Billionaire With a Twist (8 page)

“I should shower before dinner!”
I thanked God and also Jesus for the humidity that made this lie less
obvious. “I didn’t think of that before but I should
definitely shower and we’ve already used up ten minutes!”
I was babbling as I backed away, but the words kept spilling out,
trying to construct a wall between us so I wouldn’t take a step
back towards him, wouldn’t soothe away that worried furrow in
his brow with my hands, wouldn’t kiss him so hard that he—
“So I’ll barely have time and I’m totally gross so
I should really take all the time I can, glad you understand, you’re
great see you later, bye!”

And then I fled, in a display of
cowardice that would have made Robert E. Lee ashamed to call me his
countrywoman.

#

I cranked the shower handle further to
the right and gritted my teeth against the cold water, trying to
forget the taste of Hunter’s lips.

Why must that night haunt me? We hadn’t
even slept together, not really. He’d only gone down on me,
that talented tongue and lips stoking the fire that his hands had lit
as they traced over my skin, as I moaned, arching my eager body
against his, ready for everything he had to give me—

Not helping, brain!

I scrubbed furiously with the lavender
and black pepper soap, trying to punish my skin for its inconvenient
desires, to scour them from my flesh. But the touch of my hands only
seemed to inflame me further, and I found my fingers teasing across
my nipples, stroking and gently twisting—

No, no, no!

But the water had made my skin so
smooth and wet, as though I were already sweating from his passionate
embrace, and I was already imagining him in the shower with me, his
strong arms encircling me from behind, his hard cock pressing against
my back as he kissed his way from my shoulder up to my neck, his
tongue teasing at the shell of my ear as I whimpered at his touch,
arching back into him, spreading my legs slightly as I braced myself
against the shower wall, begging him to thrust into me, filling me,
fucking me hard and fast and rough until I—

And before I could stop myself, my
right hand was between my thighs, my fingers plunging into my wet
cunt as the heel of my palm rubbed against my clit, as my left hand
pinched my nipple. I fucked myself harder and harder, oh God I knew
it was so wrong to be thinking these things when I’d sworn to
be hands off with Hunter, I knew this was only going to make it
harder to keep away, but I couldn’t stop, oh God I needed so
badly to come, I wanted so badly for him to be there making me come,
with his strong hands and his deft tongue and his cock, oh sweet
Lord, that cock, I wanted it between my lips and in my tight pussy
and I’d let him fuck me in the ass if he’d just let me
come, oh God he could fuck me any way he wanted if I could just come
now, anything he wanted, it would be so good—

I came calling his name, and I thanked
heaven the running water meant no one could hear me.

#

What kind of outfit says ‘I was
definitely not just masturbating about you, that is definitely not
the reason I am now late to dinner, why would you think that?’?
I’m asking for a friend.

In the end I grabbed a blouse in a
heavy green fabric that I knew looked terrible with my complexion,
and a pair of slacks that hadn’t fit me right since I lost ten
pounds. They were definitely too baggy in the rear and severely
unflattering. But they were professional, and that was the important
thing. I needed to send a clear message, and that message was, ‘Your
lips? What? I barely noticed how soft and luscious they look, because
I am a consummate professional. Totally.’

And I was going to read that message
blaring loud and clear, not just to Hunter, but to myself. Why did he
have to be so irresistible? I knew it wasn’t his fault; he had
no way of knowing his one-night stand was someone he’d ever see
again. I certainly hadn’t thought I’d ever see him again
either.

And after this job, I probably never
would
see him again.

I set out for dinner, determined to
ignore the utterly illogical pang of loss at that thought.

Professional. Totally professional.

#

Hunter was dressed professionally too
when I met him on the back porch of the manor house, but somehow he
still looked delicious in dress slacks and a crisp yellow button-up.
Maybe it was the way that color brought out the gold in his eyes. Or
just possibly it was the way that button-up shirt fit, hugging his
chest tight and riding up just slightly when he stretched, just
enough to glimpse one tantalizing strip of tanned skin over taut
muscle.

