The Mistaken Billionaire (the Muse series)

by Lexxie Couper

  She moves like smoke, following him, tracking him. Demon blood or no, the carnality of his reaction to her terrified him.

  Thomas blinked. Words. Words in his head. Holy fuck, words. New words.

  “You’re early,” he blurted. “And you have Reaper.”

  The sexual goddess frowned. “Early?”

  “For dinner.” He ran his gaze over her, taking her all in. Sex and sin and wicked thoughts and dirty deeds. That’s what she was. When he’d asked Shelby to organize a plus-one for him for the dinner, he hadn’t expected someone so…so…

  “You are gorgeous.”

  The woman’s eyebrows shot up. She hugged Reaper closer to her chest, causing the curve of her breasts to push up higher in the plunging neckline of her dress. “I’m sorry?”

  “Gorgeous. Stunning. And perfect. But early.” He glanced at his watch. “Thirty minutes early. No matter. You’ve returned Reaper and…” Words and sentences flowed through his head. The grey fog shrouding his plot grew thin. The demon blood could make his fallen angel question everything. Rather than succumb, perhaps he could—

  “I think you have me—”

  He didn’t let her finish. Instead, he grinned. “Come in. Come in. Let’s get the dog out of your arms. Where was he? In the park down the road? He likes that park. There’s a tree there he’s particularly fond.”

  She frowned at him, those grey eyes of hers narrowing for a second. And then she crossed his threshold, Reaper still wriggling and panting in her arms. “You’re Thomas St. Clair. The writer.”

  He nodded at her statement. His body stirred. Hell, she had a sexy voice. A little bit New York, a little bit sex kitten. And the way she said his name… It was like an accusation and a promise all at once. A tight sensation twisted through his groin. “Guilty. And you are…”

  She stiffened. Damn, she was familiar. Why?

  “Mila.” Just that. Nothing else. Just a calm and completely confident Mila.

  He’d told Shelby his date for this evening needed to be capable of dealing with fawning fans and ass-kissing sycophants, and goddamn it, she’d delivered. Familiar or not, Mila oozed a serious poise to go with the serious sex appeal.

  He really needed to up Shelby’s commission.

  “Well, Mila.” He flapped out his bow tie and slid it around the back of his neck, beneath the collar of his black shirt. “If you’re ready to put the escape artist down, I’m ready to go.”

  She studied him. Wordless. Whatever was going on in her head, he couldn’t read her. “Go where?”

  Damn, her lips were full and lush and goddamn inviting. He’d never wanted to kiss a complete stranger more in his life. “My agent didn’t tell you? A dinner held in my honor by my alma mater. Apparently, I’m kind of a big deal.”

  She continued to study him, storm-cloud-grey eyes enigmatic.

  “So?” He arched an eyebrow at her. He could write a soliloquy about how mesmerizing her eyes were. Could write a goddamn epic tome on how much he wanted to feel her lips moving against his. Where had Shelby found her? And how did he go about keeping her? “Shall we go?”

  A slow smile curled her lips. An unreadable light glinted in her eyes. “I can’t think of anything else I’d rather do.”

  Chapter Two

  Where the hell was her brain?

  He was bound to remember her soon. Pretending to be whoever he thought she was really wasn’t smart.

  And yet here she was doing just that.

  Because she was clearly a lunatic who needed her head checked.

  Or maybe karma just takes a really long time to hand out the candy?

  A knot twisted in Mila’s stomach, and she drew a slow breath. Thoughts like that were beneath her. And not her style. Her style was working hard, not blaming others, staying focused.

  Although, blaming others and Thomas St. Clair went hand-in-hand in her life. Surely it had to be karma pulling the strings right now? What else would explain the serendipitous event placing her on the front door belonging to the man who’d destroyed her once burgeoning journalist career eight years ago?

  What other cosmic force would have him not remember who she was, but instead think she was some kind of…of…escort?

