Baddest Bad Boys (27 page)

The day had been arduous, his transatlantic flight a marathon of hostile business calls and videoconferences. If something could go wrong, it did. First, there had been the last-minute renegotiations of an important merger that would inject some badly needed capital into Max’s coffers. The deal, destined to solidify DSI’s top position in the global shipping market, had derailed when Haru Mizuno, the owner of the Japanese shipping conglomerate, had tried to back out, citing a personal crisis.

Some quick digging by Max’s staff uncovered Mizuno’s so-called crisis: a gambling debt owed to none other than Peter Fourakis, the owner of a rival Greek shipping firm. This wasn’t Fourakis’s first attempt to undermine Max. It also wasn’t the Greek’s worst offense.

Fourakis had been circling like a buzzard ever since the news leaked that Ellie McMann DeLuca, dubbed gorgeous, loaded, and available by the tabloids, would soon gain full control of her substantial stakes in DSI. A photograph of Ellie and Fourakis dining together had fueled speculation of a romance. It had given Max heartburn. So had the stories that implied Fourakis was the reason she refused to extend her agreement with Max.

Knowing such stories were usually fabricated didn’t help. Though immune to seeing his own name in the tabloids, seeing the private details of Ellie’s financial holdings splashed across cheap newsprint infuriated Max. Especially in light of the security briefing he’d just received.

He frowned, recalling the details. According to the report, Ellie had a cyber-stalker, one she’d only recently reported, despite weeks of harassment. Weeks. That bit of information left Max seeing crimson. Part of him wanted to go snatch her up out of bed and shake her for not being more circumspect. The other part of him thickened.

Once again, Max’s thoughts drifted down the hall, to the guest suite. To what he’d really like to do if he hauled Ellie out of bed.

He drained his Scotch and stared at the cloud-strangled moon. Coming here tonight, in such a dangerous mood, had been a mistake. Not that staying away had been an option. Perhaps he’d change clothes and go downstairs to the gym. Punching a bag, taking a cold shower, would help.

He headed for the master suite. Just outside he halted. The door stood ajar but what stopped him was the scent of cologne. It was stronger here.

Was Ellie in his room?

He shut his eyes against the vision that filled his head: Ellie naked. The thought of her in his bed sent a hot rush of blood to his cock. Down, boy. He recalled her message: I want to propose a private deal. So would he. Face-to-face, straight up, inside her. It didn’t get more private than that. Maybe it was time Ellie and he had it out—cleared the air, once and for all.

He pushed open the door and stepped inside. A gentleman would knock, but that was the last thing he felt like at the moment. Besides, this was his room, the open door an invitation.

The perfume was stronger inside. And all wrong. Too heavy. He paused, senses alert.

“Hello, Max. Miss me?” The words hissed out from a dark corner, snakelike.

He recognized the woman’s voice, knew the reason for her antagonism. Bridgette St. Regis was the thrice-divorced daughter of oil magnate Arnaud St. Regis. Max had dated her casually, but broke off their affair completely two months ago. The split had not been amicable; they were both control freaks.

What was she doing here? And where was Ellie?

Max pinpointed Bridgette’s exact location in the dark before flicking on the light switch. His eyes took in the disheveled bed. Had she been in it?

“How did you get in?” He kept his voice calm.

She stepped out of the shadows, diamonds sparkling at her throat as she shrugged. “The doorman recognized me.”

His jaw tightened. “Maybe what I should have asked is why in the hell you’re here. Because I’m in no mood to talk.”

“That’s a relief.” She raised a brandy snifter in an exaggerated toast and shifted unsteadily, confirming this wasn’t her first drink. “Talking never was our strong point. Let’s just move on to making up.”

“There’s nothing between us, Bridgette.”

“Don’t say that!” She lowered her voice, feigning contrition. “I know why you’re mad. You’re right—perhaps I shouldn’t have talked with that reporter.”

