The Truth About Numbnuts and Chubbs (11 page)

"Yes I know how he is and I don't want him around my cousin."

Abruptly Bry decided to make a dash for it. She'd think of a good lie for Helena tomorrow and face the music then. Tonight she had to get home and think. Was it possible that Numbnuts had somehow set this up? From Carl he'd found it where she worked, so it was no accident that she got sent to Leonato's yesterday. That sly, devious little....

Chapter Eight

The plane was de-iced, ready to go. Ben delayed in the lounge overlooking the tarmac, wanting to give her a little extra time. Just in case.

"We'll lose the window if we don't go now, sir," the pilot warned him.

"Ok," he replied reluctantly, scraping splayed fingers back through his hair. So she wasn't coming. He'd made a fool of himself. Get over it, Petruska. Other fish in the sea.

Trouble was, right now, he only wanted that one. He didn't know how long this feeling would last, but it was there and he was doing his best to deal with it, to understand it. He'd wanted things before, of course, but this desire was sharper, crueler. Cut like a knife.

And suddenly there she was, teetering down the hall in her high heels, sunglasses up on her head, one small carry-on over her shoulder, laptop under her arm. He stared at her but kept his smile in check, glad she couldn't hear his heart beat. "You're late Mulligan."

"Had to get through security," she replied, breathless. "They seemed to think I was a suspicious character."

"I bet."

They walked out to the plane and he eyed her small bag.

"That's all you're bringing?"

"It's only two days."

She was not like any other woman he'd ever known, but this was not news. He'd been aware of her unique qualities for years. "Well, if you need anything when we get there, we can buy it." He wanted to buy her lots of things. It was a burning need he had, to see her wearing clothes he'd purchased for her. 

Inside the plane he expected her to be impressed, but she quickly sat, crossing her legs, checking her watch and then looking through a small window. "It's almost six. What time do we get there?"

"Three hours."

She was cool and calm now that she'd apparently got her breath back.

Ben dropped into the beige leather chair opposite. "So...did you sign the contract?"

"Not yet." Her blue eyes swept across to him. They were wide, clear, penetrating.

He scowled. "I thought the fact that you came meant that you'd made a decision."

"This is a trial, Mr. Petruska. If I find the position suits me, we can discuss the terms."

"I thought my terms were more than generous."

"That's your opinion."

"What more could you want?" He was offering her enough money to pay off all her student loans and buy an apartment of her own, as well as keep her in designer clothes as long as she was with him.

"It's not about the money, Mr. Petruska."

"But you're an accountant," he quipped. "Isn't it all about the money?"

"You're not hiring me to be your accountant."

"Yes, I am."

She turned her gaze back to the window. "Not just your accountant. Also some sort of slave mistress."

He glared at her. She was wearing a business-like plain white blouse, but unbuttoned almost to her bra. It gave a teasing glimpse of cleavage while also managing to make it look as if it was unintentional. He already had a hard-on. Bryony Mulligan would be the death of him. "Yes," he snapped, terse, "I want you as my mistress." That was how he was handling this need. He'd put it on paper like any other business deal, terms spelled out clearly.

"To fuck you on demand." She arched an eyebrow. "In the unadorned words of the contract."

"Yes." What was wrong with that? It wasn't Shakespeare, but it was to the point. Like him.

"To wear lingerie and clothes only purchased and selected by you. Worn when and as specified."

"Yes."

"To orgasm only with you and... when allowed by you."

"Yes." His erection started to hurt.

"And when we're done, you get approval on all my future boyfriends?"

Yeah, he'd thrown that in at the last minute, just to see how far he could push it.

She sighed, shook her head. "If you want a woman at your beck and call why not get married? I'm sure you have an entire fleet of willing girls ready to step up to the altar."

"Then get divorced and watch her take half of everything I've earned? Nah. I don't want a wife. I want a mistress. Nothing permanent. Nothing messy. Nothing that involved."

"I see." She steepled her fingers under her chin. "Perhaps I ought to specify a few things too."

"I'm the one paying. I get to have you my way."

"Get a hooker or one of those fancy escorts. I'm sure you can afford the best."

"I don't want one of them. I don't use prostitutes," he muttered. "I just want you."

"You think money buys everything, Numbnuts?"

"Everything I want."

She smiled. "But not this time."

The plane doors were closed now and they were taxiing. It was to late to throw her ungrateful, sexy ass off. "The terms aren't negotiable."

"We'll see. I have demands too."

Irritable he scratched his jaw. "Like what?"

"I might specify that you show me a doctor's certificate."

"For?" he demanded, incredulous.

"Isn't that obvious?" Now she raised both eyebrows, looking at him again. "In this day and age. Not to mention your reputation."

Ben bit his tongue. "Right."

"I would specify that you wear a condom, each and every time. The last thing I need is to get pregnant."

"Hmmm." He saw her breasts moving under her shirt and knew she was braless again. The point of her right nipple was clearly outlined, poking against the material each time she made a slight movement or took a deep breath. Ben's mouth watered. "You're not on the pill?"

"It didn't agree with me." Aha. He'd actually made her a little flustered. Color rose in her face and she uncrossed her legs. "I have to make an appointment with the doctor to try something else. I haven't had the chance since I got back."

He ran a finger over his lower lip, examining her thoughtfully. "So I could have gotten you pregnant the other night." His cock would need to be adjusted in a minute, but he'd wait until she looked out of the window again.

"It's doubtful." A faint line appeared between her brows and she pursed her lips.

"Why?" He grinned. "Once is all it takes."

