My Ex-Boyfriend's Billionaire Daddy Page 8

  My eyes snap back to his face. That charming, insanely good-looking face. To that expertly trimmed, luscious head of hair with just enough steely gray in it to be sexy. The broad shoulders and sculpted pecs hidden beneath designer silk. All disguising the wolf in Park Avenue clothing that he truly is. “As what this time? Your personal office playmate?”

  His gaze darkens, shadowed by his furrowed brow. “Is that what you think? God, no. I just want you. In my life. In my bed. We got off to a wrong start, Cassie, I know that. But we can make it work, if you’ll just give me a chance. Give us a chance.”

  A chance? What chance do we have? We’re from two different worlds—two different generations! It’s not natural, not socially acceptable. I can’t imagine introducing him to my parents. Oh wait. I can. They’d have lots in common!

  He looks at me like I’ve hurt him, like his offer is a no-brainer I’d be crazy to turn down. ‘He’s pretty difficult to say no to.’ Ha. There’s a first time for everything. I toss back the remainder of my champagne and deposit the empty glass on a passing server’s tray. “Sorry. Not interested.”

  I quickly turn and make a bee-line for Candice and Ana before he can stop me. Maybe it’s the champagne, but I feel a rush of power as I sweep grandly away from him, the skirts of my full-length gown swishing in my wake. The audacity of Brent freaking Baxter! He’s too used to getting what he wants, that’s the problem. Just like Ryan. Easy to see where he gets it from. What about what I want?

  “What happened? Who is that? What did he say to you?” Ana chirps.

  “He’s a goddamn stud, whoever he is,” Candice adds.

  I grab a fresh drink from a tray and gun it. The bubbles burn a path to my stomach. It may hate me in the morning, but it’s better than hating myself tonight. My friends stare at me, hanging on my response as I ditch the empty glass. “That stud,” I say matter-of-factly, stifling a hiccup, “Is no one.”

  Hostile Takeover

  Brent

  She’s going to fall flat on her ass if she keeps drinking like that. Counting the one we had together, I’ve seen Cassie down five champagnes since I’ve been here. No telling how many she had before that. I’m not sure if I felt offended or impressed when she mustered the backbone to snuff me out like a candle when I asked to see her again, but judging by her alcohol consumption, I think I can blame her haughty behavior on the booze.

  I can certainly understand the cause for celebration. The second of her sculptures sold not long after the first, and the remaining two have just been spoken for. Fortunately, she’ll never know by whom.

  “Mr. Baxter?” I turn to the sound of the voice at my elbow. “How will you be paying for your purchases?” The gallery owner smiles up at me, a POS device in her hand. She ought to be smiling; the gallery’s commission on what I’ve just agreed to pay for Cassie’s last two pieces is a fair chunk of change. But I can’t be so obvious as to make a card transaction right here in public, nor in full view of the tipsy artist and her equally drunken pals.

  I give her an apologetic smile. “I’ll need to issue a PO first, I’m afraid. I’ll have the company controller call you directly and make arrangements for a cash payment and delivery in the morning, if that’s alright?”

  Her grin widens. “Certainly, sir. Would you like your company name shown as the buyer, then?”

  “No. How about ‘anonymous buyer’,” I say, winking at her.

  The owner nods knowingly, probably still mentally calculating her gallery’s profits on the night. She couldn’t care less what the card says. “As you wish, Mr. Baxter. Thank you for your generous support. I know the artist will be thrilled, and this could be the first of many showings in the future.”

  “My pleasure,” I say as we shake hands. She spins on a dime and retreats to the sales office. I think I’ve made her night. Or rather, Cassie and I have made her night, and it’s nearly over. The show is closing in fifteen minutes, and despite her earlier rebuff, I don’t give up that easily. You don’t survive in my line of work without a thick skin, and the stamina to win. It’s just liquor-induced bravado and I’ve seen it a million times in business. Aside from that, I still feel protective of her. She’s not leaving here unless I know she’s safe.

  I mingle a bit as I explore other parts of the gallery, at the same time keeping an eye on Cassie and her girlfriends. I hear their laughter grow louder and more obnoxious, see their body movements get less and less coordinated. All at once they link arms and start heading for the exit, stopping briefly to speak with the owner.

