The Mistaken Billionaire (the Muse series)

by Lexxie Couper

  It wasn’t just his physical reaction to her. Taking her in, he just felt…better.

  One dark auburn eyebrow arched above the rim of her sunglasses. “Well? Are you going to ask me in, or do you just need me to stand on your doorstep for a few hours?”

  Dragging in a steadying breath, he turned sideways and motioned inside. “Mi casa es su casa.”

  “I doubt that, but thank you for the offer.” She crossed the threshold, removing her sunglasses as she did so.

  Gone was the dramatic black eyeliner and shadow of the previous night. Instead, she wore no makeup at all. A smattering of freckles dusted her nose and cheeks. Last night her face had been flawless, but free of makeup, her pale skin was all the more interesting.

  “You’re staring,” she said, withdrawing a glasses case from the handbag hanging from her shoulder.

  He cleared his throat. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t make this weirder than it already is, St. Clair.” She opened the case, removed a pair of clear-lensed black-framed glasses, and slipped them on.

  Goddamn it, he wished she hadn’t. A hot lick of tension curled into his groin and his chest tightened. Who knew he had a glasses kink?

  “Too late,” he muttered, dragging his hand over his mouth. “Come in. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

  “If it’s your mother, I’m leaving.”

  Her dry retort made him laugh. “Not my mother,” he said, heading back into his living room. “Someone much worse.”

  Was it possible to be worse than his mom? Well, his father had given it a damn good try.

  Sebastian straightened to his feet as they entered and met Mila halfway across of the floor, hand extended. “Muse.”

  Thomas pressed his palm to his face. “Jesus, Hart.”

  “Sebastian Hart? The director?”

  Sebastian preened at Mila’s recognition. “Yep.”

  She studied him, expression contemplative, before letting out an indifferent, “Huh.”

  Thomas couldn’t help but laugh. “How’s that ego going, dude?”

  Sebastian threw him a grin. “She likes me. I can tell.”

  Thomas jabbed his thumb toward the door. “You can leave, that’s what you can do.”

  “I can do that.” Sebastian turned back to Mila. “Muse. I’m sure I will meet you again soon.”

  Mila’s lips curled. A little. “Maybe.”

  Sebastian chuckled. “Oh, I like you. Give the bastard hell, okay?”

  With a smirk at Thomas, a wink at Mila, and a playful rustle with Reaper, he left.

  Thomas stood, heart thumping. Why the hell did he suddenly feel like a nervous, horny teenage boy? His palms were sweaty, for fuck’s sake.

  Rubbing them on his thighs, he swallowed.

  Mila watched him. “Remember how I told you not to make this weird?”

  “What do you like to do for fun?”

  She raised her eyebrows. “I don’t have time for fun. Aren’t you meant to be writing?”

  “I wrote all night, thanks to you. Now I want to have fun.”

  “With me?”

  “You make it sound dirty.”

  A soft snort escaped her. Hiding in the sound was the hint of a laugh. And a little nervousness. Was she nervous because she couldn’t miss the energy sparking between them, either? Or because she was expecting him to tell her to undress? He’d told her sex was off the table last night, but he still had no idea where Shelby had found her. As soon as he could, he’d give his agent a call and find out.

  Waving his hand toward the sitting area of his living room, he gave her a smile. “Let’s start with a chat.”

  Expression unreadable, she contemplated his question. “Okay.”

  Okay. It was a start.

  She walked passed him and lowered herself into one of the armchairs. Instantly, and with great enthusiasm, Reaper claimed his spot on her lap. She smiled down at him, stroking his head. “You I like a lot.”

  Thomas dropped back into his previous seat. “Still not convinced about me?”

  She patted Reaper and gave him another enigmatic look.

  He chuckled. “Can I ask your last name? Get your phone number?”

  “No. And no.”

  Damn, he was enjoying this. Enjoying someone not kowtowing to his every demand. It was fun. “Are you wanted by the law?”

  She shook her head, lips twitching.

  He narrowed his eyes at her in mock suspicion. “Are you a spy?”

