The Billionaire in Her Bed (Worthington Family)

by Regina Kyle

  She had a five-year plan—get an agent and a multi-book contract so she could quit tending bar to write and draw full-time. She’d accomplished the first, signing with her agent shortly before Christmas, but she was still working on numbers two and three. And she wasn’t going to let any man, no matter how panty-meltingly gorgeous he was, steer her off track. No way, no how. She’d learned from her mother’s mistakes.

  “No, I don’t mean like comic books.” Brooke slammed her cup down on the counter with more force than necessary, sloshing coffee on the red-brown granite. “Graphic novels are a lot longer, with more complex plots.”

  Eli held his palms out in surrender. “I didn’t mean to offend.”

  “Apology accepted.” She grabbed a sponge from the sink and mopped up her mess, more to cover how guilty she felt for snapping at him than from any burning desire to clean. She had a hard time remembering that not every question about her career was a dig, and not every man her judgmental father. “But I’m guessing you didn’t come here to talk about my work, did you?”

  “You guess right.” He patted the cushion next to him. “Come sit down.”

  She shook her head. “No, thanks.

  He folded his arms. “I’m not talking to you from across the room.”

  She lobbed the sponge into the sink and leaned back against the counter. “Then I guess you’re not talking.”

  “If Mohammad won’t come to the mountain…” He stood and took a step toward her.

  She raised a hand. “Stop right there.”

  “I don’t think so.” Step.

  “I mean it.” She stuck her hand out farther.

  “So do I.” Step.

  “Not an inch more.”

  Step. “Too late.”

  He held her gaze as he put a hand on her outstretched arm, slowly lowering it.

  “What do you want?” The words came out on a puff of air, like he was stealing her breath with his nearness.

  “I told you.” He braced a palm against the granite on one side of her, bringing his hard, hot body so close she could see the tiny steel-gray flecks in his blue eyes and the hint of razor burn under his chin. “To talk.”

  “This doesn’t feel like talking.”

  His low, husky laugh reverberated through her. “What does it feel like?”

  Heaven.

  “One night.” She stared at a spot over his shoulder, desperate for something to distract her from the overwhelming scent of him, soap and sandalwood and sweat. No dice. “It was supposed to be one night.”

  “Do you believe in fate?” His warm breath danced across her cheek and tickled her ear. “Because it seems to be telling us otherwise.”

  No, she didn’t. She believed in hard work and perseverance. Why else would she still be banging her head against the wall trying to get a top-drawer publisher interested in her novel?

  She went for sarcastic, hoping it would scare him off. “Maybe it’s telling me you’re a stalker.”

  “Who doesn’t know your last name yet somehow found out where you live and rented an apartment in your building?”

  She gave a half-hearted shrug. “Could happen.”

  “Or it could be when I met you that night at Flotsam and Jetsam I was apartment hunting, and I was as surprised to see you at the tenants’ meeting as you were to see me. Call it a happy coincidence.”

  “I don’t believe in coincidence, either.”

  “What do you believe in?” His baby blues, mysterious and mesmerizing, bored into hers. “Luck?”

  She broke free from his spellbinding gaze, dragging her eyes down to his awe-inspiring chest and focusing on the fire-engine red “ALL” in the center of his Metallica T-shirt. “Luck is when preparation meets opportunity.”

  “Then it looks like this is my lucky day.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because this is my opportunity to convince you the universe wants us to spend some time together.” He slid a finger under her chin and lifted her face to his. “And I’m prepared to stay right here until you agree.”

  …

  He was walking a tightrope across the Grand Canyon without a net.

  When Brooke found out who he was and why he was there, she’d have his balls in a vice grip. Big time. Which was reason enough for him to back the fuck off.

  So why couldn’t he?

  It wasn’t a sexual thing, although it would be futile to deny that he wanted her. But he wasn’t some teenager, unable to control his primal urges. He’d resisted plenty of beautiful women in his day.

