The Millionaire Makeover (Bachelor Auction)

by Naima Simone

  One moment he sat as motionless as a statue in the Public Gardens, and in the next he damn near crouched over her. With one palm flattened against the car window and the other gripping the back of the seat, he bowed over her like a looming, menacing predator. His knee pressed against her outer-thigh, his face only inches above hers. The size of the vehicle’s interior shrunk to the size of the cage within his arms and torso.

  “You want answers, yeah?” His arms bent, and he lowered into her. “You think you do.”

  Mute, she slowly nodded.

  He loosed a low, wicked laugh that held no humor…but, oh God, maybe tons of promise. “No, you don’t, baby. Believe me, you don’t.” A hard smile barely curved his mouth as he returned to his side of the car.

  The car slowing and pulling to a stop stilled the cacophonic thoughts whirling in her head as well as saved her from answering. Not that he appeared interested in her reply. He’d already tuned her out, his face turned to the window once more. And when the rear door opened, he climbed out as if sharing the same space—hell, the same air—was anathema to him. His hand appeared in the open door, and silently, she slipped hers in his, allowing him to help her from the vehicle.

  As soon as they entered the boutique, three pretty, tall, slim women dressed in designs that could’ve graced a catwalk descended on them. Their deference to Niall would’ve been comical if not for the flock of geese migrating south in her stomach. Or rather north. Nausea churned, and the more the women fawned over him, ignoring her, the queasier she became.

  A big, warm hand engulfed hers, squeezing hard.

  She glanced down at his long, musician fingers wrapped around hers, and jerked her gaze up. He didn’t acknowledge the quiet show of support, but continued conversing with the saleswomen.

  “Thank you for being willing to close your shop to assist Khloe and me.” An image of the three sighing maidens in Disney’s Beauty and the Beast flashed through her head. Except Niall’s light, sexy brogue was far sexier than Gaston’s French accent or the Beast’s growl, and apparently these women agreed. He tugged on her hand, drawing her in front of him. “You come highly recommended, and I place her in your capable hands.”

  And that quickly, she was handed off and ushered toward the rear of the boutique and into the elegant dressing room that was bigger than her bedroom. Dresses, suits, pants, sweaters, blouses, lingerie—more and more gorgeous items flowed through the door. She stared at the clothing, unsure what to try on first, overwhelmed with the volume.

  “How about this first?” Lindsey, a lovely red-head, held up a cream, long-sleeved dress. Khloe nodded, and with the other woman’s help, slipped into the clothing. “Here,” she said, setting out a gorgeous pair of caramel, knee-high boots. “Try these on with it.”

  Moments later, she exited the dressing room, her gaze focused on the tri-fold, floor-to-ceiling mirrors against the far wall. The deceptively simple lines and cinched in, ruched waist emphasized the curves she always tried to hide. And the stiletto boots were just freakin’ sexy.

  “You were meant to look like this.”

  Khloe glanced away from the mirror to find Niall standing several feet away, hands in the pockets of his slacks. He lifted his regard from her body, his vivid eyes meeting hers. “Never hide your breasts, hips, and ass behind those shapeless layers again,” he said.

  Mouth dry, she swallowed. “Is that an order?” she asked, despising the husky note in her voice. Despised the pounding in her chest and corresponding ache between her thighs as he once more surveyed her body.

  He arched an eyebrow. Shifted his attention behind her. “I’d like to see the evening gown next.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Hunter,” Lindsey said.

  “You picked out a dress for me?” Incredulous, she tried to ignore a whisper of pleasure that ghosted through her at the sense of intimacy in his gesture. No man had ever chosen personal items for her before. Another first she shared with him.

  “For the dinner party.”

  Bennett’s dinner party. He’d selected a dress for her to wear for another man. The wisp of delight evaporated as if snuffed out. Right. The attentive boyfriend charade, makeover, clothing spree—all were so she could grab the attention, and eventually love, of Bennett. Niall was simply assisting her in attaining her goal.

  Stupid of her to forget. And even more stupid to start believing his intentions were rooted in anything more than obligation.

  She returned to the dressing room, Lindsey behind her. After stripping down, the saleswoman removed an emerald gown from a padded hanger and helped Khloe don the requested outfit. Eyes wide, she followed the other woman back out into the viewing area.

