by Eve Black
It smelled so good. She closed her eyes and moaned…long, slow, low. She refused to let the scene at the restaurant sour her mood. So what if her husband was eye-banged right in front of her? At least he hadn’t flirted back with the buxom peroxide blonde. He’d actually made it quite obvious that he was there, with her; taking her hand and flashing her wedding ring.
But why wasn’t he wearing his wedding ring? She’d seen it in that box next to hers. That might have put a stop to the flirtation before it ever began. Then, she remembered it was sexy as hell Michael she was talking about. Any woman with eyes would get awful thirsty with him walking by.
She sighed, dropping her head to pull at the tense muscles in her neck and shoulders. And, when she opened her eyes, Michael was standing at the counter, his dark blue eyes riveted to her.
Heat blasted through her cheeks. Shit. She’d been caught in the kitchen again. At least, this time, she was fully clothed.
“Hey,” she blurted, sliding the cookie sheet onto the granite countertop. She pulled a spatula from a drawer and tried to focus on removing the piping hot cookies without turning them into cookie crumbs.
“Making a snack?” he asked, a lopsided grin on his face. She tried to ignore the way he lifted his black eyebrow over his laughing blue eyes. Damn, but he looked good enough to eat.
She forced herself to look at the cookie sheet. “Cookies aren’t a snack,” she replied, making a neat row of cookies on the cooling rack.
He chuckled, and again, she fought against the urge to look up at him. “So what are they, then?” he asked. She could feel him coming closer, easing along the counter until he was right next to her. “A meal?” he asked, his warm breath fluttering over her neck, moving wisps of hair that escaped from her hastily made bun. “Are they…dessert?” His voice was a low rumble, sending tendrils of heat and wanting through her blood.
Straightening her shoulders, she forced as much sass as she could into her mouth.
"Nah, they are a prescription for what ails me," she drawled, sliding the last cookie onto the cooling rack. She turned her back on Michael to put the hot cookie sheet in the sink, and when she turned back toward him, he was leaning back against the counter, his muscular arms crossed over her thick chest, his toned legs clad in sexy ass jeans were crossed at the ankles.
Shit. Who needed double chocolate cookies when they had a husband like him?
But he’s not your husband, not really. So what if he licked you to heaven last night? He isn’t wearing his ring, which means he isn’t committed to seeing things through. Which meant she was hoping for something that was doomed before it even began.
“What ails you, Helene?” he asked, his eyes boring into her, pulling away every layer of clothing, and skin, to reveal the heart of her. It ached to be so vulnerable. It scared her to death to know that she was starting to feel something for Michael, a man who could have married anyone but was stuck with her.
Was it pity that had driven him last night? Did he feel bad that she’d been so obviously attracted to him, but he didn’t really feel the same. Yeah, okay, so he had an erection—but from what her mother said about men, it was an automatic thing.
As a virgin, she couldn’t reach into her vast knowledge to determine if her mother was right, but Helene didn’t need sexual experience to know that what she felt for Michael wasn’t just about how good he made her feel…
“I’m going to take these cookies down to the women’s shelter,” she informed him, refusing to play his cat and mouse game. “I think they’ll enjoy the treat.” She pulled out three drawers in search of the individual storage bags, then she loaded two gallon sized bags with cookies—she didn’t have time to let them cool. She left a few out for herself, of course. Cookie hanging from her mouth, she tried to walk around the counter toward the hallway, wanting to get to her room to her sneakers so she could get the hell out of the penthouse for a while.
“Wait,” he said, grabbing her arm, “I’ll come with you.”
Stunned, she pulled the cookie from her mouth and looked up at him. Helene licked a smudge of melted chocolate from her lips and watched as Michael's eyes darkened, his heavy-lidded gaze pinned to her mouth.
More desperate than ever to pull away, she yanked her arm from his grasp. “Why? There’s nothing there that’ll interest you,” she said, continuing down the hallway, cookie forgotten in her hand. He followed behind, right through her bedroom door, to stand over her, arms crossed as she sat on the bed to put on her shoes.