  And for the love of God, why the hell was Thomas St. Clair paying an escort—if that’s indeed what he thought she was—to go to dinner with him? The guy was the very epitome of drop-dead gorgeous. And a billionaire. And hot.

  He could have any beautiful, adoring woman draped off his arm this evening. Why leave it up to his agent to arrange one? What was the deal, the story behind that?

  And why in the hell was she not correcting his mistake?

  The knot in her stomach coiled a little tighter.

  Because after all these years, she was finally in his presence? Face-to-face with him after how many denials and no-shows? Because he was unwittingly presenting her with too good an opportunity to pass up?

  Because in person, he was even more incredible to look at, more intense and potent than any of the articles written about him conveyed?

  He stepped toward her, plucked Reaper from her arms, and deposited the quivering, licking dog on the floor at her feet.

  She let him. Didn’t move when he drew close enough the heat of his body kissed hers. God, he smelled good. Clean soap, subtle cologne, mint toothpaste…

  A tight heat swirled in the junction of her thighs, and she swayed toward him.

  And froze. What the hell was she doing?

  St. Clair’s piercing blue gaze met hers. “I feel like we’ve met before.”

  A shiver rippled up her spine. She shook her head. “We haven’t.” No lie there. Back when she’d been assigned to write the article on him—a literary prodigy with the ability to terrify with words and seduce with looks, shaking up not only the publishing world but the film world with his first book becoming a box-office record-breaking film—they’d never come face-to-face. Or even interacted. Unless one counted all the emails and messages delivered via his agent bailing on scheduled meetings, arranged interviews, and photo shoots. Or all the emails she’d received from him personally citing ridiculous reasons like exorcism lessons for his no-shows.

  That article, that assignment, was meant to launch her career into the stratosphere. Everything she’d been working toward, everything she’d dreamed of—a career with the New York Times, a revered by-line—finished.

  Taking out her frustration and irritation with St. Clair, she’d goddamn eviscerated him in the article she’d written and submitted to her editor.

  Her editor published the article. And then the proverbial feces hit the proverbial fan, and now here she was, a teacher.

  The mighty-to-be fallen.

  Thanks to the man standing in front of her. The man every female part of her was suddenly reacting to.

  Seriously, where the hell was her brain?

  “What do you think of doggy style?”

  She blinked at his question. Heat flooded her cheeks. Liquid heat did the same to her core.

  She shook her head, taking a step backward. “Excuse me?”

  He grinned, leaned down to give Reaper—gazing up at him from beside his left ankle—a scratch behind the ear and then straightened. “Doggy style. For a dog grooming business.”

  “Oh God.” She pressed her palm to her stomach, lips tingling as her blood ran hotter through her veins. “I thought…” She moved her hand to her mouth, shaking her head again. “Never mind.”

  He grinned again, a devilish light dancing in his eyes. In the few publicity and paparazzi images she’d seen of him over the years, none had captured his magnetism. It was like he’d taken the term alpha male and subverted it. Brooding, arrogant, domineering…none of those adjectives suited him. But supremely confident? Self-assured? Yes. Poised and completely at ease with himself? Definitely.

  “You thought I was suggesting we skip dinner and head straight upstairs to my bedroom?” He raked a slow inspection over her. “Tempting.”

&nbs
p; She pressed her thighs together, even as her pulse quickened. Maybe this whole let-him-think-she-was-someone-else scheme was a bad idea? The way he was affecting her…

  No. She just needed to get control of herself. One night in his company, at a dinner… Hell, think of the article she could write. How much she could sell it for. How many laptops she could buy for her students.

  Besides, he owed her. Even if he didn’t know that.

  Drawing herself straighter, she met his gaze. “Very. But surely your company is expected elsewhere? A dinner? Celebrating you?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Are you sure we haven’t met before?”

  She smiled. “One hundred percent.”