  Niall had moved to wait near the mirrors, but she didn’t peer at her reflection. She knew what she would glimpse. The stunning emerald, lace top with a nude-colored lining underneath, the band of velvet that circled her waist, the full, wide knee-length green skirt…and the wide vee that plunged between her breasts and down her back. Sweet and sensual. Elegant and alluring. Demure and daring. Yes, she knew what the mirror would show her. And it didn’t interest her. Niall’s reaction did.

  Slowly, he straightened from where he reclined against the wall next to the mirrors. He withdrew his hands from his pockets, his fingers flexing then straightening. To touch her? To grab her? To follow the path of the lace where it skimmed the skin between her breasts? To caress the inches of her bared lower back?

  Heat streamed under her skin, sensitizing it so the soft silk and lace seemed almost too much against her flesh. Her nipples tightened in anticipation. Her sex clenched as if crying out the yes, she couldn’t voice. Because if he did reach for her, in this moment, her answer would be yes. Something about the lust and promise in his eyes she knew from very personal experience he could deliver on. His kiss last night had awakened every dormant urge and need that had been sleeping for three years. No—that was a lie. His kiss hadn’t been the accelerant. His presence—her first glimpse of him at the bachelor auction—had been the trigger.

  She waited, breath trapped in her lungs, eager to discover his next move.

  “It’s beautiful,” he murmured, the low, calm rumble at odds with the tight fists at his sides. “Add it to her purchases,” he said to Lindsey without removing his hooded gaze from Khloe. Then he turned and headed toward the front of the boutique.

  Silently, she exhaled a breath. Stared after his retreating figure while her pulse thundered in her head like crashing waves against a shore.

  “Khloe? Are you ready to try on the next outfit?” Lindsey inquired, her curious contemplation swinging from her to Niall’s broad shoulders.

  “Yes.” Resisting one last glance at the brooding Irishman, she returned to the dressing room.

  “I have the perfect shoes that will go with the dress,” the saleswoman said as she loosed the button and closure in the back. “Let me go pull them while I remember so we can put those aside as well.”

  “Thanks, Lindsey.” Khloe smiled at the other woman in the cubicle’s mirror. Lindsey left, and Khloe slipped free of the dress, leaving her clad only in her bra and panties. As she removed a lovely blouse from its hanger, a knock reverberated on the door.

  That was quick, Lindsey. “Come on in.”

  A large inhalation of breath jerked her head around.

  Niall.

  Shock rocketed through her, jarring, jolting—electrifying.

  Blue fire flared and smoldered in his gaze, drying up the moisture in her mouth. His skin, drawn tight across his facial bones, emphasized the carnal fullness of his mouth. Slowly, he reached behind him and shut the door. Her heart thudded against her sternum. And her world narrowed down to the space between them that steadily decreased as he stalked closer…and closer…

  He closed his fingers around the hand clutching the blouse to her chest, and loosened her grip on it, casting the clothing to the side as if it were made of burlap instead of expensive silk. Circling her wrists, he lowered her arms, baring her to h
is hungry gaze.

  Because it was hungry.

  He didn’t attempt to hide the need darkening his eyes. Her breasts rose and fell on her rapid, harsh drags of air, and he followed the movements with rapt concentration. Switching her wrists to one hand, he traced the flesh swelling above black lace, dipping a fingertip underneath the scalloped edge.

  Nudging a beaded nipple.

  She whimpered, her core flexing, clenching. Oh God. Before him, she hadn’t realized a conduit ran from her breasts straight to her clitoris. But with each swipe over the aching tip, he reminded her. Moisture dotted her swollen folds, and she squeezed her thighs to soothe the sweet but torturous throbbing in her sex.

  When he removed his touch, she bit her lip to imprison the plea for him to don’t stop. She parted her lips, prepared to beg but the words died a swift death on her tongue when he bent his head and captured her nipple with his hot, wet mouth.

  Oh shit. Oh. Shit. Ohshitohshitohshit.

  His tongue curled around her nipple through the bra, drawing it between his lips, and sucking hard. Up, up, up. She went to her tiptoes, a soft cry escaping her. Her fingers curled into her palms, needing to touch him, to clutch his head, and hold him to her.

