Banking Her: A Billionaire Bad Boys Novella (Book 2.5) (Bad Boy Billionaires) (10 page)

Wes motioned for me to slip into the aisle before him with a soft smirk. “You coming to dinner with us?”

I shrugged one of my shoulders. “I’m not sure I have a choice.”

He chuckled softly. “That makes two of us.”

I glanced back to shoot an amused smile in his direction, and I didn’t miss the fact that his gaze had now honed in on my ass. He was
literally
staring at my ass, and when he looked up and met my eyes, he just grinned. Not the least bit ashamed he had been caught red-handed.

What the hell?

Wes’s taste in dining was impeccable. He had taken us to a swanky joint called Red that was only a few miles from our hotel. It was an upscale restaurant that literally lived up to its name. The lights, the walls, the décor, pretty much everything in the room was a different shade of red. What should have reminded me of horror flicks like
Carrie
or
The Shining
, only gave a warm ambiance of fine dining and quiet charm.

About twenty minutes after we had checked in to our hotel, Wes had managed to reserve a table for us at Red and even had a car waiting to escort us when everyone was ready to go. The man might have been consistently late to pretty much everything, but he sure as shit could get things done when they mattered most.

And trust me, with a hungry pregnant woman in the group, food is more important than everything else.

In record time, and much to Cass’s excitement and pregnancy cravings, we were sitting at a table in the back of the restaurant and enjoying our meals. Her propensity for keeping the conversation moving and shaking was quickly quelled once her giant,
albeit well-done
, steak was set before her.

I ate my lobster risotto until I felt too full to continue and proceeded to work on my third glass of stupidly expensive wine, courtesy of Wes Lancaster. I knew I was a bit of a lightweight when it came to alcohol, but I couldn’t deny this was probably the best Pinot Noir I had ever tasted in my life.

While I drank, and everyone else ate, I couldn’t stop fixating on this nagging thought that had been in my brain since I got off the plane. Had Wes really been staring at my ass? And why in the hell did he not even attempt to avert his eyes?

I felt like he wanted me to know he was looking, which only confused me more. I mean, this was a man whose disdain for me was evident in most of our interactions.

I was mindfucked and far too emboldened by alcohol to stop myself from finding answers. Throwing caution to the wind—well, the wine, really—I took my phone out of my purse and typed out a text.

Me: Were you really staring at my ass on the plane?

I watched Wes as he pulled his phone out of his pocket and scanned my text. His brow furrowed, and he met my eyes from the across the table as he typed out a response.

Wes: I have no idea what you’re talking about, Dr. Winslow.

Bullshit. I raised a questioning brow in his direction, and he appeared unfazed as I tapped out my rebuttal.

Me: Yeah, you do.

He grinned once my message reached his phone.

Wes: Do you want me to stare at your ass?

His gaze turned cocky, and it took all of my willpower not to reach across the table and smack him. Instead of drawing the attention of everyone in the room with an outrageous display of violence, I chose the next best thing.

Me: No. And it’s completely unprofessional to say something like that, Mr. Lancaster.

Wes: Is it unprofessional when you’re staring at my ass as well?

He was calling my bluff. There was no way he knew I had a secret fetish for watching his perfectly toned and damn near bitable ass. I was far too covert during my ass-ogle missions…
right?

Me: I do not stare at your ass.

Wes: It’s okay, sweetheart. I don’t mind.

Me: This feels like sexual harassment.

Wes: I’m pretty sure you started this conversation.

Me: Only because I caught you memorizing the curves of my ass like there was going to be a pop quiz on it later.

Wes: And your legs.

Aha! I
knew
it. I couldn’t stop a satisfied smile from cresting my lips, but I hated the fact that my enjoyment over his response had nothing to do with proving him wrong. I
liked
that he had been checking me out. Far too much, if I was truly being honest with myself.

Me: That is so inappropriate.

Wes: Those sexy fucking heels and skirts you prance around in are the only things that are inappropriate.

I looked up from my phone and found him smiling smugly in my direction. My eyes shot a death glare as I typed out another response.

Me: I do not prance.

He nodded.

Wes: You prance.

God, I hated how pleased he looked with himself. That smug smile would’ve looked better covered in a plateful of my lobster risotto.

Me: Could your suits be any tighter by the way?

Wes: I could have my tailor make some adjustments if that’s something you’d enjoy.

Me: You look ridiculous. Like you’re two breaths away from your muscles ripping the seams.

Wes: You like my muscles?

Me: No. It’s completely unattractive to be that ripped.

Wes: So, it’s safe to say Nick is more beanpole in comparison?

My brow furrowed. How in the hell did he know about Nick? I met his persistent gaze until the lightbulb went off…
my phone call with Remy on the plane.

Me: Eavesdropping on my conversations is rude.

