Wanted: Billionaire's Wife

by Susannah Erwin

  “But—”

  “I’m not taking no for an answer.”

  She opened her mouth to insist otherwise, but he cut her off.

  “I mean it,” he said tightly. “Hang on, we’ll be there soon.”

  She opened her mouth again.

  “Don’t even try.”

  She pressed her lips together. He was being ridiculous. She was fine. Well, except for her heart rate beating in triple time. It was quiet in the car and dark, and they sat close enough that she could extend her hand just an inch or two and touch his thigh.

  She barely lost any blood. She shouldn’t feel this faint.

  In what seemed like no time, he swung the car off the road. They passed a sleek iron gate that opened automatically as they approached, and continued up a long, winding driveway that led to a two-story house set among pine trees and cypresses. It resembled a gray concrete box with steel trim, but natural-wood window frames and doors softened the hard materials and made the house feel more welcoming than imposing. Not a bad metaphor for Luke, she thought. Hard and masculine but there was warmth if you looked.

  He opened her car door and ushered her into the house. “Go straight and make yourself at home in the living room,” he said. “I’ll get the first-aid kit.”

  She nodded, not trusting her voice, and walked down a short hallway into a wide room shaped like a rectangle. The house she rented with Mai could fit in it, with room for their next-door neighbor.

  The far wall was clear glass, floor to ceiling, allowing her to see the dimly lit patio and gardens just beyond. It took her a second before she realized the wall was composed of retractable panels. When the weather was nice, Luke could open the panels and the room would flow into the outdoors without interruption. To her right was the kitchen, all polished stainless appliances and warm wooden veneers, separated from the rest of the room by low counters. A metal dining table surrounded by twelve mismatched chairs stood nearby.

  To her left, a fireplace tall enough to stand up in dominated the wall. Arranged in front of it were two oversize, cream-colored leather sofas and several comfortable-looking chairs. A plush rug resembling a soft cloud that had landed on the floor completed the look, straight out of a pricey interior-design magazine.

  The plump cushions beckoned her to sit down, but she hesitated. Her dress had soaked up several varieties of wine and other alcohol. Last thing she wanted to do was mar his pristine furniture.

  “Pick a sofa,” Luke said from behind her. His jacket and black bow tie had been discarded, and the top buttons of his crisp white shirt were undone, exposing a triangle of tanned skin. In his hands he held a white box marked with a red cross.

  She indicated her stained dress. “The kitchen would be better.”

  He shook his head and steered her until she sank down onto cushions that were even softer than they looked. Her face must have shown her reaction because he smiled. “Much better than the kitchen. Now, give me your hand.”

  She extended it, managing to keep the trembling to a minimum. Just as she had informed him in the car, the bleeding had slowed. He took out a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and swabbed the area with gentle, sure movements. She reflexively tried to pull her hand back but he held on, his grip secure and firm.

  Her pulse beat in her ears, a rapid flutter. She told herself it was a natural reaction to the sting of hydrogen peroxide hitting the wound. But then he traced his index finger over her palm and she knew her reaction had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with him.

  She inhaled, her lungs requiring more air than she could take in. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone took care of her. Oh, her parents had bandaged her childhood scrapes and put ointment on her bruises. But as soon as she was old enough to fend for herself, it became a point of pride to cause them as little concern as possible. Between trying to earn enough money to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table and looking after the energetic, never-met-a-dare-he-didn’t-take Matt, her parents had enough worries.

  She had been more often the caregiver than not, from babysitting her brother after school while her parents were still at work, to doing everything she could to help her college boyfriend ace the LSATs and apply to law school. Tom did get into a top program, thanks to her coaching. Then he attended law-school orientation, announced he had found the woman of his dreams among his fellow first-year students and dumped Danica.