  “Yes,” she answered with a perfect British accent. “I’m actually a MI5 agent. Sent to find out all the U.S. government secrets. My code name is 0042. I’m working my way up to the president, one celebrity at a time. My next target after you is Jared Leto.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “That was very impressive. How’d you do that so well? British parents?”

  She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and adjusted her glasses. “My sister is an actor. I’ve helped her practice accents since we were both young.”

  “Film? Maybe I should introduce her to Hart?”

  “Stage. And maybe at the end of whatever this thing is you and I are doing, I’ll ask you to do just that.”

  “Deal.” A bloom of happiness spread through him. He liked the idea of being connected to her somehow after he’d typed “the end.” Liked it a lot. “So, last name off limits, and no access to your phone number. Does your…boss know you’re here?”

  She shifted in her chair a little, tongue quickly swiping over her bottom lip. “I’m off the clock.”

  “Do you really like Stephen King?”

  That small almost-there smile of hers returned. “I read Pet Sematary when I was twelve. Have been a fan ever since.”

  “What did you study at college?”

  She shifted in the chair again, enough to disturb Reaper, who jumped off her lap and wandered out of the living room. “Are you sure you shouldn’t be writing? I mean, I’m here. Isn’t my magic muse mojo working yet? Or did my power only come from my cleavage and contacts?”

  She’d dodged his question about college again. Why? “No, no, the glasses are doing it for me.”

  “Are they now?”

  He grinned. “You have no idea. Nice use of alliteration, by the way.”

  Her smile finally broke through whatever defenses she had up. Hell, it made her whole face turn from beautiful to stunning. “Thank you.”

  He sat still, studying her. If ever he’d met a closed book before, here she was. He didn’t like closed books. Books were meant to be opened.

  And I’m an open book? Pot, meet kettle.

  With a shaky sigh, she adjusted her glasses. “Maybe we should discuss price before things get too…too…”

  “Weird?”

  Another smile, this one far more relaxed. Fuck, he was a goner. “Way, way too late for that, St. Clair.”

  “It doesn’t have to be.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and gave her his own smile. “Think of it like this, we’re two people spending time in each other’s company, like strangers on a long train ride who get to know each other by the end. And sometimes that train has a paintball carriage, and sometimes it has an art gallery carriage, and sometimes a walk-through-Central-Park carriage.”

  “A paintball carriage?”

  He grinned. “Good thing you wore jeans today, yes?” He slapped his knees and straightened to his feet. “Let’s go.”

  She tracked his rise with a frown. “We’re going paintballing?”

  “Yep.”

  “Now?”

  “Yep.”

  “And this is going to help you write your book?”

  He chuckled. “You better believe me, goddess.”

  “I told you not to call me that.”

  “Baby?”

  “No.”

  “Babe?”

  She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “And here I was thinking all I’d have to do is walk around in front of you for a while and you’d be running to your offi
ce and pounding on the keys. That’s what you did last night when I first arrived.”

  The soft laugh dancing on her words sent another bloom of warmth through him. “Nothing as mundane as that, I’m afraid.”

  “Okay. Sure. It’s your wallet. Speaking of wallet, we still haven’t finalized price.”

  He grinned again. “Name it. What’s your hourly rate?”

  She gave him a number.

  He nodded. “Done.”

  Her mouth fell open. “Just like that? No arguing? No negotiating? That’s just for being in my company. No funny business, no…no sex. And that’s the per-hour rate. You understand that, right? Per hour.”

  “Per hour. Gotcha.”

  A shaky sigh slipped from her, and she pressed her hands to her stomach, her gaze darting around the room, the floor. “Oh boy, this is really happening.” She looked up at him, eyes wide and full of uncertainty behind her lenses.

