Billionaire With a Twist

by Lila Monroe

  “Well, I’m not onna—on the clock, am I?” I snapped back, embarrassed. I could feel my blush burning my cheeks as I became even more aware of the short plaid skirt, kitten heels, and low-cut red blouse that Martha had talked me into purchasing at the mall en route. “Is it a crime to wear nice things?”

  “Depends on who you’re wearing them for,” he growled, sending a look at a nearby frat guy that was pure poison. Frat guy had been coming forward proffering a drink; he back-pedaled like a mouse who’d just seen a lion.

  “Didn’t realize you were CEO of my wardrobe too,” I grumbled. Who was he to comment on my outfits? Just because we’d slept together once didn’t mean he owned me. “Look, if you’re taking me home, take me home.”

  I tried to stand, and Hunter grabbed my arm to keep me from falling, walking me gently to his car. I leaned into him, savoring his solidity, his strength.

  The feel of his hands on me made it very difficult to remember why I was angry at him.

  He helpfully reminded me. “I don’t understand why you’re here to be taken home in the first place.” His voice was a tightly wound spring, emotions I couldn’t quite grasp bottled up under pressure. “After what happened last time, I would have thought you’d swear off ‘research’ of this nature.”

  I fumbled at the door handle to the car, my face flushed with drink and embarrassment. “For your infor—infor—informayshun, I wasn’ planning to drink at all.” I flopped onto the car seat, nearly strangling myself with the seatbelt. “Dammit! Shit. I’m fine, just—” I waved away his assistance, buckling myself in with only a few dozen fumbles. “Some asshole spiked the punch.”

  “Well, that explains why you’re currently walking as if your legs are made of Jell-O,” Hunter said. “It doesn’t explain why you’re here in the first place.”

  “I was doing more research,” I admitted as he started the engine. “Just on the demo—dem—the graphic thing. Not booze.”

  I expected him to give me more of a hard time, but he just nodded, tight-lipped. Then: “Did it work?”

  I thought of that tagline again, and grinned. “Oh yeah.”

  I thought I saw Hunter smile, just a bit, his shoulders relaxing, before he pulled out of the driveway.

  The cicadas sang almost as loud as the engine as we flew along the highway. I watched the horizon to keep from getting carsick, silhouettes of dark hills and moss-laden trees and kudzu along a deep sky backlit by the lights of the city that drew dimmer and dimmer as we left civilization.

  “Over the river and through the woods…” I murmured.

  “To Grandmother’s house we go,” Hunter finished dryly. “Seeing as we’re heading to my house, I can only draw the conclusion that I’m the grandmother.”

  “Oh please,” I said, turning to him and contemplating his profile with a lazy grin. I laid my hand on his leg, up on his thigh. Hey, I was drunk. And it was a nice thigh. “Like you could be anything but the big, bad wolf.”

  He swallowed, hard.

  There was a forced lightness in his tone as he said, “I take it you think I should get a haircut.”

  “Don’t you dare.” I shook my other finger at him. “You stay shaggy, Mr. Sexy Wolf.”

  I never knew someone could choke on air before.

  When Hunter had regained his composure—and I had stopped giggling—well, mostly stopped, I was still giggling a little bit, I find it very hard to stop giggling when I’m tipsy—he went on. “I’m surprised Martha didn’t find you a gigolo before she went off to cultivate her harem.”

  “Puh-lease!” I scoffed. “They’re babies. Big hairy whiny drunk babies. Oh wow. I think I just made babies terrifying. Just…giant babies. Hairy. Wow.”

  Hunter returned my hand to my own lap, his hand lingering just a second to pat my knee. “You just sleep that off there, darling,” he drawled in that smooth-as-honey accent.

  My eyes were feeling kind of heavy…I leaned back into the leather seat and giggled one final time.

  #

  “Ally. Ally, wake up.”

  I moaned fretfully, and opened my eyes. I was compensated for this Herculean labor by the sight of Hunter’s handsome face only inches from mine.

