The Playboy Bachelor

by Rachel Van Dyken

  His lungs burned with the need to exhale and then suck in more air, but he kept his lips sealed.

  And wondered.

  In the lingering silence of the pool.

  If he died.

  Would the world even notice?

  And what was worse…what the hell kind of legacy would he be leaving behind?

  Women.

  Sex.

  And more women.

  What the fuck had happened to the guy who wanted to be a vet? Easy. He was shamed, broken down, beaten, and afraid.

  His confidence was shattered in every way that counted and he was constantly judged by one mistake.

  Bentley glanced up at the glistening ray of sun as it spread through the pool, and parted his lips.

  Chapter Twelve

  She was going to burn in hell.

  And she was completely okay with it.

  As long as hell had naked men with beautiful glistening bodies and abs that seemed to go on for days. She’d been stuck on a love scene and started pacing her room when she glanced out the upstairs window and saw movement by the pool.

  Her breath hitched as Bentley pulled off his boxers and jumped in the water. A smile played on her lips as he broke to the surface and started swearing about the frigidly cold water.

  Whoops?

  She was suddenly glad she never told him about the heater being broken. Then again, they lived in Arizona. Why heat the pool when the sun typically did a good-enough job?

  Though it hadn’t been as warm as it normally was.

  His fault.

  Not hers.

  He should have asked.

  Not that they’d exactly been on speaking terms since their last fight. She knew she’d hurt him. But he’d hurt her, too.

  Was it even possible to hurt a relative stranger?

  It was.

  Because as much as she tried to convince herself how different the old Bentley was from the new Bentley, being around him again reminded her of how much she’d missed him.

  The friend who watched horror movies with her. The friend who made fun of her romance novels then secretly read them to her over the phone at night until she fell asleep.

  The friend who often held her hand just because he said his was lonely.

  The friend she’d always wanted to kiss.

  And she had to wonder if he was missing her, missing the way they’d used to be. Was that what the flowers were about? But he’d already stopped offering them to her.

  A small part of her missed them, because as much as she hated to admit it, she appreciated the gesture. Great, he’d been there a total of what? Three days? And already she missed flowers? Flowers that reminded her of funerals?

  He didn’t even pick them right!

  Now it was as if he was a houseguest that stayed far, far away. He’d given her exactly what she asked for. And she kind of hated him even more for it. Because at least when they fought, he treated her like she wasn’t broken—and she felt like her old self again. When they fought, she forgot all about her handicap. Funny, how it would be Bentley who would be the one to make her so angry she couldn’t do anything except find a way to win every argument.

  So much for her grandmother’s plan.

  At least her consolation prize was watching the man swim in the nude.

  Bentley’s body was chiseled like a god from Olympus, all gold and smooth as it flowed across the surface of the pool. The writer in her knew it was so clichéd, but it was true. She could write a hell of a duke if he looked like Bentley. She mentally started making notes, then pressed a hand to her chest and forced herself to breathe in and out as he continued his fluid movements, only to stop.

  And sink under the water.

  Margot counted to thirty seconds.

  And then forty.

  And then…

  Panicked.

  Taking the stairs one at a time, she tried to hurry her gait. When she finally hit the ground floor, she tried her best to rush through the house and hobble out the back kitchen door.

  “Don’t be dead, don’t be dead!” she yelled. “Bentley!”

  No answer.

  He was in impeccable shape! She still remembered watching him swim at the club, his muscles gleaming in the water. The man was incapable of drowning. Unless he had a cramp. Oh no, what if he had a cramp? What if he hit his head? What if he died and she never got the chance to tell him she was sorry? For everything. For yelling. For hating him. For still hating him for what he did to her.

  The water didn’t even have one ripple as she moved to the pool and looked for something to throw in to him.

  “Oh God.” There he was, a blur in the bottom of the pool. It had been nearly two minutes, maybe more?

  With jerky movements, she pulled the prosthetic off her right leg, set it aside like she’d done numerous times when she went for a swim, and jumped in.

  Her lungs nearly burst when the cold water hit her skin. Margot opened her eyes to see Bentley sitting still as a statue at the bottom of the pool, arms outstretched, eyes closed.

  She swam toward him as best she could, and hooked her arms beneath him before using her good leg to shoot them to the surface.

  When they reached the top, he coughed out a breath, chest heaving, and then blinked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “Can I help you?”

  “You!” Margot choked out, still grasping his naked skin with her hands. “You were drowning!”

  “I was?” His chest heaved, his lips were a bluish pink.

  “You were!”

  “The hell I was!” His response was defensive, all masculine arrogance wrapped up in one tightly toned package. His eyes darted from right to left before finally settling on her mouth.

  “You were down for more than two minutes!” She slapped him in the chest then did it again since he didn’t flinch. And then one more time since the bastard was smiling!

  “Aw, Red, were you worried about me?” His grin widened even further as his hands snaked around her body and pulled her tight against him.

  “No.” She clenched her teeth and shoved against his chest. “I just didn’t want to go to prison over your murder!”