  He closed the distance between them, crouched down in front of where she sat, and removed her hands from her stomach, threading his fingers through hers. “Hey, it’s all good. I’m not evil. I only write about it. And I’m not going to get you to sign a degrading contract. Not going to get you to sign any kind of contract at all. I just…” He paused. Christ, this close to her he could feel her body’s heat, smell her delicate perfume. “You just stir something in me. Feed something. Okay, that sounds far creepier than I meant, but you know what I mean. Hell, I just want to spend time with you, because I hope it’ll help me find the words to beat this deadline. Simple as that. No strings, no ulterior motives. No plans to seduce you into my bed—as much as the thought of you there stirs me in a whole other way. Just us, together. Author and muse. Nothing more. Okay?”

  She stared at him, eyebrows dipped in a frown. “Nothing more.”

  The two words left her on a whisper.

  “Nothing more,” he repeated with a smile.

  She nodded, and then did the worst thing she could have, licked her bottom lip with a shy little swipe of her tongue.

  Thomas groaned as a rush of very male, very carnal hunger swept through him. “Oh, Mila, why did you—”

  Leaning toward her, he cupped her face in his hands and captured her lips with his.

  Chapter Eight

  His tongue sought hers out, impatient and demanding. She gave it to him. When had she parted her lips? Who cared? The liquid need flooding her made the question null and void.

  She whimpered into his mouth, tangling her fingers in his hair, as she met his hunger.

  Every part of her, every goddamn part, wanted it. Wanted his lips on hers, his tongue against hers. Every part of her wanted more. She shifted on the chair, leaning up toward him, drawing their bodies closer.

  Her heart raced as he spread her thighs and filled the empty space he’d created between them with his lower body. A hot, hard bulge pressed the juncture of her thighs, and she whimpered again, head spinning.

  Stop. Stop. Remember who he is! Remember what he did to you. To your career.

  She pulled away, tearing her lips from his. Breath ragged, she scrunched up her eyes and shook her head, pressing her hands to his chest. His heart hammered beneath her palm, as fast as her pulse pounded in her throat.

  “Damn it.”

  His low growl flayed at her. Swallowing, she inched back into the armchair, away from him more. Hate him. She did. Hate him. She had to remember that. She was only here with him because of the laptops. And maybe a future article. Maybe…

  Really? That’s so deceptive and dishonest.

  “I shouldn’t have done that.” He slid his hands off her legs. The words were a rough breath. “Just after I agreed to our arrangement being platonic.”

  She shook her head. “I should have stopped you before it got too carried away. I’m not…I’m not a tease. And I’m not…I’m not for sale…sexually.”

  He pulled away, sitting back on his haunches, his nostrils flaring. “I know. That’s not what I thought. I promise. I just…” Swiping at his mouth, he shoved himself to his feet and stormed out of the living room.

  Breath little more than shallow pants, Mila slumped back in the armchair. Okay, so that couldn’t happen again. It couldn’t. She should have stopped him the second he kissed her.

  When? Just now, or last night?

  “Damn it.” She squeezed her eyes shut, desperate to stop the roaring in her head and the thrumming in her body.

  “Damn it,” she repeated, burying her face in her hands. “Get a grip of yourself, woman. Get a—”

  A wriggling, warm little furry body jumped up onto her lap, a hot, wet tongue licking at the backs of her fingers.

  Laughing—albeit weakly—she lowered her hands and snagged Reaper in a hug. “Okay, okay. I appreciate the affection. The thing is, your master kind of does it better.”

  Reaper wriggled some more in her arms, tail whacking against her hip, as he went in for another lick.

  Settling him as well as she could, she closed her eyes again. “What do I do next, little guy?”

  She could leave. Never come back.

  Her stomach clenched at the idea, and she scowled. While that might be the most logical course of action, she didn’t like it.

  She could pretend it never happened, wait until Thomas came back from wherever he’d gone and suggest a game of paintball.

  Another weak laugh hiccupped from her. Could either of them cope with a game of paintball after that?

  She could go find Thomas, tell him who she was—who she really was—and watch any hint of sexual desire vanish from his face.

  Her stomach didn’t just clench at that idea, it roiled, knotted, churned, and turned inside out.

