The Heir & I: Taming The Billionaire

by Lara Hunter

  With a contented sigh I sank happily into a dream of an embrace; all thoughts of Oliver fleeing my mind as my movements merged with Vladimir’s. Suddenly my body found a new grace, moving in flawless synch with his across a lighted stage.

  “A woman like you deserves to be treated like a princess,” he whispered in my ear, leaning my body backward in a poetic dip. “And as much as I like Oliver, I sense that he does not value you.”

  I nodded.

  “Your instincts are correct… most of the time, anyway, Oliver does not truly grasp and value everything I bring to his life,” I agreed, adding with a slight shrug, “Oh, don’t get me wrong. Oliver really is a good guy, he just needs to start exploring and showing off his deeper side.”

  I grinned in spite of myself as my words were met with a long, stunned silence, one immediately followed by the words, “Oliver has a deep side?”

  I laughed.

  “Trust me, he does,” I assured him. “It just needs to show itself on a more regular basis. You know what, though? I don’t want to think at this point, about him or anything else. Right now, Vladimir, I just want to feel.”

  I took in my breath as, erasing all distance between us, the dancer pulled me closer than close and said, “Feel this.”

  I took in my breath as, in a single smooth flourish, Vladimir’s strong arms encircled my waist and lifted me high above his head; elevating my body in an effortless arch that sent me soaring into the air.

  I felt like I was flying through the air; my heart and soul joining my body in a majestic cascade.

  For moments I was suspended in time and space; feeling at once his hands at my waist, his strong presence beneath me, and the encompassing atmosphere of the ebullient stage that threatened to consume me.

  I almost let loose with a groan of disappointment as Vladimir lowered me to the ground; a feeling that dissolved seconds later, as he pressed his full, moist lips against my cheek in a whisper soft kiss.

  “Thank you for this dance, Miss.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. It was all beautiful and graceful and all that—but may I cut in now?”

  No, these words certainly didn’t come from me, but from the man who had escorted me to the theater that evening.

  Pinning us with a cool stare, Oliver held his arms open to me; grinning in triumph as a surrendering Vladimir released me into his care.

  “Sorry, babe,” the dancer whispered in my ear. “His father owns the theater.”

  I shook my head.

  “Yeah,” I assented, adding as I raised my chin in Oliver’s direction, “But he doesn’t own me. And if Oliver wants to dance with me, he can ask me politely.”

  Oliver looked at me a long moment, then nodded.

  “You’re absolutely right,” he assented, adding as he extended a chivalrous hand in my direction, “Miss Ashton, may I have the pleasure of this dance?”

  I grinned in spite of myself as I took his hand; cringing only slightly as a quiet Vladimir retreated from the stage.

  Soon the atmosphere brimmed with the sound of a jazzy, rhythmic tune; one that flew free and fast from an overhead stereo system.

  “How did you do that?” I asked him, floating forward into his arms as he pulled me closer to him.

  “Ownership has its privileges,” he growled, erasing all distance between us as he swept me up in his arms.

  I nodded my agreement, adding as I looked him straight in the eyes, “Just remember this much, Oliver Clark. You still don’t own me.”

  “No, I don’t,” he assured me immediately. “But maybe, just maybe, I could lure you around to my way of thinking. I’ll never own you, but at least let me show you a really good time.”

  With these sleekly spoken words, Oliver set our bodies in motion; swinging me around the stage with uncommon grace as his muscular body moved against mine.

  Although not as technically skilled as Vladimir, Oliver moved with a snakelike sliver that far surpassed his rivals in terms of pure, unbridled sensuality.

  Or maybe not so pure, judging by the way he was making me feel…

  Pulling back with a distinct sniff, I looked Oliver straight in the eyes; only noticing how those wide, dark gems glowed in the lights above us. I also couldn’t help but admire the way that his bronzed skin absolutely glowed in this very same light; along with the strands of cinnamon hair that fell soft against my shoulder.

  I then surrendered to his touch as we danced across the floor; his massaging hands rubbing up and down my back as he continued to undulate in my arms.

  My eyes shut as I suddenly imagined Oliver and me performing a far more intimate dance; one performed naked as we kissed passionately and rolled wild in one another’s arms.

  My body relaxed and my mind flew free as the fantasy intensified; transporting me from our public surroundings to a place of hot, sensual fantasy.

  I’d visited this same place many times in my dreams; but the presence and intensity of his red hot touch made it all the more real.

  Neither of us noticed when the music subsided; our bodies kept swaying closer together as fantasy consumed us.

  “So Lily,” Oliver whispered in my ear, gathering up my body in a loving hug. “Despite a few rough spots, I’d say that we still had a wonderful evening. What do you think?”

