The Millionaire Affair(8)

As fun as it was to flirt with her charge's uncle, as much as she wanted  to coax a smile to Landon's lips and the knee-weakening laugh from his  chest, she was not here for him. Her focus, her priority, was the little  boy in front of her.

Not Landon, she reminded herself as a pang of loss shook through her  chest. Not even if he sprouted a pair of dimples to go with that sexy  divot in his chin.



Landon parked in his private garage, lifted his briefcase from the  floorboard of his BMW, and stepped out. If not for the cardboard box  stuffed with Windy City potato chips he'd brought home for Kimber, today  might be like any other weekday. A day where his only plans would be a  glass of scotch and a long night of work ahead of him. Hell, it'd been a  long night already.

Picturing Kimber caused a smile, albeit a tired one, to inch across half  his mouth. He juggled the box, the briefcase, and his keys, and walked  to the elevator. Once inside, he nodded at Tony, the security guy, and  inserted a key for the private penthouse on the thirtieth floor.

He met his haggard reflection in the steel doors of the lift as it  carried him up. He looked like hell. Tie offset, jacket crumpled over  one arm, five-o'clock shadow decorating his jaw. When he'd gotten into  advertising, he'd imagined gliding around pristine offices and  efficiently checking items off his to-do list. What he ended up doing  most of the time was working from dawn well into the middle of the  night, hammering away at an idea contented to stay underdeveloped.

He'd always had a precise, specific style when it came to design. Clean,  crisp organization on a page. Blame it on his perfectionist streak, or  on the control-freak-first-born characteristic alive and well within  him. The style suited him. It also suited high-end products in the  industry, part of the reason for Downey Design's success in a short  period of time. He'd experienced further success since having paired  with his successful cousin. Shane's business had shooed in several  accounts and they hadn't yet celebrated their first year together.

Not that Landon hadn't done well on his own. Downey Design had created  advertising packages for private airlines, liquor companies, and fancy  electronics. But, as profitable as ads were for companies like Bose and  Apple, he'd coveted a chunk of the ever-profitable food industry. Windy  City had landed in his lap, whetting his appetite further.         

     



 

Food was the commonality between all classes. Food owned the highest  percentage of all aired commercials, and not just during big football  games, but during every hour of every day. Windy City was his  opportunity to break into the industry. The elevator doors opened on his  private floor. He intended not only to succeed in that endeavor, but  knock the potato chip company's ad design right out of the park.

Regardless of how many nights I come home after ten o'clock, he thought with a weary sigh.

He walked through the open, empty foyer to his front door and unlocked  the deadbolt. His penthouse didn't appear much different from most  nights he returned from work. The small dining room table gleamed, a  pile of mail neatly stacked in one corner. The contemporary lighting  fixtures over the kitchen island were on, casting a soft glow onto the  cabinets and reflecting off their glass doors. He dropped his briefcase  and jacket onto the chair and edged the box of snacks onto the table.

The house was silent as he pocketed his keys. No apparent sign of either  of its inhabitants. Then, a flash of copper waves and skin appeared in  his peripheral vision.

A lot of skin.

Kimber entered from the hallway, head down as she punched what was  likely a text into her phone. She wore short cotton shorts, the cuffs  tickling two of the most delicious-looking thighs he'd ever laid eyes  on. His mouth went dry.

There it is again.

The jolt that shot down his spine and made his pants grow tighter.  Awareness, pheromones, or maybe good old-fashioned attraction sizzled in  the air between them. She looked up, her green eyes widening before she  slid the phone into the minuscule pocket of those tight shorts. With  Herculean effort, he dragged his eyes to her face.

Well. Sort of. He was distracted on the way up by her shirt: a faded  image of the robot from the movie Short Circuit, the word "Input"  silk-screened over her left breast.

"You're home." Her eyes strayed to the clock on the wall. "Late."

He palmed his neck. "I know." A shimmer of regret wafted over him. He'd  wanted to tuck his nephew in tonight. "How did things go today?"