  “You can only rely on yourself and family,” her father had said when she was still crawling into her childhood bed to cry under the covers three weeks later. When her boss at the time mentioned he knew an executive-recruitment firm in Palo Alto that needed an assistant, she took the money she had saved for a security deposit on an apartment with her now ex-boyfriend and spent it on a plane ticket to California. It was the furthest possible point from Tom and still in the continental United States. She would show everyone she could do just fine on her own.

  But with Luke’s touch trailing embers in its wake, it felt good to have someone look after her. More than good. A heaviness gathered deep and low, a persistent ache demanding to be relieved that she hadn’t felt—well, she hadn’t felt since Luke kissed her outside the taqueria in San Francisco. And before that, a very long time.

  He took out a gauze pad and sterile tape. “You weren’t planning on using your hand much tonight, were you?”

  “Um.” Good thing it was her left hand, and she was right-handed. She definitely planned on using her right hand later that night while indulging in fantasies. Involving him. “No.”

  He bent his head down as he worked. It was all she could do to stop her mind from conjuring those fantasies, right here, right now. For example, what would happen if she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his? Would he welcome her kiss, without the music and the bright lights and the buzz of the party creating an alternate reality in which they moved in the same social world?

  What would he taste like? Champagne, bright and tart? Or—

  Snap out of it, Novak. She didn’t belong here, sitting on a sofa that probably cost more than six months of her salary as Johanna’s assistant, just as she didn’t belong at that party where she barely passed for a guest. She certainly didn’t belong in Luke Dallas’s arms.

  “You don’t have to do this,” she blurted out.

  He finished bandaging her hand, smoothing the tape over the gauze with deliberate strokes of his fingers. Strokes that advanced and withdrew, creating an answering drumbeat rhythm between her legs. “Due diligence,” he said with a half smirk, his gaze locked on hers as his fingers continued their caresses. “If the cut gets infected and you can’t work, you could sue. A lawsuit might bankrupt the Peninsula Society.”

  “Oh.” The pleasure-pain tightening deep in her belly at the thought of kissing Luke lessened, just a bit. Then his smile deepened, and it roared back. She swallowed her own smile. “Well, we can’t have that, can we,” she said primly.

  “Just controlling outcomes,” he agreed, his gaze sparking with humor. Crinkles appeared at the corners of his summer-sea blue eyes.

  A teasing Luke was catnip to her libido. She tugged her hand. He frowned but let it go. “Thank you for the bandage. I’ll order a car to go home.”

  He sat back on the couch, his gaze never leaving hers. “What did you want earlier?”

  “What?” She wasn’t that transparent. Was she? She didn’t need to touch her cheeks to know they were burning.

  “Before your accident. You said you had news?”

  The conversation in the garden felt like a lifetime ago. “Right.” Clearing her throat, she forced herself to sound businesslike. “I overheard Cinco and Felicity.” She filled him in on the details.

  He made a noncommittal noise. “We knew he was nosing around Ruby Hawk.”

  “But this sounded personal,” she said. “He thinks the acquisition is in trouble because Stavros h
as dirt on you.”

  “He’s not wrong.” Luke shrugged. “Nestor is refusing to close the deal until I meet his conditions. But I don’t hire my employees based on marital status. If that’s the tree Jackson wants to bark up, he’ll be hoarse.”

  She released her breath. “So, what’s the next step?”

  His gaze traveled to the top of her head. “Take down your ponytail.”

  Her uninjured hand flew up to protect her hair. “What? Why?”

  He leaned toward her, filling the space between them until only a handbreadth remained. “To see if you have any lumps resulting from hitting your head.”

  She searched his gaze. “I didn’t hit my head.”

  “You were stunned after the accident so you might not be aware if you did or not. Let me check.” His lips pressed together in a firm line.

  “I’m capable of seeking my own medical attention,” she warned.

  “I know you’re very capable,” he said with a rueful smile. He leaned even closer. “Humor me. Please.” His low rumble sent a cascade of goose bumps down her spine.

