Positively Pricked: A Billionaire Loathing-to-Love Romance

by Sabrina Stark

  "Because, when things settle down, I'm gonna ask you for a favor."

  If I weren't so confused, I might've laughed. I couldn’t imagine Zane "asking" me for anything. Normally, he just barked out commands, like some kind of dictator.

  I felt my gaze narrow. "What kind of favor?"

  "I'm not asking you now."

  What did that mean? He wasn't going to tell me? What was this? Some new form of torture? "But—"

  "You owe me," he said.

  "For what?" I asked. "Not firing me?"

  "No," he said, "For not beating that fucker's ass."

  I drew back. Woah. I hadn't seen that coming. I felt my brow wrinkle in new confusion. At the moment, I hardly knew which Zane I was dealing with – the billionaire businessman or the so-called reprobate, as Bob had called him on that very first night.

  I just had to ask, "But wait, why would it be me owing you a favor?"

  He gave a tight shrug. "Why not?"

  "Well, if anything, wouldn’t it be Fergus?" When Zane said nothing, I added, "You know. The, uh, 'fucker'?"

  Zane moved a fraction closer, and his gaze locked on mine. In a quiet voice, he said, "No."

  "No?" My lips felt suddenly dry, and I felt my tongue dart out, as if to wet them. I was feeling things, stupid things.

  At the moment, Zane Bennington didn't feel like my boss – or even like the jerk who'd been making my life miserable for months. But what he did feel like, I wasn't quite sure.

  Around us, the office felt big and quiet, like it was only the two of us in the whole building, or cripes, even the whole world.

  I gazed up at him, wondering what on Earth was going on – and not just with me. With him, too. Because he wasn't acting like his normal prickish self.

  After a long, drawn-out moment, it was Zane who broke the silence. "Remember, you owe me."

  At that moment, stupid or not, I swear I would've given him anything he asked for – starting with my panties and ending with who-knows-what.

  I gave a nervous laugh. "Oh, please. Maybe I wanted you to beat his ass."

  "Yeah?" he said, looking suddenly intrigued. "Good to know."

  Weird. He looked like he actually meant it.

  I said, "You do know I was kidding, right?"

  It wasn't even a lie. Although a part of me would've loved to see the good professor pummeled for all the trouble he'd caused, I wasn't the violent type, and I wasn't the kind of person to encourage violence either.

  Zane said, "We'll see."

  "We'll see what?" I asked.

  "What the fucker does next." And then, almost as an afterthought, he added, "And by the way, we're going to New York."

  I felt my eyes widen in surprise. "We are? For what?"

  "Interviews." he said, not looking too happy about it.

  I almost didn't know what to say. "Seriously?"

  For weeks, I'd been fielding countless requests for in-studio interviews, mostly from nationally syndicated shows, based out of New York. Apparently, Zane was in hot demand – from morning shows, business channels, and even a slew of entertainment programs.

  After all, he was the hot, new thing – an unknown entity, a human wrecking ball, and yes, a billionaire bachelor with a thing for supermodels.

  Who wouldn’t want to interview him?

  He was fascinating. And maddening. And surprisingly successful, in spite of his annoying tendency to piss people off.

  By now, I knew a lot more about the Bennington corporate structure. Technically, it was a publically traded corporation, but Zane was the primary shareholder, which meant that he controlled practically everything.

  When he'd taken control of the company after the death of his grandfather, stock prices had plummeted, leaving many to wonder how low the value would go.

  But lately, things had been on a definite upswing as the company exceeded projected earnings and upped its guidance for the next quarter.

  Was that the reason for Zane's sudden announcement?

  Trying to make sense of it, I said, "So you've changed your mind? Is that what you're saying?"

  "More or less."

  Based on his earlier refusals, I almost couldn't imagine. "So you want to do those interviews?"

  "Want?" He shook his head. "No."

  I waited for him to elaborate.

  He didn't.

  I tried again. "But you're going to do them, anyway?"

  "Apparently."