Wes: You were on speakerphone, sweetheart. You made that conversation everyone on the plane’s business.

Me: It’s even ruder to point that out.

Wes: Tell me, Winnie. What happened a year ago?

Me: None of your fucking business.

I could feel Wes’s eyes on me as I set my phone down on the table and did my best to avoid speaking with him, hell, even looking at him, for the rest of the evening. I knew that was the best decision. My track record with wine and attraction to men who were bad news was not good.

What happened a year ago?
I mean, seriously? That was none of his concern. And why would he even ask that question? He had no right to know anything about my dating life…or lack thereof.

God, he was infuriating. I could feel my blood boil beneath my skin as I scowled at Wes over my glass of wine.

Georgia and Cassie continued a conversation about the sex of the baby, seemingly unaware of the damn near suffocating tension hovering between Wes and me. How they missed it was a miracle. The air had grown so thick I felt the urge to reach up and cut through it with Cassie’s steak knife.

Wes held my irritated stare but seemed more amused by it than anything else. “Do you like the wine, Winnie?” he asked in a tone that would’ve sounded sweet to everyone else’s ears.

But I knew better. He was being a condescending prick.

My inner bitch immediately unsheathed her claws, all too ready to knock his ego down a few pegs.

I shrugged and schooled my facial expression into neutral. “It’s okay, I guess. Not necessarily worth five hundred a bottle, but it’ll do.”

He chuckled. “What is that? Your
third
glass?”

I rolled my eyes, and Cassie groaned. “I wish I could drink three glasses of wine right now.”

“No wine allowed, Casshead,” Georgia quickly interrupted.

“Shut. Up,” Cass retorted with a glare that would’ve had most people averting eye contact in hopes of self-preservation. Of course, Georgia wasn’t the least bit intimated. She might have been tiny, but that girl possessed one hell of a fight inside of her when it came to something she felt strongly about. And keeping Cassie and the baby healthy had recently become one of her top priorities. To the point of annoyance for everyone around her.

“You know, one glass wouldn’t hurt you or the baby, Cassie,” I offered.

Georgia’s eyes practically shot laser beams in my direction. “Winnie! Do not encourage her to drink alcohol.”

Cassie flipped Georgia off. “Can someone take the pregnancy police home? She’s a total fluffing fun ruiner.”

“Who’s the pregnancy police?”

We all turned in the direction of the deep male voice to find Kline smirking down at our table.

Cassie pointed to Georgia. “Your wife. She’s a buzzkill.”

But Georgia ignored her, hopping up from her chair and wrapping her arms around Kline’s neck. She kissed him firmly on the mouth before asking, “What are you doing here, baby?”

He grinned down at her and slid a piece of her now dark locks behind her ear. “I heard the whole gang was in Phoenix. I didn’t want to miss out.”

“Everyone but Thatcher,” Cassie added, and Kline’s grin grew bigger.

K
nock knock.

Ah, fuck.

I tried to rub the sleep from my eyes as I rolled over to look at the clock on the hotel nightstand. 6:37 a.m.

Last night had been a late one. Knowing that Cassie was spending her evening out to dinner with not only Georgia, but also Wes and Winnie, I’d used the time to catch up on all the work I’d been missing while following my pregnant fiancée around in a city that should’ve been known for its sweltering heat instead of its desert landscapes and mostly sunny days. It was safe to say I was ready for this weekend to be over.

Much to Cassie’s dismay, last night I had chosen work over our nightly Skype session. But it wouldn’t do me all that much good, following her around on some misguided journey of paranoia, only to let my company crumble to the ground so she had to take my kid and leave me because I lost all of our money and couldn’t support them.

Just what I needed. Another doomsday scenario.

Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock.

Fucking hell, I was going to kill someone.

“I’m coming!” I called out blindly to the door as I rolled out of the bed and forced my upper body straight up and my legs to stand.

Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock.

Face like thunder, I charged for the door and yanked it open to nothing. No person demonizing my sleep, no maid asking to clean my room on Portuguese time, and no circus animals. But as I looked down to my feet to stave off an ounce of my anger so that it wouldn’t boil over, I saw that there was a plain, brown paper package on the floor.
Open Me
was written in permanent marker on the top.

Resisting the urge to follow my own, very different instructions, of
Smash Me into a Million Fucking Pieces
, I picked up the package, slammed my door, and dropped it onto the table five steps inside the entryway to my room.

BeepBeep
, the package squawked.

I’m not ashamed to admit I jumped back a step.

Okay, maybe I’m a little ashamed, but you would’ve jumped, too.

BeepBeep
, it sounded again. “Come in, Thatch. Over.”

What the fucking fuck?

That was Georgia’s voice.

Carefully, like it was a goddamn bomb, I unwrapped the corners one at a time, slid the plain white box out from the paper, and opened it slowly. A lone walkie-talkie sat tauntingly inside.