  No, it wasn’t Brooke’s obvious physical assets that made her irresistible. It was the fact that, no matter how much the lady did protest, her body language shouted loud and clear that she was attracted to him. Eli Ward, regular Joe. Not Eli Ward, billionaire developer. That was a heady prospect, one he hadn’t experienced since hitting it big.

  Add to that everything he’d learned about her from the other residents in the two short days he’d been at Candy Court. Unlike Brooke, they’d welcomed him with open arms and hadn’t hesitated to tell him all about their favorite neighbor. How she was the driving force behind the community garden and had been the one to sit with Mrs. Feingold at the hospital when her husband fell and broke his hip. How she’d helped Charise out in a pinch by babysitting her little boy after pulling an eight-hour shift at the bar.

  Bottom line: this woman was someone he wanted—no, needed—to get to know better. And if that meant engaging in a slight deception for a short time, until he was on surer footing with her, then that was what he had to do. He only hoped the end would justify the means.

  “So.” He tilted his head to study her, looking for some sign she was on the verge of giving in to him. “What will it take for you to give me a second chance?”

  Brooke opened her mouth to answer, but her response was swallowed up by a chirpy, assertive voice from the door.

  “Brooke, dear. I forgot my key, and Morty locked me out again when he went to his tai chi class at the Y.”

  Eli stepped aside to let Brooke push past him. Their elderly neighbor stood in the doorway with a sly smile and a twinkle in her watchful eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” the older woman said, not looking the least bit apologetic. “I didn’t realize you were…occupied. I’ll come back later.”

  “It’s okay, Mrs. Feingold.” Brooke rounded the counter into the kitchen area. “I’ve got your spare right here.”

  “At least someone around here locks their door,” Eli muttered.

  Brooke opened a drawer and rummaged around until she held up a shiny silver key on an Angry Birds keychain. “Found it.”

  “Thank you, dear. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Mrs. Feingold crossed to Brooke and took the proffered key. “Now, I’ll get out of your way and let you two get back to… whatever it was you were doing.”

  One look at Brooke’s stony face told Eli that wasn’t going to happen.

  “I was just leaving.” He offered his arm to Mrs. Feingold. “I’ll walk you out.”

  She placed her hand in the crook of his elbow and beamed up at him. At least he was capable of making one woman happy, even if she was old enough to be his grandmother.

  “Aren’t you a gentleman?” she cooed.

  Brooke choked back a cough.

  “Come on, Mrs. F. You can finish telling me about your grandson’s bar mitzvah.”

  Brooke quirked a brow at him. “Mrs. F.?”

  The older woman blushed. “It’s his nickname for me. Isn’t it adorable?”

  “Adorable,” Brooke grumbled in grudging agreement. “If not terribly original.”

  He ignored the dig. “Have any of that rugelach left, Mrs. F.?”

  “You bet I do,” she gushed. “And I can make us some egg creams, too.”

  “Sounds delicious.”

  He got perverse satisfaction from the shocked look on Brooke’s face as he escorted Mrs. Feingold out the door. What kind of neighbor did she think he was, anyway?
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  Only the kind of neighbor that plots to throw his fellow tenants out on the street.

  He pushed the thought to the back of his brain. Okay, so none of the current residents of Candy Court were going to be able to afford to stay once he converted the apartments over to luxury condos. But what was he supposed to do? The building was falling apart, despite the tenants’ best efforts to keep up with the growing list of repairs. If he didn’t step in and take control, someone else would. Someone like Noel Dupree, who didn’t give a shit about anything except his bottom line—which meant using substandard materials and shoddy labor to rehab properties that just as often depressed the neighborhoods they were supposed to rejuvenate. Eli wasn’t about to let that happen.

  Besides, he wasn’t a total asshat. He’d make sure everyone landed safely somewhere. One apartment was as good as another, right? Home was more than four walls; it was where the heart was. He’d learned that lesson the hard way after his parents died and left him and Paige with a mountain of debt, forcing them to sell the house they’d grown up in.

