The Millionaire Affair(4)

The millionaire advertising guru and CEO of Downey Design had worn an  immaculate black tuxedo and a frown that brought out the angle of his  sexy, squared jaw and enviable cheekbones. Lissa had worn a practiced  look of remorse, her hand hung limply over his arm, her body  candy-coated in a clingy red Gucci dress, her gazelle-like legs long and  graceful. Unfortunately for the supermodel, she had zero percent  self-respect to go along with her zero percent body fat. Who cheated on  someone as hot as Landon Downey, anyway?

He'd been perfect all those years ago before Kimber had lost her  virginity, and having tested the waters a few times, she could see he  was even more perfect now. She let out a sigh, and Angel leaned forward  and kissed her on the cheek. "Richie and I have to catch our flight  home. Thank you for doing this. It means the world to Landon. And Evan,"  she added with a lift of her manicured eyebrows.         

     



 

"You knew I'd say yes, didn't you?" Kimber asked, defeated.

Angel grinned, the expression lighting her whole face. "I knew if I  stopped by in person you'd fold like a cheap suit." She stole a glance  over at Mick, who was pecking something into his phone. "Have fun  breaking it to Romeo."

But breaking it to Mick wasn't what had her stomach in knots. It was  that Landon was going to call her. Her. And she had no idea what she'd  say when he did.



She spent the remainder of the afternoon with one eye on the telephone  wondering what "after lunch" meant to a millionaire. What time did he  eat lunch? Most people ate at noon, but sometimes she got caught up in a  task and forgot to eat until two. Which is what time it was nearing  now.

She sort of hated how money had been the factor that clenched the deal.  But the plain truth was the amount Landon offered for the weeklong gig  was tempting. As tempting as opening her mouth under one of those  cascading, melted-chocolate fountains at a wedding. She'd done that  once. For far less than what Landon offered.

Her eyes went to Mick, who'd abandoned his cell to touch up the  daisy-yellow window paint that read Hobo Chic on the front window. He  was the real reason she'd said yes; why she'd sold her soul for quick  cash. Never underestimate the power of needing disentanglement from a  bad relationship.

When she'd met Mick at a nightclub two years ago, her best friend Gloria  in tow, Kimber hadn't expected to have so much in common with him. But  they had. Aside from being sexy in a rascally way, Mick, like Kimber,  loved all things vintage.

Eleven months ago she and Mick caught the entrepreneur bug and went into  business, opening Hobo Chic together. She hadn't stopped to think what  would happen if they split-which they had, three months later-or what a  colossally bad idea it was to tie her professional life to a guy she was  sleeping with who refused to call himself her "boyfriend."

Now here they were, stuck together like The Odd Couple except neither of  them was particularly neat. Mick had been haranguing her to sell Hobo  Chic for a few months now. He wanted to split the profit from the sale  and go his separate way. She agreed with the separate-way part, but not  the selling part. She'd put him off each time he asked.

Hobo Chic was her dream, her baby. She wasn't willing to let it go. Not  yet, anyway. She had a plan to buy Mick's half of the store as soon as  she saved enough. Landon's money-and a gig she was woefully  underqualified for-would be a good start to doing just that. In the  meantime, she and Mick would just have to endure one another.

She fed a hanger through the shirt she'd ironed and shook her head.  She'd thought prematurely partnering with Mick-both in her personal life  and her professional one-had marked the end of her lapse in sanity.  Clearly not, considering she'd agreed to become a live-in nanny for a  man on whom she'd once harbored a knee-weakening crush.

Bats, meet belfry.

The cordless phone rang on the counter next to her, and she nearly  jumped out of her lightly freckled skin. As she'd expected, the caller  ID read: Downey Landon. She stared at the ten digits on the display, her  only disjointed thought being, Ohmygawd, I have his phone number.

At the third ring, Mick turned and raised his eyebrows at her, paintbrush elevated in one hand. "You gonna get that?"

