The Billionaire in Her Bed (Worthington Family)

by Regina Kyle

  Wonder why that is?

  “I’ve been busy,” Brooke lied. Sure, her schedule was jam-packed. But she could have made time for a quick phone call. If she wanted to subject herself to scorn and derision, which she didn’t. “My agent has me making changes to the book so we can…”

  “Still working on your little comic book?” her mother asked, cutting her off. “How long has it been? Two years?”

  Two and a half. And Brooke had several others in various stages of completion, too. Not that her mother cared. “It’s a graphic novel, Mom. And yes, it’s the one I’ve been trying to get published.”

  “Have you considered the possibility that it’s not worthy of publication?”

  “My agent thinks it is.” Even if you and Dad don’t.

  “Then why is she making you change it?”

  “That’s how edits work.”

  “You know, I read somewhere that most authors make less than ten thousand dollars a year.”

  “I’m well aware of that.” Brooke rubbed the back of her neck. “That’s why I tend bar. And freelance.”

  More of the latter, lately, than the former. An ad agency she’d done some work for had started throwing clients her way, allowing her to cut back her hours at the bar. She was still at Flotsam and Jetsam two or three times a week. But freelancing was way more lucrative, especially in the dead of winter. And it meant she was using her expensive bachelor of fine arts degree for more than “scribbling on napkins,” as her father put it.

  “Hardly respectable. Or stable.” Her mother let out a sigh that reverberated across the phone line and could probably be heard throughout Nassau County. “You know you’re welcome to work in the marketing department at Worthington Resorts International. I’m sure they’d be happy to have you.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” Not. Working for her family’s hotel chain might be all right for her younger sister, who didn’t have an adventurous bone in her fragile body, but Brooke was more of a free spirit. She couldn’t handle being stuck in an office all day. “Was there a reason for this call?”

  Other than to make me feel like shit on the bottom of your Louboutins?

  “Your father wanted me to remind you about brunch on the fifth.”

  “He couldn’t call himself?”

  “You know him. All work, all the time.”

  She did, and he certainly was. It was how he’d built an empire—and alienated his eldest daughter. “I’ll be there.”

  Like she was there the first Sunday of every month. Although she’d rather listen to Kim Kardashian read War and Peace.

  “Heirloom. Eleven sharp.”

  Because it had to be a five-star restaurant. No simple gathering around the kitchen table for the Worthingtons. “Got it.”

  “Mallory’s bringing her beau. She’d like you to meet him.”

  Brooke gritted her teeth. “I said I’d be there.”

  “Very well. Feel free to bring a date of your own, if you’re seeing anyone.”

  Right. Like she’d subject anyone to that hell on earth. “I’m not.”

  “Of course,” her mother said, sounding like she’d smelled something especially vile. “And Brooke?”

  “Yes?” She clutched a throw pillow to her chest with her free hand, bracing herself. From the arch tone of her mother’s voice, whatever was coming next was sure to cut like a surgical laser.

  “Wear something nice, not those rags you call a wardrobe. And nothing too low cut. Borrow something from your sister if you have to. You should be able to squeeze into one of her Oscar de la Rentas.”

  Luckily for her mother, Brooke ended the call without bothering to respond. What did you say when your own mother called you a slob, a slut, and a sow, all in one breath?

  Brooke threw herself prostrate onto the couch, tossing the phone to the floor and burying her face in the pillow. First the sink. Now her mother. It was too much for one day.

  “Why me?” she moaned into the stiff brocade. “What did I do to piss off the universe?”

  “Anything I can do to help?”

  She turned her head ever so slightly and cracked one eye open to find Eli standing in her doorway. As always, he looked like he’d stepped from the pages of a magazine. This time it was Men’s Health, with butt-hugging jeans and a long-sleeved Henley that molded his sculpted torso. A stark contrast to her uncombed hair, grimy face, and soiled T-shirt. She retreated into the pillow.

  Man, oh man. She must have really pissed off the universe.

  “Everything okay?” he prodded.

