Wicked & Willing: Bad Girls (8 page)

“So, exactly what is it?” Max asked, leaning over to stare suspiciously at the concoction.

Troy shifted in his seat, barely listening as Venus listed the ingredients. “One of my favorites. Irish Cream, coffee liqueur, almond liqueur and vodka,” she explained. Then she paused, catching Troy’s eye, making sure she had his undivided attention.

He had to ask, because she so wanted him to. “What’s it called, Venus?”

Her wicked stare gave him a five-second warning. Then she lowered her voice to a sultry purr. “It’s a screaming orgasm.”

T
HOUGH THE BED
was huge and comfortable, Venus slept fitfully her first night in Max Longotti’s house. The comforter was one of those fancy fluffy ones that she was scared to actually use, so she folded it up and put it on a chair instead. Her window was just above a dramatic fountain on the side lawn, which gurgled and gushed all night, so she had to get up to go to the bathroom at least a half-dozen times. She sourly hoped the constant flushing kept her next-door neighbor awake.

The sheets were slick and satin instead of percale, making her wonder if she was going to slide right off the bed and knock herself unconscious. What a picture that would make for the maid in the morning. Naked Venus out cold on the floor, with a robin’s egg knot on her head.

Not Venus on the half shell…Venus on a gurney.

To top it all off, the scent of lilacs wafted from a flower arrangement on the dresser. Lilacs always made her think of dead people. Not a good mental image before sleep.

No, she didn’t fit in here, in spite of how much she’d enjoyed the hour she’d spent with Max Longotti in his office yesterday afternoon. The room made that obvious. As had, of course, dinner the night before.

Dinner?
More like disaster.

She pulled a pillow over her face and groaned into it.

The silverware hadn’t been too bad. She’d remem
bered what Troy said about the salad forks. And there hadn’t been an army of servants, just Mrs. Harris and a maid. The table had been big, but not so huge that she couldn’t talk with Max, who sat at the head, or Troy, who sat directly across from her.

But who on earth could have known the soup was supposed to be cold, the fish supposed to be raw and the pretty fruit garnish supposed to be for decoration only, not for eating? After scrunching up her nose and wondering why Max wasn’t complaining about the temperature of the soup, she’d followed the lead of the men at the table and suffered through it.

There was no way, however, she could suffer through raw fish. They might call the appetizer sushi, she called it bait. She’d—very delicately, she thought—spit a mouthful of the stuff into her napkin, hiding the maneuver behind a cough.

Troy had seen, of course. When he’d rolled his eyes in disapproval, she’d considered sticking her tongue out at him, but had settled for a haughty chin lift instead.

By the time they reached the main course, she’d been so determined not to make any more faux pas that she tried to force herself to eat the undercooked roast beef, even though it was bloody enough to still be mooing.

Venus was a well-done woman.

She’d tried holding her breath while chewing really fast and had ended up nearly choking. Knocking over her wineglass while reaching for her water, she’d said a prayer the meat would cut off her oxygen supply quickly, so she’d pass out and avoid any further mortification.

No such luck. Troy, Mr. Hero, leapt around the table, hoisted her out of her chair and Heimliched her so fast
she barely even saw the hunk of raw meat flying out of her mouth and into the pretty carnation centerpiece.

“At least it didn’t hit Max in the head,” she muttered aloud. Thank goodness for small favors. And, thankfully, Max had seemed to accept her claim that she’d had a really long day and wanted to go to her room right after dinner. Bad idea. She’d been trapped in here for hours, needing sleep the way a politician needed votes.

Though it was now only seven-thirty, she knew there was no point staying in bed. Remembering Max had said to feel free to use the pool, she decided to put on her suit and start the day with a little exercise. Though she considered exercise one of the worst words in the English language, it wasn’t as bad as another of the worst words—cellulite. She’d just sat up in bed when she heard a knock on the door. “Venus?”

Troy.

Great, what a way to start the day. Face-to-face with the guy who’d seen her naked, made her have an orgasm she’d dreamed about during her pitifully few hours of sleep and sent a piece of half-chewed beef flying out of her open, drooling mouth with enough force to bruise her ribs.

“Just a sec!” She reached for the T-shirt she’d put on before going to bed last night, which, since Venus always slept naked, had been flung off within ten minutes. Unfortunately, she reached too far, and felt herself slipping right off the stupid sheets, hitting the floor with a thunk and a surprised shriek.

