Torn:Billionaire Bachelors Club #2(6)

Her expression instantly goes blank. "Like I'm going to tell you anything. I don't even know you."

Fine. She wants to play that way? I can play right back. "You want my help talking to Archer?"

She nods so subtly I can almost believe she didn't do it. Almost.

"I need your forgiveness."

"You're forgiven," she says automatically.

Meh. That was quick. And it really didn't count since I know she didn't  mean it, but I'll let it slide. "You can't make me feel guilty about  this anymore. What's done is done."

"Fine. Great. Works for me." She releases another shaky breath. I think I  make her uncomfortable. Perfect, because she makes me incredibly  uncomfortable.

As in the I want her so much I feel like I'm going to lose it if I don't  touch her in the next five minutes kind of uncomfortable.         

     



 

"I'll need one more thing from you before I can make this happen," I say  quietly, trying to amp the anticipation. I'm dying to see her reaction  when I tell her.

Marina rolls her eyes, sexy despite her irritation with me. Since when  have I ever been excited by a woman's irritation? I'm a sick bastard.

"Oh, come on. What more could you want?" She sounds completely put out. And clueless.

Well. I'm about to rock her world with one single word.

"You."



Marina

"LISTEN, I'M NOT some whore you can buy and sell," I say, immediately regretting my words. I sound completely over the top.

The look on his face shows he knows it. "That wasn't what I was  implying," he says carefully. "I just . . . like you. I was hoping maybe  we could see each other sometime."

The man is insane. Gorgeous and confident and with a surprisingly good  sense of humor, considering how deftly he handled crazy Gina, but he's  also a complete pain in my ass.

He has something I want though and I can't believe I forgot.  Connections: one I somehow missed, so shame on me. And that connection  is Archer Bancroft: a transplant, not necessarily considered a local,  but definitely a man who's moved into the area within the last five  years and done positive things to regenerate the economy. His hotel  business is thriving; he's provided lots of jobs and plenty of sales  revenue. He's solid, and his reputation is relatively golden, helped  considerably since he settled down into a serious relationship. This  community is small enough that everyone knows each other's business, and  Archer's not shy about making a public statement.

He is definitely someone I want to do business with. I've had these new  ideas bouncing around inside my brain, and I think he's the perfect  candidate for one of them. Well, his hotel is the perfect candidate. If I  could get my aunt's desserts into his restaurants, the extra exposure  and revenue might help save the bakery.

And I exaggerated. I don't know Archer. I know of him. I've met him a  few times. We always exchange polite hellos when we see each other at  social events, but that's not very often considering I'm always working  and rarely out. I just don't have time.

That's the extent of my so-called friendship with him. Whereas Gage  really knows him. And even though I don't trust him and know he wants to  buy up my family's property-including the bakery-I may as well use him  while I can, right?

So yeah. I want him to get me an appointment so I can propose my idea to Archer.

Not with these sort of stipulations put on me though. Saying he wants me? That has cheap sexual thrill written all over it.

Sighing, I finally shake my head. "Of course. I know. It's just . . .  it's been a long day. And then you send me the gorgeous flowers, and my  Aunt Gina flipped out."

"She's quite the character," he inserts politely.

"You're too kind." Smiling wryly, I continue on. "Then you show up begging for forgiveness and . . . you distracted me."

"And that's a bad thing?"

"When a girl needs to focus on working, her business, and nothing  else-yes. It's a very bad thing." Deciding to hell with it, I move away  from behind the counter and head toward the front door, flipping the  sign from OPEN to CLOSED and turning the lock.

"Closing up?" he asks. He sounds incredulous.

"There are no customers in here besides you." And it's near enough to our actual closing time that it won't make any difference.

"So are you going to answer me?" he asks, watching me move around the  tiny café. His big body seems to eat up all the space, filling the air  until all I can breathe and see is him. I do my best to avoid him,  straightening chairs, picking up miscellaneous straw wrappers and  crumpled napkins that still litter the tables. I'm trying to avoid  answering him. Too full of nervous, restless energy he can no doubt pick  up on.

