The Sex Cure

One sexy assignment leads to off-the-charts passion in USA TODAY bestselling author Cara Lockwood’s latest sizzling DARE novel!

Playboy billionaire Wilder Lange is 100 percent sex. Women probably stand in line to worship him. But sex columnist and expert Harley Vega isn’t one of them. Especially since he eliminated her publishing job. Living in New York City takes stamina—and a lot of cash—so she has to find a new job. Fast.

Enter Wilder with his broad shoulders and almost jet-black hair. The gorgeous man has a very unusual request. He needs her expertise, and it must remain confidential. He also wants Harley—a woman with brains, sensitivity and a beauty she hasn’t noticed until he makes her look in the mirror.

Now Harley finds herself in close confines with the sexiest man on earth, one she should detest. He has her questioning her own knowledge of a topic she has studied for years: unbridled passion. She’s the one who’s supposed to uncover his secrets, not the reverse. Their crazy chemistry defies logic and soon Wilder shows her pleasure that makes her forget her own name. Is it even crazier to think they could bring this connection beyond the bedroom?

Harlequin DARE publishes sexy romances featuring powerful alpha heroes and bold, fearless heroines exploring their deepest fantasies.

Four new Harlequin DARE titles are available each month, wherever ebooks are sold!

CARA LOCKWOOD is the USA TODAY bestselling author of more than twenty-six books, including I Do (But I Don’t), which was made into a Lifetime Original movie. She’s written the Bard Academy series for young adults and has had her work translated into several languages around the world. Born and raised in Dallas, Cara now lives near Chicago with her husband and their five children. Find out more about her at caralockwood.com, friend her on Facebook, Facebook.com/authorcaralockwood, or follow her on Twitter, @caralockwood, or Instagram, Instagram.com/cara_lockwood.

The Sex Cure

Cara Lockwood

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09938-7

THE SEX CURE

© 2020 Cara Lockwood

Published in Great Britain 2020

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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For the Benoit and Lockwood clans.

I couldn’t do what I do without you!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

EPILOGUE

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

WHY WAS SHE even here? Harley Vega had been asking herself this question ever since the butler had let her into Wilder Lange’s private office inside his massive multi-level Manhattan penthouse. Maybe she was just a glutton for punishment. Maybe she was a masochist and didn’t know it. How else to explain why she accepted a one-on-one meeting with the man responsible for tanking her career?

She knew why. She was going to give the asshole a piece of her mind.

Harley didn’t know what his agenda was but hers included letting the corporate shark know that he’d made the biggest mistake of his professional life, axing her sex advice column from Femme, a glossy women’s magazine that had been in production for the better part of fifty years. She’d been called the world’s most famous sexologist (had a PhD in human sexuality, for goodness’ sake) and had been writing the sex advice column for more than seven years.

And then there was Wilder Lange, who bought her magazine for a song, gutted the thing, put his name on it and declared himself the savior of yet another publication with a long and storied history. Yes, saving, she thought bitterly. Saving by cutting the page count in half and laying off two-thirds of its staff.

And what the hell did he even know about publishing? As far as Harley could tell, he was a full-time playboy. He seemed to spend all his time dating and dumping models and pop stars. A poster boy for an unhealthy sex life, a type-A commitment-phobe. One of them had even written a song about him. It was called something ridiculous like “Sex God.” The dumbest song title she’d ever heard in her life! She paced, anger thrumming in her veins. She glanced around the study to get her bearings and tried to calm down. She noticed the chrome shelves in his study lined with antique books and first editions that at a glance seemed heavy on Dickens: Great Expectations, Oliver Twist, Tale of Two Cities. Not exactly the light reading she expected from a would-be sex god. She sniffed. They were probably all for show. Somebody probably told him that having antique books in his library would make him look sophisticated.

She glanced around the sleek modern library in the penthouse of this mirrored building on Fifth Avenue, as they sat far, far above the street noise and traffic, and marveled at the very vastness of the place. Everything seemed to be white and chrome, modern and sleek, except for the traditional paintings hung in various places and the antique pieces of furniture that complemented the room. The place felt like a bundle of contradictions that somehow worked: old and new, antique and modern. Either Wilder Lange was broadcasting hidden depths, or he’d hired an interior designer to do just that. Most likely the latter. Harley was sure the man never lifted a finger to do any real work his whole life. Hadn’t he inherited the company from his wealthy daddy? Harley glanced outside the huge glass windows overlooking the whole of Central Park and the buildings surrounding it. Impressive view, she’d give him that. But that was all she’d give him.

