The Billionaire's Intern

by Jackie Ashenden

  “I did what you wanted,” she went on, her voice turning soft and husky. “Now, it’s your turn. First, I’d like a drink, and then I’d very much like it if you fucked me.”

  * * *

  Oh God, why had she said that?

  Kira gazed up at him, his eyes full of storms, a mirror to the chaos of emotion that was careening around inside of her.

  What the hell had gotten into her? She wasn’t supposed to be challenging him or teasing him. She was supposed to be doing what he said.

  You know what’s gotten into you.

  Okay, so she did.

  She’d spent the whole day battling the urge to call him up and cancel. Not because she didn’t want to spend the night, but because she did. And the last six months had been all about not doing what she wanted just because she wanted it.

  Indulging herself in a night with him ran counter to everything she’d been trying to achieve and seemed like the very antithesis of controlling herself.

  She’d already been nervous and uncertain when she’d arrived, doubting her decision to come, and then, when she’d been shown up to the terrace and she’d seen all the candles and the table prepared for dinner, her nervousness and uncertainty had deepened even more.

  She’d expected this to be all about sex, not what looked to be a date. But clearly Lorenzo had other ideas. It had made her wonder what more he wanted from her, because whatever it was, it was more than likely she wouldn’t be able to give it to him. She’d never been able to give anyone what they wanted, not her parents, not her teachers, not her friends at college, no one.

  That thought had only fed into her nervousness, because the last thing she wanted to do was to be put in a position where yet again she was going to disappoint someone.

  Especially not him.

  But then he’d reminded her that she was supposed to be his good girl, and just like that her uncertainty and nervousness had faded as a rush of intense excitement had filled her.

  She hadn’t meant to tease him. She was supposed to be controlling her volatile emotions, and yet she hadn’t been able to stop herself from taunting him a little, too carried away by that excitement and by her own desire for him.

  Had she screwed it up by teasing him? By defying him?

  Remember what happens when you forget yourself.

  The nervous tension in her gut was getting worse and she braced herself for what was to come. He’d change his mind, she was certain of it. He’d send her away, decide he didn’t want her after all. She was supposed to be good, she was supposed to behave herself, and not doing what she was told was definitely not behaving herself.

  He was standing in front of her, her panties in the palm of one hand. He wore simple dark charcoal suit pants that sat low on his lean hips and a plain black business shirt with the sleeves rolled up, exposing tanned skin and sleekly muscled forearms.

  It did not help that he was gorgeous, just . . . gorgeous.

  She couldn’t stop staring into his stormy gray eyes, looking to see if she could see the lightning there. But there was nothing but rain for now, rain and thunderclouds.

  His dark brows lowered, his expression stern, making everything inside her curl up tight with distress.

  She had ruined it, hadn’t she? God, she should never have opened her big fat mouth.

  Lorenzo’s sharp gaze searched her face, making her feel vulnerable and exposed, which did not help calm her one iota. Then unexpectedly he lifted his free hand and cupped her cheek, his touch warm and gentle.

  For some reason, it turned her to stone.

  “You are scared.” His voice still held that roughness she’d heard in it before, but now it was softer, blunter. “Why?”

  The question shocked her, because she hadn’t thought he’d noticed. Hell, hadn’t she been telling herself just before, when he’d issued his own taunt, telling her to leave if she was scared, that he was wrong? That of course she wasn’t scared? She was teasing him because she couldn’t help herself, because she’d gotten excited and couldn’t resist provoking him.

  But . . . he was right. It was fear. All that nervousness and uncertainty and not wanting to let him down.

  It made her feel even more vulnerable.

  She wanted to turn her head, pull away, but the warmth of his palm against her cheek stole her breath. There had only been one other time in her life when she’d experienced such gentleness and that had been at the garden party all those years ago, when he’d put a Band-Aid on her cut after the wine glasses had fallen on her.

  He must have seen her reluctance, because the look on his face hardened, even though his hold remained gentle. “Tell me, Kira. That’s an order.”

  Do you really want to tell him? Do you really want him to know how badly he affects you?

  Something locked in her throat and this time she did pull away, wanting to put some distance between them, turning and moving over to where the beautiful daybed, piled high with pillows, stood. Her dress moved caressingly over her bare skin as she walked, and she concentrated on the feeling of the cool silk instead of the emotion blocking her throat.

  He didn’t call her back, and she didn’t turn, sitting down on the daybed and tucking the white silk beneath her with hands that trembled.

  She should have told him, should have obeyed him. Because that’s why she was here, wasn’t it? To obey his orders and please him at the same time as she pleased herself. Yet doing so would reveal the extent of her vulnerability to him, and she wasn’t ready for that. Not when she hadn’t quite grasped it herself

  It didn’t help either that it was clear he didn’t think much of her.

  She’d been with men who’d despised her before, back in college when she’d been manically trying to prove every single one of the accusations her parents threw at her, true. Drinking and partying and screwing around. She’d told herself that she was happy, that doing whatever the fuck she liked had made her feel free, but it hadn’t.