  Perhaps he should check. The room was spinning again. “Fine,” she agreed with an exhaled breath. Before she could finish speaking, his right hand reached behind her and removed the elastic holding her hair. Her curls tumbled around her face and bounced off her shoulders.

  Intellectually, having her hair down should make her feel more covered up, hidden. Instead, it was as if he had stripped her of her armor, leaving her bare to his knowing gaze. She shivered.

  His fingers combed through her hair, tracing small circles on her scalp. He was so close she could see the faint shadow of whiskers making their presence known along the strong line of his jaw, and the dusting of crisp black hairs revealed by the open throat of his shirt. Delicious awareness pricked to life. She leaned into his hands as if she were a cat.

  He slowed and then stopped his movements, his fingers still tangled in her hair. “No lumps.” His eyes were indigo dark, and the coiled tension she could sense reminded her again of a tiger, ready to pounce on its prey.

  She very much wanted to be devoured. All she had to do was lean forward, just an inch, and her mouth would be on his.

  “Was that the outcome you desired?” Somehow, she was able to form words.

  “It was one,” he growled.

  “There was another?”

  His gaze flared with a primal hunger, and his grasp tightened on her curls. “Only if you desire it, as well.”

  The air crackled with electricity. She could almost see golden sparks leaping between them, illuminating the thread of attraction that wove around them. She lifted her hand to cover his, encircling his wrist. Under her touch, his pulse beat in time with hers.

  She should thank him for the medical attention, spring to her feet, find her phone and summon a ridesharing service to take her home. That’s what the old Danica would do. The one who worked long hours for Johanna, expecting a promotion that never came. The one who would have listened to Luke’s explanation of how to maximize her roulette bets.

  Or she could go all in. Risk everything. The Danica who piled all her chips on one number and waited for the ball to drop. The Danica who kissed Luke Dallas and was about to kiss him again.

  Just one night. Not a relationship. It could never be a relationship. She knew where she stood with him. So, what would be the harm of giving in to the anticipation curling in her stomach, the throbbing emptiness between her legs demanding to be filled?

  She took a deep breath. Her lips were dry, and she wet them with her tongue. His gaze followed its path. His blue eyes were almost black now. She closed the tiny gap between them and pressed her mouth against his.

  * * *

  Luke’s history with women was long and varied. He liked sex, and the women he dated indicated they enjoyed having sex with him. But the players knew the cards on the table, making the stakes for all low. He never got involved unless the other party agreed to mutually assured pleasure and fun, nothing more. Still, there were plenty of women who were happy to share his bed on those terms.

  Therefore, he thought he knew every variation on a kiss. The gentle kiss, the rough kiss. The soft slide of lip against lip and the thrusting duel of tongues. The nibble, the suck, the grind, the bite.

  Then Danica kissed him. And he knew he had missed out on kissing all these years.

  Kissing her was a shot of pure adrenaline, a narcotic hit to his system no manufactured drug could ever hope to match. It acted like a rocket booster, taking what had been a very pleasurable activity and sending it into the stratosphere. A pure jolt of electricity traveled straight from where their mouths met to his cock. He was rock hard in half a second.

  His fingers tangled in those glorious blond curls. He loved the infinite variety of golds in its strands. It was as soft and yet as wildly dimensional as he thought it would be—alive to the touch.

  Seeing her still on the ground, eyes closed, had shut his throat with fear. He may have used protecting the charity from lawsuits as an excuse to take care of her, but it was as transparent as the walls in his office. He’d needed, on some primal level he still hadn’t fully acknowledged, to ensure she wasn’t hurt.

  And now he needed to kiss her senseless.

  Her mouth was hot and insistent and greedy. He met her demands with his own, their tongues tangling and exploring. The scant millimeters separating them on the sofa felt like miles, and he gathered Danica to him, pulling her until she half lay across his lap. Her scent, vanilla and cinnamon, sweet and spicy, surrounded him. She shifted even closer, the curve of her bottom just brushing his groin. An involuntary shudder ran through to his toes, shocking his brain back to a limited cognitive function.