Harley glanced at her watch. The man wasn’t even on time. He was ten minutes late. Was reading him the riot act even worth the wait? Or was he assuming that because she’d been let go of her job, she had nothing but time on her hands? Well, she didn’t, as a matter of fact. Since she couldn’t write her column anymore, she’d need to work on drumming up more life-coaching clients, more people in need of sex advice to pay her bills. And, maybe, at long last, she could finally finish that couples’ therapy book she’d been dabbling with over the last few years. Maybe if she finished it sooner rather than later, she might be able to land an advance. Maybe. She needed the cash. Her Brooklyn apartment sure as hell wouldn’t pay for itself.

Forget this, she thought. She’d waited long enough. She grabbed her purse from the nearby burgundy leather chair and made her way to the door. Just then, the massive oak study door cracked open and Harley jumped, backing away from it only to see Wilder Lange stride in, all six foot four of him, oozing confidence and an easy charm. His broad shoulders seemed to brush the door frame as he passed and Harley Vega felt rooted to the spot. She wasn’t short, at five six, herself. But he was so...tall. And...damn sexy in that well-tailored light gray suit. Since when were billionaire communications magnates so hot? She took him all in: his carefully combed dark almost jet-black hair, rolling back from his forehead in waves, strikingly dark eyes framed with thick lashes, his athletic build telling her that the rumors that he hit triathlons in his spare time weren’t rumors at all. She seemed to remember one of her Google searches of the man told her he had Irish, German and Armenian heritage, but the combination right at this moment made her head spin.

“So sorry to keep you waiting,” he said, easily, with just the right amount of contrition, and for a full second she just stood there, probably mouth agape like an idiot. What was wrong with her? As if she’d never seen a good-looking man before. She’d almost completely forgotten she was supposed to hate him.

Wilder flashed her his famous dimpled smile and she felt her stomach lurch. This could not be happening. Why hadn’t any of the online photos of him done him any damn justice at all? He was just 100 percent sex, his charisma like an ocean wave crashing over her and temporarily stunning her senses. Now that damn song didn’t seem so ridiculous after all. Women probably stood in line for their chance to worship him.

He closed the minimal distance between them, hand out for a shake. She took his massive paw and felt her own delicate hand enveloped by his. What was it they said about a man with big hands? Although, she knew hand size had very little to do with other parts of the anatomy. Still, her mind couldn’t help but wonder. His hands seemed to be too strong for a businessman’s. He exuded a raw kind of power, something primal, something that didn’t belong in the expensive suit he wore. He looked the part of a rich tycoon, but the bent of his sensual mouth told her that looks were deceiving. Her hand felt tiny in his, and she was distinctly aware of the power dynamic, of how he held back his strength when he clasped her palm gently. She realized that she hadn’t said a word so far, as she’d been too focused on the man’s eyes. Sharp, mesmerizing and so very, very dark that she could only barely make out the outline of his pupils. “So nice to meet you. Thank you for coming.”

Why was he being so nice to her? That was the shocking part. Why on earth did he seem pleased to see her when he’d just fired her from the job she loved? He had to have read her columns and found them lacking. Why else hadn’t she made the cut? But he seemed damned pleased to see her, like maybe the man was flirting with her. He was, after all, known to be a famous womanizer. But then she thought better of it. Get a grip on yourself, Harley. This man might be sex on a freakin’ stick, but he wasn’t any friend and he certainly wasn’t interested. Harley wasn’t his usual model type. That was just her projecting her want on him. Stop thinking with your clit and try using your brain.

“Well, it’s not nice to meet you,” she said. “Can’t say I’m excited to meet the man who fired me.”

There. At least she wasn’t going to swoon all over him now. She got a tiny bit of satisfaction to see the man’s dark eyebrows raise in surprise. He probably surrounded himself with sycophants. Get used to it, she thought, I’m not here to kiss your ass. What was the point? Harley didn’t beg. She wasn’t going to plead for her job back. Her parents would drive all the way up from Miami to lecture her on not giving in. Vegas are proud, her father always told her.