  Those mornings when she’d woken up in some stranger’s bed with a hangover and no memory of the night before, she’d felt the opposite. Trapped by who she was, by her parents’ expectations, by all her failures. By her ADHD. By her entire life.

  Pity it had taken the deaths of two people—her friends—to make her understand how destructive her behavior had been. God, if only she’d thought about that before she’d gotten into the car that day. But she hadn’t. She’d failed her semester and so she’d decided her parents, and her father in particular, could go screw themselves. She was dropping out of college, end of story. Of course, she hadn’t been able to wait to tell her father the happy news, picking up her phone to text him as she’d raced down the New Jersey Turnpike, not thinking that maybe texting and driving wasn’t a good thing . . .

  The sound of a popping cork jolted her out of her thoughts, bringing her attention back to Lorenzo as he poured some champagne out of the bottle he’d just opened and into two glasses that sat on the low table nearby. Then he picked up the glasses, coming over and handing one to her without comment.

  Kira didn’t look at him as she took the glass, sipping at it and letting the bubbles of the champagne fizz on her tongue, the dry yeasty taste of it delicious. Trying to ignore the rush of heat that went through her as he sat down beside her.

  “You went to a lot of effort.” She gestured toward the table and candles. “Just for sex, I mean.”

  He shifted, angling so he could face her and leaning back against the arm of the daybed. “Is there a reason why I shouldn’t make an effort?”

  Kira took another sip of her champagne then looked down at the glass she held in her hands, watching the bubbles rise of the surface and condensation bead on the glass. “It’s not as if this is a date. You don’t even like me.”

  There was a silence.

  The air was warm, the sounds of the city around them filling the night air. The last few rays of sun were touching the buildings, sending glitters everywhere like disco balls in a nightclub, the sky
gradually fading from blue into streaks of orange and pink and red.

  Kira lifted her head and stared at the sky, because it was beautiful and it was easier to look at that than to face the man sitting next to her and see the truth in his eyes.

  Attempting to ignore the part of her that wanted him to disagree. To hear him say, “Of course, I like you.”

  But he didn’t.

  “What makes you think I don’t?” he asked instead, sounding genuinely curious.

  She kept her gaze on the sky. “Isn’t it obvious? You’ve been treating me like dirt since the day I started. Getting angry with me for absolutely no reason. Snapping at me. Judging me. Calling me out on my behavior when I’ve done nothing but do whatever task you set for me. I told you I was different, that I’d changed, but that didn’t seem to matter to you. So, yeah, I don’t think you like me one bit.”

  He was silent a moment, as if contemplating that. Then he said, “Why does it matter? Do you want me to like you?”

  You do. Of course, you do.

  Her jaw hardened. Maybe once she had, but again, she wasn’t ten years old, a little girl holding out a paper crane for his inspection and desperate for a smile. She wasn’t that pathetic, not anymore.

  “No,” she said firmly, to herself and to him. “I was only curious as to why you’d go to all this trouble for me.”

  “It was no trouble. I got Stacey to organize it.” His voice was cool. “I thought you might appreciate something to eat before we did anything else.”

  So he’d gotten his secretary to do all of this. He hadn’t actually had any hand in it himself.

  She didn’t know why that disappointed her, since getting his secretary to organize flowers and lights was a nice gesture. It was almost as if she wanted it to mean more than that, which was impossible. He was her boss for a start, and then there was the mission she was supposed to fulfil for her father.

  Nothing to do with being afraid that even if Lorenzo did want more from you, you wouldn’t be able to give it to him anyway.

  No, nothing to do with that at all.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Dinner is always good.”

  Another silence.

  Then he said, “Kira.”

  She kept her gaze on her wineglass. “Yes?”

  “Look at me.”

  It was an order, no question, and she was here to obey him. So she turned her head and met his intent, gray stare. His face was set in hard, uncompromising lines, stern, harsh even. He looked like he never smiled, never laughed.

  But she knew that he did, because there had been that smile at the woman who’d flung herself into his arms. And she remembered how those arms had closed around her and held her close as if he never wanted to let her go . . .

  God, how she wanted someone to do that. Hold her tight. Keep her close. She wanted to be someone’s, because despite what the rest of the world thought, she hadn’t been anyone’s at all. Her parents had washed their hands of her when she’d failed school and apart from insisting she go to college, had basically left her to her down devices. She’d been given things instead of hugs, money instead of love and total freedom instead of boundaries. Which was most people’s idea of heaven, but it wasn’t hers. Because all that the things and money and freedom told her was that no one cared.

  No one cared enough to put their arms around her and tell her it was okay. No one cared enough about her behavior to tell her what was acceptable and what wasn’t. No one cared enough to tell her they loved her despite how she’d failed at everything she did.

  But who’d ever want to do that with a woman like you? This is the best you can hope for and you know it.

  Her throat tightened, but she ignored it. She couldn’t let him see how pathetic she was. Not him, not this man who already didn’t like her very much. “What?”

  “Something’s bothering you. What is it?”

  His stare was as focused as a laser beam, the same way he’d stared at her when he’d asked her why she was afraid. She hadn’t answered him then, and she didn’t want to answer him now.

