Before Her Billionaires (2 page)

And you couldn’t just throw some new D batteries in Ryan and get him going again.

Too bad life didn’t work that way.

One of h
er cat
s
,
Frumpy
, rubbed against her legs and purred, the cool feel of
the
fur brushing against Laura’s ankles with a disjointed sensuality. Gently nudging the cat away, Laura padded into the kitchen, filled the kettle, turned it on and dug out a can of cat food.

Miss Daisy and Snuggles decided to join in the food fest, making
a mewling sound that made Laura laugh.

“All right, all right, it’s coming,” she said, her voice cracking. Living alone meant not talking much when she wasn’t at work or hanging out with her best friend,
and by the end of twelve hours of not saying a word, she found her vocal cords in need of a little stretch. On long weekends she could go all day without saying a word, making the return to work a bit uncomfortable, as if she had to relearn basic social cues all over again.
 

Laura fed the cat
s
, washed her hands, and set up the tea steeper, spooning her loose tea into the water reservoir. The kettle whistled at just the right mo
m
ent, she poured the water in for steeping and shut the top—

And promptly burst into tears all over again.
She was a single woman living alone with three cats, making tea in the middle of the night. This was
not
how her twenties were supposed to be.
 

Closing her eyes, she willed the dream to come back, to feel the sensual heat of those hands. In her mind’s eye she remembered the forearm that was attached to one of those loving hands, the sandy hair that peppered the tanned skin, the twist of muscle under the taut skin.
It was a man’s arm, muscled and tight, with tendons and veins rigid and clear under textured skin.
 

We adore you
.

The man’s words whispered through her like the rush of hot wind on a summer’s night, right before a burst of sweet, steamy rain, the kind you run outside and play in, even as an adult. You tip your face to the dark, cloudy sky and let the misty rain blanket you like it’s love.

She could feel the imprint of his palm on her thigh. If she weren’t firmly grounded in the world of logic, she’d think he was here. Right now, in another room in her small apartment, off to the bathroom or back in her tousled bed, waiting for her, warming the sheets and reclined in full, drawn-out nude beauty.

Her hand reached down to touch the expanse of skin that burned from the memory of his touch. A laugh burbled out of her, unbidden and without any pretense. She snorted as her fingers brushed against her own creamy curves, her finger tips sliding from mid-thigh on up.

Quickly, she yanked her nightgown down. Now she just burned with a stupid sense of shame, a cold chill making her shiver as the tea darkened in the clear plastic cylinder she used for steeping.

What had she done to deserve a life where her only intimacy was her fingers, her battery-powered night-table boyfriends, her cat
s
and these all-consuming dreams? Dream men were fine and all, but they couldn’t bite your nipple at just the right time.

He has to be real
, she thought, the palpable change in her skin making her more certain than ever that whatever she had dreamed had been more than wishful thinking. He’s out there. He’s real.

He has to be.

Don’t you mean ‘they’
, a voice inside her hissed, the tri
cks
ter who made her doubt, made her insecure and self-deprecating, asked in a disapproving voice.

They.

The second man had appeared with such stealth, yet such prowess, that she blended the two together in her addled mind. They weren’t the same, though. Distinct and heavenly,
they were two separate men.
S
he inhaled slowly, fingers curling around the e
dg
e of the kitchen counter, her breasts flushed with the memory of how all four hands on her had made her ache.

In the dream, she’d known that ache would soon ease as they pleasured her to release. Too bad life didn’t imitate the movie
Inception
. If it did, she’d hire someone to hack her back into that moment and live out her wildest sexual fantasies.

Pouring her now-too-strong tea, she smiled at the thought. Fantasies. They’re all fantasies, right? The first sip of chamomile made her mouth twist from the concentration, but by her third she was calmer. More centered.