  He ran another slow inspection over her. Her heart thudded fast in her throat. Had he ever seen an image of her? It was unlikely. She’d just been an intern on the cusp of a possible full-time job when they’d interacted. And quite a few years had passed since then. The young, eager journalist she’d been back then was long gone. As was the ill-advised peroxide-blond pixie cut and the purple horn-rimmed glasses.

  He removed the small distance between them, holding her gaze. “Tie me up.”

  “Wh-what?” Okay, she seriously needed to get control of herself. If she didn’t, she’d need to change her panties before they left his house. And what the hell was she doing instantly having BDSM fantasies about the son of a bitch?

  He lifted his chin, presenting her the smooth, muscular column of his throat. “I’m a master at the written word, but I suck at bow ties.”

  A laugh hiccupped from her. Lifting her hands to his neck, she quickly fixed his tie into a knot. The backs of her knuckles brushed against his throat, and with each feather-light connection, her stomach fluttered and her nipples hardened.

  What the hell was wrong with her?

  “Everything okay?”

  She nodded at his relaxed question, staring at his tie as she fussed with its bows.

  The heat from his body seeped into hers, warming her through the delicate fabric of her dress. She drew in a steadying breath and wished to hell she hadn’t. He smelled too good. She wanted to press her face to the side of his throat and breathe him in. She wanted to press her lips to his smooth skin and taste him, trace her tongue up to his earlobe and—

  She jerked backward.

  No. No, no. This wouldn’t do. She didn’t do instant lust, and she definitely didn’t do it for the man responsible for destroying one of her main life goals.

  Sexy he may be, but he was a jerk. A selfish jerk.

  He studied her, that devilish glint in his eyes. And something else. Something…

  “Ever been a muse before?”

  “No.” She rolled her eyes. Damn, she hated these contact lenses. “I don’t believe in them. The only thing a person needs to excel, to create, is their own mind, determination, and dedication, not some fabricated connection. You focus, you work. Simple.”

  A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “‘Oh! for a muse of fire that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention.’”

  “What?”

  He chuckled. “Nothing. Just something Bill said once.”

  “Bill?”

  “Shakespeare. Heard of him?”

  She frowned. Was he truly always this flippant? How could a man who seemed to be living life like an unfettered teenage boy write works of fiction so terrifying, so dark and twisted and disturbing? And how could it all be wrapped up in a package usually found in a GQ magazine?

  And why was it messing with her? Why was it pushing buttons in her? Hungry, craving buttons, that made her pulse quicken when it should be making her furious? Or vindicated?

  “I think…” She swallowed, taking another step back. “I think it’s better I go.”

  Yes. Go. Get away from him. Before she did something foolish.

  “No.” The refusal left him on a low growl. His jaw bunched. His gaze held her captive. He seemed to somehow dominate the foyer, his presence undeniable, his authority incontestable.

  A ribbon of liquid excitement unfurled through her. A rope of agitated frustration did the same.

  “Stay with me. Come to the dinner with me.”

  She studied him, pulse pounding. Should she? Could she? And if she did, why? To extract her revenge? To gather fodder for an article? Or because he was so goddamn hot and parts of her long dormant were suddenly beginning to ignite?

  Either option is dangerous. Foolish. Go. Leave. Now.

  She drew a slow breath. “I think—”

  “Please?” Something dark and raw flared in his eyes before, with a shaky laugh, he grinned. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

  …

  Thomas couldn’t let her go. Not just because for the first time in months words whispered in his head. There was a charged seriousness to her he needed to understand, a no-nonsense calm. So many of the women in his life begged him to be serious. But that Thomas St. Clair had been locked away for a long time. Ever since his life—a life no one but himself ever needed to know about—had been laid bare for the world to read by a reporter. But Mila, a woman paid by his agent to be his date, stirred that Thomas.

  He should get rid of her now. He should let her go.

  But fuck, the thought of her walking away…

  She studied him, silent. Sizing him up.