  Thankfully, before I could drunkenly decide to kiss him, he pulled away. “We’re home.”

  “Oh,” I said, standing. Yep, it was a good thing he had pulled away. I wasn’t disappointed. At all.

  Unfortunately, the drive hadn’t been near long enough for me to have sobered up. The second I stood, the lavish grounds of the Knox plantation set themselves a-spinning, and I stumbled.

  Hunter caught my arm. “Allow me.”

  Heat coursed through my veins at the touch of his strong hands on my bare skin. He was holding me upright, holding me safe…his hands were so callused, and yet so gentle…

  He was looking at me so earnestly with those deep dark eyes, shot through with pure gold…

  “You don’t have to,” I mumbled, half-heartedly pulling away.

  His grip stayed firm, and he smiled, his expression as gentle as his touch. “I do if I want to save my company.” The smile widened, mischievous. “After all, you can’t explain your brilliant strategy from beyond the grave.”

  I stumbled on the gravel as if to prove his point. He chuckled under his breath, and then he swept me off my feet.

  Literally.

  I considered making another protest, but his chest was really comfortable, and he smelled really nice. Protests were overruled in favor of snuggling back into his warm arms and giving out a little sigh.

  “Comfortable?”

  “Very.”

  Oh, he did smell so nice, though. Only this annoying shirt was in the way. If I could just reach over and undo those buttons…

  No, no, no! Bad drunk Ally! No groping! I snatched my hand away before it could do more than awkwardly wave through the air, and tried to distract myself with snark.

  “You carry all the girls you meet over the threshold?” I asked as we came to the guesthouse.

  Oh no, that was a terrible choice, much too wedding-themed, much too romantic—

  “Only the ones with the best research methods.” His voice was honey and bourbon and caramel, warm breath on my ear, a comforting vibration against my skin.

  “Yeah, you liked it last time, didn’t you?” I teased. I nuzzled against his shirt, and lost myself in the texture. “I wish I could’ve shown you how much I liked it too. Wish I could still show you. I wish that all the time.”

  I felt him start against me. This was it. This was the moment of truth. Would he respond? Would he kiss me? Would he?

  He walked quickly through the door of the guesthouse and set me on my chair. He was about to go but I reached up, caressing his cheek.

  His eyes closed, like a contented cat. He sighed. “Ally…”

  “Want to show you so much,” I murmured. I let my hand wander down his neck, trailing my fingers above his collarbone.

  He swallowed, hard.

  “I still remember how your lips taste,” I said. I ran my finger over them. His tongue flicked out, tasting the skin there, and I was undone.

  I leaned forward, pressing my lips against his. Oh, nothing had changed, still that tang of honey, still that softness of his lips and the rasp of his stubbled cheek, still the way he kissed me back gently at first and then greedily, as if I were water and he were lost in a desert, as if I were water and he wanted to drown.

  My hands were on the buttons of his shirt, clumsy but determined to uncover his tanned skin, and his hands had found my breasts, kneading them with a sweet urgency that made me gasp into his mouth, and push against him.

  I wanted nothing more than this, nothing more than him—

  And then he pulled away with a groan.

  I reached for him, dismayed. “Hunter—”

  “Ally, I can’t,” he said softly. “You’re drunk.”

  “But—” I protested.

  He laid his fingers over my lips and I found I cou
ld think of no more words, only of him. I begged him with my eyes not to leave.

  “Professionalism, right?” he reminded me.

  I nodded glumly, trying to formulate a reasonable rebuttal, but my brain couldn’t come up with anything fast enough.

  And then he left.

  Well, shit.

  EIGHT

  A construction company had moved into my forehead.

  That was the only possible explanation for all this banging and hammering.

  I cracked open an eye, and rued the day I was born.

  Usually I was good about drinking enough water to prevent hangovers, but after my fiasco last night, I’d wanted to drop into unconsciousness as quickly as possible. And oh, was I paying for it now.

  The light from the window hit my one open eye, and I groaned. And then I groaned again, because even the sound of groaning hurt my head, and then basically I was trapped in a vicious circle of hell.

