of nature, but I’m totally gaga for flowers.” As she wandered nearer, she absently brushed her fingers over the flowers inked across her upper chest and around her neck in a lei-like pattern. “Do you remember the first time you ever saw a flower?”

“The first time?” He thought of the formal gardens of his grandmother’s estate he’d been able to see from his window, and the showy floral arrangements the household staff changed out every other day. Random facets of the magnificent prison that had been his childhood world. “No one can remember such a thing.”

“I can.” She continued to scan the cut flowers, her expression happy while he looked at her in surprise. “Even back in the day, inner-city parks were a dangerous place to be, and they’re nothing like what you’d probably think of when I say the word
park
. Where I come from, a park consists of cracked hardtop and graffiti-covered concrete, dirt and chain link fencing. There might be some grass in the spring. But if you blink you miss it, and by summer, that beautiful splash of green is nothing but a memory. And flowers… yeah, no. You’d be surprised how many inner city kids, even at kindergarten age, have never seen a flower in person.”

“That sounds like a very gray world.”

“Now you’re getting the picture.”

“It is almost impossible to envision you in such drab surroundings.” Ivar stared at her as she bent to savor the scent of a bunch of simple pink carnations. He’d never forget the moment he’d first laid eyes on her—decked out in a fiercely purple pencil skirt that did amazing things for her perfectly rounded ass, a scarlet-tinted mouth that matched her nails and a bold streak of violet in her flirty pinup hair.

He might not be able to remember the first flower he had ever seen. But he’d never forget the first time he saw her.

“Now I am curious.” Idly, because it was second nature to try and capture moments that made him pause, he fished his phone out and took a picture of her browsing through the blooms. “What was the first flower you ever saw?”

“It was the most perfect flower in the world, and to this day it’s my all-time favorite flower.” Her smile was soft, and he was sure she no longer saw the carnations in front of her. He took another shot. Beautiful. “I must’ve been about five at the time, because I remember being relieved that I finally got to go to school and escape the foster home I was in at the time. There are good homes and bad homes,” she added with a crooked smile that, to his surprise, held genuine humor. “I’m still besties with several of my foster siblings and to this day I’m in touch with my last foster family, who are genuinely wonderful people. But the foster home I had when I was five… Let’s just say it definitely wasn’t run by wonderful people.”

He stepped closer, something he didn’t realize he’d done until he moved. “What was not wonderful about these people?”

“The foster parents at that particular home were fond of what I’d call your basic, run-of-the-mill beatings whenever a kid got out of line. But on the upside, no sexual abuse, so I count myself as one lucky duck on that score.”

“Lucky?” He stared at her while flashes unfurled in his mind—a small and airless closet, of being made to sit perfectly still for hours, of being so overcome with hunger he couldn’t even speak. “You have a strange definition of the word.”

“That’s probably because I’m a strange person.” With a bright smile that declared pride in the statement, she plucked up a few carnations and added them to her bundle. “I guess I just have a habit of trying to find the beauty in everything. It’s there, if you look long enough.”

“Not in everything. There are things in this world that are ugly all the way to their core.”

“This, from the guy who makes the fashion world tremble with fear and awe? I thought you artsy photographers specialized in having an eye for beauty.”

“Generally speaking, I would assume we have an eye for many things.” And his eye had been trained to spot the ugly camouflaged like a steel trap beneath the beauty. But as hard as he looked, there was nothing like that hidden inside her. “You still have not told me of your first flower.”

That dazzling smile of hers popped back into place before she began to wind her way toward the shop’s check-out. “I’d come home from school and found this particular foster mom—she was of the crazy-ass variety—in the middle of a huge wig-out. One of those screaming ones the whole neighborhood can hear, you know?”

He didn’t know, actually. He was more used to icy silences that filled a gut with dread.

“Anyway, she was yelling her head off at one of the other kids. Since I didn’t want to catch any stray flak, I took off outside to practice writing my ABCs in the dirt. That’s when I saw it—this amazing splash of color. It was pushing up between a crack in the concrete walk by the house, reaching up to catch the sun’s rays, and it was just…” She put her hand to her heart in what looked to be a genuine fangirl swoon. “Absolutely. Freaking.
Perfect
.”

“I can almost see what you would have looked like.” As he covertly took another picture of her, surprise zipped through him when he heard himself speak the thought aloud. “So full of wonder, so full of joy.”

“So full of ‘
holy crap, what’s that
?’” With a laugh, she dug into her bag with her free hand. “I squatted down next to it, mesmerized by this magical color that didn’t exist in my world—showy, neon yellow that was way better than the color of a school bus or a crayon. Those were the only yellows that I knew, if that makes any sense.”

“It does.” He took another shot of her as the elderly shopkeeper approached.