  Such scrutiny normally put his teeth on edge. Burned once before by exposure of the rawest kind, he made it a rule to never let anyone see him, the real him.

  But Mila…

  He wanted to see her smile. Wanted to hear her laugh. She’d smiled at Reaper more than once since entering his life, even if she didn’t know it. Hell, she’d held Reaper with a tender reverence he wanted to experience on a level that surprised him.

  Crap, was he jealous of his dog?

  Maybe it was for the best she did leave.

  No.

  He ground his teeth at the refusal.

  Had she been startled by his sudden dominance? Scared by it? His father—the abusive, narcissistic prick—had been all about aggressive control. Thomas had hated it as a boy, and he hated it as a man. Hated it even more that he was his father’s son.

  “Please come to dinner with me,” he repeated, flashing her another grin. “I need someone to protect me from the groupies.”

  “Do you always think this highly of yourself, Mr. St. Clair?”

  A lick of tight excitement traced up his spine. There she went again, saying his name like it was a challenge.

  “Call me Thomas.” He slid his hands into his pockets. If he didn’t, he’d snake them around her waist and haul her against his body. “And, yes.”

  She studied him. Did she believe the lie?

  Before she could answer, he smiled down at Reaper. “Get in your basket, Reap.”

  Reaper barked once and scurried away, claws clicking and scraping the marble floor.

  “Is he going to be alone for the night?”

  He returned his attention to Mila, his chest tightening at the concern in her eyes. She liked his dog more than she liked him. Could he use that to his advantage?

  “Only until we get back. We won’t be long. Then you can hold him and scratch his stomach to your heart’s content while I dazzle you with my brilliance.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Who said I’m coming back here with you?”

  He laughed. “You will. Fifteen minutes in my company, and you’ll want to marry me.”

  She shook her head with a chuckle.

  Warmth flowed through him at the sound. Relaxed, gentle with a hint of playful sarcasm. Christ, was it possible to fall in love with someone over their laugh?

  She moved like smoke, following him, tracking him. Demon blood or no, the carnality of his reaction to her terrified him. Empowered him. He drew to a halt, turning until he faced her completely. She smiled, eyes shining, white teeth peeking at him from blood-red lips. “This isn’t what you imagined, is it?”

  The words. Fuck.

  Pulse thumping i
n his throat like a sledgehammer, he held a finger up. “Give me a second.”

  He sprinted upstairs to his office, grabbed a pen, and scrawled the paragraph down. The scene played out in his head, lurid and disturbing and perfect. How long had he been searching for it? How many thousands of words had he written, deleted, and written again, and now here it was…

  Throwing the pen aside, he swiped his hand over his mouth. Whoever Mila was, he needed her.

  She watched him, expression serious, arms crossed, as he re-entered the foyer. “Are you going to do that all night?”

  He laughed. “No.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Good.”

  He offered her his elbow. “Shall we go, goddess?”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Shall we go, gorgeous?”

  “Not that, either.”

  He chuckled. Every fiber in his body thrummed. “Shall we go, Mila?”

  Silence. Stretching, deafening silence. His throat grew thick. Maybe he should get down on his knees?

  Eyes narrowing, she regarded him, expression impossible to read. And then she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Yes. We shall.”

  He swallowed, not just at the sight of her hand on his arm, but at its gentle pressure and warmth. He liked it there. Liked it there a lot. “Excellent.”

  With a grin, he scooped up his car keys from the hall table and then led her out of the foyer and to his Maserati—parked at the curb by his PA earlier that evening.

  “Not one for subtly, are you?”

  He arched an eyebrow at her response to the Kermit-green car. “You don’t like it? I’ve got a bright yellow Wrangler or a red Audi R8 if you prefer?”

  She slid a level look his way. “We could always go in my Hyundai?”

  “I’ve never been in a Hyundai.”

  Her lips twitched. “Then this will be a learning experience. Consider it research for an upcoming book.” She dug a set of keys from her tiny purse and pointed them to her right.