  “It’s nothing.” She lifted her glass and took another sip of champagne.

  He didn’t look away. “It’s something. Tell me.”

  And all of a sudden, she was angry, at him and this ridiculous simulacrum of a date. It felt . . . dishonest. Like he was taunting her with something she couldn’t ever have. As if she was freezing and could see a fire through the window, but he wouldn’t let her come inside and warm herself.

  “Why should I?” She didn’t bother hiding the sharp edge to her voice, not that she could have even if she’d wanted to. “I mean, seriously. You don’t like me and sure, you want to fuck me, but why bother with a drink and conversation if you don’t give a shit?”

  Chapter 8

  Lorenzo narrowed his gaze. She sounded angry, and certainly the gleam in her blue eyes wasn’t desire, not this time. Neither was the flush in her cheeks.

  He studied her, something twisting inside him that he refused to call curiosity.

  She sat there in her white silk dress, with her white curls around her shoulders, everything about her pale except for her eyes and those prettily flushed cheeks.

  Yes, she was angry, just like she’d been scared before, when he hadn’t been able to stop himself from cupping her cheek, from asking her what it was she was so afraid of.

  He’d let her pull away then, telling himself he wasn’t interested. But naturally enough, he’d been lying.

  She’d been scared and now, in another quicksilver change of mood, she was angry, and he wanted to know why.

  Had it been the mention of Stacey organizing the lights and candles? Because he’d thought he’d seen hurt cross her face when he’d mentioned it. Or was it simply the fact that she’d accused him of not liking her? And if it was that, why should it bother her what he thought of her?

  He didn’t deny the accusation, because she wasn’t wrong. He didn’t like her.

  It’s not her. It’s because she gets to you and that’s what you don’t like.

  “You don’t like me either.” He met her gaze, ignoring the thought. “What are you so angry about?”

  A flash of surprise crossed her face. “I . . . never said I didn’t like you.”

  “But you don’t. I’m rude and insensitive. I’m an asshole. Apparently.”

  The spark in her gaze intensified. “Yes, well. You are.”

  He ignored that, too. “What was it, Kira? You don’t like the lights and candles? Or you don’t like the fact that Stacey organized it?”

  Her jaw tightened. “This isn’t a date, Lorenzo. It’s a booty call. Don’t try to make it into something it’s not.”

  It was the first time she’d said his name, and he felt desire gather inside him at the sound of it in her mouth. He liked it when she called him Mr. de Santis. He liked it even more when she called him Lorenzo.

  “What if I want to make it into a date?” He wasn’t quite sure why he was arguing with her, since a booty call was exactly what this was. “I told you that you were here for me so what if that’s what I want?”

  She looked down at her hands again, silent for a couple of moments. Then she said, “I guess I’d have to suck it up, wouldn’t I?”

  It wasn’t what he expected her to say, and the passive note in her voice irked him. Then he realized why. He’d expected her to keep arguing with him, keep fighting with him. And she hadn’t.

  He was quiet a second, the remains of that adrenaline rush when she’d refused to take her panties off still echoing through him. He couldn’t tell himself that he didn’t like her challenging him, couldn’t tell himself it didn’t turn him on. Why else would he have shoved her up against the door in his office three days ago?

  “Is that what you always do, Kira?” he asked. “You always suck it up? Because I think that’s bullshit.”

  She lifted a shoulder. “Yeah, well, sucking it up is what I do now.”

  “Why?” he demanded. Then
a thought hit him. “Because of your car accident?”

  Her head came up sharply. “It wasn’t just an accident. People died. I killed people. My friends.”

  He wasn’t supposed to be getting into this. A nice, easy light conversation over dinner was all it was supposed to be about, yet he couldn’t seem to kick the curiosity that had him in its grip. It was her fault, or so he’d heard, and yet he found himself saying, “You didn’t kill them, Kira.”

  “Sure I did. I was driving. I was going too fast and I was distracted. It’s my fault, no one else’s.”

  There was pain in her eyes, still bright, still sharp. And even though he’d told himself that her deaths weren’t ones he wanted to get involved in, the sight of her hurt made his chest tighten uncomfortably.

  He opened his mouth to say something, what he didn’t know, when the door to the terrace opened and Janet came out with the dinner.

  Kira looked away, raising her glass to her lips for another drink as Janet bustled around with plates and laying out dishes.

  No, it was probably a good thing. He wanted to build trust between them, but he certainly didn’t want to get into hard, complicated, emotional topics. That wasn’t what this evening was supposed to be about. Pleasure, definitely. Reopening old wounds, no.

  He got off the daybed, going over to help Janet with serving, and once that was done and Janet dismissed for the rest of the night, he pulled back a chair and gave Kira a glance. “Come and sit down.”

  She put her glass down and came over, the fabric of her dress moving like liquid with the graceful sway of her body, and he wondered just what the hell was wrong with him that he was insisting on things like dinner, when he could be stripping her naked and burying himself inside her instead.

  But there were reasons for the dinner. He had to keep in mind the big picture, not get distracted his own needs, by things like desire. By curiosity. By pain.

  He’d already done that with one woman. He didn’t want to do it again with another.