The Millionaire Affair(12)

At the sound of his voice, her cheeks stained a pretty shade of pink.  She sent him a confused smile. He smiled back. Couldn't help it. The  look on her face was that of a woman who liked him. And he liked that. A  lot more than he should.

"Tell me what you've been up to since you were sixteen years old." He  leaned back on the sofa, content to let her talk while he watched her  unabashedly.

Contrarily, she couldn't keep her eyes in one place. They jerked from  the bookshelves behind his head to the window, to the glass in her hand.  "Um. Wow. That's a lot of years to summarize." A breathy laugh escaped  her lips. "I um, graduated high school." She tapped the bottom of her  glass with her fingernails. "I did not go straight to college, but by  the time I did, I moved so I could attend the Fashion Institute in New  York."

He lifted his brows. She'd lived in New York.

She nodded. "Impressive, right?"

"Very." How unusual that she'd have an interest in a field so similar to  Lissa's. He wondered if they'd ever crossed paths. "So you wanted to be  a big, famous designer with your own runway shows?"

She chewed the corner of her lip. "I did …  until I worked for Karl Kingsley."

Lissa had done a show with Kingsley a few years back. She'd told him the  nickname the models had for him. He wondered if that had been a  universal moniker. "The Royal Shithead?" he asked.

Kimber laughed, a brief look of surprise crossing her face. Like she  hadn't expected him to be crass. He liked that he'd surprised her. He  liked her, period.

"That's him. Anyway, I got fired. From an unpaid internship. I was  standing too close to a model who was spouting off at him and he fired  her from the show, and me, and a seamstress who happened to be in the  line of fire as well." She swirled her finger around the edge of her  glass, the motion oddly erotic. "After that, I had …  problems attaining  another internship in New York. I spoke with the seamstress, who was my  friend, and she'd had the same issues. We thought Kingsley had  blacklisted us somehow. He has a lot of pull in the industry."

As most old guys who became relics did. Her story reminded him of the  job he'd taken straight out of college. Brett Carmichael. The guy acted  as if he'd owned the moon rather than RedAd, and when Landon had left to  strike out on his own, Brett had attempted to smear Landon's reputation  with his customers. Thankfully, he'd failed. Landon knew because many  of those customers had come to him, leaving Brett's antiquated design  where it belonged. In the past.

"I moved to Chicago with my friend Gloria," she continued. "Evan's  agent"-she glanced at him to make sure he knew her by name. He nodded.  "And then I worked in department stores on Michigan Avenue until about a  year ago when I opened Hobo Chic."

"A vintage clothing store. Angel mentioned it."

"Did she also mention I made the tragic error of partnering with my  ex-boyfriend to buy it?" She blinked, almost as if she was stunned that  the words had come out of her mouth.

He was getting the idea she didn't do much planning …  for anything. The  words she spoke, her actions. He probably had that attribute to thank  for her being here.

She waved a hand through the air, the subject along with it. "Anyway.  Water. Bridge. What about you? What did you do after college?"

He pressed his lips together. He'd desperately tried to reconnect with  Rachel the moment he'd set foot back on campus. She'd gone to live with  her aunt in Texas. She'd never contacted him again. Ever. After they'd  dated for a year and a half and made a baby she'd aborted.

"That's a long and boring story," he lied. Forcing a smile onto his face  was like nailing Jell-O to a tree, but he managed. "I take it you're  not a scotch drinker." He pointed to the glass and she stilled her  circling finger.         

     



 

"What gave me away?" She tilted the glass to examine it again. "What do I do? Swirl it, smell it?"

"Drink it." Lifting his glass, he demonstrated by pulling in a mouthful  of the amber liquid. He swallowed, savoring the burn in his throat.  Finally, he was starting to relax. He could feel himself sink into a  slight buzz, in part thanks to his skipping dinner. He enjoyed the  sensation of his shoulders dropping from beneath his ears for the first  time in eleven hours.

She was studying her glass with apprehension. "Why does mine have ice and yours doesn't?"

"Smell yours," he said.

She sniffed. Shrugged. "Okay."