  Or hold herself up when his teeth grazed her nipple, eliciting a deep, needy groan.

  “Niall,” she whispered.

  “Chopsticks” pealed loudly, almost painful in the hushed, dense quiet broken only by her sighs and moans.

  She blinked. Frowned. Her phone. How had her phone ended up in here with her?

  Niall straightened, and the loss of his mouth on her vibrated inside her like a discordant chord. Frustration howled inside her, a wild animal clawing and demanding to be satisfied as only this man could do.

  Releasing her wrists, he withdrew her cell from his pants pocket. But instead of handing it to her, he glanced down at the screen. The hunger in his expression fled, replaced by a forbidding coldness.

  “It’s Bennett,” he stated flatly. “It’s why I came in here. Your phone rang.”

  Her stomach plunged toward her feet, her heart in hot pursuit. Bennett? Calling her? She’d programmed his cell number in her contacts months ago, hoping one day he would have a reason to call her. But she’d never… She swallowed hard.

  Niall swiped his thumb across the phone, and the ringer abruptly ceased.

  “Wh-what?” she stuttered as he slipped the cell back into his pocket.

  “You’re wet, aren’t you, Khloe?” he demanded, his brogue thicker, voice a harsh whip. His gaze dropped to the rigid points of her nipples, clearly visible through her bra. “And I made you that way. I’ll be damned if he benefits from what I caused. What’s mine.”

  A rap sounded on the door, and then Lindsey appeared in the entrance.

  “I have those shoes…” Her voice trailed off, and red rushed into her face. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know—”

  “No problem,” Niall said, voice curt. “I was leaving. You have my number. Please call me when you’re almost done here.”

  Without a last word to her, Niall strode past the gawking saleswoman.

  Leaving Khloe alone. Alone and aching.

  As he’d done before.

  She turned, and glimpsed her hurt—and confusion—in the wall mirror. Why was she surprised? The man was gorgeous beyond belief and set her body on fire, but she couldn’t trust him. He’d proven that to her. In spades.

  But Bennett…Bennett was stable, courteous, successful, and had a job that didn’t include perpetual features in the tabloids with random women. Not to mention Bennett lived in the same country.

  Win. Win.

  Chapter Eight

  Niall stepped from the back of the town car and stared up at Khloe’s apartment building. Damn, he was making a habit of showing up on her doorstep unannounced.

  And like yesterday morning, she probably wouldn’t be pleased. Especially considering how he’d ended their time together. He’d returned to the store after she’d finished shopping and dropped her off home. Then gone straight to his hotel room and proceeded to get fucked up.

  The beauty salon, the fashion boutique—they’d been a particularly vicious form of masochism. And since he’d been the one to drag Khloe to both places, albeit on Morgan’s request, that made him one sick bastard.

  When she’d risen from that hair stylist’s chair and later emerged from the store’s dressing room, he’d been speechless—and resentful. She’d been fucking gorgeous. A walking, breathing eye-gasm.

  Her beauty had always been recognizable to him. Had it been as flashy or obvious as the women he usually slept with? No, but it’d been there for anyone to see if they’d only looked. Her lovely emerald, expressive eyes that lit up like a Christmas tree with joy or darkened like the deepest part of a forest when hurt. The high cheekbones women paid surgeons to grant them. The mouth—Jaysus, that mouth. Soft, wide, full, and so sinfully curved just looking at it could give a man blue balls. And her body. His fingers curled around the cell phone he’d forgotten to return to her. Khloe had been born several centuries too late for her gorgeous, fuck-me curves to be appreciated. Because if she’d lived during the Renaissance age, her perfect hour-glass shape would’ve had Botticelli or Caravaggio begging to paint her, to immortalize her sensuality and loveliness.

  Now, thanks to a beautician and a fashion consultant, that beauty no longer remained hidden under severe, unflattering hairstyles and dowdy clothes. Yesterday, she’d resembled the wealthy, materialistic, hungry women who wanted him for his ATM card, music connections, and the number of orgasms he could dole out. The moment she’d risen from the hair stylist’s chair, stunning enough to turn heads on a crowded Boston street, he’d batted the sanity-preserving urge to walk away, to get out with his pride and integrity while he still could. Because if he remained, nothing on this earth or God’s heaven would keep him from pinning her against the nearest flat surface—table, counter, floor, wall—and fucking her until both of them were weak, sore, and incapable of moving.

