The Millionaire Makeover (Bachelor Auction) (4 page)

Chapter Three

Monday mornings were a bitch.

Especially when Saturday and Sunday had been spent in a pralines-and-cream-barbeque-potato-chip-Diet-Coke binge. After that third bag of chips and second quart of ice cream, the hours started to grow hazy. This morning, she’d woken with a queasy stomach, swollen fingers from all the soda, and the fire-and-brimstone sermon of the early morning television evangelist ringing in her ears. Not that she had to worry about going to hell for fornication. The only foreign thing in her bed was potato chip crumbs.

Thank you very much, Niall Hunter.

The reminder of her brother’s long-lost best friend sent another nauseous wave lurching against the wall of her stomach. And the mercury on her temper shooting for “Hulk, smash!” degrees.

Three years.

It’d been three years since she’d seen or heard from Niall.

Thirty-six months since Michael’s death, and she’d impulsively travelled to Ireland and Niall’s home to check on him as well as seek comfort and to escape her parents’ grief, anger, and claustrophobic smothering.

One-hundred-and-fifty-six weeks since she’d opened her eyes to find a messy tangle of sheets, tenderness in places in her body she hadn’t known existed, and a cold stranger who wore Niall’s face telling her she should leave and go back home.

She given him her virginity, and he’d given her a Coyote Ugly send-off.

Sighing, Khloe slipped a mechanical pencil from her bun and tapped the end against the desk top. Yes, Niall had basically kicked her out of his house after shattering every notion she possessed about sex conceived from romance novels, YouTube video manuals, and Cinemax soft porn. None of those books, videos, or movies could have prepared her for the erotic storm that was Niall Hunter. He’d buffeted her with his fierce sexuality, swallowed and changed her with his raw hunger like the winds of a devastating hurricane rearranged a shoreline.

But it hadn’t been his callousness after hours of hot sex that’d hurt her most. That honor belonged to his absence and utter silence afterward. Niall had been a fixture in her life since she was seven years old, when he’d come home with Michael after school one day, his Irish accent funny and musical to her ears. Unlike most teenage boys, he’d been patient, long-suffering, and kind to his friend’s baby sister. And as time passed and they all grew, the fascination for Niall had altered into something sharper and filled with yearning. Her crush had been epic—pathetic. She twisted her lips into a bitter smile. And her angst-ridden love had endured when Niall and Michael had moved to New York and later Dublin. Because even then, he’d remained in contact with her through phone calls, emails, Skype, visits. While she’d believed someone as beautiful as Niall could only want her in her dreams, above all, she’d treasured their friendship.

And after Michael’s death, she’d lost her brother and her best friend. For the first time in her life, she’d been alone.

Vestiges of the loneliness, confusion, grief, and hurt echoed in her chest, slowly inflating like a balloon trapped behind her sternum.
Stop it
. She gave the mechanical pencil one last hard tap before tossing it to the desk and swiped the wireless mouse across the pad. The green and black code of
The Matrix
disappeared from her monitor, and she brought up the latest project she was working on.

“So please tell me you eventually tracked down Henry Cavill, gave him a piece of your mind, and then just a piece,” Morgan said in lieu of “good morning”, sailing into Khloe’s office. Khloe groaned as Morgan sank into one of the chairs in front of the desk, crossing her long legs and arching a golden eyebrow.

“I believe Henry Cavill is British, not Irish,” Khloe hedged, spinning in her office chair to face her friend. Was she quibbling? Most definitely. Because she could see the similarities between the actor and Niall. The tousled waves of black hair. The elegant, almost patrician bone structure. The faint dent in his chin, shadowed by a dusting of hair along his jaw. The startling blue eyes and thick, dark fringe of lashes. And that kissable—bitable—mouth that was almost too lush for a man, but balanced out the strong angles of his face.

Good Lord
. All that and capped off by a body that would shame The Rock into a fatty farm.

“You dare play semantics with me when I’ve been calling you all weekend to find out the dirty details between you and Superman? Dish, bitch.”

Khloe winced. Not at the “bitch”—one of Morgan’s favorite words besides “ho” and “va-jay-jay”—but at the guilt winding its oil-slicked way through her chest. Of course she’d noticed the number of times her phone had rung and Morgan’s name had popped up on the screen. But she’d been chin-deep in a pint of pralines ‘n’ cream. No time to talk when a spoon was lodged in her mouth.