  Drawing back just far enough to open my eyes and grace him with a serene smile, I nodded and agreed, “Downright magical.”

  Chapter Eight

  ~

  Lily

  Last night I slept with dreams of dancers in my head; two beautiful men whose grace and beauty enflamed my imagination and sparked my hottest desires.

  Alternately throughout the night I dreamt of moving and writhing in Vladimir’s arms; and, more intimately, in Oliver’s bed. Even in my sleep my heart pounded as I contemplated kissing and embracing that perfect body, of sinking in those delectable arms as our beings merged and we collapsed together in a fit of sublime, uncontrollable ecstasy.

  The first light of day, however, did much to tame and restrain my wild sensual imaginings. Indeed, as I wriggled and shifted in my sweat-laden sheets, I thought immediately of the uncomfortable scene that had transpired yesterday between Oliver and Deanna Morgan.

  I remember hearing the anger in her voice and seeing the pain in her eyes; and reminded myself that if I wasn’t careful, I would feel the same emotions I saw reflected in her eyes.

  Maybe it’s already too late, I mused, biting my lip as I sat up in bed.

  As it stood, I already felt my heart beat just a little bit faster every time I looked at or as much as thought of Oliver. Was it too late to save myself?

  I was glad at least that today was Saturday; I didn’t have to face Oliver at the office and if he tried to contact me, well, I guess I could just ignore any attempts on his part to call or e-mail me.

  As if on cue the phone rang, and after seeing the name Oliver Clark appear on my caller ID, I conveniently ignored the call.

  Rising finally from bed, I grabbed a shiny new paperback book from its place on my bedroom bookshelf and plopped back down on the edge of my floral print comforter.

  With eyebrows arched I opened the front cover of the thick, vividly illustrated romance novel; one that depicted a gorgeous couple in the throes of passion at the center of a pristine beach.

  As I began to read this torrid tale of lust and passion, I kept picturing the hero as my very own Oliver; and the heroine, conveniently, as little ol’ me.

  “Well, of course I’d picture someone who looks like Oliver,” I sniffed aloud. “I mean, this is a romance novel with a handsome man on the cover—one that, much like Oliver, boasts thick brown hair and big dark eyes.”

  Taking a casual look at the cover of the book, which I’d bought on impulse just last week at a local drug store (Why, I wondered, was I feeling so very romantic these days? It couldn’t have been the anti-itch cream or the super flex salad tongs I also bought at the pharmacy that day. Just sayin’). My eyes widened as they beheld th
e hero of my chosen tome; a striking blond man with sparkling blue eyes.

  Tossing the book aside with a hard, pronounced groan, I grabbed another book from the shelf; this one a spy thriller that, from all appearances, contained not even the slightest hint of romance or sensuality in its pages.

  Yet upon discovering that the hero of this second book was a strapping muscular dark-haired man with eyes as dark as midnight, I gave up the case and headed for my kitchen—determined to drown my concerns in a doughnut or two, and in a steaming hot cup of cocoa that I planned to render just a little bit Irish for effect.

  After this admittedly rocky start to my Saturday, I set about doing a craft project that involved the use of rainbow-hued beads and ribbons on an applique surface; one that did not involve the use of my cell phone, which—despite ringing several times throughout the course of the day—lay unattended on my night stand.

  The loud knock that graced my door just before 5 o’clock was not as easy to ignore.

  “Who is it?” I called from my kitchen table, making no effort to set aside my project or even leave my chair.

  “Oliver!” The smooth, deep voice of the bane of my existence resounded from my front entry.

  “Hi Oliver,” I greeted, adding in a stronger tone, “I’d love to talk to you right now but I’m really busy with a project. I wish you had called first.”

  Oliver’s hard sigh penetrated and echoed through a solid wooden surface.

  “Lily, I tried to call you four times today,” he informed me, adding in a softer tone, “I was starting to worry about you, girl.”

  I sighed.

  “Thanks for your concern, Oliver, but I’m just fine,” I told him, voice sharp and stiff. “And, as I said, I’m in the middle of a project right now. Whatever you have to talk to me about, could it please wait until Monday morning?”

  It was Oliver’s turn to sigh.

  “I dunno, Lil,” he told me. “Methinks the triple pepperoni pizza I brought you would be pretty darned cold by Monday morning. Plus if I keep all of these DVDs I rented today until Monday, I’ll be owing a veritable king’s ransom in late fees. I just might have to ask Dad for a raise.”

  “Movies?” I repeated, feeling my resolve abandon me at record speed. “And triple pepperoni pizza? Are there actually three varieties of pepperoni?”