  I move among the trickle of patrons leaving the venue, keeping a discreet distance from the trio of girls, but close enough to intervene if needed. They gather at the curb outside, giggling and discussing where they should go to continue the celebrations. I’m not above eavesdropping; it’s provided me with invaluable intel on many occasions. A nearby nightclub is suggested, but Cassie shakes her blonde head and pulls away from her friend’s clutches.

  “C’mon girl, we gotta celebrate,” the redhead says, reclaiming Cassie’s arm. “It’s not every day you have a sell-out event!”

  “Just one drink at the club,” says the brunette. “They’ve got a hot group playing tonight. We need to have a victory dance at least!”

  “Forget it,” Cassie argues. “If I have another drink I’ll be dancing with my face,” she laughs. “You two go on. Seriously, I’ll grab a cab.”

  The girls continue their whining entreaties as I see my opportunity and approach the group. “Hello Cassidy,” I interrupt. All eyes turn to me, brimming dark and wide with intoxicated excitement. Cassie blinks and takes a step back, nearly turning a heel on the rough concrete. Instinctively I reach out to steady her. “Ladies, Miss Keaton’s had a very big night and I’m sure she’s exhausted. If the two of you want to stay out, I’ll be happy to escort her home.”

  “I said I’ll get a cab,” Cassie says. “Don’t trouble yourself.”

  The redhead’s gaping mouth snaps into action. “And you are?”

  I hand her a business card from my breast pocket. “Brent Baxter. Miss Keaton’s former employer. Pleased to meet you, Miss . . . ?” The redhead glances at the card, then back at me. I flash my signature smile. “I assure you I’m not a serial killer. I came to support Cassidy’s first exhibition. And I take the safety of my employees, past or present, very seriously.”

  “I’m Candice, Cassie’s roommate. You . . . you’re Ryan’s dad, aren’t you?” the redhead stammers.

  “That’s right. You’ve met?”

  Candice nods, obviously comparing my appearance to my son’s. “Well, I suppose we can trust you . . .”

  “I’m perfectly capable of finding my own way home,” Cassie interjects. “All of you stop it. I don’t need a fucking escort, for Christ’s sake.” She turns away in a whirl of red fabric and tries to flag a taxi.

  “She didn’t mean that,” the brunette says, grinning. “She’s had a few drinks, you know.”

  “I see that. No offense taken,” I say, suppressing the urge to laugh, both at her friend’s inane comment and Cassie’s unexpected choice of words. “I have a hired car and driver. She’ll be quite safe. Can I offer you ladies transportation as well?”

  “I don’t wanna go home yet,” the brunette says to Candice. “I wanna dance!” She sways her hips and raises her arms in the air.

  Candice grabs hold of her dancing friend. “Uh, no thanks, that’s okay. I mean, thanks for offering, but we don’t, you know, want to impose. You just take good care of our famous artiste, my man, or you’ll have us to answer to!”

  “You have my word,” I say, moving to take Cassie’s outstretched arm before she loses her balance and tumbles off the curb. Satisfied, the girls start off down the street in the opposite direction. I put my arms around Cassidy’s shoulders. “Hey, careful,” I say.

  She shrugs me off, attempting to get away. “I can take care of myself.”

  “I know. But let me take care of you for now, okay?”
<
br />   She heaves an exasperated sigh. “Just get me home.”

  I page my driver to meet us at the designated pick-up location at the end of the block and walk us slowly toward it. “Car’s on its way. This fresh air should do you good. How are you feeling?” I ask, rubbing the soft skin of her bared shoulders, enjoying the feel of her body next to mine and the sound of her gown rustling as we walk. Her heel catches on the uneven sidewalk and her weight falls against me.

  “Shit,” she mumbles. “Stop for a second. I need to sit down.”

  “It’s okay, I’ve got you. I’ll hold onto you until the car gets here. Then you can even lie down, if you like.”

  “Just gimme a second,” she groans, panting for breath even though we’re walking at a snail’s pace. She slides away from me and slithers to the ground, plonking her elegantly dressed butt very un-elegantly on the curb and bowing her head over her knees. “Just gotta . . . rest my eyes . . .”