“I want to know more about this place you are so passionate about. Can’t I be interested in what my wife is interested in?” The word wife sound divine on his lips, especially since he was talking about her…and wanting to know more about her.
She thought about him, in the shelter, surrounded by all those attention-starved, emotionally abused women. Some of them would shy away—understandably—but there were those who were so hungry for any positive male attention, they might do something they’d regret. Those women were recovering from terrible relationships, Helene didn’t need to drag her own troubled relationship into the mix. Especially since it was only one-day-old.
“Better not. It wouldn’t be a good idea,” she intoned, grabbing her satchel, with her wallet and bus pass. When she tried to walk around him again, he moved to stand right in front of her, blocking her path.
“Why are you running from me, wife? What are you trying to hide?” he asked, his words a thin line of accusation.
Both angry at his accusatory tone and hurt by the accusation, Helene stared up at him, her eyes narrowed. She shrugged, hoping she looked unaffected by his questions. "I'm not running," she lied, "I just haven't been to the shelter for a week, and I figured I could visit and bring a treat."
Michael reached out and gripped her chin in his hand, holding her face in place. She tried pulling away, hiding her face from his scrutiny. Could he see the lies in her eyes? Would he dissolve their marriage on the spot?
Damn, she hated all the up and down, back and forth. Why couldn’t their marriage be as simple in reality as it was on paper? Get married, stay married, finally find her own place in the world.
“Then…let me come with you.” It was a command, not a plea. “Are you ashamed of me?” he asked, raising a single eyebrow.
Incredulous, she snorted. “Uh no,” she scoffed. “Problem is, you are so damn hot, those women would either run screaming or grab their climbing gear to ascend Mt. Donovan. I’ve already dealt with one grasping bimbo today, I don’t need to face down thirty more, especially since I know them all personally. It would make working there a living hell.”
He chuckled, throwing back his head to laugh at the ceiling. How could a neck be sexy? His Adam's apple bobbed between the taut cords of his throat, and the image of those same muscles tensing as he thrust into her seared her mind.
Goddammit! She hadn’t even had sex with the man and she was already having hot flashes.
"Fine," he conceded, "I'll stay away. Lord knows I would hate having to watch you battle your friends—even if I would enjoy seeing you jealous." His wicked grin turned her stomach inside out, and she growled.
“Oh, you would, would you?” she snapped, stepping up to poke him in the chest, her chin up and her eyes burning into his.
He curled his lip and cocked an eyebrow, and she nearly fell back on her plump ass.
“Definitely,” he drawled, his voice thick. She swallowed, suddenly realizing how close to him she was, and how damn moist her panties were. “I love to see you catch fire, Helene…especially in my arms.” It was like his tone bottomed-out, making the room vibrate with the depth of his voice.
She made to take a step back but Michael’s hands shot out, his fingers threading through her hair, holding her in place. Her heart pounded wildly in her chest, pumping blood into her skin. She could feel his breath on her cheeks, and she shuddered. Every nerve in her body sparked to life, but none more than the ones in her face, where his hand was touching
her flesh.
Michael leaned in, and Helene held her breath, watching as his mouth descended. Slowly, torturously, until he brushed the softness of his bottom lip against hers.
He did it again, pressing in. And again, until they were connected in a dance of the ages, mouth to mouth, hunger to hunger. And she turned to jelly, her legs shaking from the force of her desire, her core churning, like a storm-tossed sea. To be with Michael was to brave the elements—lightning, thunder, flood, and wildfire. He was powerful in his devastation, breathtaking in his ferocity. And she was helpless against him.
He deepened the kiss, bringing his other hand up to cup her face, and she twined her arms around his neck, holding on for dear life. And blazing to life under his possession. He was warmth, bliss, ecstasy, hard and hot and unyielding. And she bent to him, leaning in to let him devour her. And she gave as she got, pressing in to slide her own tongue against his.