  “Have you heard the expression bad things come in threes?” she asked, her voice muffled by the pillow.

  He chuckled. “Yeah.”

  “Well, you’re number three.”

  “I’m bad?”

  For my equilibrium.

  “I keep you off balance?”

  Damn. She wasn’t supposed to say that out loud.

  “Interesting.”

  “What are you doing here, anyway?” He’d been suspiciously out of sight since he’d last appeared at her door bearing a caffeinated peace offering eight days, six hours, thirty-two minutes, and seventeen seconds ago. Not that she was counting. She risked another glance at him. Big mistake. There were those dimples again, courtesy of that cocky, I-know-you-want-me smile. And how did he manage to have the perfect amount of sexy stubble morning, noon, and night? It was criminally unfair for one man to be so damned attractive.

  “I knocked, but your door was open. As usual.” He leaned a shoulder against the doorframe and crossed his arms. “What are numbers one and two?”

  She blinked, both blinded by his hotness and confused by his question. Staring at him too long was like staring into the sun. You had to look away or get burned. “Huh?”

  “You said I was the third bad thing to happen to you today. What are the first two?”

  “The pipe under my sink is busted, and my mother thinks I’m an oversize tramp who doesn’t know how to dress and can’t hold down a decent job,” she blurted before she could stop herself.

  He didn’t pry, letting it slide with an almost imperceptible lift of his eyebrow. “I’m no good with mothers, but pipes I can handle. Want me to take a look?”

  No. “Sure. Thanks.”

  He strode over to her tiny kitchen like a man on a mission, a citrusy wave of his cologne teasing her nostrils as he passed by. He squatted in front of the open cabinet under the sink and pushed up his shirtsleeves, revealing sinewy forearms with a smattering of dark hair.

  Brooke’s heart lurched, and she had to remind herself to breathe. Holy hell. Since when had she found a man’s forearms provocative?

  Since about three seconds ago, apparently.

  She took a few steps toward him, not wanting to get too close and risk falling under his sexy spell. “How much is this going to cost me?”

  “Let me take a closer look.”

  He lay on his back and stuck his head under the sink. After a few seconds, he raised his arms to adjust something, exposing a strip of firm, bare flesh between the hem of his shirt and his waistband. The strip widened as he reached father up to tinker with a section of pipe closer to the drain. She took advantage of the opportunity to gawk unobserved, letting her eyes feast on his rock-hard abs—abs her naughty fingers remembered all too well and itched to get reacquainted with.

  “You need a new U-bend.” He scooted out from under the sink and stood, wiping his hands on his jeans.

  She hastily averted her eyes, not wanting to get caught staring. “What’s a U-bend?”

  “The pipe that’s shaped like a U. And while you’re at it, I recommend PVC instead of copper. It’s more efficient and durable, and it won’t rust or burst. Parts shouldn’t run more than thirty bucks. I can run to the hardware store and have them installed in a few hours.”

  “Oh, no. I wasn’t asking you to…”

  “You’re right. You weren’t asking. I was offering.”

  She bit her lip. Accepting he
lp wasn’t her forte. But she was stuck between a rock and a soggy place. “Are you sure it’s not too much trouble?”

  “Piece of cake.” He jammed his thumbs in his pockets and rocked on his heels. “I’ve flipped a house or two in my day.”

  She eyed him suspiciously. He might look the part, but she hadn’t forgotten the designer duds and high-end haircut he’d been sporting the night they met. “You don’t seem like a manual labor kind of guy.”

  “You’d be surprised what kind of guy I am.” The damn dimples were back, making her heart flutter. “So how about it? Am I hired?”

  “Only if you let me pay you,” she insisted, pressing her mouth into a thin, uncompromising line.

  He considered it for a minute. “How about you feed me when I’m done? I like spaghetti.”

  Dinner? At her place? Just the two of them? Money would be a whole lot easier. And a lot less…tempting.

  “Couldn’t I give you cash?”

  He shook his head. “Money I’ve got. Home cooking I don’t.”