  And if the Candy Court crew wanted to stay together, he’d figure out a way for that to happen, too. Maybe in another building in Sunset Park. He’d done his homework and checked out the competition. There were several more affordable options in the neighborhood with multiple vacancies. He could work with the tenants, maybe get them a package deal. That way they’d not only stay together, they’d the reap benefits of the revitalization his new development was bound to spur.

  His guilty conscience temporarily assuaged, he turned his attention to Mrs. Feingold, nodding and smiling at all the appropriate times as she regaled him with every detail of her grandson’s big day. When her story was done and he’d eaten his fill of rugelach and egg cream, he offered to take the spare key back to Brooke. He breathed a silent sigh of relief when Mrs. Feingold declined, insisting that her husband would return it later, probably along with a tin of pastries and maybe an egg cream.

  Not that he was afraid to face the feisty bartender-slash-cartoonist—correction, graphic artist. Eli Ward didn’t do scared. If it were up to him, he’d barge right back in there and pick up where he left off.

  But it wasn’t. He could sense that Brooke wasn’t ready to continue their little dance. Not yet.

  He turned the key in his door. The shitshow that greeted him reminded him how much he had left to do to make the one-room studio habitable. The only thing he’d managed to get set up so far was the double bed in the corner he’d designated as his bedroom. A desk sat half assembled beside it. The rest of the furniture he’d ordered with Ginny’s help from Ikea was still piled in boxes in the center of the room—a love seat, a bookshelf, a storage bench that would double as a coffee table, and a set of stacking stools he could use as side tables or extra seating.

  Originally, he’d intended to have movers bring some of his stuff over from his Manhattan penthouse. He’d scrapped that not-so-brilliant plan when Brooke called him out on his expensive wardrobe. But even a big boy had to have his toys. Which was why his flat-screen TV and state-of-the-art sound system should be arriving in about—he checked his faux Rolex Submariner, another concession to Brooke’s keen eye—half an hour.

  He dragged his toolbox out from under the bed and unfolded the instructions for assembling the desk, determined to have at least one more piece of furniture put together before the movers arrived. He’d done his fair share of manual labor flipping houses before Momentum had taken off and he’d moved into the executive suite. How hard could one simple little desk be?

  Pretty fucking hard, it turned out. Whoever wrote the damn directions must be a sadistic son of a bitch.

  Eli was about to crumple the whole indecipherable thing into a ball and go rogue when his cell rang. He swiped the screen to answer without bothering to check who was calling. No need for that now that he’d blocked his former best friend. Until he’d pinned down the identity of Momentum’s mole, there was nothing Simon could say that Eli wanted to hear.

  “Ward,” he barked, his frustration with the desk bleeding into his tone.

  “What kind of way is that to talk to your baby sister?”

  His mood immediately softened, and he sat back on his haunches, letting the useless instruction sheet flutter from his fingers to the floor. “Sorry, Paigey. I thought you were the movers.”

  “Movers?” He could hear her confusion and concern. “What’s going on? Your message on my voicemail was totally incomprehensible.”

  He gave her the condensed version, skipping the whole Brooke situation and focusing on his suspicions about a mole at Momentum and his plans for Candy Court.

  “So, let me get this straight,” Paige said when he was done. “Someone may or may not be sabotaging Momentum.”

  “Right.”

  “And you think that someone is your business partner.”

  “Right.”

  “So, you’ve gone underground in Brooklyn at a former candy factory that you want to renovate, and you’re holed up there until you figure out who’s out to get you.”

  “Not renovate, convert,” he clarified. “Into luxury apartments.”

  “Whatever.” He could almost see his sister’s eyes rolling. “You don’t understand organic chemistry. I don’t understand real estate development. That’s how our relationship works.”

  He lowered himself the rest of the way to the floor, pushing aside a plastic bag with nuts and bolts so he could sit. “Point taken.”

  There was silence on the line for a few seconds then Paige asked, “Can I still do my laundry at your place?”