  “Oh, so that’s what this is.” Bentley winked. “You don’t want to get blamed for drowning me. Imagine what your grandmother would say. She pays ten grand for my presence. I fail at cheering you up. And you drown my sorry ass in your million-dollar pool.”

  She narrowed her eyes and poked him harder in the chest; her finger lingered against his warm skin, and then her palm. “You have to admit it’s a good idea. Maybe I’d get away with it.”

  His eyes locked on hers. “Maybe.”

  I will not smile.

  Margot shrugged, her hand still on his chest. “I doubt anyone would miss you.”

  His eyes flashed like she’d hit a nerve. “You’re probably right. I have a very severe Gatsby complex…I live to entertain the world only to die with nobody by my side.”

  Guilt nagged her as the truth of his words rested between both of their wet bodies.

  And then she realized, way too late, if she didn’t keep him talking, he was going to realize she had one leg, not two. She hated the idea of moving, of pulling her hand away from the spot near his heart where she could count his beats and know he was alive. Even if he was an arrogant ass, he was alive. And he felt good, so good.

  “Maybe you should get a cat,” she suggested cheerfully as she slowly removed her palm and tried to keep him talking.

  Bentley licked his lips and slowly parroted, “A cat?”

  “So you’re not lonely.”

  “I know the reason. I’m just curious why you’d suggest a cat for a bachelor.”

  “I may be a dog.” She narrowed her eyes. “But if I’m a dog, you’re a cat. Arrogant and lazy.”

  “There was a compliment in there somewhere if I search hard enough, right?” His arms tightened around her body.

  Not good. She could feel every hard line of his body. His hands slowly slid
down to her hips.

  She sucked her lower lip between her teeth as a mixture of anxiety and heat washed over her. Her prosthetic may as well be a beacon—the chair blocked only part of it. She’d been insane with worry, and she hadn’t thought past saving him.

  Saving him.

  Ah! What was she thinking? Men like Bentley never needed saving.

  Her eyes darted back and forth between the leg and Bentley.

  His eyes were questioning and then he was turning his head, just enough to see part of the prosthetic.

  “No!” she yelled, grabbing his face between her hands and smooshing his cheeks together like she was a crazy aunt getting ready to pinch them.

  “No?” The word came out muffled, since her hands were still squishing his face. God, he felt good, he even smelled good, not like chlorine but with a hint of pine and soap.

  “Kiss me,” she blurted, releasing her hold on his cheeks enough so he could talk without sounding like his tongue was swollen. “Now.”

  “Let me get this straight.” His grin was so aggravating she wanted to scream. “You rescue me when I don’t need rescuing, insult my reputation, offer to buy me a cat—”

  “I didn’t offer to buy you a cat.”

  He pressed a finger to her lips and kept it there. “And now you want me to kiss you?” He removed his finger and whispered, “I need a good reason. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I rarely kiss women on the mouth—it’s too personal.”

  She frowned. “Well then, where else do you kiss them?”

  He bit down on his bottom lip and looked down. Thank God at this angle it would be easy to miss what she so desperately wanted to keep hidden. “Oh, you know.” Voice husky, he slid his hand further down the side of her hip and then trailed a finger across her stomach. “Places.”

  “I hate you.”

  “Hate’s never a good enough reason, Red.” He shrugged and started pulling away. His hands hadn’t even left her and already the loss of his warmth was crushing.

  Not yet. He couldn’t see the prosthetic yet. Not when they were having a moment—however misguided. Not when he was looking at her like that. Just not now. She wanted the fantasy. She wanted the book boyfriend with the happily ever after for at least a few more seconds. It was inevitable he was going to see the missing leg.

  And then, the pity would come.

  And she would hate him all over again.

  “I’m writing a kissing scene!” she blurted, mentally kicking herself for screaming it in his face. “And the guy’s a complete jackass. Since my only experience with jackasses is you…” Her voice was shaky, just like her body. Could he tell how much she wanted him? How much she hated that her response was this—raw. “I-I figured you were the only one who could show me what it’s like.” Good one, Margot. Do you really have to sound so…desperate?

  “What what’s like?”

  “A kiss. From a jackass.”

  “Got the jackass part.” He treaded water and then grabbed her by the arm and pulled her deeper into the pool until they were on the opposite end, his body pressed against hers. At least his eyes were still locked on her face. “And you’ve never been kissed?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Not by someone like—”

  “If you keep insulting me, this kiss won’t ever happen, Red.”

  “Don’t call me that,” Margot whispered. Was she so weak that she’d forgive his abandonment for one kiss? “Please?”

  “This kiss.” His calculated gaze didn’t make her feel any better about the situation. “How long does it need to be? How deep? Where do you want my hands?”

  Margot’s mouth dropped open. “That’s not how kisses work! You can’t just map out the kiss. That takes all the romance out of it!”

  “Oh, so you want romance?”

  “Yes! No! I mean. I didn’t say that!” Her face flamed, and she sagged in defeat. Admitting she wanted romance kind of felt like she was on the losing end of the little battles they’d been having, like she was giving him an in. And if he got in, he’d only hurt her again.