  “Open the door and find out, Lily.”

  Gritting my teeth in frustration, I finally arose from my seat and headed toward the door, fully prepared to send my boss packing with a few well-chosen words.

  What went packing was the remainder of my resolve, which took a proverbial hike the moment I smelled that steamy pepperoni and got a gander at those equally steamy dark eyes, which greeted me with a penetrating stare as Oliver greeted me with a grin.

  He also came bearing a pile of DVDs and a bottle of sparkling champagne, how could I say no?

  “I have a great evening planned for us, Lil,” he told me, thrusting the pizza and DVDs in my direction.

  “I’m sure we do,” I replied, taking his pile of goodies with what could best be called a half-hearted smile, “Babe.”

  Soon I sat parked before my television set, browsing Oliver’s selection of rented DVDs as he stood in the kitchen; using my prized circular culinary cutter to divide our pizza into a number of spicy, succulent slices.

  “Fair warning, darling,” he told me, popping a stray pepperoni between his luscious lips as he continued, “This is as close as I get to cooking.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “I’ll make a note,” I replied, grinning in spite of myself as I examined the titles of the films he’d brought for our enjoyment that evening.

  “Ah, so you decided to take my advice and rent ‘Coco Before Chanel,’” I grinned.

  Oliver nodded.

  “I can’t wait to see it,” he enthused, popping yet another random pepperoni between his lips as he added, “And if you look down farther in this list, you’ll see that all of these films are directed by women.”

  I nodded.

  “I noticed as much. And we have some great films here,” I acknowledged, my eyes widening in interest as my fingers touched the colorful DVD cases before me. “‘My Brilliant Career’ directed by Gillian Armstrong, ‘Bend It Like Beckham’ by Gurinder Chadha, ‘Orlando’ by Sally Potter, ‘Lost in Translation’ by Sofia Coppola.”

  “‘The Hurt Locker’ by Kathryn Bigelow,” Oliver added. “Wayne’s World, directed by Penelope Spheeris. Sorry babe, I’m a guy. I just had to throw an action flick and a comedy into the mix.”

  I nodded.

  “Hey, when it comes to movies I like it all,” I told him, clapping my hands together with girlish glee as I contemplated our impromptu movie marathon. “Sure, my mom and I could spend our entire Sunday afternoon drinking tea and watching Jane Austen adaptions, but only after my pop and I spent Saturday night watching classics like ‘Airplane’ and ‘Die Hard’.”

  Oliver nodded.

  “Marry me,” he said, tone matter of fact.

  “OK,” I agreed, adding in a tone of sublime sincerity, “Just don’t at any point in our marriage call me Shirley.”

  Soon Oliver and I sprawled side by side on my living room floor, our bodies coddled and cradled by a pair of luxurious feather soft down blankets; housewarming gifts that my mother had bestowed upon me two years ago. Our pizza lay between us as we alternately laughed and cried (OK, well, I cried openly and he just kind of sniffed and blamed it all on allergies) over our chosen films; and, once again, Oliver listened enraptured as I related background and trivia facts about the films we watched. I told him all about my college trip to Australia, where I actually visited the shooting locations of ‘My Brilliant Career.’ He told me about the time in college where he wrote a warm, inspired marriage proposal to Tia Carrere, the female star of ‘Wayne’s World.’

  Hey, we all have our memories.

  Throughout the evening Oliver insisted on feeding me my pizza slices by hand.

  I reciprocated by filling his wine glass and kissing his carved, bronzed cheek at all too frequent intervals. As we watched our selection of DVD movies, we clutched each other’s arms during all the scary and dramatic parts and slapped each other’s backs as we laughed hysterically at the jokes and visual gags that marked other parts of our viewing experience.

  Finally, as we popped in the emotional, outright beautiful film ‘Lost in Translation,’ we nestled closer together on our blankets as our hands joined; with a soft, serene smile I rested my head on his broad shoulder and tried to focus my gaze forward in the direction of the wide screen TV mounted on the wall of my living room.

  Not an easy thing to achieve, when my captivating date insisted on shifting his own gaze in my direction and locking my gaze with his.

  The streams of luminous golden moonlight flew free through the panels of my nearby window; illuminating Oliver’s gorgeous features to bronzed effect.

  And the same degree of awe and wonder that I experienced, I witnessed also in the depths of his wide dark eyes.

  “The stars just light you up,” Oliver whispered, raising his hand to caress my cheek as he erased all distance between us.

  I did not resist as my enamored date graced me with his own version of a movie screen kiss; covering my lips with his as his tongue explored my mouth.