  He should stop. She was his consultant. Her job was to find him a wife. A wife in every sense of the word. If all went to plan, he would be in front of a judge with another woman in a matter of weeks.

  He couldn’t stop even if a 7.8 earthquake hit the Bay Area that instant.

  Her hands reached out to tug his shirt free from his pants and moved up to work the buttons of his shirt free. The brush of her fingers against his chest brought his cock to a whole different level of density.

  Turnabout was fair play. He undid the buttons on her shirtdress from throat to waist. Her skin was smooth, warm. He disengaged from her mouth so he could press his lips to where her neck joined her shoulder, inhaling her vanilla-cinnamon scent. He had to see if she tasted as good as she smelled, and he kissed-licked a path across her collarbone to where the dress gaped open. He pushed the top of the dress down, exposing high, full breasts straining against a cotton bra.

  He trailed his right index finger over the generous swells, dipped it into the shadowy crevice between. Hard nipples pushed against the bra cups and with his thumbs he traced slow, tiny circles around each one.

  “Luke,” she breathed and tugged on his hair. He looked up to catch her gaze, wide and wild and dark. “You’re still wearing your shirt.”

  He grinned. “I’m much more interested in removing yours.” He kissed her again, his hands busy untying the sash at her waist then removing all the buttons he could find from their buttonholes, until her dress parted in the middle.

  She really was beautiful. He shook his head in silent admiration and ran his index finger from the shadowy valley between her breasts to the top of her plain white panties. She shivered and gasped, her eyes squeezed shut.

  “Are you cold?” he asked. He wasn’t. He was burning up.

  She shook her head, but when he undid the clasp of her bra, her hands came up to cross over her chest. “Wait. Before the rest comes off, I think we need to negotiate,” she said, her words coming in bursts between gulps of air.

  Those deep breaths caused her breasts to rise and fall, the fabric of her bra slipping even as she tried to hold it in place. It took a moment for him to rea
lize she was speaking. “Negotiate?”

  “Set boundaries, then. This is just for tonight. Nothing will change,” she said. “Right?”

  It was hard to think since all his blood had rushed south, but he managed to nod. “Of course.”

  She searched his gaze for a moment, her lower lip caught by her upper teeth. Then she nodded. “Of course.” She stood up and let her arms drop, her bra falling with them. Her breasts were two perfect orbs custom-made to fill his hands. “This is comfy, but wouldn’t a bed be preferable?”

  Before a coherent thought could form, he was off the sofa. Leading her by the hand, he guided her to his bedroom.

  “Put your hands on the bed,” he breathed in her ear, and from behind his knee moved between her legs until she stood with them a shoulder’s width apart. Then his hands stroked her thighs, starting above her knees and moving higher. His fingers found the waist of her panties, then slipped down farther, into the nest of soft curls.

  She bucked against him, her perfect, round ass grinding against his painful erection. His breathing was harsh in his own ears as he found her opening and slid one finger, then two, slowly, deeply inside the wetness.

  She gasped, then moaned. It was the sweetest sound he’d ever heard. There was nothing practiced about her response, no artifice or putting on a show. His thumb brushed the tight knot of nerves at the top of her opening—firm, then soft, then firm again—and her gasps came in short, quick bursts. “Luke,” she breathed. “I need—”

  “I know,” he said, because he felt it too. She shuddered and tried to turn to face him.

  He held her hips still. “Not yet,” he said in her ear. Then he removed her panties and fell to his knees, his mouth closing over her sweet, hot core. Her taste was more exquisite than any food on offer at the party.

  “What are you—” she squeaked out, before her words turned into a moan, low and full throated. The primal sound urged him on, harder, faster, deeper. He couldn’t get enough. She was a white-hot flame and he yearned to be burned like he’d never been burned before. He could feel her tremble, her climax beginning to build, and he pulled back just in time to witness her scream and shudder before she collapsed against the bed.