The Truth About Numbnuts and Chubbs(12)

There was no hesitation from her companion. "You can come back to my place."

She felt her scowl deepen. "I could just check into a hotel."

"Don't be ridiculous." Sliding back into the seat, fingers spread over his knees, he looked at her. "You're coming home with me."

Bryony sucked on her lips and turned her face to stare out of the window. It had gotten colder just in the short time they were in the car and the rain began hitting the glass harder as it transformed to pellets of ice. If it was that cold outside, why was she hot?

The city would be a mess in a few hours. It was winter and she should be prepared for massive inconveniences, but still the first storm of the season always seemed to take her by surprise.

"I'm not dumping you at a hotel," he added. "Wouldn't be chivalrous. My grandmother would never forgive me."

Hopefully it would only be a few hours, she thought. It was nine thirty now. She gave him a quick glance over her shoulder. He was humming a tune, fingers tapping his knees. Of course an ice storm wouldn't bother him much. He never had to rely on public transportation to get anywhere. If he didn't feel like going in to work tomorrow he didn't have to. The beauty of being his own boss.

She said nothing and he didn't wait for any agreement, just told his driver to take them home to his apartment. And as she stared at the window again, catching her reflected expression, she knew what the night held in store. It was readable there in her eyes, large print.

Where he'd held her waist earlier she still felt the warmth of his hand, the strange possessiveness she'd never expected from him, never experienced from anyone. The night was passing like a weird dream where things were only normal on the surface. Underneath it all, nothing was really quite the same. She ought to pinch herself, she thought, quirking a little smile at her reflection.

It made her look naughty. Wicked.

Bryony Mulligan, are you going to get laid tonight?

Yes, sir. If I have my way.

What the hell was she thinking?

She quickly shook her head, straightened her lips. It was not going to happen. She couldn't let it.

Numbnuts? She must be crazy. So she'd had a crush on him years ago. Maybe—just maybe— she could admit that now. Because she was over it, right? Her tastes had matured since then. And as Helena said, she knew what he was. The Casanova of Manhattan and various international locations.

He could have any woman in New York and frequently did if the rumors were true. Just because he'd looked at her in a heated way and touched her waist, she'd let her mind wander off into absurd porno territory. Maybe it had simply been too long for her since her last boyfriend.

She stole a quick glance sideways and saw his fingers still tapping idly on his thigh.

Damn it, Mulligan, don't look at his dangerous hands.

Too late. There was nothing she could do, was there? In her head she worked out an excuse to give Helena. The peckerhead had practically kidnapped her. She couldn't open the door and leap out could she?

Tap, tap, tap went his long fingers.

Sex. It flashed and buzzed in her mind like the neon letters luring tired motorists to a seedy motel. Right above the "vacancy" sign.

Twenty minutes later they were walking out of the private elevator into his penthouse apartment. It was everything she expected—sleek, modern, masculine. Luxurious. The press of a remote achieved instant life. Five blue and gold flames shot out of large pebbles in a center fire pit, and muted, recessed lighting glimmered into action, stroking the lush curves of large, spotless white couches. On the exposed brick wall, an enormous flat screen TV blipped awake, while a coffee maker in the kitchen purred in unison. All this from one micro-chip command. Like his women, she mused darkly, his appliances came in coordinated colors and worked obediently on the push of a button.

"Espresso?"

"At this time of night?" Bry kicked off her shoes, afraid to mark his wide plank floors and expensive-looking area rugs.

"Vodka? Brandy?"

"No. Thanks." Anyone else would offer tea next, or water. He went straight to the liquor. But Bryony was too fidgety, too interested in his apartment to sit still just then. Didn't want to risk spilling anything else. Not here in this pristine show room.

Tonight she had a rare opportunity to pry into his life and find what the real Ben Petruska did when no one watched. How did he relax? Maybe he didn't. It wasn't the sort of home she could imagine anyone flopping around in. Those white couches wouldn't withstand five minutes with her and a bag of Doritos. Her tatty bunny slippers would be distinctly out of place, for sure.

No personal photos, she realized. In fact, the decor was quite sparse, certainly not cozy or lived-in. Probably had a professional designer pick everything out for him. A vodka bar had more cozy warmth.