The Billionaire's Favourite Mistake(23)

It was clear that the man knew how to kiss. It was clear that he hadn't  picked it all up from her printouts or from watching a romantic movie  or two.

Greer might have been naïve, but she wasn't stupid. It was obvious that  Asher was pretending to need to "practice" with her . . . but to what  end? That was the part she kept coming back to. Did he want to be  friends again? Friends didn't give friends scorching tongue kisses.  Friends didn't suck on the earlobes of other friends and ask them if  they liked it or if they wanted more.

Friends sure didn't ask friends to give them their mouth.

And friends didn't shove themselves against other friends like wanton hussies and demand those kisses.

She pressed a hand to her flushed cheeks. She'd known the moment he'd  started to nip at her earlobe that this was an experienced man. She  should have pulled away and demanded answers. Instead, he'd come close  to kissing her, demanded that she ask for more, and what had she done?  Thrown her arms around his neck and kissed him.

So she was complicit in this.

She was so, so confused.

She put her seat belt on, started the rental car, and drove back to her  father's mansion, her mind replaying the evening over and over again.         

     



 

Kissing practice, of all things. More like an excuse to kiss her for  the next few days. No, wait. The next week, and then they would move  on-heaven help her-to more intense sessions. Her entire body prickled  with awareness at the thought.

She should have been mad. She should have been furious that he'd  clearly lied to her about his skill. Or rather, she'd told him he was  terrible at it and he'd never corrected her. It had suited him to let  her think that. But why get a month of sex practice out of her?

Out of her?

That was the part she kept coming back to. What was it about Greer that  he wanted? She wasn't so naïve that she thought he'd somehow fallen in  love with her. And Vegas was full of women who would take their clothes  off-or more-for the right amount of money. It wasn't like he couldn't  afford sex. Heck, she doubted he'd even have to pay someone. He could  just flash his charming smile at them and they'd fall into his arms,  just like she did.

It had to be something with the baby, then. A surge of protectiveness  shot through her. It was her baby. He didn't deserve to be in their  lives, not after that night in the gardens. But . . . if it was the  baby, why had he agreed to give up all parental rights? She'd seen the  contracts sent by his lawyer and had sent them on to hers to look over  one last time before she signed. All was in motion, and they were both  upholding their parts of the bargain.

Could it be that he really didn't think he was good at sex?

She was so confused.

She was intrigued, too, as much as she hated to admit it to herself.  Tonight's kissing had set her body on fire. It had made her want more.  It had made her wish desperately that she had a vibrator to let off some  of the tension in her body. So as much as she was frustrated with Asher  and didn't trust him?

She was going back to his hotel room tomorrow night for the next  session and not saying a thing about figuring out his plan. If she kept  her mouth shut, she got a month of sex "practice" with him-practice that  involved him doing his best to please her and make her feel pleasure.

What was the harm in that? It wasn't as if he could get her pregnant.

It was just harmless sex . . . and she was honest enough to admit that she was looking forward to more of everything.

By the time she pulled up into the long, winding driveway of the  Dutchman castle, she was feeling a bit more like herself. Greer smoothed  her hair, adjusted her glasses, and then plucked her purse out of the  passenger seat and headed in via the staff entrance.

"That you, Greer?" Marta called from the kitchen the moment Greer shut the door behind her.

She winced. Sometimes it was really frustrating having the staff  entrance be right off the kitchens. Marta liked to know everything that  was going on, and this was one particular thing she wouldn't have minded  keeping a secret. She hesitated, then took a few steps forward and  peeked into one of the kitchen doors. "It's me. Just heading up to my  room."

"Sit, sit," Marta encouraged, gesturing at the near-empty kitchen. A  fleet of cake pans was laid out on the main stainless steel table, and  flour seemed to be everywhere.

There was no escaping. Steeling herself, Greer pasted an "everything's  totally fine and I wasn't just making out with the guy that got me  pregnant" smile on her face and headed in. "Working late?"