T
hin strands of the dream slowly faded away. She tried to conjure an image of the man’s for
e
arm but couldn’t. Then his scent.
C
ardamon and freshly-cut grass? Mint and orange? Synapses in her brain struggled to put it all together to form the atmosphere in which she’d awoken.

By the time she finished her cup of tea all that remained was the barest hint of memory, of being touched. Of being loved. Of being cherished.

The actual experience disappeared, though, as the sun made its slow ascent. As if sunlight chased her dream away.

All that remained was her frustration.

Miss Daisy
meowed until Laura poured her a shallow dish of milk. As dawn made the sky outside turn a sickly shade of grey Laura sighed and slumped on her couch, turning on the television to catch whatever
wa
s on at 5:11 a.m.

The p
re-morning-show talk show featur
ed
a young woman she’d never seen before and a guy she vaguely remembered from some reality t
elevision
show where he ate food out of dumpsters for a week.
They
  chatted on a boring, beige couch in a studio that looked like something a hotel designer created.

“Bachelor auction!” the woman chirped, turning toward a screen behind them. A shirtless man in a construction outfit appeared, stripper music in the background.

“Can you imagine paying $5,000 for a date with one of those hunks?” the male co-host joked.

“Yes,” said the woman, licking her lips. “I can. He’s a catch,” she added, pointing to a man dressed like a doctor, walking down a fashion runway wearing a white lab coat, jeans, and nothing else.

“Once you catch him, what do you do with him?” the man asked.

Click.

Laura wasn’t watching that. First off, who had $5,000 for a date? And second, even if Laura had that ki
n
d of money for a charity auction, how awkward would that date be?

Hi, nice to meet you. I paid $5,000 after watching you gyrate shirtless on a stage. I’m Laura Michaels and don’t feel obligated to have sex with me.

She barked aloud at the thought, scaring
Snuggles
and making
the cat
hiss, then attack the spider plant that grew for what seemed like miles in a spiral around the living room.

“Sorry,
Snuggles
.” Even her tone carried a thick blanket of guilt. Laura rolled her eyes. Hot bachelors. Buying a date. If she could catch a guy l
i
ke that, what would she do with him? Probably shake with terror and worry
he
’d point at her and make fun of her. She
was
so far out of the league of guys like that.
I
t was like she played a different game in a different language on the wrong planet.

What would it be like to be with a man...like that? The kind with chiseled features,
his
chest a relief map of hot flesh? How would it feel to run her hands through his hair, to smooth her palm across a cobra back covered with mus
cl
e, to possess him and have full access to touch and tease
and
enjoy him whenever she wanted?

Even better—to be
wanted
by a man like that? One who would burn for her, whose touch would be more sensual than sexual, more primal than functional, a man who couldn’t wait to be with her, to watch her, to touch her.

To
own
her. Not just her body, not just her sex, but her heart—mind—soul.

Another smile played at her lips, but this one was wistful. Sad. Yeah, right. Like
that
would ever happen.

A girl could dream, though.

And, apparently, she had.

Hefting herself up off the couch, she let herself indulge in a pity sigh, the kind that co
m
es out in a long, slow, tortured outbreath with a little whine at the end.

The kind no one ever admits they do.

The closest she’d ever get to a man like the ones in the bachelor auction would be in her imagination. A shower was what she needed before she headed to work. A shower where her
own hands
could be those hands, the shower head could be the second set, and the hot water would help to wash away her tears.

And then she’d start the day fresh, clean, and mostly emptied of the memory of two men she didn’t even have the right to imagine would want her.

Yet she did.

“How about this tie?” he called out to Mike, who was stirring something on the stove.
The guy was so tall the steam from the pot wafted up, passing the oven hood, making the ends of Mike’s blonde hair curl slightly. He always looked like a gentle giant tending to a dollhouse stovetop when he cooked.
 

Shirtless, wearing
his
firefighter uniform pants and suspenders,
Dylan ha
d found a red tuxedo bow tie that matched the stretched-out suspenders.
He took a quick look at his own body, taut and muscular compared to Mike’s tall, lean look. They were opposites, but the laws of physics were right.
 