  Right. She’s going to pass out, that’s what’s going to happen. Passersby are staring. Cars are whizzing past us on the street. I see our ride waiting at the corner just a few yards ahead. She’ll probably squawk and make a scene but there’s no choice. I bend down and scoop her up off the concrete, hoisting her into my arms just like the night I carried her inside her apartment.

  But we’re not going there this time. I have someplace much more comfortable in mind. My driver hops out and holds the rear passenger doors wide as he sees me approach. He has an amused smirk on his face, but knows better than to ask questions.

  “We’ll be going to the penthouse,” I say, as I tuck my very drunk passenger right where I want her; safely inside the plush, padded world of Brent Baxter.

  What a Girl Wants

  Cassidy

  Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop! I grind my teeth against the pain in my head that seems in sync with my pulse, every beat sending a fresh dose of agony to my brain. I’m afraid to move, or open my eyes. My mouth feels like something small and furry has died in it. I need some water. With effort, I roll over to reach for the glass I always keep on my nightstand only to have my fingers close around empty air. A dark sensation grips me as my eyes snap open. Oh, shit.

  This isn’t my room. Where the hell am I? Flashes of last night come back to me; the show, the excitement. The champagne. I’m never drinking that shit again. I force myself to sit up and—holy crap—is that the Empire State Building? A breathtaking view of the city is spread out before me, and my brain struggles to piece everything together.

  I left the art show with Candice and Ana; I hailed a cab. I . . . oh, fuck me. This is Ryan’s place! But it’s definitely not Ryan’s room. I scan the huge space with its giant windows, high ceiling and tiled walls. I’m alone in a king-sized bed, wrapped in a twisted bundle of Egyptian cotton that feels like a twelve-bazillion thread count. I don’t remember coming here; but I’m pretty sure I know who brought me.

  A burning-hot flush of embarrassment crawls up my torso as I see my red gown and underthings draped on a nearby armchair. I ignore my headache and force myself out of bed. There’s an ensuite where I gulp down some water and get dressed. The palatial chrome and marble shower begs for me to step inside, but I want to get the hell out of here as quickly as possible. Good God, what if Ryan sees me?

  I slip stealthily out of the room and down the hallway, hoping my shoes are somewhere near the door so I can make a quick and clean getaway. The door to Ryan’s room is closed, but that doesn’t mean he’s not home. As I round the corner into the soaring, open-concept living space, I smell coffee. And bacon. Dammit!

  “Well, good morning,” Brent says, looking up from his cooking. He’s dressed in a T-shirt and jeans; something I’ve never seen before. “How’s your head?” He flashes that irritatingly irresistible smile again. God, he’s way too cheerful for me to handle in my condition. I glance around for any sign of Ryan, but find none. I’m dying for a cup of that coffee though, and allow my nose to guide me toward the gleaming, stainless-steel kitchen.

  “Like someone took a sledgehammer to it,” I confess, seating myself on one of the stools facing him across the eat-in bar. “Thanks for asking.”

  “No worries,” he laughs. “I’ve made you the perfect hangover breakfast.”

  “I’m not sure I can manage more than coffee right now.”

  “Coming right up,” Brent says, grabbing a cup from the clear glass cabinets lining the walls.

  “Um, aren’t you worried that . . . well . . . are we like . . . alone?” I ask as he pours the strong black brew, the slim-fitting shirt outlining his sculpted pecs and his brawny forearms on full display again. Damn, those turn me on.

  “If you mean is my son here, you can relax. He’s away in the Hamptons all week with his new girlfriend.” Brent slides my coffee across the counter and looks up for any reaction from me. I’m too strung out to give any, but relieved that Ryan’s not around at the moment.

  I stir cream and sugar into my coffee. “Oh. That’s nice.”

  “Her name’s Nina. Ryan tells me she’s an actress.”

  “Really?”

  Brent pauses and then leans forward, folding his sexy, muscled arms on the counter between us. “Does that bother you?”

