Borrowed Billionaire #5 Set it on Fire (5 page)

When we got to my condo, he wanted to walk me to my door. He held my hand and said, “I wish when we'd had sex, I'd known it would be our last time.”

I threw my arms around his neck and hugged him. “It was perfect. It was really special.”

Huskily, he said into my ear. “Are you sure? Because I think I could do it better.”

I laughed and pushed him away, although my pussy didn't want me too. My whole body trembled with excitement. I stared up at Jacob's brown eyes, and I considered taking him up to my place and giving him something to remember, but my mouth said, “Goodbye.”

He kissed me, and he left.

As I walked into the lobby of my building, I glanced behind me to the street, but Jacob had already gone, disappearing into the night.

I spent the weekend feeling sorry for myself. On Saturday morning, I pulled everything out of my kitchen cupboards in order to give them a good scrubbing inside. By Sunday night, my canned goods and dishes were still spread out everywhere, and I hadn't washed anything. The up-side of this was it made preparing food easier. Craving candy, I ate a jar of cake decorations.

On Monday morning, I had an organizing job. I put on my little Bitch Boots, which I hadn't worn much since my first visit to Luthor Thorne's mansion, and I headed out to work, feeling disgust as I looked over my disaster of a kitchen.

I had the new girl, Martine, working with me that day. She asked a lot of questions, again, but she was getting the knack of it. I left her alone with the client, patiently sorting through the woman's overstuffed closet, listening to the woman describe the wonderful gala events she'd attended in each fancy dress.

Suzanne had booked this job on a per-hour basis, not for a flat rate, so I had no incentive to rush things along. I excused myself to the washroom and checked my phone for messages, for about the millionth time.

Part of me was hoping Jacob would call or text, saying we could go back to how things were, and that he needed me—not to marry him immediately and bear progeny, but to kiss him and hold him.

Another part of me wished Luthor would do something. Anything.

Shortly after we got back from Indonesia, Suzanne had forwarded me his phone number, and I'd almost called him a dozen times. I pulled up his number again and hovered my finger over the screen.

I put the phone away and then … I received a sign from the universe, or whatever. I glanced down at the bathroom's counter top and right on top of a stack of women's magazine was a Cosmopolitan, and in bright pink text, these words leapt out at me:

Why Don't You Ask Him Out for a Change?

So I did.

I sent Luthor a carefully-worded, just-breezy-enough text message, suggesting we meet for lunch so that I could “pick his brain” about business advice.

He returned the message within half an hour, naming a fancy hotel restaurant downtown and saying he'd already made reservations for Tuesday at noon.

Martine, who was packing up ball gowns to go to a charity, stared up at me, all big blue eyes. “What? Am I doing everything wrong? Please don't fire me.”

“You're great,” I said. “I'm just surprised by a text message.”

“Ah!” She looked relieved.

Our client had disappeared off to another room to fetch some accessories for us to help her sort.

Staring at Martine, I remembered what it was like to be nervous at a new job, so I put away my phone and gave her a little pep talk, letting her know she was doing a fine job.

Martine looked around to make certain we were alone, and then leaned in and said, “Rich people scare me a little.”

“They're just like everyone else,” I said, launching into a mini-speech I was used to giving when people asked about my career. “Our clients just want to be heard. They want someone to patiently listen without judgment, and sometimes they just need a little company. It can be very lonely at the top.”

As Martine nodded and I spoke, I heard my pre-canned speech with fresh ears.

My major issue with Luthor Thorne had been him trying to treat me like an employee, ordering me around and trying to “book” me rather than date me. And yet, if he'd been raised by nannies and other staff members, people paid to care for him, it wasn't unnatural for him to try those patterns later in life.

And goodness knows there are a lot of women around looking for “sugar daddies” to buy them things in exchange for affection. I wondered if Luthor Thorne had ever had a normal relationship. Had he dated anyone in college? Had he ever had his heart truly broken, or did he push people away before they could hurt him?

People don't mean to hurt each other, not usually. They're just unwilling or unable to stop it. Sooner or later, everyone's going to be disappointed in life, and they'll look around for someone to pin it on.

After my parents first separated, my father made an effort for a while. He'd pick me up and we'd go through the ritual, listing off all the things neither of us felt like doing. Then we'd go back to his sad little bachelor apartment and I'd watch TV while he went about his regular life, sometimes there, sometimes out. He'd give me the fold-out bed and he'd take a blow-up air mattress that had to be noisily re-inflated in the middle of the night.

When he drove me back to my mother's, to
my
house where my real life was, he'd stand on the porch and grin like SuperDad. My mother would look down at me and say, “Tell your father you love him.”

“I love you,” I'd say.

He'd beam and say, “Me too, sweetie,” and hug me goodbye.

As I got older, we fought more. He moved to a better apartment, and I had my own room, but it was also his office, and he wouldn't let me put up the posters I wanted. It was a stupid thing to argue over, as are all the stupid things families argue over, but my teenage years were not pretty.

Eventually, I'd see him only once every few months, but still my mother would put us through that ritual of me saying, “I love you,” even on days I wanted to scream that I hated him.

In my head, I pretended I was saying “Isle of Yew” and that made it a little better.

My father's not the worst guy, and we actually get along just fine now that I'm a grown-up, although we don't see each other often. When we say goodbye, I still say “Isle of Yew,” and he doesn't know.

Even dressed in my best little suit—a cream skirt and matching jacket, over a red blouse—I felt out-classed at the fancy hotel restaurant. Don't you hate it when waiters give you a snooty, appraising look? I mean, come on. They're
waiters
, not captains of industry. Who are they to judge? I may not wear Chanel, but I don't describe the Catch of the Day a hundred times a day for a living.

