Look At Me. Cara Lockwood

       CHAPTER TWO

      JACKSON DRAKE COULDN’T get his mind off the dark-haired beauty who’d given him a show as he drove his Maserati down North Avenue later that day. He grinned to himself. He remembered her shock and embarrassment when she’d realized she’d shown him her left breast and almost all of the right, her dark nipples puckered just the way he liked them. They came in the perfect size, natural, but not too heavy, much more than a handful. He wondered what they’d feel like against his palms. The idea of having a sexy new neighbor who often went braless was a perk he hadn’t anticipated when he’d bought the old icehouse. Drake had made a fortune in real estate, in transforming old buildings into new condos and offices. He was one of the city’s most successful large-scale flippers. A real estate magazine had labeled him a renegade, since he always bet on buildings and neighborhoods others wrote off, plus, his bad-boy look made him seem more biker gang than Fortune 500. But his facial hair grew so fast, he’d need to shave twice a day if he had even a fighting chance of being clean shaven, so he decided long ago not to fight it. Goatees and beards came easy to him.

      But those who thought he looked more thug than businessman would be wrong. He prided himself on doing more research, knowing everything there was to know about a neighborhood, before he invested in it. But somehow he’d missed the intel on the sexy neighbor next door.

      I would’ve finished the renovations earlier if I’d known, he mused, grinning. And maybe added more windows. He was already regretting only having one on the second floor facing the alley.

      The light turned green and he gunned his car, beating the BMW in the lane next to him as he roared down the street.

      He thought about her cracked phone and frowned. He made a mental note: he’d grab one of the many smartphones they kept at the office to hand out to new Realtors. It would be easy enough to replace, and besides, he was just being neighborly. He imagined what she’d do when she saw the new phone. Would her face light up with delight?

      Then, almost instantly, his excitement faded a tad. He’d wondered, briefly, if it had all been an act. Most women saw the money before they saw him. He worked hard on his body, but he’d begun to think that didn’t matter in the least. Hell, if some woman wanted him for his abs it would be a welcome change of pace. Most women saw the Maserati and Rolex, and then didn’t care what he looked like. Jackson shook his head. It was why he’d all but given up hope on finding someone who actually cared about him. His last relationship had been a disaster from the get-go: she’d been a social climber disguised as a bartender—Laurie, a woman he’d caught in his bathroom, legs up on the bathroom counter, as she tried to tip the contents of a used condom inside her to impregnate herself. It was a calculated move to get child support, or 20 percent of his gross income per year until the baby turned eighteen.

      Every time Jackson thought he’d become as cynical as you could be about women, he managed to find a new level. The experience had been enough to make him want to never date again. Lately, Jackson had been relying on old friends-with-benefits relationships, the kind that came with no strings, no commitments. Women who liked nice meals out, the occasional gift, and didn’t mind that Jackson would disappear for months at a time. Having money wasn’t all bad.

      He’d been telling himself for years that this was exactly what he wanted: a rotation of gorgeous and willing women. Mostly, this worked just fine, until he spent Thanksgiving with his cousin and his wife and kids in the burbs and wondered what it would be like to have a family of his own: a house full of love and laughter and a little bit of chaos. It was really why Laurie’s antics had hurt him so much. He worried that he’d never find genuine love, a woman who could see beyond the money and could love the man beneath.

      He steered his car to the office bearing his name—Drake Properties—and pulled into the underground parking beneath the sleek skyscraper that housed his office in the Gold Coast near downtown Chicago, aptly named for its stunning multimillion-dollar condos and its proximity to the Magnificent Mile, home to the swankiest stores in the city. He was happy to see that most of the spaces dedicated to his office were empty. That was a good thing. That meant Realtors were out doing their jobs. After all, you couldn’t sell property from inside an air-conditioned office. He headed to the elevator, texting his assistant to let him know he’d be arriving soon. In seconds he was inside the lobby of the building, which they shared with a few other businesses. He waved at the security guard up front and then headed to the bank of elevators that would take him to the top floor.

      The elevator door barely opened before his assistant, Hailey, greeted him with a piping-hot cappuccino, foamed up just the way he liked it, an elaborate swirled pattern down the center.

      “Good morning, sir,” Hailey said, beaming her million-dollar smile as she handed him the perfectly foamed cappuccino. Blond perfection in a steel-gray pencil skirt and blouse, Hailey was all business, just the way he liked it. Clients were stunned by her beauty, but he loved the fact that she never missed the smallest detail.

      “Here are the dailies,” she said, handing him a folder with the highlights of the day as well, including the brewing deals in the office. “And the Housing Network called again. They wanted to know if you’d given any more thought to their show.” Hailey paused at his door, waiting for his answer.

      Jackson shook his head. “Don’t have time for reality TV discussions this week,” he said, even though he knew HN wouldn’t give up. They’d been hounding him for months to come do a guest spot on their show that put experts in touch with amateur home flippers. While the possibility was intriguing, Jackson had his hands full with current projects, and fame had never really interested him much.

      “Thank you, Hailey.”

      “Yes, sir,” Hailey said. “Oh, one more thing. Mr. Roberts is waiting for you. In the lobby.”

      “Why?” Jackson frowned. Roberts was his major competition in Chicago, and the only other developer who flipped buildings as fast as Jackson did. But while Jackson believed in revamping the community and trying to keep housing reasonably affordable, caring about the city as a whole, Roberts was a typical slumlord: he’d been born wealthy, a trust fund baby who had gotten richer on the backs of the poor. He had a vast holding of decrepit properties on the South Side. The two never saw eye to eye on anything. So why was he waiting for a meeting?

      “He would only tell me that you’d want to hear his proposition.”

      “I’m not interested in any deal that man offers.” Jackson took a sip of his cappuccino and then headed into his spacious corner office, made almost completely of glass. His sleek glass-legged desk waited for him, as