The Mistaken Billionaire (the Muse series)

by Lexxie Couper

  Graphically.

  She made it to the foyer and the door before he reached the stairs to that level. Heard her say something low to Reaper. He was halfway down the flight, blood roaring in his ears, erection straining against his fly, when she yanked open the door and hurried through it.

  “Mila,” he shouted.

  She didn’t turn.

  Sebastian stepped into the foyer, watching her run.

  “Fuck.” Hurrying down the stairs, Thomas glared at his friend. “Why didn’t you stop her?”

  “Because I’m not a wanker.” Sebastian raised his eyebrows. “If you can’t keep your muse hanging around, it’s not my place to do so.”

  “Shit.” Slumping against the wall, he clawed a hand through his hair, staring at the world beyond the open door. “Shit.”

  “Do I need to be worried here, mate? About what’s going on? The cops aren’t going to be banging on the door anytime soon are they?”

  “What?” Thomas frowned.

  Sebastian ran a pointed look over him. “Clearly something was happening before I arrived.”

  Thomas’s gut clenched. “Jesus Christ, Hart. What kind of man do you think I am?”

  “A good one. But a woman just went running out of here in a very harried state, and you were running after her, looking…well, like that”—he indicated toward Thomas’s groin—“and you’re pissed I let her get away. If this was a scene from one of my films, trust me, the soundtrack right here would be ominous.”

  Scrubbing at his mouth, Thomas slid his back down the wall and sat on the bottom step. “It was consensual. And incredible. And fucking amazing.”

  “So why did she run?”

  Why did she run? What was Mila’s story? When not with him, who was she? What did she do? And when she was with him…what made her fight what was so clearly obvious? That she wanted him as much as he wanted her? Christ, their chemistry was explosive. So what—

  The soft clunk of the door closing made him blink.

  Sebastian walked back into the foyer and lowered himself onto the same stair as Thomas. “Why did she run, mate?”

  “I don’t know. She made me lunch. I said thank you, and then we were kissing, and then you rang the doorbell and…and…”

  He shook his head.

  “And she bolted.”

  “And she bolted.”

  “Do you know anything more about her?”

  “She’s a mean paintball player. Hates to lose. Likes Thai food. Doesn’t mince words. Seems to have a real dislike for sycophants.”

  “She sounds perfect for you.”

  “I know. Except for some reason she’s fighting the freaking obvious. It’s not just my ego talking here. From the second I first saw her…it was like everything fell into place. I didn’t know things were out of place until she turned up on my step. Well, apart from the fucking writer’s block, that is. We’ve connected in a way I never have before with a person. Ever.”

  Sebastian pulled a face. “Totally a reason to run away from you.”

  Thomas frowned. “Fuck off.”

  Sebastian chuckled.

  Thomas let out a sigh. “I’m writing again, dude. Pages. Actual pages. She fills my head with words. And it’s not just the words of Blood Angel. Hell, I could write poetry right now. I could write sonnet after sonnet about love, and life, and passion, and her…”

  “Are you sure this hunger to get into her pants isn’t just because she’s helped with your writer’s block?” Sebastian shrugged. “I once offered to buy an island for a hot waitress who mentioned one panel of the storyboard I was sketching looked like a scene from Spielberg’s Poltergeist.”

  “Hey, lucky catch by the waitress.”

  “Bloody oath. My point is, you’re not just hung up on Mila because you’re writing again, are you?”

  He swiped at his mouth. Was he?

  “No. It’s more than that. It’s as if all the colors are turned up when I’m with her. It’s like the air is cleaner. It’s like the shit from my childhood isn’t there anymore. Or if it is, it doesn’t matter as much.”

  Sebastian whistled. “Okay. In that case, mate, I wish you luck.”

  “Luck?”

  “Luck. Because you don’t know her last name or what she does when she’s not with you. She seems to be playing an extreme version of hard to get, and you’re already halfway in love with her. No, change that. You don’t need luck. You need time and patience. Two things you’re not overly fond of.”

