Billionaire Bad Boy (4 page)

Damn
.

"And I always keep my promises."

Double damn.

"Now get in. I don't want to follow you all the
way home."

She almost cried with relief when she slid into the
leather seat of the Ferrari. She dared not check her feet—she didn't want
Zack finding out how much pain she was in.

"My car's just around the corner."

"We'll pick it up later." He put the Ferrari
into gear.

"What? Why?"

"Because you can't drive with blistered
feet."

"How did you know?" she asked weakly.

"The limping gave you away."

She glanced at him but his expression was unreadable. So
maybe he wasn't the jerk she'd originally thought him to be. Not only was he
gorgeous but he was considerate and observant too. She could almost forgive his
arrogance and forget that he was out of her league.

Almost.

She directed him to her Santa Monica apartment and
opened the car door when he pulled up to the curb.

"Wait there," he said, leaping out.

"Why?"

He jogged around the hood to her door.
Uh-oh. What's
he doing?
The answer came when he leaned in, scooped her into his arms and
drew her to his chest.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Carrying you to your door. Then you're going to
open it, I'm going to take you inside, sit you down and put something on those
feet."

She didn't know what to say. In fact, she couldn't say
a thing or she might cry. No one had ever done anything like this for her
before. Although technically he
did
owe her—it was because of him that
she'd worn the stupid shoes in the first place.

Okay, so he wasn't being gallant, just making up for
his earlier comments. Fair enough. That she could handle. No point getting all
mushy over every man who carried her over her threshold.

She bit her lip. She was definitely
not
going
to cry in front of Zack. He was a charmer. He knew the right moves, the right
words, and she needed to remember that or she was in danger of losing her head,
her heart, and a few other body pieces that tingled and liquefied as she felt
the hard muscles in his arms clench around her. She knew his type—the
smooth talker, the sort of guy who liked to keep score. She needed to be on her
guard around him.

Inside, Snoopy, her black and white terrier, greeted
them at the door.

"It's all right, Snoopy," she said,
"Zack's not abducting me, he's just..." What
was
he doing?

"Rescuing you?"

She frowned. Snoopy cocked his head to the side.

"Cute," Zack muttered. He placed her gently
on the sofa and disappeared into the bathroom.

Uh-oh. What if he looked inside her cabinet? She did a
mental check of all the embarrassing contents and was thankful he wasn't there
to see her blush.

He emerged carrying a tube of burn cream. She doubted
it would be all that effective on blisters but she didn't say anything as he
knelt beside her to apply the cream to the soles of her feet.

At first it tickled and she struggled not to giggle
and pull her feet away. But then she relaxed as the cream cooled her heated
skin. After a few minutes, the gentle, circular strokes had lulled her into a
sense of deep satisfaction.

"Mmmm, that feels sooo good." She sighed and
flopped back into the cushions.

The stroking stopped abruptly. "I think that's
enough," he muttered, voice gruff.

She opened her eyes and blinked. "Why did you
stop?"

He screwed the top back on the tube of cream. Although
she couldn't see his eyes, his lips were drawn into a taught, white line. "I've
finished."

"What about the other foot?"

He handed the tube to her. "You do it," he
snapped.

Weird. What the hell had she said to make him close
up? They'd been enjoying a nice, almost sensual experience and he'd stopped as
if he were afraid of—

Realization thunked her in the head. For her it was a
sensual experience, but not for him. He probably thought she was falling for
him and he didn't want her to. He wanted to keep their relationship on a
business level. No wonder her near-orgasmic reaction to his foot massage
worried him.

And he definitely wouldn't want her to fall for him. Noooo...
Not her, a mousy nobody.

Well, if he didn't want her, that was okay. She
certainly didn't want to fall for an arrogant jerk like him either, and she'd
have great satisfaction in doing it. Or not doing it. Whatever.

"I'm going," he announced.

"Fine. I've got a lot of things to do
anyway."

"Fine. I'll pick you up tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? What for?"

"A ride." He strode to the door, opened it
and was gone without even a backward glance.

She sighed and flopped back on the couch. Wonderful. Zack
thought she was a loser. Worse, a desperate loser who wanted him. Problem was,
she did want him. Only physically of course. But he'd made it clear he'd never
want her in the same way. Just as well. She wasn't a casual fling kind of girl.

***

Zack closed the front door of his Beverly Hills house
and leaned back against it with a loud sigh. That had been close. He'd had a
lucky escape. Annie looked so good lying on her couch, her skirt riding high on
her slim legs, her body responding to his touch. He'd felt her tension ease as
he massaged her feet.

Oh yeah, those feet! He wasn't a foot fetishist—in
fact, he'd never noticed a woman's feet before, never touched them the way he'd
touched Annie's. But she had soft soles, high arches and sensitive toes. Sexy
toes.

He stripped off his T-shirt and headed to the bar. He
poured a strong Scotch, no rocks, and swallowed it in one gulp. He made another
but didn't drink it. He'd develop a drinking problem by the end of this
assignment if he wasn't careful. He needed to keep reminding himself that Annie
was just that—an assignment. Nothing more.

Definitely nothing more.

***

The next morning, Annie rummaged through her closet
for something suitable to wear. It didn't take long before her bed disappeared
under a mountain of clothes. She'd tried on every pair of shorts, Capri pants
and trousers she owned, but none of them seemed right for a ride with LA's
sexiest businessman. That was assuming he was talking about a motorbike ride
and not a horseback ride.