He moaned, she answered the same, her breath coming in heaving pants.
His tongue dipped in, taking control of her every sense. Michael groaned, then pulled her, almost violently, into him, crushing her against his hard chest. She could feel his heart colliding within his ribs. She gloried in it, knowing she was the cause.
But then he broke the kiss, pulling away, staring down at her, his chest heaving, his eyes wild. Helene felt the world tilt at the loss of him against her.
“What…was that?” she rasped, her mind spiraling downward.
He sucked in a deep breath and held it, then expelled the breath. “That…wife, was a goodbye kiss.” His voice was a growl—half man, half beast. All Michael Donovan.
Before she could say a word about what the hell just happened, he disappeared down the hallway.
Within ten minutes, she had her satchel in hand, was in a taxi to Sun Valley, every blood cell in her body on fire. It wasn't until she got out of the taxi at Wickerson, right in front of the shelter, that she realized she'd left her cell phone behind.
And the goddamn cookies!
12
Once she was done serving a meal of meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and buttered corn, Helene dung into her satchel and pulled out her mini Mac laptop. She booted it up then logged on the shelter’s Wi-Fi.
She told herself she wasn’t stalking her husband, that she was just trying to learn more about him. That was why she was Googling Michael Donovan, Los Angeles.
I should have done this yesterday! But she was so caught up in Michael, the reality of marrying the hottest man she’d ever seen, and trying to hold on to her self-confidence, that she hadn’t thought about it. But now…
She hit enter on the Google search bar and watched the page populate link after link after link.
BILLIONAIRE
PLAYBOY
PARTY BOY
MOGUL
BUSINESS INNOVATOR
SEXIEST MAN ALIVE
She stared, unable to believe all that she’d read. Her husband was none other than billionaire Michael Donovan, son of billionaire oil tycoon Gilbert Donovan. And not only was he born into money, he had built a multi-billion-dollar petroleum products company—in three years.
Humiliation drowned her… She’d met him three years ago. She’d looked him in the eye and called him a waste of life. No wonder his girlfriend had torn up that money like it was nothing—to them, it was nothing. The man, her husband, was a goddamn billionaire!
Her heart shuddered, panic rising into her throat. Groaning, she hid her face in her hands, holding back the burning tears.
“Gawwwd, what have I done?” It was no wonder the man was suspicious as hell when he’d first seen her standing in his penthouse. He remembered her from the coffee shop, remembered what his girlfriend had said about her needing money and a new face. He remembered her venomous outpouring of anger.
So why did he marry her anyway? Why was she, even now, Mrs. Billionaire? No, the money didn’t matter to her; a billion dollars was the same as a million dollars if one never spent it. It wasn’t the money, it was the fact that he was far beyond just any man. He had power, reach—why, oh why did he hire a bridal agency to find his wife? With a billion dollars, he could hold a ten-year-long beauty pageant and still not run out of gorgeous, sexy women to choose from.
“Damn…” It was a mistake. This marriage was a complete and utter joke. She wasn’t cut out to be Michael Donovan’s wife. She hated designer clothes, preferred frozen pizza to caviar, and would rather crash on the couch, binging episodes of Game of Thrones than travel to exotic locations. With her mother’s money, she could have done anything she wanted. She just didn’t want anything she hadn’t earned herself. Her mother said that was her father talking—practical and frugal accountant Stan Collins. How her mom and dad got together, Helene would never know. She only knew that she took after her father in looks and in personality.
Dragging herself from the shelter, Helene realized that she missed the last bus of the night. And when she turned to go back into the shelter to ask for a ride, she saw that the door was locked, and the front desk was empty. That meant they were locked down for the night. That meant she was locked out for the night. That meant she was out of luck.
"Shit!" Now, she either had to call an Uber using her invisible phone, flag down a taxi in an area of town where taxi's dare not go after 8 PM, or hoof it all the way home.