  Thomas narrowed his eyes at Sebastian. “So you’re saying I’m screwed?”

  Sebastian grinned. “Bloody oath, you’re screwed, mate. Big time.”

  …

  It took her longer to get home than she wanted. She had to continually pull to the curb. Anger choked her. Anger, frustration, and confusion.

  Damn it, why was she confused? Sure, Thomas was an amazing kisser and made her heart thump and her stomach flutter in the most delicious way with just a smile. Sure, he made her actually enjoy not living every minute as planned, and he had the most incredible hands that did incredible things to her…

  “For God’s sake, woman.” She gritted her teeth as she slammed her car door shut. “The bastard destroyed your career.”

  Was she stupid enough to think the brief moments she’d been with him had allowed her to see the real him? So what if he’d been adorable with the young fan back at paintball? So what if he made her laugh as they tried to outdo each other on the paintball circuit? So what if he made her smile with his easygoing conversation and mutual taste in music? He was Thomas St. freaking Clair. An arrogant bastard billionaire who was used to getting his own way and never took a single thing in his life seriously. And if he knew who she really was, he’d despise her as much as she despised him.

  Despise? Really?

  Slipping her fingers under her glasses, she rubbed her eyes. The simple fact he didn’t know who she was only proved she shouldn’t be spending time with him. He wasn’t some irritating but cute boy-next-door who used to pull her hair because he liked her and didn’t know how to show it. He wasn’t a bad boy suddenly turned good because of the girl. He wasn’t the hero of a rom-com just waiting to be redeemed in the heroine’s eyes. Those types of movies, with those types of heroines, were ridiculous. That wasn’t what was happening here.

  What was happening here was…was…

  She didn’t know.

  Damn it.

  She pulled her phone from her purse and dialed Josie.

  The connection went straight to her sister’s answering service.

  Damn. It.

  “It’s me.” She glowered at the sidewalk and then up at her apartment building. “Call me when you can.”

  She rode the elevator up to her floor with Mrs. Bridge from 64.

  Mrs. Bridge peered at her. “I saw you in the New York Times today.”

  Mila shook her head. “No, you didn’t.”

  “Don’t tell me what I saw and didn’t see, missy.” Mrs. Bridge sniffed. “You were in the gossip pages. Along with that hussy who keeps singing songs about the men she sleeps with.”

  Oh, great.

  “I don’t like her songs.” Mrs. Bridge wrinkled her nose and sniffed again. “Too suggestive.”

  Hmm. How did she respond to that? At least the old dear wasn’t talking about her any—

  “You were kissing a man.”

  The sheer disbelief in Mrs. Bridge’s exclamation made Mila blink. Was it a shocking thing she was kissing a man?

  “In public.”

  A dry laugh bubbled from her. Okay, so public displays of affection are a no-no for the old thing. Got it. Nothing to do with who Mila had been kissing.

  “A writer.”

  Hot fingers slipped over Mila’s scalp.

  Mrs. Bridge shuffled her feet and wrinkled her nose again. “Writers aren’t to be trusted. They never tell the truth.”

  “Know a lot of writers, do you?” Now why did she ask that? Engaging with the resident
of 64 was always a minefield, better left to the more foolish or brave.

  Faded blue eyes locked on her. There was nothing dull about the light in them however. “I had a wild affair with a writer in 1966.” Another nose wrinkle. Another sniff. “He wrote a story about a car called something.”

  “A Street Car Named Desire?” Mila blinked. “You had an affair with Tennessee Williams?”

  Mrs. Bridge waved a gnarly knuckled hand and turned back to face the elevator doors. “I don’t remember his name. I remember he was good in bed and lousy at telling the truth.”

  Okay, so this wasn’t the conversation she’d expected to have. “Did you really know Tennessee Williams?”

  The hand dismissed her again. “It’s a silly story.”

  “A Streetcar Named Desire is a silly story?” Did the old woman know she’d just come close to heresy? Was it true? Most of the residents in the apartment complex suspected Mrs. Bridge was skirting dementia, but…Tennessee Williams?