"Cover the floor for me?" She snatched up the phone without waiting for  his answer. By the fourth ring, she'd shuffled her ballet flats along  the battered wooden floor to the curtain-covered stock room. Once the  curtain swished shut, she answered with a breathy, "Hello?"

"Kimber Reynolds, please."

Oh, his voice. She had been too young to know what the sound of Landon's  deep, hypnotic voice had been doing to her. The nights she'd lain awake  in Angel's top bunk and listened to the melody of his words float up  from the porch. She remembered how goose bumps lit her skin whenever  he'd spoken. Now a woman, she knew exactly what that sensually deep  voice had been doing. Making sweet love to her ear canal.

"Hello?" he asked when she'd gone silent.

"Speaking," she said on a near moan.

"Landon Downey, Angel's brother."

Like he needed any introduction.

"Thank you for agreeing to stay with Lyon this week. I appreciate your willingness to step in at the last minute."

Wow. Official. His tone made her stand straighter. "Oh, um. Sure." She  stepped behind a clothing rack and skirted another, distancing herself  from the doorway. She didn't need Mick overhearing her side of the  conversation.         

     



 

"I wanted to go over a few items with you if you don't mind."

"Oh. Sure." Could she sound like more of an idiot? Say something besides  "oh" and "sure." And probably stop thinking of his voice and your  pending orgasm.

If her stern self-talking-to wouldn't jolt her out of her thoughts, Landon's next question did.

"Do you have any food allergies or special requests for meals while you're here?"

Last thing on the planet she'd expected him to ask. She'd been pretty  sure he'd ask for her credentials; qualifications for being entrusted  with Lyon. She'd spent the last few hours trying to decide if she should  make up a story or be as vague as possible. She'd opted to wing it,  though now it appeared she had nothing to worry about. Angel must have  convinced him if his first question revolved around provisions.

"Whatever you have is fine," she answered.

"What I have is Kona coffee and PowerBars," he said in the same official tone. "I'm sure you'd prefer something else."

Kimber tittered out a ridiculous little laugh and slapped a hand over  her mouth. She did not just do that. She hadn't nervous-laughed since  she was a simpering teen. She cleared her throat.

"Do you eat organic?" he continued. "Require a certain brand of creamer  for your coffee? I want to make sure you have what you need."

Aw. That was kind of nice. And detailed. Kimber tried to think if she  was brand loyal about anything she ate. Her cabinets were full of  uninspiring foodstuffs like Hamburger Helper, macaroni and cheese, and  cans of tuna. She couldn't request that. Feeling like she should say  something, she finally blurted, "I like potato chips."

And I'm a moron.

He did chuckle this time, and she may have emulsified into a puddle of  humiliation if it hadn't been for how sexy he'd sounded. It was the way  he laughed, deep in his throat, the sound short but powerful. Like a  punch to the gut. How, again, was she supposed to live with this man for  an entire week?

"Potato chips," Landon repeated. "Perfect." She had no idea what he  meant by that, and he didn't offer an explanation. She heard a  scratching sound like he'd put pen to paper to write it down. He went  through a list of questions, reiterating how he would provide all her  expenses for the week she stayed with Lyon, and ignoring her when she  insisted that wasn't necessary. "There's additional garage parking for  your car, if you have one."

She did. But she wouldn't be taking her rust-filled rattletrap to his  six-million-dollar penthouse on Lake Shore Drive. No, thank you very  much. "I'll take a cab if we need to go anywhere."

"On me," he said, writing again.

"No, that's not-"

"Kimber." His soft annunciation of her name mingled with his commanding  tone stalled her brain cells like her head had flooded. "Thank you again  for doing this. I believe that's all I have from my end."

She heard the shuffling of papers, the collapse of a stapler. The man  was organized. She frowned at the random cardboard boxes filled with  clothing in her storeroom. One had the word Mend written on it, another  read Sell, and the other wasn't marked at all, overflowing with sleeves  and pant legs and belts. No way was she qualified to live in Landon  Downey's white-glove-tested, immaculate home.

"Do you have any questions for me?" he asked, wrapping up the call.