  I raise my mug and savor a sip of the rich, dark coffee. I consider the question, and though it does seem awfully fast, I don’t begrudge Ryan moving on with someone new. In fact, I’m glad. “I’m the one who broke it off, so why would it bother me? I wish him nothing but happiness, honestly.”

  Brent smiles and nods as he pushes away from the counter. “Well, then. Breakfast is ready. I think you’ll be amazed how much better you’ll feel once you’ve eaten.” He returns with a plate of whole-grain toast, sliced tomatoes, melon wedges, and grilled back bacon.

  I’m not sure I can keep it all down; at least not until I know for sure what happened last night. So far, Brent’s been asking most of the questions. Now it’s my turn. “Did you . . . I mean . . . did we . . . uh . . .” I break off, leaving an uncomfortable silence hanging in the air. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember much. How exactly did I get here?”

  Brent chuckles as he fills his own plate. “If you’re asking, ‘did I take advantage of you last night?’ I’d say no. At least, not in the way you’re thinking. You wanted to go home. I offered to take you. I wanted to make sure you were safe.” He looks over at me and grins. “I just didn’t say whose home.”

  “Hmmm. That’s a little underhanded, don’t you think?” I grumble, sarcasm lacing every word as I stab a piece of bacon. “Did you have fun undressing me? Did we sleep in the same bed?”

  Brent sits across the counter from me and starts in on his toast. “You were in no shape to undress yourself. And honey, if we had slept in the same bed, you’d have known it, because I wouldn’t have been able to keep my hands off you. I spent the night on the couch.”

  A smile a little. So he’s not a complete cad; and seems genuinely concerned for my well-being. Can’t keep his hands off me. A tiny slice of pride knifes through me at this confession. I shrug it off and keep eating. Wow, the man can cook, too. Everything hits the spot, and as I polish off the last bites, I really am feeling much better. I guess he knows a thing or two about being hung over. He should. He’s got two decades of practice on me.

  “Thank you for breakfast, but I should get going,” I say, slipping off my stool to take my dishes to the sink. “Sorry to leave you with the clean-up.” The kitchen is a marvel of steel, glass and marble. I picture the lino-and-MDF nightmare in my tiny hovel of an apartment and cringe inwardly as I set my soiled plate and cutlery in the spotless metal bowl. As desperate as I am to escape, I can’t help wondering what it would it be like to live in a place like this.

  Suddenly I sense his presence at my back, and then feel his arms slip around my waist. “Then don’t leave.” His cheek is pressed against the side of my head, and his words curl and waft like sweet-scented smoke around my ear, sensual and seductive. “Stay with me . . .�
�� He kisses my neck, and a mournful moan leaves my lips. My spine tingles and my pussy buzzes. His scent, the warmth of his body, the sheer masculine aura he projects all converge on me at once, threatening to drown me in a whirlpool of desire.

  It takes all my strength to pull away, to unlock myself from his embrace. “I can’t do this,” I gasp, twisting around and pressing a hand to his chest, forcing an arm’s length of distance between us. “Please don’t do this . . . it’s a mistake . . . for both of us.”

  He grabs my hand and pulls me roughly against him, my chest crashing into his hard frame, his face a study of pain and frustration. “You keep saying that,” he growls. “That it’s a mistake, that it’s wrong, that you can’t do this, but you keep coming back for more.” He grips my chin in the vee between his thumb and forefinger, his burning-hot, brown-sugar gaze spearing me in place. “Don’t be a tease. Make up your mind. Because I’ve made up mine. This is what I want.”

  He bends his head and crushes my lips with his own, hot and hard and insistent. I’m caught in the Brent Baxter hurricane again, blindsided and helpless as his tongue blazes past my teeth and scours every inch of my willing, wet mouth—claiming it, owning it. Something bends and breaks in me, like a tree branch I know is useless to hold onto in the face of such a storm, and I fall, accepting my fate, giving in to it, admitting my deepest, darkest truths.

  I want this, too.

  I kiss him back, transmitting a wordless answer. As we break for breath, I see him smile, my message received. His hands slide down around my ass, and with a single motion lifts me off my feet and lands my crotch against his, my legs straddling his hips. My skirt has ridden high up on my legs, and I feel the hard bulge of his erection pressing into my panties that are already damp with my own arousal.