“You are as blunt as people say, I see.” A slow smile played at the corners of his mouth. Why did he seem amused that she was pissed off? That just made her...more pissed off. “And, technically, I didn’t fire you. You were laid off.”

“Right. Let me just tell my landlord that. I’m sure she’d be just fine with me not paying my rent. Seeing as how I wasn’t fired for cause.” She’d gotten the second eviction notice today as a matter of fact. If she didn’t pay her rent in two days, she was going to be kicked out. She stuffed down the temporary panic that rose in her throat. And then what? Maybe crash on a friend’s couch. Except that most of her friends were at the magazine, and most of them were in the same predicament she was. She could go home to Miami. But that would be admitting defeat. Her mother never approved of her moving to Manhattan.

She hated the fact that her mother’s prediction—that she’d be scraping by in New York—had come true. Sure, she was professionally successful, but living on her own in New York on a modest columnist’s salary only worked if she got the salary. She’d been living paycheck to paycheck for some time.

She noticed the gleaming Rolex on Wilder’s wrist. That man had never had to worry about making rent even once in his whole silver-spoon life, she thought.

“It was a business decision. Nothing personal.” He motioned to an oversized leather chair near the corner window. “Please, Ms. Vega, sit.” She hesitated. Did she even want to stay? Part of her wanted to tell him to go to hell and run out of his penthouse. Another part of her was curious as to why she was here at all. Even though he made her furious, she still wrestled with curiosity. What the hell was she here for? Maybe he planned an apology. An apology would be nice.

“Please,” he added. He nodded at the chair, and she noticed how perfectly symmetrical his features were: eyes, nose, mouth. Fending off his charisma felt like a full-time job. Something about Wilder Lange made everything seem off center. It was the way he was looking at her, she realized, and more than that, the way his gaze made her feel.

Eventually, she sat in the leather chair, sinking into it and struggling to keep her skirt at her knees. She’d worn one of the outfits she typically wore to the office: dark pencil skirt, trendy spring top in a pastel pink that complemented her almond skin. She dressed conservatively, because she knew that people sometimes assumed a sex advice columnist would show up wearing garter belts and a bustier. Nervously, a hand went to her dark updo, as if reassuring herself her twist hadn’t come loose. Then she wondered why she’d done that, why she cared so much about looking put together at this moment. She knew that somewhere deep inside her, she wanted Wilder to find her pleasing. That was a dangerous hope, a stupid one. What then? He’d be attracted to her and give back her old job? Harley wasn’t here to bargain for her job. She wasn’t going to trade favors with any man to save her career. No matter how powerful—or how damn delectable—he seemed.

Wilder sat at the edge of his massive desk, and she was well aware that he was hovering above her. Sitting, she still had to crane her neck to meet his eyes.

“Why am I here, Mr. Lange?” Her tone was sharp, annoyed. Good.

“Are you always so to the point?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Most of the time,” she said. “I don’t believe in wasting time.” Unlike Wilder Lange, it seemed.

“Would you like a drink? Iced tea? Scotch?” He flashed a wicked grin. Harley felt ire rise in her. Why did she feel like he was the cat and she, the mouse? What he didn’t know was she was no mouse.

She crossed her legs at the knee, and very much wished she’d brought a leather-bound ledger for notes. Anything that she might use as a shield against Wilder’s penetrating gaze. She didn’t know why she felt so...vulnerable. Since when was she ever intimidated by money or power? Never.

“Do you have tequila?” she joked.

“I do. Reposado? Blanco? Anejo?” he asked, as if he had an entire bar hidden under his desk. Hell, the man might.

“Extra Anejo if you have it.” She might as well sample some of his expensive liquor. Might as well get something that would be worth the cost of the train to get here.

“Of course.” He slid off the end of the desk moving with the ease of a man comfortable in his body. He walked to the small glass cart tucked away near the chrome shelf, produced a small crystal tumbler and poured two glasses of amber-colored liquid. He handed it to her and she took a small sniff. It smelled aged and expensive, the kind of sipping tequila her father would fawn over at special occasions. Her mother had always wrinkled her nose and asked for a mojito, her drink of choice.

Wilder slid into the seat across from hers, deftly opening his suit jacket button with one hand, revealing a very defined waist beneath, his bright white starched shirt lying flat against the belt buckle bellow his belly button. She was strangely glad he didn’t offer a toast. She took a tentative sip of the drink and it felt like caramelized butter on her tongue. Definitely expensive. Definitely delicious. Nothing to slam here. This was meant to be enjoyed. Slowly. Her hopes of slamming the drink and stalking out of his office faded.