  And as a special bonus bit of torment, I could kiss goodbye any chance of Hunter ever seeing me as a professional. He was probably going to pack me off to Washington on the first train or plane he could book me a ticket on. He was probably going to distribute my photo to all his security people too, to make sure I didn’t go all crazy stalker on him.

  I made myself roll out of bed and crawl to the dresser, where I pulled on the most uncomfortable, unflattering outfit I could find. This was my penance. It wasn’t enough.

  But before I got fired, I needed to get myself some goddamn coffee. And of course all the single-serving cups that went in my suite’s coffeemaker were gone. It figured.

  #

  Somehow, I miraculously made my way to the manor and into the kitchen without getting lost or dying from the worst hangover ever known to man (or woman).

  The smell of baking pastries only made my stomach roil, and I filled up my coffee mug quickly, grabbing a glass of orange juice as well. If I could just keep that down, my electrolytes might be replenished by the time I was combing the want ads for a new job back at home.

  “How’s the head?”

  I almost dropped my cups.

  There was Hunter, looking good enough to eat in a tight shirt and loose khakis. I blushed, thinking of how I must look in a tattered bathrobe over my frumpy outfit. And after the things I’d said last night—after the things I’d done--

  Hunter laughed sympathetically. “Not great, I take it.” He grabbed an egg from the refrigerator and cracked it into my orange juice. His hand wrapped around mine, nudged me towards the fridge. “Just add some Worcestershire sauce to that, and you’ve got a foolproof hangover cure.”

  I eyed the cup, my brain torn between confusion, lust, and suspicion. Was he actually feeling this casual? He couldn’t be. I just wished I could think clearly, instead of fighting through the headache and the insistent urge to check out his abs.

  “I think I’ll stick to coffee,” I said, my face flushing. I could feel the heat radiating off his body. Why did he always catch me at my worst?

  “It’s your head,” he said with a shrug. He leaned closer, his eyes dancing. “Seems like your research methods have been a lot more fun for me than you, on the whole.”

  R-rated images danced a tango through my head, and this time, it was my turn to make my excuses and flee.

  #

  Since I was, somehow, not fired, I took refuge under a willow outside the library, where I could look over my notes with no risk of the elements damaging the original texts safe back inside. There, hidden beneath its copious leaves, I managed to get some work done.

  Until Hunter managed to track me down three hours later, and I forgot everything except how yummy he looked in a tight white t-shirt.

  “I’ve got something to show you,” he said.

  And it probably wasn’t his abs. I braced myself for the ‘it’s just not working out, I’m going to get someone new from your company’ speech…

  But he pulled out his cell phone instead.

  “You’re making a bad habit of taking calls while talking to me,” I said. Maybe reminding him of our night together wasn’t the smartest move, but what the hell, how much more trouble could I get in?

  His lips quirked for a second before he passed me the phone. “I wanted to show you this.”

  It was a text conversation from Chuck. At first I didn’t get it—Chuck was just talking about some kind of meeting. Then he mentioned something that was supposed to be in my purview. And then he mentioned a name.

  Harry.

  Chuck was at a meeting with the Douchebros, and they were going to try to steal my project away from me.

  I looked up at Hunter, speechless.

  He nodded grimly. “They’re trying to cut you out.”

  Emotions warred in my chest. I was touched that Hunter was sharing this with me, but confused. He didn’t care about the ad campaign, he thought it was all worthless. And after last night, why would he care if Chuck brought in new blood? “Why would you show me this?”

  “Because if Chuck thinks he can get away with this, he’ll cut me out next.” He looked away and kicked at the dirt, his face vaguely embarrassed. He muttered, “Besides, your idea is worth a hundred of theirs.”

  That was probably less a measure of how much he liked my idea and more a measure of how much he hated theirs, but it still gave me a warm glow inside.

  I stood, and met his gaze, letting him see my determination. “Well, then we just won’t let him get away with it.”