  "But why?" I asked.

  "I've got my reasons."

  "Is it because things are going so well? With the company, I mean?"

  "No," he said. "It's because I've got other business in New York, and it's too late to cancel."

  I still wasn't following. "Cancel what?"

  "Other business," he repeated, "just like I said."

  Well, that was informative.

  Still, I knew better than to push my luck. "Okay," I said. "So when are we going?"

  Again, he looked to the window. "Tonight."

  My jaw almost hit the floor. "Tonight? Why so sudden?"

  He was still looking away. "Because things happen."

  Talk about a non-answer. "But I’m not even packed."

  "If you need help, I'll send someone."

  I didn't need help. I needed information. "And how long will we be gone?"

  He turned once again to face me. "As long as it takes. A week, maybe two."

  What the hell?

  This was just like him.

  Two whole weeks?

  On just a few hours' notice?

  What if I had kids? Or dogs?

  Come to think of it, he had dogs. What was he planning to do with them? I asked, "What about Lansing and Flint?"

  A shadow crossed his features. "They're staying with my dad."

  His dad lived in a cabin hours away. "So they're not living with you anymore?"

  "No," he said. "Not now."

  "Why not?"

  "It's not safe."

  "You mean at your place? Why not?

  "Because I'm not there."

  I recalled all those threats. The way it sounded, he was actually taking some of them seriously, at least when it came to his dogs. This posed an unsettling possibility. Zane Bennington might, in fact, be human after all.

  Crazy, I know.

  The thought had barely crossed my mind when his expression hardened. "About the trip," he said, "if you're thinking of saying no, forget it."

  I stiffened, and all those warm feelings vanished in the face of his rudeness. He didn't need to warn me. After all, I wasn't stupid. Even I realized that I was incredibly lucky to still have a job.

  I looked toward the door. "Well, I guess I should get packing, huh?"

  "Later."

  I gave him a perplexed look. "Sorry, what?"

  "You're needed here."

  I could hardly believe my ears. "Until when?"

  "'Til I say so."

  And, like the jerk he was, he didn't "say so" until after five o'clock, which left me almost no time to get ready, even if I did use the time as best as I could, returning a flurry of phone calls from media outlets who'd been seeking interviews.

  Still, it was almost like Zane was making me scramble on purpose – which, knowing him, he probably was.

  And why?

  Just because he could.

  As usual.

  Chapter 33

  Paisley was still glaring out the front window. For the third time, she grumbled, "It must be nice."

  I was still dashing around the house, trying to get my things in order. In our driveway, a company limo was waiting. It was the same limo that had shuttled me from the office an hour earlier.

  As for my company car, it was in the Bennington parking garage, where I'd be picking it up upon my return.

  Whenever that would be.

  Paisley said, "Why do you get a limo? I mean, it's not like you're anyone important."

  She was right. I wasn't. But Zane had been adamant, and not in a nice wa
y. Of course, I knew why. He didn't trust me to make it to the airport on time, and I was dangerously close to proving him right.

  In his usual charming way, he'd told me, "Seven o'clock. Be ready."

  Or else.

  He hadn't said it, but it was definitely implied.

  I glanced at my watch and cringed. Already, it was five minutes to seven, and I still wasn't quite ready to go. I felt stressed and anxious for a whole host of reasons.

  For one thing, the limo had been idling in the driveway forever, and no matter how many times the driver had assured me that waiting was part of his job, I felt guilty and awkward just the same.

  And then, there was Paisley. I'd arrived home just after six o'clock to find her in the living room, looking not exactly civil, but not nearly as hostile as I'd been anticipating.

  Turns out, Professor Lumberjack, or Fergus, or whatever I wanted to call him, had somehow managed to convince Paisley that the flowers had been for her all along. Supposedly, he was only bringing them to me, so I could give them to her when I arrived back home.

  What a load of crap.

  And yet, Paisley had gobbled it up like a hound in a van full of meatballs. She was still wearing the black dress – the one she'd borrowed from me without even asking.