A sharp laugh escaped her tight mouth. "You assume you're Mr. Fertility, of course."

"I'm firing on all cylinders."

"Why? How many little bastards have you fathered?"

"None. Yet."

"So you could be like your cousin." She was inferring he might have a low sperm count too. Like poor Carl who'd been put through a barrage of tests when Helena decided she wanted a baby.

"I'm not. If I wanted to get you knocked up woman, I would."

She shook her head dismissively. "Wonderful. Classy."

"Like I told you, that's why I need you around. Add a touch of elegance to Petruska Industries."

"Can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear."

He rubbed his chin, eyeing her knees. "Come to think of it, our kids would be pretty damn cute. Maybe I should add a clause to that contract."

"Something about breeding me perhaps?" she demanded with a sniff.

"Exactly. Not a bad idea." Damn his prick was uncomfortably trapped in his pants.

"You really do belong in the dark ages, Petruska. Although I'm not sure how you'd handle a woman in a chastity belt."

Ben stared at her mouth and his seed surged. "I'd pick the lock."

Her eyes found his again and held them.

"Then I'd fuck you nice and hard," he added. "The way you like it."

She fidgeted in the seat, but didn't look away. "Oh, does that matter?" she asked politely. "The way I like it? I thought this contract was all about you and your terms."

"It matters that you enjoy it."

"And if I don't? If you're not the lover you think you are?"

He was so aroused and pent up he began to get angry. "Trying to say you didn't enjoy it the other  night? How many times did you come again? Remind me."

She sighed again, fluttered her lashes. "Maybe I faked it."

That did it. He felt the steam coming out of his ears. The plane paused at the end of the runway. "Buckle up," he growled. "We may hit turbulence."

* * * *

She hadn't slept much last night, going over his funny contract in her mind. He couldn't really think she'd go for it. He knew her well enough, surely.

Did people really still do this sort of thing? Or maybe only in his world. A world he insisted was the same as everyone else's. Even though it clearly wasn't.

It was tempting to say "yes", to become a part of his luxurious life and give herself up to being pampered like a pet poodle. But Bryony had a brain. Sadly it kept intruding.

He was very precise in the terms of that contract, but only when it came to what she had to say and do. There was significantly little text regarding his behavior. He seemed to think the only thing she needed from him—the only thing he could give her— was an orgasm and money.

Maybe that was his world.

It wasn't hers.

Non-negotiable terms? They weren't in her world either.

So he didn't want a wife; she knew that already, having read about his aversion to wedding bells in every magazine interview she came across. He just wanted a toy basically, so that when he grew bored he could throw her away and get a shiny new one.

As soon as the seat-belt light was off, a uniformed steward came through the cabin with coffee—in real cups—and a tray of bagels.

Ben whispered, "He'll massage your feet if you want him to."

"Thanks. I'll manage."

It was the most comfortable, civilized flight she'd ever taken. So this was how the one percent lived. Bry tried not to look phased by it.

He was on the phone now—a special one that came with the plane. Legs stretched out, fingers occasionally drumming on the wide leather arm of his chair, he could be sitting in an office anywhere, untroubled by the fact that he was thousands of feet in the air.

Ben Petruska was, curiously enough, not a conventionally handsome man. He could never be mistaken for a male model. His looks were rough about the edges, like his manners. Taken one by one his features were nothing special. But somehow, all put together in their crooked way they were breathtaking, heart stopping. He had shoulders wider than some doors and hands that looked as if they could crack walnuts. Something about him made her think "gypsy". Was it the dark wavy hair? The wild spark in his eye? The dangerous, panty-dropping smile?

Was any of this for real? She was in a private fucking plane and heading for the fucking Bahamas with Ben fuck-me Petruska.

Nice language for a Chartered Accountant, young lady.

Calm down, Bry. He did this sort of thing all the time. You don't want to look like a rank amateur do you?

Besides she had terms to re-negotiate with this high-flying, mercenary, cut-throat business tycoon.

David slew Goliath, right?

She unclasped her belt buckle and stretched.

His attention instantly snapped to her. Bry crossed her legs slowly, hitching sideways in the soft, plush leather chair, knowing it would pull her skirt up a few inches and expose the lace band at the top of her thigh-high stockings. She wriggled out of her black blazer and tossed it to a vacant chair.

Ben's dark green eyes had turned slightly foggy.

Yawning, she reached up and unpinned the clip from her hair, letting it fall to her shoulders.

The steward passed and took their empty coffee cups. She watched Ben give him a discreet signal and as soon as the other man had disappeared behind a curtain, he hung up the phone.

"Did you just cut someone off mid conversation?" she asked, amused.

He shrugged. "I was done."

"Alrighty then." She slid on her knees between them and rested her hands on his spread knees. "My turn to eat."

"Should have a bagel," he muttered.

"That's not what I had in mind."

Slowly she slid a palm over the bulge in his crotch. A magnificent bulge. She was already damp between her legs, thinking about the weekend she'd just embarked upon. No one knew she was there with this dangerous man. Helena would go crazy if she found out. Her mother would think Paris had turned her into a tart, she mused. Her mother, a stout flame-haired Irishwoman had no great opinion of the French and "their ways".

"I haven't asked you to suck me off," he observed sternly.

"So you haven't." The zipper hissed softly as she drew it down. Today he wore boxers and his erection stabbed out through the opening in the cotton panel. She saw that both his hands now gripped the chair arms. "But I haven't signed your dumb contract either. I think I'm too independent for you. I tend to do just what I want."