Home…when did she start thinking of Michael’s penthouse as home?
Around the same time you started thinking of him as your husband.
As if testing the bounds of her endurance, the sky lit up with lightning, the thunder not too far behind. Black clouds rolled in from the ocean, carrying the scent of rain. Cursing at her horrible luck, she clutched her bag tighter and began walking north, the lights of the skyscrapers her guide.
Michael paced from the kitchen island to the floor to ceiling windows in the living room, and back to the kitchen island.
Where was she? She’d left six hours ago—and she left her damn phone behind! How was he supposed to contact her if she couldn’t be reached? If he could remember the name of the women’s shelter, he would have called there, but no matter how much he racked his brain, trying to remember the name on the fliers she was posting three years ago, he could only conjure images of past-Helene’s angry face.
Frustration battled with worry, weaving together to create a tension in his muscles that he couldn’t dispel. He continued pacing, stopping and cursing every once in a while, when Helene’s phone would ping with an incoming text message. Of course, he’d checked to see who it was, but her phone was locked, and he didn’t feel comfortable trying to break into it. She was his wife, but she was also still a stranger. He was still a stranger to her, which meant she would see any intrusion into her personal life as an affront.
But what if it was important? What if it is a family member worried about her?
What if it is an old boyfriend? An ugly voice inside him drawled, and he bristled.
Whoever it was, they would have to wait until Helene got home, just as he was waiting.
His own cell phone rang and he cursed when he saw the caller ID.
Taking a steadying breath, he answered. “Hey, Dad.”
“I talked to Lorraine today. I asked her when you would be returning from your honeymoon…”
Shit…he hadn’t even thought of taking Helene on a honeymoon. Their marriage was supposed to be a no-touching, companions-only deal. But then things got way more complicated.
“Imagine my surprise when she told me you hadn’t asked her to book one,” Gilbert said, his tone indicating he wasn’t at all surprised. “Why aren’t you on your honeymoon trying to romance your wife into staying with your sorry hide? Six months is a long time, in married years.”
Michael snorted. For the first time in years, he agreed with his dad about something. He’d only been married to Helene for a day and he already felt enough worry over her to last him a lifetime.
“I know, Dad. The ceremony was only this morning. We still
have time to decide if we want to go on a honeymoon or not.” And judging by their kiss, just before she left, he knew their honeymoon would be less about the destination and more about the quality of the hotel sheets. “But that’s not why you called, is it?” Michael asked, the alarm bells in his head starting to clang loudly.
His dad sighed. “Thomas stopped by the office today. I am in LA for a meeting with the EPA. He had Amanda with him.” Judging by his father’s tone, he could tell Amanda was an uninvited guest at their meeting.
Amanda Billings was the daughter of multi-millionaire Thomas Billings, and the girlfriend he’d cut off eight months ago.
“What did she want?” Michael asked, scared of the answer.
“She asked about you, wanted to know what you’ve been up to…”
Suddenly, Michael realized why his skin was crawling. “You didn’t tell her about my needing a wife, did you?”
There was a telling silence on the other end of the line.
“Shit! And did you tell her I already had a wife?” Michael rasped, biting back the angry words he really wanted to say.
“I didn’t get that far. She raced out of here before I could. I’m assuming she’s on her way there.”
Shit. Shit. Shit! If Amanda showed up before Helene, and Helene saw them together, he couldn’t imagine what hell Helene would raise. And she would be right to do so. Amanda hadn’t changed a bit in three years—unlike him. He’d matured, so much so that he’d ended things with Amanda. He couldn’t stand how clingy, selfish, and self-centered she was. And he couldn’t believe it had taken him so long to see her as she really was. It had taken Helene a single glance to see that he and Amanda were nothing but money bags with faces. He’d broken things off with Amanda and hadn’t looked back—hell, he hadn’t even thought of her when his dad told him about that damn clause in the loan documents. He’d wiped Amanda Billings from his mind and wanted her to stay gone.