“It had these tiny spiked petals that were so compact it looked like there were about a billion of them, and they were arranged in this symmetrical sunburst pattern that must have been designed by the angels themselves. God, it was beautiful.”

His eyes narrowed at the description. “Wait, this flower. You don’t mean…”

“Yep. A dandelion. The most spectacular flower I’d ever seen, or would ever see.” Her grin faded, and with a gentle sound of regret she turned to offer a wave at the approaching woman. “Then Crazy-Ass Foster Mom stormed out, stomped on it just for giggles and hauled me inside to give me hell for not coming when she called. As she dragged me away, I remember looking back toward the walkway at this sad, mangled green and yellow knot of something that had been so perfect only seconds before, but was now so hopelessly ruined.” She shook her head. “I cried myself to sleep that night.”

As she greeted the shop worker by name—Zelda—and hugged her as if they’d been separated for years, he took another picture. Scout was a miracle, really, to still have such an obvious capacity to love and laugh after that kind of childhood. They’d traveled similar roads, yet they’d turned out so differently. She had come out of it with a deep understanding of how precious beauty was. He, on the other hand, was what he’d been born to be—a monster who wanted to do monstrous things.

Like find that hideous toad-bitch of a foster parent and blast her off her dandelion-stomping feet for breaking Scout’s heart.

Or uproot the entire city in search of a dandelion so he could give it to her.

Or rage at an uncaring world because it had allowed an innocent child to cry devastated tears.

Instead, when she got her wallet out, all he could do was beat her to it.

“I got this.”

“Oh, no, it’s—”

“Scout.” He gently pushed her hand away, when anyone who knew him would insist there was nothing gentle about him. “I got this.”

He couldn’t give her dandelions. But maybe hyacinths and carnations would do.

“I really need to get these into some water, so I’m not going to stay too long.” Sliding into the corner booth at the back of Pig In A Poke, Scout put the flowers carefully on the table. “Thank you for buying them for me.”

“It was my pleasure, and I am sure the flowers will keep.” To her surprise, Ivar didn’t slide in on the opposite side across from her. Instead he scooted in beside her, and she had to scramble to make sure she didn’t get sat on.

“What the hell.” Annoyed, she pushed all the way to the corner, then stopped when she realized he kept eating up the space she was trying to keep between them. “What are you doing?”

“Sitting down.”

Duh
. “You got a problem with sitting on all that lovely bench space over there across the table?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” Apparently not in the least bothered by her bid for distance, he slung an arm over the back of where she sat. It took every ounce of will she had not to move again. “I prefer the European way of sitting side by side while dining, rather than having an obstacle between me and my date.”

“This isn’t a date, and you’re Canadian, not European.”

“Ah.” His eyes lit up. “You checked up on me.”

Oh crap. “Naturally.”

“And here I thought you had not noticed me at all.”

“I check up on everyone who shows more than a passing interest in House Of Payne.” No way was she going to admit she’d memorized his stats like he was going into her fantasy football line-up. “That’s what I do best—scouting out potential trouble and eliminating it before it ever becomes a genuine pain in the ass.”

“Scouting out.” The lift of his brow was so insanely charming, it was hard not to just sit there and gape at him like some mouth-breathing idiot. “Is this, perhaps, the reason you have the nickname Scout? Or is that your real name, and your parents were fans of
To Kill a Mockingbird
?”

“My real name is Theresa, and both my parents were killed in a carjacking when I was a baby, so I have no idea where they got my real name.” As she heard the private information pour out as easily as if her inner censor had fallen asleep at the switch, she had to shake her head. How tragic it was, that she was such a sucker for a pretty face. “Your first name is unusual. It doesn’t sound like any French name I’ve ever heard.”

“Ivar is Scandinavian. My grandmother named me,” he added when she tilted her head, and he looked away when Leo approached. “It is the only non-French name in the family tree, and designed to stand out.”

Stand out, or not fit in? Scout felt the words crowd her mouth, but even after they’d given their orders of tea and coffee, she kept them imprisoned. There was something in the casual expression he wore that bothered her. It was almost as though he was trying not to move a single muscle in his face. It wasn’t that it was a tight expression. In fact, it wasn’t an expression at all.

It was a mask.

That’s it. That’s what wrong.

What was it that he felt he had to hide behind a mask?

“It’s a cool name,” she offered, watching him closely. The mask remained firmly in place as he tilted his head.

“Thank you.”

“Do you like it?”

“Do you know, no one has ever asked me that? How strange.” If possible, his eyes grew even more shuttered. “It is merely my name. Liking it, not liking it—this has never been a consideration.”

“If you don’t like it, you could always pick a nickname and roll with it.”

“A nickname?” He said the word as if sampling its flavor, and the rigidity in his expression drained away as humor took its place. “I have never had one of those.”