  “You have a key. It’s not like I could stop you.”

  “Thanks.” Something rustled over the line, like she was shuffling papers. Was she at the lab? On a Saturday? “I don’t have to water your plants, do I? You know I suck at keeping things alive.”

  “Says the organic chemist.”

  “So, you do understand organic chemistry.”

  “Maybe a little,” he conceded. Enough to know she’d never lack for work, with her summa cum laude Ivy League degrees. Which was what he wanted for her. Safety. Security. Happiness. The things he’d tried so hard to provide since their parents’ deaths.

  “You never answered my question.”

  “No, Paige.” Eli rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes. “You don’t have to water my plants. That’s what I have Ginny for.”

  “She’s your administrative assistant, not your housekeeper.”

  “She’s whatever I need her to be. And right now, that’s my everything until I’ve got this mess at the office sorted out.”

  “Sometimes you are such an arrogant jerk.”

  He smiled, eyes still closed. “Part of my charm.”

  “You wish,” she scoffed. “What about Geek Girls?”

  The charity his parents—his dad a neurosurgeon, his mom a cardiologist—had started. They’d seen how few opportunities there were for girls like their math-and-science-obsessed daughter, so they’d taken matters into their own hands, connecting girls interested in careers in science, technology, engineering, and math with mentors in their chosen fields, creating programs that taught girls how to write code, and publishing an online magazine with a different STEM theme each month.

  The charity had struggled in the lean years after the accident, but one of the first things Eli had done when he made it big was get Geek Girls back on its feet. For his parents. And for Paige. “What about it?”

  “The silent auction’s the second Saturday in April. Will you be there?”

  Eli sat up, eyes open. “Of course I will. You know I wouldn’t miss that for the world.”

  “Even if you’re still hibernating in Brooklyn?”

  “For you and Geek Girls, I’ll come out of my cave.” Even if that meant he’d have to deal with Simon, who served with Eli and his sister on the board of directors and was bound to be in attendance as well.

  “I take it back. You’re not an arrogant jerk. You’re a
prince among men.”

  Great, he thought as they said their good-byes and he hung up the phone. Now if only he could get Brooke to agree.

  Chapter Five

  “Damn it, damn it, damn it, damn it.”

  Brooke turned off the tap and frantically grabbed for a dishtowel, trying to stem the flood of water flowing from the pipe beneath her kitchen sink. The same pipe she’d fixed with plumber’s putty not three weeks ago.

  Not having a super was turning into a serious pain in the ass. She’d briefly considered tucking her tail between her legs and running home to her family’s Long Island estate. Emphasis on “briefly.” But even twenty-four rooms weren’t enough for her and her father to avoid each other.

  She did her best to mop up the mess, then stuck her head under the sink to survey the damage. Plumber’s putty wasn’t going to cut it this time. The ancient copper pipe looked like it had burst, a gouge at least an inch long splitting it open.

  “Damn it,” she repeated, backing out from under the sink and slumping to the floor. This was way beyond her limited home repair abilities. She’d have to call a professional, which meant forking over money she didn’t have and wasn’t willing to beg her parents for.

  Her cell rang, and she scrambled across the room on all fours to answer it. Her finger hovered over the screen when she saw her mother’s name. Pamela Sinclair Worthington was the last person in the world she wanted to talk to right now. But if she ignored the call, it would be ten times worse later.

  “Hey, Mom.” Brooke flopped onto the couch, stretching out her legs in front of her. Her bare toes were in dire need of a pedicure, and if she rolled up her yoga pants, her legs were long overdue for a shave. Two things she tended to neglect in winter. It wasn’t like she had anyone to impress. “What’s up?”

  “You tell me.” The censure in her mother’s voice washed over her like an ice bath, and Brooke was glad they weren’t on FaceTime. Her flyaway hair, grease-smudged face, and stained Cowboy Bebop T-shirt would ramp up her mother’s disapproval by a factor of a thousand. Maybe more. “You never call.”