  #

  Hunter and I didn’t bust into the meeting so much as stroll in casually, but Chuck and the Douchebros still started guiltily in their seats like kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar.

  Chuck recovered first, barely pausing to shoot an angry look at Hunter before going into full smarm mode: “Allison! I’m so glad Hunter decided you should join us. I’m sure you don’t mind that we’re exploring multiple options, do you? It’s so important to consider all perspectives, don’t you think?”

  I gritted my teeth as I smiled, wishing he wasn’t so powerful within the Knox corporation, so I could tell him to his face what I thought of his patronizing crap. But he was powerful, and so I couldn’t give him an excuse to dismiss me.

  “Of course,” I said. “Let’s hear those ideas. I’m all ears.”

  Between my bitterness and my hangover, the forced smile on my face was actually starting to hurt, but if they wanted to bro it up, I was going to be right there with them.

  Chuck smiled ingratiatingly. “Excellent. Let’s get to it, then. But it’s looking a little crowded in here, so why don’t we reconvene someplace a little more…comfortable? I know just the place.”

  #

  I pushed away the fried pound cake, the few bites I’d been able to take sitting heavy in my stomach. The Douchebros had pitched all during dinner, Hunter’s face unreadable, Chuck visibly excited, and it was worse than I’d thought: apparently they’d taken Hunter’s earlier critique to mean that their previous pitch hadn’t been sexually exploitative enough. They now wanted, among other things, to hire “Knox knockers,” professional strippers who’d visit college campuses and dance in showers of bourbon while free samples were given out. Gag me.

  I’d spent most of dinner wanting to throw up, and it hadn’t helped when Chuck accidentally-on-purpose slipped his hand over my knee.

  I may have accidentally-on-purpose stabbed him with a salad fork.

  “Aw, Ally, you sacrificing your dessert for your diet?” Harry said. “Don’t worry, I like my women with a full figure.”

  I smiled at him in a way that I hoped communicated that he shouldn’t feel safe just because he was out of stabbing range at the moment.

  “Now, now,” Chuck admonished Harry. “Allison’s not like that. She’s one of the boys, isn’t she?”

  He glanced slyly at all the Douchebros, and there was hastily suppressed sniggering all around the table. I flashed back to the whispered conversation I’d seen Chuck and Harry having when I came back from the
bathroom. Those assholes were planning something.

  “Now what I think,” Chuck went on, with all the sincerity of a politician campaigning for reelection, “is that we should show Allison how much we accept her, by welcoming her into our sanctum santorum. Would you like to join us there, Allison? For a free and open exchange of ideas?”

  He looked like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, but the sniggering around him intensified. Oscar-level actors, his minions were not.

  I knew it was a trap. It couldn’t be more obvious if he had painted the words ‘IT’S A TRAP’ all over it. But he’d maneuvered me into place, and I couldn’t afford to back down without coming across as a fun-hating bitch and looking bad in front of Hunter, who was probably already regretting hiring me after the ass I’d made of myself last night.

  “Sure,” I said, my smile as fake as a spray tan.

  “Wonderful,” Chuck said. He tossed his keys to Harry. “If you’d do us the honor of leading us to the Galenorn Gentleman’s Club?”

  Shit.

  #

  “No, I do not want a lap dance!”

  The Douchebros roared with more laughter than if I had been a professional comedian as I fended off an enthusiastic stripper in a g-string and pink sequined pasties.

  I tried to avoid getting an eyeful as she sauntered off, offended, but there was nowhere safe to look. It was butts, boobs, and poorly conceived costumes as far as the eye could see. And while I’m certainly comfortable with the human body, I’m most definitely not the kind of person who wants to spend a night watching tastelessly outfitted strippers exploit themselves for cash. I could kill Chuck.

  I mumbled something about needing to use the restroom and shrank backwards into the clouds of cigarette smoke. I needn’t have bothered; the whole crowd of them forgot me instantly in favor of drooling over a barely legal girl in a loincloth and an Egyptian headdress that was totally not historically accurate, with a fake rubber snake curled around her neck.