She moved to the fridge, looking comfortable opening the appliance and  poking around inside. "Good." She came out with a bottle of water. "Lyon  is a bottomless pit of energy, but after I figured out your fancy  espresso machine, I was able to cope. Probably why I'm still awake." She  cracked the top off the bottle and took a drink. He watched her  delicate throat work as she swallowed, feeling another surge of  awareness zip through his bloodstream. "He finally went down after I  read him Green Eggs and Ham three times."

Landon's features pulled into a tired smile. At least he hoped it was a  smile. After the long day, he may be grimacing at her for all he knew.  "Three times? That's too bad."

"Not really. It's my favorite book, too." Her eyes strayed to the box of potato chip bags on the table. "What's that?"

He lifted a random bag of chips by the corner and pulled out the jalapeño ranch flavor. "You said you liked potato chips."

A smile spread her luscious lips. "For me?" She no longer wore the red  lipstick or the retro dress, but damn, she looked good enough to …

But you're not "going to" anything, so don't bother finishing that sentence.

"I assumed we'd share them," he joked, gesturing to the twelve bags he'd  brought home from the office. Windy City had delivered fifty cases of  chips to Downey Design today. One would think his employees had won the  lottery for how happy they were to get free potato chips. A spark of a  thought for their campaign snapped, then fizzled, his brain too tired to  lock on to another idea.

He dropped the bag back into the box. "I happen to be in the middle of  reimaging the best potato chip brand on the planet." He sat heavily in  one of the kitchen chairs, and she came around the island to stand at  the table in front of him.

"You look exhausted."

"I am."

"Having branding issues?" She rifled through the box, inspecting the  different flavors. Either because she was hungry or checking out the  artwork, he couldn't tell.

Thrown by a woman's apparent interest in anything he did from nine to  five …  or ten, he hedged. "It's a process." Not that he'd launch into it  if she pressed. He preferred to chase problems around in his head until  he found the answer. It was in there. Somewhere. Hopefully it'd surface  before tomorrow's team meeting.

"I made spaghetti. Are you hungry?"

The air shifted, no longer crackling with just sexual energy, but with  something else. Something familiar and foreign at the same time. She  leaned casually on the table, waiting on his answer to her offer of  leftovers. If he said yes, would she microwave him a plate? Bring him a  fork? Sit with him while he ate and make idle conversation about his  day?         

     



 

The domesticity of the moment hit him front and center, nearly causing  him to clutch on to the table to ground himself. Not only about the  dinner and casual way Kimber watched him now, but also the discussion  about Lyon, almost as if they were a couple and were discussing a child  of their own.

Hi, honey. How was your day?

Good, thanks. How was the kiddo? Get anything good in the mail?

Man. It was weird. Weird and sort of wonderful. Landon was suddenly  dizzy …  and concerned he was far more tired than he'd realized.

Scrunching his eyes closed, he shook his head. "No, thanks. I'm not hungry."

"Oh. Okay." She fiddled with the water bottle, her fingers intimately  stroking the condensing water that had settled in its plastic ridges.

His voice taut with attraction, his next sentence came out harsh. "I don't expect you to cook my dinner."

She blinked at him, her lips parting slightly.

Dammit. He had to get a hold of himself. "That's not what I'm paying you  for," he added, wincing at his tone. Now he sounded mean. A visual of  him in a hole, digging for China, popped into his weary skull.

"I'm …  um, I'm going to go to bed." Her lips lifted into an unsure smile, making him feel like a grade-A jackass.

"Kimber, wait."

She stopped short of walking down the hallway, wrapping her fingers  around the wall and leaning back into the open doorway. Her teeth  stabbed her bottom lip, her eyes were wide and innocent, her  cinnamon-colored brows raised in curiosity.

Every last cell in his body wanted to rush across the room and fold her  against him, sample her lips, and bury this …  this bizarre, but  unmistakable need in her fiery hair and plush mouth. He blinked, stunned  and overwhelmed by his thoughts.