Boy, she hoped he hadn't meant a horseback ride. The
thought of getting onto the back of a live animal with Zack watching was too
frightening. Imagine all the things that could go wrong! The horse could bolt
and she'd fall off. She could step in horse poop. She could slip on horse poop
and end up on her ass, or on her back with it in her hair.

She rifled through the clothes-mountain.
What do I
have that's poop-proof?
She paused, then searched again.
What do I have
that's dork proof?

Nothing. Everything in her closet
screamed 'conservative'. She settled on a pair of navy Capri pants and a white
T-shirt, then checked herself out in the mirror. She looked great—for a
day of sailing.

The doorbell chimed. She glanced at the clothes strewn
around her room and sighed. No time to change or tidy up. She made a mental
note not to ask Zack back inside after the ride, in case he wanted to make wild
passionate love to her in the bedroom. There was a perfectly good sofa in the
lounge.

Yeah, right. Like he'd want to see
her
naked.

She hurried to open the door just as the bell rang a
second time.

"What took you so long?" Zack asked when she
opened the door. He wore black jeans and a heavy, black leather jacket over a
black T-shirt. He also wore a cheeky grin and two adorable dimples. At least he
was over his little spat from the previous night. He was more fickle
than...well, than her with PMT. "Couldn't decide what to wear, huh?" He
was a mind reader too.

She grabbed her purse and shuffled out the door but he
blocked her path.

"You're not going anywhere dressed like
that." He pushed past her. "Let's see what else you've got."

"But, but...wait!"

He didn't stop and she had to run to catch up to him. Too
late. He'd already reached her bedroom door and opened it.

"You really aren't very decisive are you? Or
neat."

She shrugged, trying to appear as if she didn't care
that Zack DiMarco was in her bedroom picking up her clothes and studying them
with a casually discerning eye.

He handed her a black T-shirt without looking her way.
"Put this on. Do you have any leather pants?"

None that she could squeeze into. "No."

"Then put on these." He held up a faded pair
of jeans with a rip at the knee and yellow paint splotches down the legs from
the time she'd painted her kitchen cupboards. "What about a leather
jacket?"

"No."

"Denim jacket?"

"Nothing I'd be caught dead wearing this decade. Even
I've got fashion standards."

He laughed softly. "Too bad. Find it and put it
on. Fashion's not the issue. Yet."

She crossed her arms. She certainly was
not
going to be seen wearing that jacket. It had Spice Girls patches sewn onto it
for crying out loud! Her father had got it for her years ago. It had been cool
in the Nineties. She hadn't worn it then either.

"Do you always tell women what to
do?" she asked.

"Yes."

"And do they listen?"

"Some do," he said, studying a pair of flat,
brown sandals she wore to the beach on the occasional visit.

"Which ones?"

"The ones who want to sleep with me," he
said from the depths of her closet.

She blushed. "I guess that means I don't."

"The day's not over yet."

What sort of ego trip was this guy on anyway? And how
did he know she'd thought about sleeping with him? "You're arrogant, you
know that?"

"So they tell me."

"Oh yeah? Who?"

He turned around, a pair of sturdy hiking boots
dangling from his fingers. His eyes sparkled as he fought back a grin. "The
ones who
pretend
they don't want to sleep with me."

She snatched the boots, spun on her heel
and marched into the bathroom, a trickle of quiet laughter following her.

CHAPTER 4

Annie followed Zack out to the street where a gleaming
black motorbike parked at the curb screamed
rebel
. He pulled on a helmet
and settled onto the seat. The soft leather molded to his rear end like it was
made for him.
Mmmm, yum
. He looked sexy sitting astride the sleek
machine. She had to admit, he was
cool
.

Way too cool to hang out with the sort of girl who
wore dated denim jackets. It must be torture for him to appear in public with
her a second time. His reputation would take a beating if they were seen
together too often.

"Get on," he said, holding her helmet.

Still annoyed by his arrogant comments in her bedroom,
she really wanted to refuse, but one look at where she would sit kept her mouth
shut. She'd go along. For now. She put on the helmet and slid onto the seat
behind him.

"Now put your arms around my waist," he
said.

She sniffed. "I don't want to." Liar. Every
hair on her arms screamed to touch his body. No doubt his stomach was washboard
flat and his chest hard.

"Okay, fine with me. Hang onto the seat behind
you. Use both hands—I hate it when people fall off."

He was joking. Wasn't he?

She reached around and found a little handle on the
back of the seat. She gripped tightly as Zack kicked over the engine. It roared
aggressively, defiantly, challenging her neighbors to come outside and
complain.

Before she knew it, the motorbike leaped forward and
they took off. Fast. Way too fast. For the first time in her life, Annie felt
fear. Gut wrenching, white knuckled fear. She squeezed her eyes shut and made a
mental note to never get on a motorbike again.

They turned a corner and she bit back a scream as the
bike tipped dangerously to the right. Her grip on the handle behind felt
awkward and insecure. If she let go there was nothing stopping her from falling
off except for the grip of her inner thighs around the large black bike. And
the muscles in that region were sadly weak from disuse.

She opened her eyes but closed them again when she saw
they were in the midst of traffic on the Santa Monica Freeway. At least Zack
wasn't weaving in and out of lanes as she'd seen other motorcyclists do, but he
wasn't slowing down either.

"Slow down," she yelled.