“And he’s Kryptonian,” she corrected, and flicked up her hand when her friend’s lips parted. Probably to blast her to hell and back. “And I’m sorry about avoiding your calls. I wasn’t in the mood to talk.”

“You could’ve texted,” Morgan murmured, inspecting her flawless manicure. “I was a tad bit worried. Just a tad, mind you.”

Khloe snorted, though her heart warmed at Morgan’s confession. She didn’t pretend to understand the elite, glittery social circles her friend traveled in. The circles that required she erect gilded steel around her heart and view emotions as a weakness. Displays of affection didn’t come easily to Morgan, so Khloe appreciated every effort she made.

“Well, no need for concern. Other than an extra-strength antacid and a potato chip intervention, I’m fine.”

Morgan nodded, ended the perusal of her cuticles, and pinned Khloe to the back of her chair with a hard stare. “So what’s the deal with tall, dark, delicious, and broody?”

Tall. Dark. Broody. Yeah, those fit Niall. Delicious? No. She might have found him sexy, and hot, and hard, and gorgeous… She briefly squeezed her eyes shut
. Rein it back in!
She might have found Niall
attractive
at one time, but not anymore.

“Like he said, he was my brother’s best friend.”

“Now, if I can remember correctly,” Morgan said, crinkling her forehead in a thoughtful frown and tapping her pursed lips with a fingertip. “My older brother has had best friends, but I’ve never told them to go to hell. Nor have I ever been willing to suffer through a Brazilian to spare myself their company. That’s a special kind of hate.”

Okay so the wax might’ve been a
little
over the top. Niall possessed the power to incite that much anger inside her—and masochism. “It’s a long story.”

“Use short words. And hurry. Those office supplies aren’t going to order themselves, sweetie.”

Khloe sighed. A dog with lock jaw had nothing on the other woman when she latched onto a subject. “I had a pathetic, clichéd crush on my older brother’s best friend. When Michael died three years ago, Niall and I ended up having sex. And the morning after, he kicked me out, practically chewing through his arm to escape. That was the last time I saw or heard from him.”

Morgan gaped at her, eyes wide, mouth open, for once the ennui absent from her expression. “You ho,” she whispered, a healthy amount of scandal and admiration coloring her voice. “A one-night-stand? You?”

“Yes, me,” Khloe drawled, crossing her arms. “And apparently my slutty skills are as stellar as my dating skills—which explains why I haven’t been engaging in either.”

“Wow.” Morgan grinned. “I’m impressed. He’s hot as hell. Was he good? He looks like he can have a girl swinging by her panties from the chandeliers.”

Khloe tightened her arms around herself, rolling her lips into a thin line.

Morgan hooted with laughter as she fell back against her chair. “I’ll take that as a ‘hell yes,’” she crowed. “Does he have a big d—”

“Morgan,” Khloe snapped.

“I’ll take that as a ‘hell yes,’ too.” Morgan snickered then sobered. “Seriously, though. True, he pulled a dick move with leaving. But Friday was your chance to make him pay. I hate to tell you this, but I think you bit off your nose to spite your face. You could’ve had revenge sex
and
a date for the gala.”

“No, thank you. On both accounts.” She shook her head. “Besides, I need a man to pretend he’s madly in love with me. Or at least in lust. Niall proved he wouldn’t be able to pull either off. I’m just sorry you spent twenty-thousand dollars, and we came away with nothing to show for it.”

Morgan dismissed Khloe’s apology with a flicker of her hand. “Don’t worry about that. Father will just write it off. But what are you going to do now? Please tell me you don’t plan on asking your parents to help you out.” She shuddered.

Morgan had attended one of her parents’ get-togethers—just one—and witnessed their attempt at matchmaking for Khloe firsthand. That night, it had been the nephew of an English professor. If a news bulletin with his face and a shot of police carrying body bag after body bag out of his basement ever flashed across her television screen, Khloe wouldn’t be one of the people interviewed who claimed, “He was so quiet. I would’ve never guessed he would do something like this.” Quiet and creepy. With I-dissolve-my-dates-in-hydrochloric-acid written all over him.

“No. I haven’t told them about,” she paused, “my plans.” Khloe didn’t feel like hearing them caution her about being realistic in her relationship goals. Or suffering through the
“He’s not one of us”
speech. Anyone not part of their insular, academic world was inked with the “not one of us” tattoo. They chose to ignore that Khloe wasn’t either. “Not that it matters now,” she murmured.