  “Oh, but the sex,” Mrs. Bridge burst out, fanning herself. “He had this particular thing for oral sex while we were—”

  The elevator doors chimed open.

  “Ah.” Mrs. Bridge beamed out at the empty floor. “There you are, Billy.”

  She hurried out, talking—as far as Mila could tell—to no one.

  The doors began to slide closed.

  Mrs. Bridge stuck her hand against one of them, halting their progress. “Maybe the car was called Christine?”

  “Christine?” Was she being serious?

  “Or maybe it was desire…” Mrs. Bridge muttered, removing her hand and turning away. “Billy, can you—”

  The doors closed.

  Mila frowned. “That was weird.” But illuminating. It gave her something to think about. Writers never told the truth. How accurate was that declaration?

  So, taking the advice of a senile old spinster now? Who doesn’t seem to know the difference between Tennessee Williams and Stephen King? To avoid thinking about the unthinkable?

  The unthinkable. Thomas St. Clair was the unthinkable. And now, here she was, thinking about him. Again.

  She let out a sigh. Maybe she should go find Mrs. Bridge? Keep her mind off St. Clair that way?

  “Tempting.”

  The elevator doors opened on her floor. For a second, she considered pushing the button for Mrs. Bridge’s floor, and then, with a grunt, stepped out.

  Talking about wild sex that may or may not have happened with an elderly lady who may or may not think A Streetcar Named Desire as a silly story would not solve her Thomas St. Clair issues.

  The only thing that would solve her Thomas St. Clair issues was never seeing Thomas St. Clair again.

  And getting back to work, to being Miss Elderkin, school teacher. Not Mila the muse. Mila the muse was done. Finished.

  If she knew how to contact Sebastian Hart, she’d send him a thank-you card for interrupting them when he had. If he hadn’t rang the doorbell, she and Thomas would probably be naked and sweaty and in the throes of sexual heaven right now.

  Oh God, why did she have to let her mind go there?

  There’s a simple way to contact Sebastian Hart. Just go to Thomas’s place.

  Her stomach clenched. “Goddamn it.”

  Throwing her bag onto the nearest chair, she stomped around her small apartment.

  It didn’t solve anything. Didn’t lessen the urge to go back to Thomas’s place, knock on his door, and ask him if he was okay with picking up right where they left off.

  Nor did growling and snarling his name, adding more than one choice swear word as she did so, and reminding herself constantly how much he’d messed up all the plans she’d made for her life.

  Kicking the cushions from her sofa across the living room also failed to help.

  “Work. I’ll grade papers.” Her class had handed in assignments on national emblems from around the world on Friday. She’d grade them, ready to hand back on Monday. “Work. Forget about St. Clair and his stupid offer. Muse. Huh.”

  She snatched up her satchel from where she’d dumped it the night before and made her way to the dining table.

  Work was what she needed to do. Forget about Thomas, forget about the traitorous way her body reacted to him, forget about the way he kissed, the way his tongue slid against hers, the way his hands—

  “Oh my God.” She removed her glasses and buried her face in her hands. “What is wrong with you?”

  She deposited her bag onto the table, yanked out a chair, dropped into it, and then—glasses back on—spread her students’ assignments out on the table.

  National emblems from around the world. The perfect way to erase Thomas St. Clair from her mind.

  Her throat thickened as she swallowed. Okay, erasing him from her mind wasn’t likely. For better or worse, he’d been a force in her life for almost a decade now. She’d never be able to eradicate his impact on her existence. But surely, if she focused hard enough, she’d be able to dull the wholly unnerving ache for him taking up residence in her body? Surely?

  She scanned the projects in front of her. A lot of the hand-drawn emblems on her table were maple leaves. She frowned. “Lots of Canadian national emblems here.”

  Of course, it made sense. It was easy to identify the emblem of their northern neighbor. When they’d been talking about it in class, almost every one of her students knew what the maple leaf represented. Other countries, however, countries few of her students had heard of before she mentioned them, weren’t represented at all.