  “Fine.” She couldn’t screw up pasta too badly, could she? “But you’ll probably wish my sister was at the stove. She’s the chef.”

  “I doubt it.” His eyes raked her up and down then flicked to his watch. “I’ll be back in forty-five minutes.”

  She calculated how much time it would take her to shower and shave her legs. For her own benefit, of course. Not Eli’s. A girl was entitled to feel good about herself, wasn’t she? That was the only reason she was contemplating wearing the sheer lavender bra and panties at the back of her underwear drawer, tags still attached.

  Liar.

  “Can you make it an hour?” She shifted to hide a stain on her shirt. Pointless, she knew, as there were at least three more she couldn’t conceal.

  “Deal.”

  With a wink, he turned to leave, giving her a parting view of his fine, firm ass in those tight jeans before he disappeared out the door.

  …

  It was more like an hour and a half by the time Eli found himself back outside Brooke’s apartment. He balanced his toolbox and the bags he’d gotten at Home Depot in his arms and knocked.

  “Come in.” Brooke’s voice wafted through the door, along with the sweet smell of garlic and tomatoes. “It’s open.”

  He grinned as he turned the knob and crossed the threshold. “Of course it is.”

  She stood in front of the stove with her back to him, stirring a large pot of what he deduced was spaghetti sauce and sneaking glances at a tablet propped up on the tiny square of countertop next to her. Gone were the yoga pants and stained T-shirt. In their place was a gray turtleneck sweater dress that followed her curves like a Formula 1 racer. A pair of black suede thigh-high boots completed the ensemble. He couldn’t see her face, but her hair was gathered into a sexy, messy mass on top of her head.

  He whistled. “You clean up nice.”

  “Thanks.” Over her shoulder, she shot him a smile that lit up her face and sucker punched him in the gut. It wasn’t only her hair and clothes she’d taken the time to fix. He didn’t know much about makeup, but whatever she’d done to her face had the effect of bringing out the gold flecks in her eyes and making her already full lips look fuller. “I wish I could say the same about you, but you’re going to get pretty dirty under there.”

  She jerked her head toward the sink. He put down the toolbox and bags and bent to open the cabinet. “I like getting dirty.”

  He thought he heard her mutter “don’t I know it” before he flipped onto his back and poked his head under the sink to reassess the damage. “Can you hand me the pliers from my toolbox? And I’ll need a pot or bucket to catch the water when I take this thing apart.”

  “Sure. Let me turn down the sauce.”

  “It smells great.”

  “Thanks. Did you know pasta was invented by the Chinese, and people ate it for thousands of years before anyone thought to add tomato sauce?”

  His lips twitched. She was a babbler. Good sign. That meant she was nervous around him, and she wouldn’t be nervous if she wasn’t interested. “I had no idea.”

  She knelt beside him, giving him a tantalizing glimpse of creamy thigh over the top of her boots. He willed his dick to stand down and focused on the delicate hand holding out a wrench to him. Their fingers brushed as he took it and then the stockpot she offered, and for a second time in as many minutes he fought to control his raging hormones.

  “I’ve got to take care of dinner,” she said, the rasp in her voice telling him she wasn’t unaffected, either. “Will you be okay without my help?”

  “I’ll be fine.” A little space was probably a good thing. Much more of this and her pipe would stay broken and they’d never get to the food. “Go.”

  Unlike his new furniture, with its incomprehensible instructions, this job was straightforward, and he was able to replace the pipe in less than an hour, even with Brooke bustling around the kitchen, distracting him with her fresh, fruity scent, off-key humming, and occasional chitchat.

  “All done,” he called, his head and torso still in the cupboard. “Turn on the tap and let her rip.”

  “You might want to get out of there first,” she suggested.

  He let out a derisive snort. “Don’t trust my handiwork?”

  “It’s your funeral.”

  He heard her fiddle with the faucet, and the water started flowing.

  “Dry as the Sahara.” He slid out from under the sink and sat up. “Mission accomplished.”