The door opened before she’d even had time to lift her face off the floor and see if she’d broken anything. Like a lamp. Or her nose.

“Are you all right?” Troy crouched next to her, touching her bare shoulder.

“Maybe I’m looking for something under the bed,” she muttered as she glanced up at him, hoping she was still asleep and this was just another bad dream.

He cast a leisurely look down her naked back, grinning as he frankly perused her ass. “Perhaps your underwear?”

“I don’t wear them,” she snapped. Grabbing a sheet from the bed, she tugged it down and wrapped it around herself as she stood up. “Didn’t you get enough of seeing me naked last night?”

He shook his head. “Is that a trick question?” Continuing to stare her up and down, he murmured, “You know, like asking a woman if she can ever own enough shoes? She might try to lie, so she doesn’t look greedy, but deep in her heart, she’s dying for one more pair of Prada’s.”

Considering Venus was a shoe woman all the way, she found the comparison immensely flattering. “What do you want?” she asked.

She looked him over as she waited for his reply. He wasn’t dressed for work. He wore a pair of gym shorts and a sleeveless muscle shirt, which should have looked out of place on Mr. V.P., but instead looked damned sinful. He’d either just showered or gone swimming. His body glistened with a sheen of moisture that accented the rippling muscles of his arms and chest.

Perfect. Here she was with hair flying in twenty directions, a serious case of morning breath and probably a fat lip where her face had hit the floor.

Femme fatales worldwide must be quivering in mortification
.

“You’re a little accident prone, aren’t you? Remind me to never let you drive my car.”

“No. I absolutely am not,” she retorted, holding the
sheet against her chest while she ran her other hand through her hair, trying to smooth it down. “And, besides, I don’t like your car.”

His eyes widened in disbelief. “Okay, that’s going too far. You just insulted my Jag.”

Men and cars. Who could figure? “It’s too small,” she explained. “Or I’m too tall. We just don’t fit well together.”

Now, there was an understatement. She fit in with his car about as well as she fit in with this man or with this house.

That’d be a big fat zero percent.

“It’s a convertible. I can put the top down.”

“Wouldn’t that do wonders for my hair?”

He cast a doubtful look at her head. “Oh, yes, that would be a tragedy.”

Venus thought about letting go of the sheet long enough to punch him in the gut, but figured the sheet would fall and he’d get yet another chance to see her stark naked and vulnerable. “Exactly what is it you want?”

“What size are you? Ten? Twelve?”

“Excuse me?”

Instead of answering, he walked around her, studying her head to toe. “Probably a ten…but with those hips…”

“I’m a perfect eight,” she snarled, wondering how her day had gone from so-so to lousy in a two-minute time span.

He snickered. “Yeah. Right. Okay, have a good day.” Then he turned toward the door.

She grabbed his arm, almost tripping on the sheet tangled around her feet. “Why do you want to know my size?”

He paused, smiling gently. “You went to bed so early
last night, you didn’t get a chance to hear Max’s plans. He wants to take us to some charity dinner at the country club tomorrow.”

Though Venus hadn’t eaten much the previous night, she suddenly felt as if she had a full stomach. A full stomach on a roller-coaster ride. She raised a shaky hand to her lips. “His country club?”

He seemed to see her nervousness immediately. “It’s all right, Venus. I’ll make sure you have something to wear.”

“All the better to spill on, my dear?”

He stepped closer, pushing her wildly curling hair off her face with a touch so tender she almost sighed. “You’ll be fine. We’ll talk tonight, okay? And we’ll get you ready.”

“Ready to enjoy eating cold soup and meat with a pulse? I doubt it,” she said as she flopped on to the bed, lying on her back. She stared at the ceiling. “I want to go home.”

“Home is better than designer clothes and country clubs?” he asked, sitting beside her on the bed, taking her hand but making no attempt to move too close.

She somehow doubted the role of comforter came naturally to the man, but he was pretty darn good at it, anyway. “Home is beer and pizza. Laughter at Flanagan’s, my uncle’s pub. Games of darts. Betting on the Orioles.” Still lying next to him on the huge bed, she turned to stare at him. “What’s home to you?”

“Sales circulars,” he murmured. “Meetings. New lines.” He chuckled lightly. “Battles with my grandmother about the suitability of the date I brought to the last holiday party.”