  From the window, she said, "You do know, you could've saved me a lot of heartache if you'd just told me right away."

  I was hardly listening as I scanned the living room, looking for the last item on my list. I asked, "Have you seen my phone charger?"

  Paisley made a sound of annoyance. "Didn't you hear what I just said?"

  Of course, I'd heard, but I didn't have time for this discussion – or for the other discussion that we'd need to have when I returned.

  The lease on the house was up in just a couple of months, and I wasn't planning to renew. The way I saw it, I'd rather move to an entirely new place than suffer through another year with a deadbeat drama queen.

  I said, "Sorry, but I'm in a hurry."

  "Whatever," she muttered and returned her attention to the window. "I guess nobody cares that I spent the whole afternoon crying my eyes out."

  I cared, but only because she'd used up all of my tissues, plus the last of the toilet paper. Again.

  With growing desperation, I lifted the nearest sofa cushion and did a quick scan for the charger. All I saw were a few pennies and remnants of burnt popcorn.

  Well, that was nice.

  I lifted the other cushion, only to be disappointed again, unless I considered two nickels a marvelous find. I tossed the cushion back in place and frantically looked around, wondering where on Earth my charger could be.

  Funny, I could've sworn I'd set it near the sofa. In fact, I was almost sure of it. My gaze drifted to Paisley, and I felt my jaw tighten.

  She wouldn't.

  Would she?

  I tried again. "My charger, you seriously haven't seen it?"

  Slowly, she turned around and smiled in a way that made me almost nervous. "I don't know," she said. "Have you seen my bottle of merlot?"

  This again?

  "Oh come on," I said. "That was weeks ago. And I replaced it."

  "It wasn't just one bottle. It was two."

  "Right," I said through gritted teeth. "And I replaced both of them."

  "You couldn't really replace them," she said. "They had sentimental value."

  "Oh for God's sake," I said. "It was a generic wine, not a love letter."

  Paisley's smile twisted into a smirk. Mimicking my tone, she said, "It was a phone charger, not a space ship." She turned back to the window and said, "See how that works?"

  Yes. In a roundabout way, I did. And it was one of the reasons it had taken me so long to pack. In a fit of paranoia, I'd gone through the whole house, especially my bedroom, gathering up everything of special importance to me – family photos, old letters, and the few pieces of decent jewelry that I owned.

  I'd stuffed all of these things into an extra suitcase with the intention of taking everything with me, rather than leaving it here in the house, where Paisley could do who-knows-what with it.

  If the missing phone charger was any indicator, my paranoia had been totally justified. Trying to look on the bright side, I reminded myself that the charger – unlike those other things – was entirely replaceable.

  "Fine," I told her. "Keep the charger. I don't care."

  "I don't care either," she said, even as a knock sounded at the front door. "And just so you know," she added, "the door's not for me, so I'm not getting it."

  "Good," I told her, "because I'm leaving anyway."

  I grabbed my stuff and hustled to the door. When I flung it open, the limo driver gave me an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, but Mister Bennington's instructions were very explicit." He pointed to his watch. "And it is seven o'clock."

  Technically, it was six fifty-eight, but it wasn't worth quibbling over. So instead, I assured him that I was ready and that there was no need to apologize. After all, I didn't want to be late either.

  Soon, we were off, heading toward the airport as I tried not to imagine what kind of trouble surely awaited me – first in New York, and then back home, whenever I returned. After all, I'd be out of town at least a week, which left Paisley plenty of time to wreak havoc on the home front.

  I had no doubt, she'd do just that.

  I might've spent the rest of the night dwelling on this, if I weren't soon distracted by something even more disturbing. It was the sight of my boss getting practically slobbered on – and not from his dogs.

  Chapter 34

  We were only fifteen minutes into the flight, and already, I was wishing for a parachute.

  Or a barf bag.

  Across from me, the leggy brunette leaned closer to Zane and practically cooed, "I just love your plane."

  He gave her a dismissive glance. "It's not mine. It's the company's."