  Instead he’d stayed and grimly forged ahead with the plan to help her obtain her dream man. Then he would walk away, not looking back, his obligation to Michael fulfilled.

  Except he’d almost screwed that promise six ways to Sunday in that boutique dressing room. Michael’s request had been the furthest thing from his mind with Khloe standing there like pure sex in her sexy bra and panties. Not touching her hadn’t been an option. The need to stroke, rub—fucking taste—had been primal, and he’d been powerless to resist it. Hell, he hadn’t tried.

  Scrubbing a hand down his face, he climbed the front steps to her building as if he faced the executioner instead of a five-foot, six-inch woman with a sharp wit and even sharper tongue. Come to think of it, there wasn’t that much difference. One felled a man with a chop to the head, the other with a whack to the balls.

  Again that masochistic streak reared its head. As he willingly approached Khloe’s door at ten o’clock on a Sunday morning, he should be cupping himself. Didn’t prevent him from knocking or waiting—hoping—she’d answer.

  Several moments later, the door opened.

  Khloe stared up at him, for once, her lovely face inscrutable.

  “Can I come in?” he asked after a lengthy silence.

  Her eyes narrowed slightly, but lifting one shoulder in a shrug, she stepped back and allowed him entrance. He followed her into the living room, unable to remove his gaze from the sway of her hips in an unconsciously sensual rhythm under a soft pair of lounging pants. His hands itched to cup the firm curves, to slide his fingers up under the matching shirt and palm her perfect breasts, strum her nipples into beaded tips like yesterday. God, she was so fucking responsive…

  Shit, at this rate he was going to have her flat on that couch, spread wide, open, and wet for him.

  “You,” he added, voice rough, almost harsh with the images of her naked and willing hijacking his brain. When she arched an eyebrow, he continued, “That was going to be your
question. Why am I here. And my answer is, you. I didn’t like how we parted yesterday.” He paused. “I don’t like how we’ve been since seeing each other again. We were close once…friends. I want that back. I want you back.”

  She crossed her arms, and he hated the vulnerability in the gesture. Because he was the cause of her uncertainty.

  “Why did you cut me out of your life?” she whispered. “I needed you after Michael died, and you scratched me out as if I were a clause in one of your contracts.”

  Briefly closing his eyes, he clenched his jaw tight. She deserved the truth. As ugly and selfish as it was, she deserved to know why he’d distanced himself.

  At least most of it.

  How could he admit to her that if he hadn’t been thinking with his dick that rainy night, he would’ve driven home, not Michael. But because he’d left the party with a nameless, faceless woman, his best friend had been behind that wheel. Irrational, but the guilt continued to lacerate his soul—and it didn’t help that Michael’s parents blamed him, too. No, he couldn’t tell Khloe that while her brother died in a tangled mess of steel, he’d been too busy screwing.

  But he had to say something. If he didn’t, this…this yawning, dark chasm would always exist between them.

  “The night you came to my house, it wasn’t for sex. The moment I realized you were a virgin, I should’ve stopped, should’ve sent you home. But I didn’t. I used you and wasn’t gentle about it. I fucked you. and the alcohol, the grief—they weren’t good enough excuses for how I took you that night, with little regard for your virginity or your inexperience. I demanded things from you that I had no right to. Things I would’ve demanded again if you hadn’t left that next morning.”

  Again. And again. And again.

  “You were Michael’s sister, and I betrayed him and you. Do you think I didn’t notice the crush you had on me? I took advantage when you deserved better.” And from the request in his letter, Michael had obviously agreed. “You still deserve better,” he murmured.

  Deliberately, he moved forward, granting her plenty of time to evade him. She remained still, though she did stiffen when he brushed the back of his fingers over her jaw. That should’ve been his clue to back off, but instead he grazed his thumb over the plump curve of her bottom lip. And called himself all kinds of crazy-as-hell for being jealous of his own thumb.