  “Thanks again.” She blushed and turned her attention back to the pot of sauce simmering on the stove, and he got the feeling accepting help didn’t come easily to her. “Dinner will be ready in about ten minutes if you want to wash up. I put out a fresh washcloth and towel for you in the bathroom.”

  “Sounds good.” He put his tools back in the box and swept the mess he’d made into one of the empty Home Depot bags. “Where’s your garbage?”

  She inclined her head toward a stainless-steel trash can next to the refrigerator. He tossed the bag inside and headed for the bathroom. When he emerged a few minutes later, hands scrubbed and nails as free from grease as he could get them, Brooke was setting the cafe table that served as her dinette set.

  Eli smoothed down his rumpled Henley the best he could and crossed over to her. “Anything I can do?”

  “You can open a bottle of wine.” She held up two bottles. “I’ve got red and white. Pick your poison.”

  “Red.” He took the bottle of cabernet sauvignon she offered, making sure their fingers didn’t make contact this time so he wouldn’t be tempted to clear off the table she’d set and take her right then and there. “Where’s your corkscrew?”

  “Top drawer next to the sink.”

  He squeezed past her to get the bottle opener, struck by the intimacy of it all. And not because they were jockeying for position in her tiny galley kitchen. It was more how, despite their close confines, they worked together with an easy familiarity, like an old married couple.

  The thought should’ve terrified him. It didn’t.

  Weird.

  “Find it?” she asked, snapping him out of his reverie.

  “Got it.” He hip-checked the drawer closed.

  “Glasses are on the counter.”

  He opened the bottle, poured them each a glass, and handed one to Brooke, who was back at the stove. She took a sip and set it down on the counter beside her.

  “Sit. I’ll fix our plates and bring them over.”

  “I could…”

  “Sit,” she repeated, pointing a slender finger at the cafe table. “Relax. I’m supposed to be paying you back for fixing my sink.”

  He obeyed, sipping his wine while she ladled out spaghetti and sauce onto two plates and brought them to the table. She sat opposite him and crossed her legs in those come-fuck-me boots, the movement inching her dress higher up on her thighs.

  The next hour was a mix of pain and pleasure. Pain because sitting across f
rom Brooke, watching the unconsciously erotic way she slurped her spaghetti, was torture of the highest degree. Pleasure because when he could concentrate on something other than her long legs and luscious lips, he found he really enjoyed talking with her.

  They kept the conversation light, avoiding hot-button topics like politics or religion. By the time they finished eating and he’d helped her clear their plates, he knew her favorite color (turquoise), where she went to college (Rhode Island School of Design), and the name of her first pet (a guinea pig she called Charcoal), among other things.

  They were as compatible out of bed—or futon, if you wanted to get technical—as they were in it. They both had younger sisters who they tended to overprotect. His parents were gone. Her relationship with hers was strained, although she didn’t say why and he didn’t want to press her. And they had a mutual appreciation for Thai food, second British invasion bands, and reruns of How I Met Your Mother.

  “I’m sorry,” Brooke said when the last dish was dried and put away. “I don’t have anything for dessert.”

  “I beg to differ.” He came up behind her.

  “No, seriously.” She turned to face him, her mossy eyes bright with the desire he knew her lips were going to deny. “The only thing in my refrigerator that remotely resembles dessert is a can of Reddi-wip left over from Mr. Feingold’s seventy-fifth birthday party.”

  “That wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.” He moved in again, resting one hand on her waist and cupping her cheek with the other. “Although it might come in handy.”

  She shook off the hand on her face, freeing several strands of hair from her sexily mussed updo. “We agreed. One night.”

  “Did we?” He brushed one long lock behind her ear. “I don’t remember signing anything.”

  “It was an unspoken agreement.”

  “An agreement requires an offer and acceptance. And I refuse to accept your not-so-generous offer.”

  “What are you, a lawyer or something?”

  “Just a guy who knows his way around a contract.” The hand still on her hip tightened ever so slightly. “Tell you what. I’ll make you a counteroffer.”

  “A counteroffer?”