It took Max a moment to figure out what she meant. Then he recalled the interview she’d granted to one of the celebrity rags. “That’s old news. Give it a rest.”

“How can I? That reporter was an idiot. He twisted everything I said, including the bit about us being engaged. Obviously he read quite a bit into the fact I was defending you.”

“I can defend myself.”

“Well, I couldn’t just stand there while he insinuated Il Diavolo had no heart.”

The Devil. If she were sober, she’d remember Max detested the tabloid nickname, detested being in the spotlight. She’d also recall he had ended their affair weeks before she’d dished a few X-rated details to the reporter.

Bridgette stepped closer, invaded his personal space. “I’ve missed you, darling. And I miss this.” Her hand moved to his crotch and tightened. Her dilated eyes widened, gleaming in anticipation. “We can start over. It can be like it was in the beginning. No commitment. No strings. Just sex.”

The magazine had a field day with that one. Max’s motto: No commitment. No strings. Just sex. Suddenly he loathed it, loathed himself. He moved free of her grasp.

“It’s over, Bridgette. You need to leave. I have company and—”

She cut him off as she twirled away. “You had company, though I’d hardly call that little tart of Stefan’s a guest.”

“What do you mean had?” His gaze went to the door.

“Look at me! I came here tonight willing to grovel and what do I find? Her—half-naked in your bed, claws extended.”

“I doubt that’s what—”

Bridgette stamped a foot. “Don’t you dare defend that witch! The note she left, oh-so-casually propped against the Tiffany lamp in the foyer—very clichéd, Max, really—made it very clear what she intended.”

What she intended: A deal that would satisfy. Heat and outrage slammed through him. “Where’s the note?”

“Gone. Same as her.”

Max had heard enough. Picking up the bedside phone, he punched in a string of numbers as he spoke curtly over his shoulder. “You can leave on your own, Bridgette, or with security. Either way, a cab will be waiting by the time you reach the lobby.”

“So this is how you’re going to play it? Fine, I’ll give you a little more time to come to your senses.” She laughed coldly, then extended her drink and dumped it out on the Persian rug. “Just don’t make me wait too long, Max. You’ll regret it.”

“I’m the wrong person to threaten. Stay the hell out of my life, Bridgette. Pull another stunt like this and I’ll have you arrested.”

“We both know you don’t really mean that.” She strolled from the room. “Arrivederci.”

Max watched to make certain she got into the elevator. Then he called the doorman. “Bridgette St. Regis is on her way down. Whoever let her up made a big mistake. If it happens again, someone will be looking for a new job. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir,” he stammered. “But I just came on duty, sir.”

“Then make certain the appropriate party gets my message.” Max pinched the bridge of his nose. “Also, Ms. DeLuca was here earlier this evening. I need to know when she left and how.”

“I’ll get right on it, sir!”

After hanging up, Max prowled around the suite. How much of what Bridgette said was true? The idea of Ellie half-naked in his bed, while improbable, drove him crazy. Same with the suggestive note. Clearly something had transpired between the two women. Why else would Ellie have left? She’d been an invited guest whereas Bridgette was a party crasher.

A niggling sense of suspicion slowed his pacing. This was the third time in a week he’d run into Bridgette. Since their first two meetings had been at restaurants in Rome, he’d written it off as coincidence. But this? How had she known he’d be in Boston tonight?

Max had just replaced his corporate security chief following a series of safety breaches. Gerard, the new guy who’d also prepared the report on Ellie, had warned there were a lot of holes. Was this an example?

The phone rang. “Ace Limo picked Ms. DeLuca up about an hour ago,” the doorman said. “They took her up the coast, to Rockport.”

Max recognized the address the doorman read off. It was the beach house Ellie had inherited from her grandparents. He should have known she’d go there.

“Mr. DeLuca?” The doorman cleared his throat. “Is there anything more I can do?”

“Yes. Have my car brought around. I’ll be right down.”