At fancy places, I always over-tip—to prove a point, I guess. Funny how we all have our insecurities. I'm nearly as generous with the nice waiters who don't judge.

Luthor Thorne was already seated at the table, waiting for me. He looked up at me and his expression completely changed, with a decade melting away in an instant. I'd never realized how young he looked when he smiled. As I nearly tripped over my dumb feet—completely out of their league in my new, ultra-high heels—I knew I wanted to keep that smile on his face, no matter what.

He stood and kissed me on both cheeks.

Some other people in the restaurant turned to stare. I felt like Cinderella.

I got into my seat and the waiter pushed my chair in, to my surprise. Luthor laughed at my little squeal.

Once we were on our own with the menus, I said, “How was Denmark?”

“Flat and full of Danes, who speak English as well as you and I. Everyone rides bicycles.”

My smile was so big, it was hard to speak clearly. “Sounds lovely.”

“I'll take you with me next time.” He gave me a wink.

I didn't answer, but took a sip of my ice water. The water had a funny taste, because of the cucumber slices floating in it.

“I know,” Luthor said, noting my reaction. “Cucumber. What's next?”

I'd been wrinkling my nose at the water. I stopped making the face and took another sip, not wanting to appear fussy.

Luthor continued, “Slices of turnip.”

I had to laugh at that. “Beets, maybe, to color it pink?” I looked around at the interior of the restaurant, spotting a piece of art that looked familiar.

He turned and followed my gaze. “That's a reproduction. I have the original.”

I grinned. “In your bedroom. I remember.”

He pulled the slices of cucumber out of his water and tossed them on top of my ice water.

I pulled them out and ate them. “Don't play with your food,” I said.

His face got all serious, his eyes hungry. “You look good.” He swallowed, his Adam's apple moving up and down. “I missed you.”

I whispered, “I missed you, too.”

The waiter appeared, like a splash of cold water on the mood, and we ordered. I picked out a glorified grilled cheese sandwich I couldn't pronounce.

Luthor said, “That sounds terrific. I'll have the same.”

We chatted for a bit before our food came, talking about how my leg was healing (nicely; the stitches had just come out), how lovely Indonesia was (
so lovely
), and what Suzanne and Simon had been up to (the usual).

As we were digging into the fragrant lunch, the waiter came by with two very tall, thin glasses of a sparkling drink topped by strawberries. “Compliments of Mr. Hubert,” the waiter said, nodding toward the bar.

Luthor and I both turned, and Mr. Hubert waved back, his coat over his arm, on his way out. I must have flushed through every shade of red in the Blush Book: plum, tomato, raspberry, beet, and strawberry, too.

I knew the handsome man with the silver hair, because a few weeks prior, I'd helped his wife with some clothing shopping and given the man a little treat in a changing room. It was with his wife's permission, as they had some sort of
open thing
in effect, but it was still shocking to recollect.

Luthor was already sipping the drink. “Not bad,” he said. “At least there's no cucumber. Strange, though, that he'd be sending me drinks. I thought he'd be unhappy about the last company I bought out from underneath him.”

“I have a confession,” I said. “I know Mr. Hubert. Not well, but I think he sent the drinks because of me.”

“Don't tell me they had you over to one of their parties.” His lip curled up in disdain.

“No, nothing like that.”

“Good.” He slurped down the rest of the drink and sighed contentedly, then returned to the sandwich, eating it with his hands instead of with a fork and knife, as I had been.

When he was done, he licked his fingers instead of using the napkin, which I found odd, but didn't comment on.

I was still finishing my salad when he reached under the table and slipped his hand between my knees. The table was glass, with no tablecloth, and I couldn't believe he was being so bold. Getting felt up in a restaurant had not been on my
sensual tourism list
before, but now, suddenly, it was. I wanted him to slide that hand up to my juicy peach. But I had to resist.

“So, the business,” I said, pulling back in my chair and away from him. “I was wondering if you'd give us some advice about franchising. Or at least expanding.”

He leaned into the table and reached again for my knees, squeezing one.

A few people around us were watching with interest.

He caught my gaze and stared into me with those green-brown eyes, those deep, yearning eyes.

Desire blossomed within me, increasing the pace of my heart and making my palms sweat and my mouth water.
Forget lunch.
Forget everything. I wanted him. I licked my lips and relaxed my legs, parting them.

He closed his eyes and slid his hand up as far as it would go, mid-thigh.

I closed my eyes and tried not to think about the people all around us. My attraction to him was too powerful; we'd never be
just friends
.
Run, leave the restaurant
, I told myself, but I couldn't get my legs to move. I wanted his hand to travel further. I wanted him on top of me, inside me, possessing me. The man was incredible at sex, and I'd noticed the very first time we were together, when I'd thought of him as a
fuck machine
. He'd been incredible in Indonesia, and I couldn't deny I craved him.

His hand pulled away, and he was at my side, pulling me up from my chair, my hand in his.

My napkin fell to the floor as we walked away. As we exited the cafe, I said, “Luthor, we didn't pay the bill. It was going to be my treat, too.”

“I own the hotel,” he said.

Just outside the cafe's doors, in the hallway leading to the hotel lobby, he pushed me back against the wood-paneled wall and kissed me. As I tasted his lips and tongue, he pressed his body against mine urgently. My hands slipped under his jacket and around to his back, as though we'd done this a million times.

He pulled away from me. “Wait here. Don't move.”

I did, and he returned a moment later, then led me to the elevators.

Inside the elevator, he pressed the button for the top floor, and then he moved me into a corner and kissed me again, this time all over my throat and down my chest, unbuttoning my blouse as he went.