“That sounds interesting.”

He glanced at her out the corner of his eye and admit
ted, “My grandmother doesn’t seem to approve of my taste in women.”

“Oh?” she asked, trying to hide her keen interest. “You have a certain type you like?”

He laughed softly. “The breathing type.”

She slowly rose on the bed until she sat next to him. “Are you trying to tell me you’re a dog?”

He narrowed his eyes, obviously thinking about it. Then, slowly, he nodded. “I suppose that’s as accurate as anything.”

“I don’t believe it.” She crossed her arms in front of her chest, careful not to dislodge the sheet, and gave him a look of pure skepticism. “Dogs don’t admit they’re dogs.”

He shrugged. “Ex-dog? Reformed dog?”

“Neutered dog?” she said with a wicked grin.

He raised a brow, daring her to remember how totally bogus that claim was. She giggled, saying, “Okay, that one’s out.”

“I should say so.”

Though it was early in the morning, and she was in a strange house, having a conversation with a man she’d known less than a day—and, oh, yeah, almost naked—Venus wanted to know more. “So does the respectable, conservative, suit-wearing businessman by day live a double life?”

He took a moment before answering. Then, finally, he sighed. “I guess I did, though I didn’t really see it at the time. Trent is convinced my romantic troubles came about as a result of having to be the good twin growing up.”

She raised a dubious brow, remembering the naked man who’d made no effort to grab for the towel yester
day afternoon. “You’re the good twin? Lordy, I think I wanna meet your brother.”

“I said growing up,” he clarified. “We switched roles somewhere along the line. He’s now settled down, happily married and soon to become a father.”

“But it wasn’t always like that?”

“No. Trent used to be the one in trouble for skipping school. The one who wrecked cars as a teenager. He took up every dangerous sport there is—skydiving, mountain climbing, street racing.”

She began to understand. While she’d always thought it would be kinda cool having a twin, she now saw the flip side. Imagine being pressured from a young age to be the opposite of a person who physically looked just like you? “And you were the good son, great student, the suck-up rich kid who was supposed to honor the family name and make dad proud, right?”

He shifted on the bed, turning to face her. “Suck up? You’ve got the most colorful vocabulary.”

She ignored him. “So Trent was the troubled teen, while by day you lived your dutiful, assigned role, and by night…”

He shrugged. “I snuck women into my room.”

Sounded like her kind of guy. Too bad she’d already decided she couldn’t have him. Now, though, sitting in her rumpled bed, still lethargic and warm from her sheets, she could hardly remember
why
she couldn’t have him. “I suppose your brother’s theory makes sense, and it could be part of what’s driven you….”

“But?” he asked, looking very interested in her opinion. More interested than she’d have expected.

“But isn’t it possible, Troy, that, uh, you also just really…like sex?”

He started to laugh, genuinely amused. “Yeah. That’s
what I always figured,” he admitted. “How funny someone I’ve known for less than a day would understand.” His laughter gradually faded and he simply looked at her face. He studied her intently and repeated, “How funny.”

“Maybe I understand it because I’m a lot like you,” she admitted softly. “There’s plenty of stuff in the world that can stress me out or bring me down. Should I feel ashamed because sex isn’t one of them?”

He instantly reminded her of their conversation the night before. “Then why has it been since last fall for you?”

She answered his question with a question of her own. “Well, why are you now ‘reformed’?”

They stared at each other, both realizing the conversation had somehow gotten more intense and personal than they’d ever intended. Certainly it had on Venus’s part. She had no problem talking to this mouthwatering man about sex. But about silly things like family and babies and a fast-approaching thirtieth birthday? He didn’t need to hear about how she’d awakened one day and decided she wanted real emotion and commitment for the first time in her life. He’d probably laugh in her face.

“All I can say,” he replied, “is that if we’d met a year ago, we wouldn’t be sitting here just
talking
right now.”

His mouth curved into a knowing smile, and all Venus could think about was the way he’d tasted when they’d kissed. She focused on a bead of sweat on his jaw, which drew her attention to the strong beat of his pulse in his neck. His skin would taste salty right there, his heart would beat hard against her if she fell back onto the bed and pulled him down on top of her.

When he met her eyes, his expression told her he knew exactly what she was feeling, and felt the same.