O
pposites attract.

Mike turned around and let out a choked sound of surprise. “Nice. Love it. You planning to oil up that chest?” His roommate turned back around and shook his head slowly. If Dylan weren’t as deeply amused by his own plight, he’d have thrown something at Mike, but he let out a strangled snort instead.

“Good idea. Baby oil or olive oil?”

“Shouldn’t the ‘Italian Stallion’ use olive oil to keep it all authentic?
Mediterranean and all that?
” Mike said,
his
back turned to Dylan, head hunched over a pot of something on the stove that smelled like heaven.

Dylan was really regretting the fact that he agreed to be in this bachelor date night auction event. All the money would go to charity, but...

He didn’t like feeling like an entree in a room full of hungry, rich women.

“What are you cooking?”

“Beef
bourguignon
. I got thi
s
great cooking wine from this wine dealer in Winchendon who sells Spanish and Portuguese wine—”

“It’s red. That’s all I need to know about wine.” Those words made Mike turn and give Dylan a look of mock hurt, his hand dropping the spoon and going to his heart, as if he’d been shot.

“Philistine.”
A lover of good wines, Mike had dragged Dylan to more vineyards than Dylan could count. Seriously. He couldn’t count them because all that good wine had made him drunk, and once he was sloshed he couldn’t remember much.
 

“Hipster.”

“Them’s fighting words,” Mike growled, making Dylan laugh with a sound that came out of him before he even thought about it. A sound that made Mike pause.

A
genuine
laugh.

Hadn’t heard
much of
that since
their partner,
Jill,
had
died
more than a year ago
.

His eyes caught Mike’s and in the space between them, in that second of connection he knew Mike was thinking the same thing, too. The soft smiles on their faces wore off like sand on a windy day, swept off by a sudden gust of wind,
leaving a barren spot.
 

“Huh,” Dylan grunted, breaking the gaze. He lifted the red bow tie and walked next to Mike, opening the cupboard above the stove. Mike reached first—the guy was
more than
half a foot taller, after all—and his big hand wrapped around the olive oil bottle.

“Here,” Mike said, back to one word utterances, eyes troubled and dark. Dylan took the bottle with a curt nod and ambled back to his bedroom, wondering how his life had devolved into this.

Half naked, a bottle of oil in his hand, and no woman.

He knew exactly how. That was the problem.

Jill.

His eyes moved slowly, crawling over the dresser, the end tab
l
e, the big, wide bed.
Dylan surveyed h
is desk and bookcase where pictures of her dotted the landscape like bright bursts of wildflowers, the only true color in the room, vibrant and achingly beautiful.

Reaching for a picture, he grabbed one of her and Mike at the
summit
of a ski trail in New Hampshire, goggles shoved on top of their heads, hair mussed and crazy, Mike’s eyes wild with fun and love. Jill’s mouth was open in a great, big smile, white teeth flashing, her cheeks ruddy with cold, hand splayed across Mike’s chest, covering the ski lift sticker.

Her face was tipped up to look at him and Mike looked straight at the camera, as if he casually knew she was his—
theirs
—as if he didn’t need to give her a ten thousandth look of love in that moment, because the first ten thousand would be followed by a second ten thousand. And a third. And a fourth and more.

But no.

Finding Jill in the early years of college had been like living with one lung and not knowing it.
She was his second lung, giving him oxygen and hope, deep breaths and contented sighs.
Until he met her he hadn’t realized
he could breathe deeply, could be himself with more acuity, could be fulfilled and complete.

They’d met in the dorms, Dylan a jock and an arrogant son of a bitch. Mike had
met her within days, being Dylan’s roommate. He was
so angry. So shy. So quiet it scared Jill, who had confided her feelings for Mike in hushed tones, expecting Dylan to be upset that she was falling for them both.