  She frowned. A hot knot curled in her stomach. The assignment was a relatively simple one—write a one paragraph description and explanation of the emblem, and include an image—but for students with no access to computers at home, and limited access at school, the world outside of theirs was beyond their reach.

  “Damn it.” She dragged her hands through her hair. “Damn it.”

  This was one of the reasons why she was working so hard to get laptops for her class, and for her school. So the world could open up to the kids. So they could explore and travel and learn and experience in her classroom every day. This…

  She shook her head. “Damn it.”

  Straightening from the table, she sucked in a deep breath and crossed her apartment to the door.

  “Damn him.”

  She drove back to St. Clair’s house.

  Spent the entire trip angry with herself. Why was she going back? Was she fooling herself that it was just about the laptops? Was she? And if she was, how much longer could she continue to do so?

  He didn’t answer when she ran his doorbell. Nor when she knocked on the door. Reaper didn’t bark from within.

  “This is a good thing.” She turned from the door and swept her gaze over the view of Central Park on the other side of the road. “This is fate telling you coming back was—”

  Her phone rang.

  Connecting the call, she pressed it to her ear. “Hey, sis. Where are you?”

  “Just finished rehearsals for the day. Where are you?”

  Where indeed? “Upper West Side.” She paused, mouth dry. “Outside St. Clair’s place.”

  “Why?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t really know.”

  Josie’s soft laugh tickled her ear. “I thought you were with him earlier today. What’s going on?”

  “I was with him earlier today. And then I left. And then I…then I came back. And now he’s not home, or maybe he’s just not answering the door, but Reaper isn’t barking from inside so…”

  Damn, she sounded woeful.

  “Why did you leave?”

  She chewed on her bottom lip. Ridiculous. She was being ridiculous, standing outside his home, lurking outside his home. Someone would call the cops soon. Some strange woman wearing a Stephen King shirt outside Thomas St. Clair’s home, looking…looking…

  “Mila?”

  She started at Josie’s voice. “I’m going home. I’m being stupid.”

  �
�Why?”

  “Why am I going home? Or why am I being stupid?”

  “Both.”

  A lump settled in her stomach. “I’m going home because I’ve got—”

  “Don’t you dare say papers to grade.”

  “Papers to grade.” She smiled. “And I’m being stupid because even though I know I shouldn’t have come back here, I did. And even though I should tell him who I am, I can’t. And even though I know I should still hate him for what he did to me, the Thomas I’ve spent time with isn’t that easy to hate. And…”

  “And?”

  She rolled her eyes, her chuckle soft. “And even though I keep telling him we can’t have anything more than a platonic, albeit weird, arrangement, I can’t seem to stop wanting him.” She stopped. Sighed. “I’ve got myself in a conundrum, sis.”

  Josie laughed again. “You have. What are you going to do about it?”

  Heart thumping fast, Mila turned and studied Thomas’s door. “I think I’m going to write him a note. And then I’m coming to your house for a cup of tea.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Josie placed the mug of hot tea on the coffee table between them and folded herself onto the sofa, her grin locked on Mila. “So what did you put in the note?”

  Mila reached for the mug. “I told him when he’d written twenty thousand words to send me a text. Text only. And I gave him my number.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “Should I have put anything else in it? That’s the kind of note a muse would leave. To get him working.”

  Josie’s eyebrows shot up. “Mila, you are a walking, talking, conflicted mess right now. You get all squirmy and blushy when you talk about him, and then all grumpy and agitated. I think I need to understand what’s going on in your head. First things first, tell me why you left him earlier? When you were meant to be in muse mode? Have you kissed him again?”

  Heat crawled up Mila’s throat and into her cheeks. “Yes. Plus, a little bit more than just kiss.”

  “Oh, can I have details?”

  “No.”

  Josie pulled a face. “Spoil sport. So you left because of the kiss. Please don’t tell me it was mid-making out?”

  “It was mid-making out.”

  “Oh, sis. Did he do something to freak you out?”