Pump Fake Read online

  Pump Fake

  Lila Price

  Contents

  Want To Be In The Know?

  Pump Fake by Lila Price

  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

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  Excerpt: Snatched by Harper James

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Copyright © 2017 by Favor Ford Publishing

  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.

  Want To Be In The Know?

  If you want to know when the next book is released, and get alerted to more of the hottest deals in romance—sign up now to the Favor Ford Romance newsletter!

  Pump Fake by Lila Price

  Chapter 1

  No one is home today in the big, fancy house—no one but me.

  And I hardly count.

  I’m just the maid.

  There’s a lot to clean and I’ve been pouring sweat as I scrub the patio tiles out back in hundred degree heat.

  My back is aching, so I stand up and stretch, looking around at the gorgeous view. God, I wish I belonged here. I wish I had a designer bikini on instead of my grubby old cut-off jeans and clogs.

  For just one lovely, sinful moment with the gorgeous view of Lake Las Vegas below me, the splash from the pool’s rock waterfall soothing me. I close my eyes under the early morning sun, imagining what life would be like living here—every day a holiday, beautiful clothes, a carefree existence without any worries.

  But my life is far from that fantasy.

  And I know that I’m destined for a life of hard work and unpaid bills, stress, and striving desperately to get even a rung or two further up the ladder of success. I just need to accept it and stop daydreaming.

  If I somehow lost this client, my mother and father would be beside themselves and our financial hole would get a heck of a lot deeper. So I kneel down again and get back to scrub scrub scrubbing like a demon.

  I get about five more strokes of the brush on the tile in when I hear a noise behind me. I peer over my shoulder to see that I’m not alone anymore, I suck in a breath.

  A man is carelessly leaning against the frame of the open French door, his thumbs hitched into the front pockets of his faded jeans. Muscles bulge beneath a white T-shirt that doesn’t hide his rock-hard physique, and part of a bladed tattoo edges out from a sleeve onto one tanned arm. He’s got the whiskered yet privileged look of someone who aimlessly wanders in and out of fancy houses every day of his life. His longish hair isn’t brown or blond, more like the two shades can’t decide where they belong, and even from here, I can see the piercing pale blue of his eyes.

  I swallow when I see that he’s grinning like the devil as he lavishes a hot gaze over my ass, which is currently sticking up in the air because I’m still on my hands and knees.

  I slowly sit up and face him, my belly in pulsing knots.

  But this isn’t the king of the castle—he’s more like a knight of the royal guard. Eli Brennan, star wide receiver of the Las Vegas Rustlers and bad boy of the tabloids, looks as if he’s imagining things about me that make my skin flush.

  I only recognize him because he’s basically football royalty. And it makes sense that he would show up here. After all, the homeowner, Randal Preston The Third, owns the Rustlers (on top of being a mega real estate developer).

  I try not to freeze up. But it’s hard to get back to work when I know that Eli Brennan was just staring at me.

  Me, the maid. The one whose derriere was wiggling away in jeans shorts as she obliviously scrubbed the tiles. The one whose dishwater blond hair is half in her face because her springy curls won’t stay in their clip.

  I push back my hair, pull my shirt down more, and wish that my shorts weren’t so ratty—and that they were a little longer. Then I manage to speak.

  “I thought nobody was home while the Prestons are out of town,” I say, trying not to sound accusatory.

  “I decided to get here before Randal,” Eli says, his voice scratchy and low.

  I feel his voice trail down my skin like a rough caress. Of course I’ve heard his voice before, on commercials, interviews, even during sound bites when he’s trying to explain away his latest scandal.

  He’s been in bar fights, tested positive for pot, and supposedly slept his way through half the women in the country, but he’s always slid by on all that ridiculous talent that earned him a Heisman, a top draft spot, and a crap-load of money. Hell, he’s got a record number of fines, even as a rookie, for all kinds of minor infractions. But in the off-season, during the summer after his first year in the league ended, he went too far, even for most of the fans who worship him.

  His name appeared in the “black book” of an infamous Vegas madam, so is that the reason he’s come here to skulk around the house of his team’s owner? Is he in some kind of hiding?

  I shouldn’t have even started a conversation with him, so I haven’t responded to his comment. My job is to be invisible, Randal Preston has made that much clear.

  And my parents, who normally work this important gig, have pounded it home even more.

  Never speak unless spoken to. Don’t make judgments. Don’t stare. You don’t do anything but clean the house and leave it spotless and gleaming.

  As I’m reminding myself to become invisible again, I hear the sound of boots on tile. Mortified, I glance at his feet, frowning at the dirt Eli’s tracking over the tiles I so very lovingly cleaned.

  He notices my dismay then holds up his hands. “Didn’t mean to dirty things up.”

  But he doesn’t look very apologetic. In fact, I doubt Eli Brennan is ever sorry about anything.