  So not an option. Not because she wanted to stop him being sexually attracted to her. The fact that he was gave her a surreal, somewhat ego-stroking sense of strength. Guys like Thomas St. Clair—highly successful, ridiculously good-looking guys—weren’t normally attracted to her. She was too short, too curvy, too serious, too…too…plain. But the obvious fact he wanted her had nothing to do with how crappy she felt at telling him who she was.

  She didn’t want the confrontation. She didn’t do well with confrontation. Besides, she’d set herself a mission, a goal—get laptops for her underprivileged students—and he was not going to destroy another one of her life goals. She wouldn’t let him.

  Which left her where?

  Sitting in his house, turned on more than she’d ever been, confused beyond belief, and scared. With a dog on her lap.

  She gave Reaper a scratch behind the ears. “What do I do, boy?”

  “Okay.” Thomas strode into the room. He’d changed into a pair of faded jeans and a T-shirt with an image of Jack Nicholson from The Shining printed on it. “I’m back. Let’s go.”

  She blinked at him. “Go where?”

  He looked at her. “Paintball.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  A dark light flickered in his eyes. A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Mila, if we don’t walk out of this house right now, I will plead with you to let me strip those clothes from your body and worship every damn inch of skin I reveal. Even if it means I can’t ever write a single word again because you storm from my house and never return, that’s what I will do. If we don’t leave now. Do you understand?”

  Mouth dry, she nodded. “I do. Which means I should leave. I can’t be here. Not with you. Knowing you want to have sex with me. I can’t do that.”

  Because as much as I despise you, I’d say yes.

  Damn it, she would say yes. And hate herself for it later.

  His jaw bunched. “I won’t apologize for wanting you, Mila. I won’t. Not because I’m an arrogant prick, but because my gut tells me you feel the same about me.”

  A tight flutter burst into life in her stomach at his statement. Damn it, why did he have to be so perceptive?

  “But I will apologize for rushing you.” His chest rose and fell with a shaky sigh. “I promise I won’t initiate anythi
ng sexual from now on. When it happens, it’ll be on your terms. For now, you’re just the platonic muse who’s going to play paintball with me. Deal?”

  Reaper wriggled on her lap. She resisted the urge to pet him, to hug him tighter. He wasn’t her dog, just like his owner wasn’t her…her anything.

  “I—”

  “Just two strangers,” he cut her off, a hopeful smile tugging at his lips. “Getting to know each other during a paintball game.”

  An itchy heat crawled over her scalp. Two strangers. If only he knew the truth.

  “Please?”

  “Paintball.” She nodded. Oh boy, she was a glutton for trouble. “Nothing more.”

  “Paintball. Nothing more. I promise.” A dark tension fell over his face. His eyes held hers. “But every time I watch your lips form words, I’m going to be remembering how incredible they felt against mine. Every time I draw in a breath, I’m going to be wishing it’s your perfume I’m taking in. Every sound you make, I’m going to be remembering the sounds you made when I kissed you. Do you understand?”

  Her breath trapped in her throat. Laptops. Think of laptops. Not how incredible sex with him might be. Think of laptops. And what he did years ago. “I understand.”

  He studied her. She swallowed again. She understood all right. Understood she was treading in dangerous territory of her own free will.

  “It seems my muse magic is working after all. You really know how to use your words, don’t you?”

  A slow, lopsided smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “That knowledge has made me a billionaire, Mila. Now, let’s go play.”

  It took him less than ten minutes to arrange a car and get Reaper settled with a chew treat. Mila sat, head reeling, body thrumming.

  “Okay.” He came striding back into the room, patting down the pockets of his jeans. “I’ve got my wallet, my keys, my notebook, and pen. Let’s go.”

  Her heart skipped over itself at the smile he gave her. Playful, friendly, almost mischievous.

  I don’t have time to fall in lust. Stop it.

  Besides, falling in lust with Thomas St. Clair was, as she’d already acknowledged, kamikaze insanity.

  Straightening to her feet, she hitched her bag up onto her shoulder. “Have you even booked a paintball session somewhere?”