He thought about calling Ellie first. But if she’d indeed had a run-in with Bridgette, she’d likely avoid his call. Things hadn’t been all wine and roses with them lately. Damn it, he never should have let things get to this point between Ellie and him.

When the elevator arrived, he entered and jabbed the LOBBY button. But just as the doors started to close, he spotted a crumpled ball of pink paper beneath the sofa. Swearing, he hit OPEN. The elevator lurched to a stop. He went back inside.

Had Ellie really left a note? Was that it? He recalled Bridgette’s accusation. “The note she left…made it very clear what she intended.”

He grabbed the paper and quickly unfolded it, recognizing Ellie’s elegant handwriting.

Here’s my price to extend our arrangement: One night…like it used to be. No commitment, no strings, just sex. Deal?

2

A noise woke Ellie. She sat up, her mind still trapped in the foggy span between her erotic dream and wakefulness. Dreamus interruptus.

The ragged in-out of her own heavy breathing echoed in the room. She shoved a tangle of hair off her face and studied the unfamiliar shadows. Thunder rumbled outside, low and distant. The sense of panic subsided as she realized what woke her and where she was. The beach house. The storm.

She sank back into her pillow and shut her eyes, seeking calm. Immediately, she got sucked back into the dream. Max…naked…his erection throbbed against her thigh as he moved to plunge up and in—

She groaned. Flipping onto her stomach, she buried her face in the sheets, cheeks burning. How could she even think of him after the disastrous scene at the penthouse?

It had taken such colossal nerve to send Max that e-mail to begin with. “I want to propose a private deal.”

They’d been relaying messages through their legal mouthpieces for so long that she hadn’t even been certain he’d personally reply. He did. His response had been swift and every bit as provocative as her query.

 

Name your price. Any time. Any place.

 

His words had made her feel brave. I can do this. She’d played it coy, agreeing only to a time and place. But that hard-won bravado had weakened the moment she heard the penthouse elevator chime. She’d already been in and out of Max’s bed a dozen times, second-guessing everything—her choice of lingerie, her motives, her intentions. There had been no turning back then. She had lain in his bed, while nervously imagining him reading the seductive invitation she’d left propped on the bar.

Name your price. She had.

Using his very own words, his motto, she’d offered to sell her soul to the devil for one night in his arms. Long before she’d been Stefan’s wife, she’d been Max’s lover. And she’d never stopped wondering…what if? If they had one more night, could she forget him and move on?

She stifled another groan. Good Lord, had she honestly thought that’s all it would take to purge him from her system? One night?

Yeah, she had. Hair of the dog, and all that. Once upon a time, she and Max had seemed perfectly suited. Maybe they hadn’t been. Maybe she’d let her fairy tale recollection fog reality. It had certainly fogged her judgment. Since Max seemed to avoid being alone with her, she’d decided to use the stock agreement as leverage. A way to force him to meet with her privately.

Huge mistake.

She’d never forget Bridgette St. Regis bursting into the room, shouting. What are you doing in Max’s bed? How dare you plot to seduce my fiancé! You don’t honestly think he would be interested in his little brother’s castoffs, do you?

Mortified, Ellie had fled the penthouse.

Max was engaged. The news had been shocking. How could she have gotten everything so wrong? Sure, the tabloids had linked Bridgette and Max; the insatiable Il Diavolo was linked to a different woman every week. But Ellie’s source—whom she’d forever doubt now—had assured her that Max wasn’t seriously involved with anyone.

Not for the first time, Ellie had misread the cues. The extreme measures Max had taken to resolve the messy court proceedings over Stefan’s estate had not been done for her benefit. Just when it seemed there would be no end to the scandals that surfaced following Stefan’s death, Max had charged in and bought out all the other claimants. She now had to assume he’d mortgaged his own shares of DSI to do so, in order to settle things prior to his marriage to Bridgette. Which meant his desire to extend their management agreement was simply a means to safeguard his fiscal position.