  "Oh, stop," she laughed, reaching for his arm. "You are the company."

  This much was true, but I was in no mood to give her credit. Already, she'd taken seventeen selfies – yes, I was counting – and had made so many sexual innuendos, that I was starting to wonder if her dialogue was pulled straight out of a porno.

  Right on cue, she pressed her lips to Zane's ear and said in a husky whisper, "Do you think we're a mile high?"

  I tensed. The reference was obvious – and pretty darn disturbing, considering that I was sitting directly across from them, facing them no less, in the luxurious seating area.

  This was only my fourth flight in my entire life, and it was proving to be the most uncomfortable, in spite of it being my very first on a private jet. Oh sure, the seats were leather, and I had plenty of leg room, but at the moment, I was longing to be crammed in like a sardine with a hundred other poor slobs on their way to some anonymous destination.

  At least then, I wouldn't be watching my boss get drooled on – or worse, if things progressed the way she obviously wanted.

  As for me, I'd pulled out a paperback and was pretending to read while she continued to seek his attention. The sad thing was, I wanted to read. It's just that it was difficult to focus on anything when she looked ready to get down and dirty any minute.

  Trying to be subtle, I snuck a quick glance at Zane. He looked bored and restless, even as he scrolled through his cell phone, checking messages – or hell, surfing porn for all I knew.

  As for his companion, I didn't even know her name, mostly because Zane hadn't bothered to introduce us, and my own initial attempts at friendliness were either rebuffed or ignored as the brunette turned all of her charm on the billionaire sitting next to her.

  The only saving grace was that I wasn't the only other passenger on the flight. Sitting next to me was the same blond guy who'd been sticking up for Paisley in the lobby.

  This might've given me someone to talk to, if it weren't for the fact that he was obviously still miffed about the whole Paisley thing. Oh sure, he'd briefly introduced himself, giving his name as
Theodore without mentioning a last name at all. But then, immediately afterward, he'd settled into a quiet sulk and said nothing to anyone.

  From the look on his face, he hated us all – probably, me in particular, since I was apparently the ho-bag who screwed her roommate's boyfriend and made her cry.

  Yup, I was a monster.

  Across from me, the brunette gripped Zane's knee and said, "You're so tense. Should I rub your shoulders?" And yet, it wasn't a shoulder she had her eye on.

  Zane didn't even look. "No."

  Her hand moved higher on his thigh. "Something else then?"

  Zane was still scrolling. "No."

  Her hand inched a fraction higher. "Are you sure?"

  He pulled his gaze from his phone and gave her a long, cold look. After an awkward pause, she pulled back and asked, "What's wrong? You weren't tense last night." She gave a throaty laugh. "Even if you were stiff."

  Well, that was lovely to know.

  Zane told her, "If you wanna fuck someone, try him."

  She drew back. "What?"

  Zane flicked his head toward the guy sitting next to me. "Looks like he could use it."

  The brunette gave a huff. "I don't want him."

  "And I don't want you," Zane said. "So try someone else, or keep your clothes on."

  Her mouth tightened. "You wanted me fine last night."

  "Yeah. And I told you it was a one-time deal."

  She was openly pouting now. "But we had such a good time."

  "And it's over. So move on." He looked back to his phone. "Or sit with the luggage. Your choice."

  "But…" She paused, as if unsure what to say next.

  The blond guy, who'd been watching this exchange with obvious disgust, looked to Zane and said, "Hey! I don't need your sloppy seconds."

  The brunette turned to glare at him. "I'm not sloppy. I'm tight as a virgin. Ask anyone."

  I looked around, longing for a flight attendant with a drink cart. Unfortunately, there were none, which only proved that I'd been right all along.

  Private jets sucked.

  The brunette's gaze snapped in my direction, "What are you looking at?"

  "I, uh—"

  In a bored tone, Zane said, "Leave her alone."

  "Why should I leave her alone," she demanded. "It was supposed be just the two of us. She's the third wheel, not me."