I looked away quickly, pretending to
admire the sunset. “Oh. Look at all those colors.”

It really was beautiful, all pinks and
purples melting into a fiery glow reflected in the sapphire lake.

If only there weren’t something
even more gorgeous demanding my attention.

“Ah. Yes. Colors.” Hunter
sounded just as stilted and awkward as I felt. “The sun…does
that.”

Oh boy. Was the whole dinner going to
be like this?

Short answer: yes.

Longer answer: There was a little bit
of a conversational reprieve as we fell about eating the pork chops,
which had been slathered in some kind of lemon honey sauce that was
basically the food of the gods, but was also an Olympic level
challenge to keep off your clothing. I could barely enjoy the
succulent pork as I fretted silently about keeping the sauce from
smearing all over my face or dripping onto my pants. A slight drip at
the corner of Hunter’s mouth reminded me forcefully of that
almost-kiss, and I nearly dropped my pork chop.

When I finally finished, somehow
miraculously still mostly clean, I wiped my fingers for the last time
on the cloth napkin and reached for the crystal decanter of ice
water.

Hunter reached for it at the same time.

Our fingers brushed.

We both pulled away as if we had
received an electric shock.

“Sorry,” Hunter said.

“No, I’m sorry,” I
said, “you go ahead.”

“No, you were reaching first.”

“No, I insist.”

He nudged the decanter toward me. I
poured myself a glass of water.

Then he poured himself a glass of
water.

We drank our water in silence, not
looking at each other.

Okay, this was ridiculous. So we’d
sort of slept together and then sort of maybe almost kissed. We were
adults! Professional adults! We could handle this. We could be
pleasant. We could make light conversation and act like we weren’t
two lovesick teens who’d broken up right before prom.

Right?

“The weather’s lovely,”
I said. Sheesh, had I really been reduced to that banality?

“Yes,” he said, still not
looking at me. A pause. “But it might rain later.”

“Oh?”

“That’s what the weather
channel said.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

And then more silence.

This was all my fault. I should have
handled it better when he went for the kiss. We should have had a
real talk about our past when he first went for my pitch. I never
should have slept with a handsome stranger in the first place—

But that was the way the cookie
crumbled. If I kept counting my regrets, I’d end up moving back
home and hiding under the bed while my mother derided all my life
choices.

I was going to make some goddamn
fucking pleasant conversation with this man if it killed me.

“The pork was delicious,” I
said, trying to sound as if I didn’t have a care in the world.
“How long have you had this cook?”

“Five years.”

I waited for him to elaborate, but he
didn’t.

Goddamnit, Hunter Knox, work with me
here!

“Your outfit’s nice,”
I blurted in desperation before my brain could catch up to my mouth
and yell,
not professional!

He started slightly in his seat, his
eyes darting up to meet mine for just a second. “Ah. Thank
you?”

It was a tiny crack in his stony
demeanor, but it was gone as quickly as it had come, and he was
looking away from me again, as if I didn’t exist, as if he
could barely bring himself to care that I was there with him, trying
to forge a solid working relationship.

And the silence descended once again,
like a dark curtain cutting off the connection between us.

I cast around for some neutral topic.
What said professional, committed, but not interested? And then I
realized what did, and I could have kicked myself for not seeing it
sooner.

Work.
Work
was professional.

In my defense, if his shirt had been a
size larger I wouldn’t have been so addled by lust that it
would take a whole half hour to come up with that idea.

After all, I knew he liked my ideas,
didn’t I? He’d chosen me, and he’d flown me all the
way out here. He was paying money for my ideas. He’d
have
to engage.

“So, I’ve found all sorts
of interesting information in the library archives,” I chirped.
“I’m only up to the 1920s, of course, and the company
stance on various issues during the sixties will be absolutely
crucial to capturing the typically more liberal young adult
population without alienating the senior demographic, but—”

“This is dinner, not a business
meeting.” Hunter’s voice was a sharp ice spear as it
slashed across mine, cutting me off. “And to tell the truth,
I’m not really interested.”