  I turn to pick up my pail and drop the brush into it. “No worries.” Then, with a mock cheery attitude, I nod toward the dirt. “Obviously I exist to clean up your messes.”

  I shouldn’t have said that, but it was hard not to be annoyed at his lack of concern over messing up all my hard work.

  “Wait a sec,” he says before I can haul my pail over to his dirt.

  Within the next heartbeat, he strips his T-shirt over his head, revealing the glorious sight of a cut waist, ridged abs, and a smooth, firm chest. His tat rides every muscle in a network of sword blades, dark and edgy, making him look like a gridiron warrior.

  The knots in me are getting tighter, pulling and making the lining of my belly quiver.

  He gets down to one knee then smiles up at me while wiping the tiles. Not only is he being a smartass, but he clearly knows I’ve been checking him out.

  It must be nice to have enough money and talent to buy that kind of ego.

  “Thanks for the help,” I say, trying to sound as unimpressed as possible. But how can I not be impressed by all that muscle and heat? And those pale eyes that keep watching me with a glint of amusement…

  Is he flirting with the maid? I mean, I know he’s got a dirty reputation, but please. There’s no way.

  As I start to head to anothe
r spot on the patio far, far away from him, he speaks again.

  “Hey, now—I just did you a solid. Why don’t you do one for me in return? Tell me your name.”

  I stop in my tracks. What’s the harm? Any minute now I’ll fade into the woodwork, just as I’ve been taught. “Jenna Collins.”

  “Jenna.” The way he says it gives me chills.

  “Yup, that’s me.”

  “You know, I didn’t mean to make a bad first impression,” he says, his expression slightly amused.

  A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “Is there any other kind of impression with you?”

  Now he laughs, then leans his forearms on his thigh, running his gaze over me again. He starts at my legs, sweeping higher over my curves until he gets to my chest. He lingers there, almost as if I don’t have anything on at all and he can see right through the thin cotton of my shirt and bra.

  I should feel uncomfortable. I’m just a regular girl, cute at best, and Eli Brennan dates top shelf models and actresses and dancers.

  My body certainly can’t compare to theirs, even if I do have a nice butt from all the hard work I do. But the way Eli is watching me, I don’t feel less than.

  I feel…sexy.

  My nipples go hard, and my clit pounds in an achy rhythm. But I don’t have time for this. I never have. There’s too much work to do, too many problems to deal with, and romantic relationships have always been a casualty of my efforts to make a better life for my parents, little sister, and myself.

  Maybe I should just stop this player short by telling him that although I’ve mildly fooled around with a few guys, I’ve never really been with one. He’s got to know that he doesn’t have any kind of one-and-done shot with this particular peasant girl.

  “That was cute,” he says, still checking me out.

  “What?”

  “Your comment. You’ve got some sass.”

  It’s as if he doesn’t get my reason for being here: I clean toilets and scrub tiles because my family is desperate, making barely enough money with the business to survive. I’m not here because I like to explore the wonders of dirty porcelain. Does he see my edgy impatience as some kind of turn on or something?

  As he keeps watching me, I realize that Eli Brennan has built a reputation on loving a challenge, whether it’s on or off the field. And the fleeting thought that I could be his latest challenge has my pulse racing, my breath coming shorter and quicker.

  He stands—so fluidly and gracefully that it makes me go even hotter—then takes a few steps toward me. I cross my arms over my chest so he can’t see that my body finds his body irresistible.

  He’s so close that his voice seems to vibrate into me. “I was thinking about getting in the pool before Randal gets home. Besides, football’s hell on my muscles, and I could use a soak.”

  Somewhere in the fog of my mind, I realize that Randal Preston the Third probably cut short his family vacation because of this latest scandal of Eli’s.

  But the thought dissipates because Eli is right here, his shirt off, his muscles making my heart flutter.

  I swallow and manage to sound sassy again. “None of my business if you take a swim.”

  “I was thinking you could get in the water with me.”

  Now my pulse is kicking at every part of my body—my chest, my belly, my sex. And I’m pretty sure he can hear it, because he’s grinning again as if he knows that no woman can help herself around him.

  God. I just wish I could be any woman right now, especially someone like Randal Preston’s daughter Lulu, who makes the messes that I’m here to clean up. I want to sip daiquiris just like she does out by the pool, but even more painfully, I want to be in the water with this tempting, breathtaking man who doesn’t seem to acknowledge that I’m a drab, frumpy girl in threadbare clothing.

  “You really think I can just hop in the pool with you,” I say, frustration burning my belly.

  “Why not?” He jerks his chin toward the water. “You know how to swim, right? Or do you need me to teach you?”

  Somehow he makes the word swim sound wicked. But how damned clueless can he be? I’m obviously not the kind of girl who’d be a groupie. I’m sure he’s screwed many a maid for a house or hotel. And then some.