  “I was joking,” he said, just before his lips brushed hers. His tongue slid across her bottom lip and then sucked it for a few seconds before he slid it into her mouth and deepened the kiss.

  Her lips softened beneath his gentle coaxing, and his hard thighs pressed against hers as a deep hunger awakened within her.

  Oh, this was bad.

  So bad.

  And very, very good at the same time.

  Heat flared beneath her skin as his thumbs pressed against her hips, his hands holding her in place as if he was afraid she was going to disappear.

  He broke off the kiss, his eyes cloudy, distant. “That was my first kiss on the mouth in a month.”

  “Oh.” She had a hard time breathing out the word. It was embarrassing enough how hard she was inhaling and exhaling, like she’d actually done something other than bobbed there and let his tongue invade her mouth while he strummed her body like an instrument. The man had barely touched her, and she felt him everywhere. Between her thighs, against her skin, in her mouth.

  “Can you write that?” He dipped his head, capturing her lips again, this time more aggressively as he floated backward and took her with him.

  No. No. He was too close, his hands wandering too far south. Her plan was completely backfiring as he peppered kisses along her jawline and then across her neck, like he couldn’t get enough of her.

  Like she was enough to begin with.

  Her heart skipped a panicked beat when his hands continued moving down. She kissed him again on the mouth and pulled his hands up to her hips, only to have him deepen the kiss.

  With a hungry growl, he gripped her ass and then slid his hand down her right leg, only to freeze once he was met with nothing but a stump where the rest of her leg should be.

  With a cry she swam backward, nearly slamming into the wall.

  “Margot.” He panted. “My God. What happened? Did you lose it in the accident?”

  “I lost everything in that accident.” Her voice broke and she felt tears brimming in her eyes. God, she didn’t want to talk about this. “Stop looking at me like that, Bentley. I don’t need your pity. Just leave me alone.

  “Look at you like what? I’m just trying to make sure I didn’t hurt you.” He swam toward her and looked down. “Are you okay? I didn’t mean to—”

  “Of course not!” She laughed bitterly. “Of course you didn’t mean to touch my stump—no man ever does! Because it’s disgusting! I get it. Trust me. I get it more than you could ever possibly imagine, now get the hell out!”

  “Margot—”

  “Go away!” she screamed through tears as Bentley treaded water, a look of confusion on his face.

  “Margot,” he tried again, reaching for her, “I’m so sorry.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “You don’t get to be sorry. I killed my parents. It’s my fault. And then you…” Anger surged through her. “You left me! You may as well have died, too!”

  He jerked back, pain twisting his features.

  “Go. Please. Just…go.” Margot found the strength to look away from the pain she’d obviously caused. The past was always painful, or maybe it was just their past, their past together.

  She heard movement and looked up to see Bentley heave himself out of the pool, his jaw clenched.

  She gasped, forgetting he’d been naked when he jumped into the pool.

  She should turn around.

  Instead, she was shocked.

  Because if anything was a mood killer—it was her missing leg.

  And yet, he was fully erect as he stomped toward the house damning her to hell all the way.

  She smiled when he slammed the door, as a flicker of hope grew in her chest.

  Then died the minute her eyes fell to the prosthetic.

  Who was she kidding?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Bentley stomped into the house, dripping wet. He tossed his clothes on the bed, we
nt into the bathroom, and turned on the shower full blast.

  What the hell?

  How could his grandfather not have told him?

  No wonder she walked with a limp. His hand still burned with the shock of reaching for her thigh and sliding his fingers down only to meet water.

  Anger surged through him.

  Not at her.

  At himself.

  And his grandfather for leaving out that minor detail.

  She’d lost part of her fucking leg!

  At sixteen!

  And her parents.

  No wonder she was so angry.

  According to her, Bentley had abandoned her in the hospital. Why the hell had everyone kept this from him? Brant had to know!

  But they shouldn’t have had to tell him.

  Because he should have been there.

  He shouldn’t have been so focused on himself, on his own grief, his own fear at what seeing her would do to him. Because at the time, all he could think was If I see her alive, and something happens to her again…

  …I’ll wish I were dead.

  They’d gotten too close.

  He still had a hard time explaining why, after he knew she was out of the hospital, after he was free to do whatever the hell he wanted, he’d hesitated.

  He only had himself to blame. And his own fear.

  And Brant’s constant reminders that Margot was happy, fine without him, that he’d talked with her and she was in good spirits. That she didn’t even ask for Bentley.

  Not once.

  God, it had sucked so bad to hear that. To hear that she’d talked to his twin but not him. That she hadn’t even mentioned Bentley once.

  Bentley slammed his fists against the shower wall as the hot water ran down his back. He should be thinking about her pain, her obvious grief, but instead memories of their kiss assaulted him. Her plump bottom lip, the lingering taste of her sweet cherry ChapStick as it clung to his tongue.

  “Shit.” He was so hard he couldn’t think straight. She’d been so soft against him, and for a few brief moments the white flag had been waved between them and he’d taken exactly what he’d wanted from her.

  Not because he’d seduced her.