I gaped, then fumed. I could feel steam
started to build up, threatening to leak out my ears like an angry
cartoon character. If he didn’t care about the company, then
what the hell was I doing at his estate in the first place? “Excuse
me?”

“You do your job. Don’t
feel like you have to bother me with any details.” He sighed as
if speaking to me was the most tedious thing in the world, and toyed
with his fork. “I don’t think it will have any real
effect anyway.”

“
Excuse me?”
Yep,
steam coming out of my ears. Blood pressure rising. Also, the urge to
kill, that was rising too.

“Today’s consumers are
savvy,” Hunter said condescendingly. “They’re not
going to fall for a catchy tune and a promise of good behavior from a
corporation.”

I fumed, unable for several moments to
even form words. My hands were clenched in fists at my side, and I
could feel my stomach roiling. “If you feel that way about my
plan, why’d you even hire me in the first place?”

“It was the lesser of two evils.”

I felt like I had been punched in the
stomach. “Gee, thanks.”

“No offense,” he said, and
for a second, his tone seemed different. Like maybe he actually meant
it. “You’re clearly very good at your job, and very
dedicated. I’ve just never been able to see the point of
advertising. It seems like lying. Either your product’s good,
or it isn’t. Outside forces shouldn’t be able to muddy
the waters.”

“That’s not true at all!”
I protested. I leaned forward, elbows on the table in defiance of
everything my mother taught me as I let him have it. “Advertising
lets people know about products they might never have heard about,
about issues they might never have considered, about angles they
might never have seen things from. It helps them embrace new
experiences. And that’s just the consumers. A clever ad can
help the little guy get an edge over a big corporation, give small
businesses some crucial and much-needed public visibility, it can
make dreams come true—”

“But the little guy isn’t
likely to be the one getting the clever ad, is he?” Hunter
interrupted, leaning forward as well, eyes fiery as he slapped his
palm hard on the table.

Well, I had wanted him to engage with
me.

“It’s the big corporations
like McDonalds and Geico and, yes, Knox,” Hunter went on, “that
can afford a big fancy think tank. A big team of advisors. The best
research and focus groups. You think the little guy can compete with
that?”

“They don’t have to.”
I set my chin, determined to make him understand. “Those things
are nice, but they’re not necessary. You only need one good
idea to make a wave in the advertising world, and that idea can come
from
anywhere
.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And you
think the next one’s going to come from you, Allison Bartlett.”

I looked him right in the eye. “Well,
why not?”

There was silence again as we stared at
each other, challenging, but this time taut as a pulled-tight rope, a
balance beam that we might fall off of if we looked away.

A distant part of my brain noticed that
both our faces were flushed, and we were both leaning forward. Our
hands almost touching on the table.

Then Hunter leaned back in his chair,
and the distance yawned between us again, wide and insurmountable.

“Well, you’re certainly
doing a good job advertising the advertising industry,” he said
with a light laugh. “I suppose I shouldn’t expect
anything different. What did you do before that?”

Well, at least he was asking questions.
We could probably have a conversation if he kept that up. And that
was all I wanted, wasn’t it? I didn’t need his approval.
Well, not for my life choices, anyway. I only needed it for my final
pitch.

“What did I do before I joined
the forces of evil?” I said. “I interned with them.
Before that, I was in college. Before that, I studied the complex art
of disappointing my mother in every way possible.”

I hadn’t meant to say that, but
my sass reflex had popped up to block anything more emotional. I
could tell it startled him, because his gaze swung up to meet mine
again, and didn’t immediately pull away.

It was an uncomfortably intimate
moment, nothing like his revelation earlier this evening. I had
wanted to know more about him then, about whatever it was in his past
that had shaped and hurt him.