Niall had screwed her both literally and figuratively. Once in the bedroom of his Dublin home and then again Friday in a Boston ballroom. Thanks to him, she didn’t have a date to the company’s holiday gala in five days. And no time to find a gorgeous, sophisticated, debonair replacement. Her chance of the man she loved finally seeing her as a desirable woman instead of a buttoned-up, quiet wallflower was gone.

“So you’re not going?” Morgan asked. “Don’t stay at home. Come with me. I don’t have a date either.”

“Please.” Khloe scoffed. “You show up without a date, it’s considered swagger. I do, and it’s pathetic. Forget it. The idea was good, but…” She shot to her feet, snatching up her “Geeks do it better” mug. One definitely should not plummet into the I’m-going-to-be-a-spinster-with-99-cats doldrums before the first cup of morning coffee. She circled her desk and strode from her office, Morgan fast on her heels. Khloe rolled her eyes as she headed to the break room at the end of the hall. Apparently, her friend didn’t consider the subject of her impending spinsterhood as shut as Khloe did.

She gritted her teeth, shutting out Morgan’s ongoing diatribe as she selected a French vanilla K-cup and dropped it into the single-cup coffee maker. Moments later, the light, sweet scent of freshly brewed coffee teased her nose, and she inhaled, her lashes fluttering down.
Nirvana
. She reached for it, anticipating that first taste.

“Good morning, Khloe. Morgan.”

She jerked, and hot liquid splashed her hand.
Damn
! Skin smarting, she grabbed a couple of napkins and dabbed at her abused flesh before blotting up the small splatters on the counter. But the heat of the coffee was no match for the searing lick of fire that blazed up her chest and streamed into her face. She shot a glare that promised death by stiletto at Morgan, and her friend shrugged in response, mouthing “sorry.”

Heart pounding, she turned and faced the owner of the smooth, deep voice with its soft drawl that hinted at southern roots. So different from the light, lilting Irish brogue that had tormented her since Friday night…

Stop. Thinking. Of.
Him.

“Um, hi, Bennett,” she stammered, turning and giving the chief operating officer of System Solutions Unlimited—and the man she was hopelessly in love with—a tremulous smile. He returned hers with a blinding grin. And every clever quip she’d practiced in her mirror for moments when she came face-to-face with him skipped out of her head with a fuck-you-very-much wave.

God, he was gorgeous. From his golden cap of hair and dark green eyes that were a much more vibrant and lush hue then her own to the tall, fit body that wore a three-piece suit as if he were born in one…he exuded confidence, sophistication, and an elegance that were simultaneously attractive and faintly intimidating.

Intimidating because in his presence she was never more aware of her own awkwardness. Never more aware of her mousey plainness that rendered her invisible or pitiable. Never more aware of the quiet, unassuming manner that seemed even dimmer in the face of Bennett and Morgan’s vibrancy.

He was perfect. And she was…not.

If she were interesting, desirable—
memorable
—how could her ex-boyfriend have found it so easy to use and discard her so easily for her work and a promotion?

How could Niall have found it so easy to have sex with her and then abandon her?

A sharp pang spasmed in her chest. Inhaling, she squelched the pain. Bennett, with his own success, wouldn’t have to use her to get ahead. And once he finally saw her—really
saw
her—he wouldn’t use her as a booty-call then leave. She’d devoured everything she could find on her supervisor. Articles about being a founding member of their small software company, pictures of him with the family he appeared close to…and gossip about his romantic relationships. A couple of which had been long term. Bennett wasn’t afraid of commitment.

Unlike a certain person she could name.

Stop thinking about him
, she silently scolded herself. Especially since thanks to that “certain person”, she’d lost her opportunity to shine in front of Bennett. To finally grab his attention and become something more than the programmer who blushed and mumbled every time he spoke to her.

Like what she was doing now.

“Are you,” he tipped his head toward the coffee maker, “finished?”

“Oh!”
Jesus H. Christ
. “Yes. I’m sorry. Let me get out of your way.” She snatched up her cup and backed away from the coffee maker. Her hip glanced off a drawer handle, and she stumbled.
Damn it
. “Sorry about that,” she apologized again, cheeks blazing hotter.