What more could you want?

You.

I mean really. Who says that sort of thing? I feel like I'm in some bad, cheesy made-for-TV movie or something.

"What sort of answer are you looking for? You never really asked me a  question," I finally say, glancing out the corner of my eye to see him  approaching.

"I did so." He stops mere feet away from me. I can feel his body warmth  reaching toward me and I'm tempted to lean in. Absorb all of that  strength and warmth and gorgeousness. Though he looks utterly  untouchable in the finely tailored suit that I can tell cost a fortune.  "I asked if you wanted my help in getting you a chance to talk to  Archer."         

     



 

"Of course I do," I say, my voice quiet, my thoughts a confused jumble  in my brain. What is going on here? Why am I even talking to him? Why do  I want to be close to him? It makes no sense.

I can't stand him.

Really. I can't. I don't care how good he looks in that suit or how his  sexy hair probably needs a trim. How bad I want to run my fingers  through it. Or maybe grab his tie and yank him closer, see what he might  do if I reared up on tiptoe and kissed him . . .

"Then go out to dinner with me," he suggests, his voice bold, his  expression arrogant. The glint in his eyes, the curl of his lips . . .  he's too damn confident. Like he knows I won't be able to resist him.

Irritating, because I'm this close to giving in and saying yes.

I slump my shoulders. Seconds ago I was imagining violently kissing him,  and now I'm considering some other sort of violence toward him-like  bodily harm. He infuriates me, yet he interests me. Usually if I'm  interested in a guy, it's because I like him. I don't want to smack him  upside the head.

"You're going to force me to go out to dinner with you and in return  you'll help me arrange an appointment with Archer Bancroft?" I laugh  though I find no humor in his suggestion. I might find it . . .  arousing. Which is wrong on so many levels I lose count.

"I'm not forcing you to do anything, Marina," he says softly, his eyes  glowing as they drink me in. "Unless . . . you like it that way."

Well, holy shit. The man needs duct tape wound around his mouth about  twenty times. He says the worst things ever. "Did you really just say  that?" I ask, my voice sounding deadly even to my own ears.

He seems to snap himself out of a trance. Standing straighter, he  blinks, runs a hand along his jaw. God, his hands are big. I wonder what  they might feel like on me. Sliding over my arms, my legs, between my  thighs-

Get over it!

"Did I really just say what?" He looks dazed. The tension crackling  between us has suddenly become unbearable and I have no idea why.

Um, maybe because you're attracted to him?

I push the pointless thought out of my head.

"Is it just me you say idiotic, sexist, disgusting things to, or do you  talk this way to all the women you encounter?" I cross my arms in front  of my chest again, noting-again-that his eyes drop right to my breasts.  Men. They're all the same. And this one is so blatant, so cocky, and  with such a rude mouth. He's downright offensive.

Yet my skin is buzzing just being in his presence. My blood is warm, my  body both loose and anxious all at once. I only ever feel this way right  before I'm going to have sex and I'm all amped up. Excited and nervous.

And I am never. Ever. Having sex with Gage Emerson. Oh hell, no.

A little groan escapes him and he closes his eyes for the briefest  moment, gripping the back of the chair directly in front of him. Damn,  his eyelashes are thick. Of course. Everything about him is the epitome  of male beauty.

He cracks his eyes open. "Did I really say that out loud?"

"Yep," I confirm, enjoying his absolute misery.

"I was thinking it," he admits, looking sheepish. Cutely sheepish. "That probably makes me a pig just the same, right?"

"Right." I nod, letting my arms drop by my sides. "I won't whore myself  out on a date with you just to get a chance to talk to Archer. I can do  that on my own."

A dark brow rises in challenge. "You really think so? Think about it.  I'm offering you an easy in. He might throw up roadblocks, you know."

Knowing Gage, he'd probably ask Archer to throw up those roadblocks just  so I'd go out with him. Jerk. "Oh my God. Are you implying I can't see  Archer without you? Do you really need to be such an arrogant ass?" I  toss back, immediately wishing I could clap my hand over my mouth. This  man makes me say things I regret every single time.