"Now mine." He tipped his glass in her direction and she held his wrist  to steady the glass. The simple connection had him subconsciously moving  his body closer to hers, as if she'd dragged him there by an invisible  thread. She inhaled, watching him from under a fan of ginger lashes, her  eyes wide and watchful.

"Scotchy," she said.

"The ice tames the scent."

Every part of her, from her pink mouth to her darkening pupils, to the  feather-light touch on his arm, said Kiss me. And, God, how he wanted  to.

She moved her hand before he could act on the impulse, lifting her glass  to the mouth he wanted to capture with his. She mumbled something like  "Here goes nothing," her words echoing lightly off the cut crystal,  before she took in a mouthful, held it for a second, then swallowed it  down, a completely adorable scowl on her face.

She stuck her tongue out. "Really?"

A grin he couldn't contain covered his face. It pulled his cheeks and lifted his glasses. "Scotch is an acquired taste."

She stared into the glass as if it were filled with worms. "How do you acquire a taste for battery acid?"

His smile held. "Man. I was hoping you wouldn't be this predictable."

Her eyebrows tilted, making her look almost hurt. "I'm predictable?"

No. You're adorable.

"You knew I would make a face when I drank it?" Her voice was high and tight.

"I did."

"And you knew I'd need the water to wash the taste from my mouth." She lifted the bottle, uncapped it, and took a swig.

He dipped his chin. "I did."

"And"-she capped the bottle-"you knew I'd ask to taste yours next?"

He-what?

The side of her mouth curved, a feral little lift, and she gestured to his glass. "May I?"

He handed it over. "Sure."

"I want to see what scotch without ice tastes like." She took a drink,  turning the glass to sip from the side he sipped from, her lips closing  over the rim where his had a moment ago. This time she managed not to  wince or frown. She did stick her tongue out, though. To lick a drop of  Macallan from her bottom lip before covering it with her top lip and  rubbing them together.

He shifted as subtly as he could manage with a two-by-four wedged against his zipper.

"Better." She offered his glass, her eyes turning up to his again.

He told himself to move away, give both of them some space. But he  stayed where he was in spite of his mental orders. Her eyes traveled  over his body, and the tingle in his balls moved up his spine and down  both legs simultaneously. Her next question didn't help hedge his  arousal.

"Do you ever take off that tie?" she asked.

He didn't miss the opportunity to flirt with her. "I don't wear it in the shower if that's what you're asking."

Kimber sucked in a deep breath, and he hoped it was because she was  imagining him naked. It was only fair since he'd pictured her that way  now, too. He was playing with fire, and it was far more fun than he  remembered.

He slid a glance down her arms and up again, wanting badly to reach out and touch her. Just a touch.

"You look good in green," he said, sliding his fingers beneath the short  sleeve nearest him and running the tip of his index finger along the  satin-smooth skin on the inside of her upper arm.

She gasped, barely, but he'd heard it. He met her eyes, saw the flash of  interest, the war she was waging with propriety, or maybe she was  simply reacting to the familiarity between them. He felt it, too. Felt  the charge between the scant inch separating their legs, the electric  current streaming through his fingers as he tickled her flesh.

"I'm thirsty."

He yanked his arm away from her at the sound of his nephew's voice. Lyon  lingered in the doorway, rubbing his eyes and yawning and looking  utterly uninterested that his uncle was hovering over his nanny.

"Hey, buddy." Landon had to clear his throat when the words came out as a croak.         

     



 

Lyon shuffled over to the couch and climbed up and sat between them.  Landon reluctantly made room. "I wanted to say good night but you were  asleep," he told his nephew, smoothing his hair against his head.

Lyon yawned again, his eyelids as heavy as sandbags. "I can't sleep."

Sure he can't. He flicked a look over his nephew's head at Kimber, whose lips twitched in amusement.

She leaned down to eye level with Lyon. "How about I get you some  water?" She smiled with a purity that squeezed Landon's chest. He loved  Lyon like he would his own kid. He should have been here when he said he  would. Tomorrow, he vowed. Tomorrow, he'd get home in time to tuck him  in. Balancing business and family this week had proven to be a challenge  he'd failed. Thank God for Kimber.