  I heft the pail to my other hand, and water sloshes out, nearly dousing his boots. “Watch it, Romeo. You’re going to get me fired.”

  “For taking a swim?”

  “For distracting me. If Mr. Preston or Lulu came home and saw me slacking off…”

  “Don’t you worry about either of them.”

  Could he be cockier? “I don’t think you know how much I need this job.”

  “What you need,” he says in that low, persuasive voice, “is to get wet with me.”

  Oh my God. His eyes are saying everything impolite and naughty that he’s actually not saying. His gaze heats me, making my clit throb even harder. I hate that he makes it do that more than any fantasy I’ve ever had.

  And he does it so well. When he reaches down to tug on the bottom of my shirt, I can’t move, even though I should be running as fast as I can away from him.

  “Come on, Jenna,” he says. “Get wet with me.”

  Chapter 2

  My common sense—and my defenses—rear up, and I say the only thing that might put him off. “Are you trying to make me your latest scandal?”

  His grin fades as he tightens his grip on my shirt. There’s a darkness in his eyes that wasn’t there before, but he recovers quickly, just as if he’s fumbled and isn’t about to settle for a turnover.

  He slips his fingers over to my belly and brushes it ever so lightly. My sex beats with a throbbing pain that makes me hold back a small sound of pleasure.

  “You must not have heard the statement I made last night to the press about the Black Book Incident,” he says. “I was arranging some high-class escorts for a friend’s bachelor party—one that I wasn’t even going to go to. But the truth isn’t interesting to the media. They’d rather talk about my so-called sex addiction.”

  I look down at his hand, and he drops it to his side. I, along with the rest of Vegas (and most of the country), know Eli lost a major seven-figure clothing endorsement because of this black-book thing. The few true-blue fans he has left swear up and down that the league aims to make an example out of someone so they can shine up their tarnished image, and he’s an easy target.

  But as I look into Eli’s eyes, I have to wonder if he is telling the truth. I certainly wouldn’t bet on him, given his behavior in just the last few minutes alone with me.

  In spite of my resistance, I long for Eli to be touching me again. I haven’t felt this way in…ever.

  I’m seriously lusting after this troublemaking fantasy in the flesh, and I like the way he’s making me feel, just with a little flirting. It’s not every day a beautiful man shows interest in me. It’s not every day I consider throwing caution to the wind for just one brief moment of pleasure.

  “Well, it’s not my place to judge,” I say, finally.

  He pushes back his hair from his face, the muscles in his arm bulging. His grin is back, and it flips my stomach in a playful way that makes me want to smile back at him. I don’t, but still.

  “So,” he says, “does that mean you’re not gonna tell Randal that I made your job harder by distracting you?”

  “I don’t ever talk to your boss.”

  “But even if you did, I don’t think you’d rat me out, Jenna.”

  His grin tells me he couldn’t care less. Or maybe he cares too much and he’s that good at hiding it. The only thing I know for sure is that Randal Preston is well known for how he’s taken Eli under his wing. As the owner of the Rustlers, he’s Eli’s biggest fan, even with all of his issues. I’ve also heard Lulu on the phone gushing about Eli when she thinks I’m not around, so maybe Daddy is trying to groom a prince for his princess.

  Good luck taming him.

  “All right then,” I say, hitching the pail up in m
y hand. “I’ve got to finish this patio. Enjoy your swim.”

  “It could’ve been a much better swim with you in that pool. Just sayin’.”

  With one last smile, he moves toward the water, all sleek muscle and athletic prowl. When he begins to take off his boots right there, I realize that he’s not about to go into the pool house to change into swimming trunks.

  Before he can strip naked right in front of me, I drop my pail and turn my back on him. I’m not sure what to do, because if I don’t finish cleaning the patio, I’ll leave a job half done, and that’s not in my nature. It’s not good for business, either. Maybe I should go inside to re-clean the kitchen until Eli is done out here? Or I could tackle cleaning the bathmats in the spa, which is one of the most disgusting jobs in the household, one that Dad had told me he’d take care of next time.

  When the French doors open, both Eli and I turn to them. It’s Randal Preston in all his gray-haired, polo-shirted glory. Even though he’s been vacationing, his skin is pale. He also has a gut that hangs over his belt, so maybe that was the reason he didn’t hit some fabulous tropical beach to show off his bod.

  “Eli!” he says, ignoring me as I drop down and begin scrubbing away. He’s also ignoring the fact that his superstar is halfway undressed.

  Maybe Preston is just used to his amazing wide receiver skinny-dipping in the pool whenever.

  “How were the Cayman Islands this time?” Eli asks, clearly not caring about being caught half-naked in the backyard by a man who is technically his boss.

  “The trip was as fast as it always is before the season starts,” Preston drawls. “My wife loved the islands so much that she took off to the Dominican Republic yesterday, but Lulu and I stayed for happy hour without her.”