"The engagement party is tomorrow night," Marta said, scraping a wooden  spoon on one of the batter bowls. "I have to get these cakes ready for  icing in the morning." She set down the bowl and then bustled over to  the refrigerator. "I made you some tarts, as well. You need to eat  more."

"I don't want to bother you-"

The cook tsked and pulled out a foil-covered tray, unwrapping it and  setting it in front of Greer. "You eat those and I'll get you some milk.  You need to feed that baby."

The pile of apple tarts did look awfully appetizing. Each one was made  with a distinctive flower-shape cut into the dough, and gooey frosting  had been drizzled on the tops. She picked one up and took a bite-the  crust melted into her mouth, and she wanted to moan with pleasure. Maybe  she could steal Marta away from her father and drag her back to New  York. "This is wonderful," Greer told her, wiping away a mouthful of  crumbs.         

     



 

Marta placed a tall glass of milk in front of Greer, beaming. "Gotta  figure out something to keep food down in that belly of yours." As Greer  began to drink, Marta patted her on the shoulder and then bustled back  to her cake batter. "Once you've finished eating, maybe you can tell me  what you're doing sneaking in so late?"

Greer froze. She took another sip of milk, and pretended to keep drinking.

"Come on, mamacita. I know you better than your father does." Scrape,  scrape went the spoon. "Put down that milk and tell me who you're  seeing. You've got a guilty look in your eyes."

She put down the glass and picked up another tart. "Would you believe me if I said it was nobody important? Just business?"

"I would," Marta agreed, "If it wasn't for the fact that you've got stubble burn all over your cheeks."

Oh, mercy. Greer felt a flush heat her face. "Busted."

"Busted indeed." Marta put the bowl aside and picked up a round cake  pan, tapping the side of it with the flat of her hand to get the bubbles  out. "You need to think about that baby, Miss Greer. Your mother, god  bless her, was not much of a thinker and you need to be different. That  baby needs its mama."

She knew. "I promise it's no one important. Just . . ." Oh, goodness.  How could she possibly explain? It's the father of the baby and we're  just practicing kissing together like two teenagers instead of grown  adults. That would not fly. "Just trust me when I say I have it all  under control."

"Mmm."

Great, now she felt like a guilty kid. "I promise I'm being smart, Marta."

The cook sighed and put the cake pan down. She shook her head at Greer,  and for a moment looked so sad that it made Greer's heart ache. "I know  you're smart, baby girl. I just . . . I worry. Since you arrived on the  doorstep, eight years old and no mama, I worried about you. Your father  . . ." She rolled her eyes and wiped her hands on her apron. "Your  father is good with business and terrible with family."

"I know."

"I know you know. But that's why I look out for you, Greer. I think of you like one of my daughters."

Tears blurred Greer's eyes. She got up from her seat and went to hug  the cook. "I'm so stealing you when I go back to New York."

"Pssssht." Marta hugged her and patted Greer's back. "Your father would riot if he didn't have my pancakes every morning."

"I'll pay more than him."

"It's not always about money," Marta said, beaming at Greer. She tucked  a lock of hair behind Greer's ear. "You're not the only one I have to  look after here." For a moment, she looked sad. "Your father . . . he  did not think about those three girls when he decided to put together  this wedding."

Guilt surged through Greer. The tabloids were not getting kinder with every day that passed. "You noticed?"

Marta shook her head. "Like I said, your father. Good with business,  not good with family. He should be nicer to those girls. They adore him  and he treats them . . . well, like they're servants." She raised an  eyebrow at Greer. "Dirty servants, but still servants."

"Now there's a visual," Greer murmured.

The cook patted her on the shoulder again. "I just don't want you  finding yourself making a mistake you can't escape, Miss Greer. Look at  those three girls. One of them is going to marry your father. The other  two are going to . . . what? Have a career in porn once he's done with  them?"