He watched her drink with that damn amused quirk of his lip twitching. She felt the urge to toss the drink in the man’s face. But her father would never forgive her. Tequila this good should never be wasted. She took another sip, the tequila already doing its job as it warmed her belly. Meanwhile, Wilder wasn’t talking. He was studying her. As if trying to figure out a puzzle. She wished he’d just get on with the damn meeting already, so they could part ways and she could get on with her life.

“Is it too much to hope for that you’re giving me my old job back?” She meant it as a light-hearted joke, but realized she’d failed miserably in her delivery. She sounded needy. Desperate. Dammit.

He frowned. “I’m sorry, no.” He shook his head.

The disappointment hit her harder than she would’ve thought. Why had she thought he’d give back her old job? A corporate shark like him didn’t gut staff and then have second thoughts.

“I’ve asked you here because I need your help.”

She laughed out loud, a blunt bray. “You need my help?” She couldn’t imagine with what. And also, footnote: what the hell was he thinking? What kind of gall gave him the right to ask for her help? He’d fired her and he was asking her for a favor?

“Yes, I do.” His expression was entirely serious as he took a small sip from his glass. Her laughter bounced right off him as if he were immune to ridicule. Probably the zeroes in his bank account made him impervious to shame. “You give advice. I need...advice.” He rolled the liquid around in his glass.

“You need advice?” Had she fallen into an alternate dimension? Did she find herself in the upside down? Why was one of the most powerful men in Manhattan asking her for advice?

“Yes.” He met her gaze, his dark eyes deadly serious. “I need advice...about sex.”

CHAPTER TWO

HARLEY FELT HER brain had short-circuited. Did the billionaire playboy subject of the pop song “Sex God” and the most powerful communications magnate in America just ask her for sex advice? She almost dropped her tumbler of expensive tequila all over his pristine white carpet.

“You need sex advice?” She was barely keeping the laughter from bubbling up in her throat. “You? Mr. Sex God?” She threw the song title at him like an insult.

“Yes.” He glanced at the carpet, looking contrite. And...a little lost. This wasn’t a joke. He was serious. The laughter in her throat died. Clearly, the man had a problem and was struggling to cope. The advice columnist in her made her pause. A million thoughts ran through her mind: was he not satisfying his partners? She looked at the dark-haired, devilishly handsome specimen before her. No, that couldn’t be it. Most women would be able to satisfy themselves just fine by practically looking at the man.

What about sex addiction? That was probably far more likely, she figured. She imagined the man unable to control his baser desires, falling into bed with countless women, and suddenly the image of him naked, helpless against his own impulses made a tiny bead of sweat drip down the small of her back. Was that...turning her on? Good lord. This was the first man she’d ever met that she’d immediately imagined...naked. What was wrong with her? She knew about charisma, knew about the power of sexual pheromones, yet, she’d never truly experienced their raw power. Until right at this moment.

“I understand how ridiculous this might seem.” He glanced up at her, appearing almost desperate. He needed help. That much was clear. He was also a man not used to asking for it, she guessed. And suddenly, she felt... God, did she feel sorry for the man? She could absolutely not allow any feelings of pity or any other feelings into her heart for this man who’d single-handedly destroyed the magazine she’d lived to work for. “I want you to take me on. As a personal client.”

“But...you fired me.” None of this was computing.

“You’re damn good at what you do. I’ve read your columns. I think you can help me.” He’d liked her columns?

“If I had a good column, why did you fire—”

“Lay off,” he corrected.

“Kick me to the curb,” she said. She gripped her glass a little tighter, that old resentment bubbling up in her. He wasn’t going to get away with sugarcoating anything.

“It was business. Not personal.”

“How can I not take it personally?” Seriously. Was she about to hear the professional equivalent of the it’s-not-me-it’s-you speech?

“You decide not to.” He eyed her. Why was he so confounding? She was just going to decide not to have a grudge against him. As if it were that easy. She drained what was left in her glass. He stood, fetched the crystal bottle from the mini bar and poured her another round. She accepted it without a word, her head starting to buzz from the first pour. And from the proximity of the man.