Playboy's Ruthless Payback: Playboy's Ruthless Payback

Eight

Olivia walked down the hall, an aching stiffness in her bones that came from sleeping in a chair for most of the night. If she’d had the day to herself, she might grab a massage and a whirlpool bath at the local spa, but she had a full plate today and a good soak in her bathtub when she got home tonight was about the best she could hope for.

When she got to the stairs, she heard voices below in the hall. “Oh, that’s my cab,” she called to Mac. “The tow truck company said they should be pulling out my car later this afternoon, so you don’t have to—” She stopped talking. The voices she heard were angry and threatening, and she recognized them at once. One belonged to Mac, and the other, she was pretty sure, belonged to her father.

She raced down the hallway, but when she got to the entryway, all she could do was stare. There was her father, his back against the wall, looking like he wanted to kill Mac with his bare hands. And Mac, who was standing in front of him, only inches away, looked just as menacing.

“What the hell are you two doing?” she demanded. When neither of them answered, she walked over and stood in front of them, her hands on her hips. “Mac,” she said evenly, trying to bring some sense of calm to the situation, and to the two fire-breathing men before her. “Take a breath and back up.”

His jaw flickered with tension, but he didn’t look at her when he muttered hotly, “Yeah. Sure. As long as your father here doesn’t jump on me again.”

“What?” Olivia turned to her father. “Jump on you?” When Owen didn’t look at her, she put a hand on his shoulder and said in a voice laced with warning, “Dad, what are you doing here?”

Owen’s lips tightened as he turned to look at her. “We need to talk.”

“You could’ve called me.”

“I tried to call you, but you weren’t at home.”

“Let’s go outside.” Embarrassed at her father’s behavior, and the overly parental way he was treating her at that moment, Olivia tried to smooth things over with Mac. She felt really awkward looking at him, especially after their encounter last night, but she forced herself to. “I’m sorry about this—”

Mac put a hand up. “Don’t worry about it, just get him out—”

“Don’t apologize to him, Olivia,” Owen said with a sneer. “He’s a monster, a conniving—”

Before Owen could hurtle any more insults Mac’s way, Olivia took his hand and pulled him out the door, calling over her shoulder, “I’ll be back at ten for the delivery. If you’ll just put a key under the mat…”

Not expecting a response, Olivia led Owen down the walkway toward her waiting cab. She was furious, and could barely contain her anger. She understood her father’s need to protect her, but this was way over the top.

As soon as she believed herself to be out of earshot, she faced him, her tone grave. “Dad, seriously, what are you doing? Coming here and attacking a man in his own home?”

“He’s no man, he’s a—”

“He could have called the police. Hell, he still could…and I have to say I wouldn’t blame him. What were you thinking?”

Owen suddenly looked very weary as he reached out to touch her hair. “I was trying to protect you, honey, stop you from making a huge mistake.” His eyes clouded with sadness. “But it looks like I’m too late for that.”

“Too late for what? What mistake…?” Then she understood why her father had come. She heaved a sigh. It was the same old thing—her father’s desperation, and constant fear that she was going to turn out like his older sister Grace. Her poor aunt Grace, who had been way too wild, made way too many mistakes and had been totally incapable of picking a decent guy. Poor Aunt Grace who, after staying out until dawn partying with some jerk from the local college, had been killed in a car accident on her way home. She’d just turned eighteen the week before, and Olivia’s father had never gotten over losing her.

Olivia understood her father’s fears and his need to protect her, but she wasn’t sixteen anymore. This over-protectiveness needed to stop.

Standing beside the open door of the cab, Owen was shaking his head. “That monster stood there in his doorway and smiled when I asked him where you were.”

Oh, great. “What did he tell you?” As if she needed to ask.

“That you were in his bed.” Her father said the words as though he had acid on his tongue.

So Mac had baited her father. What a shocker. God, they were both acting like such juvenile idiots….

“Is it true then?” her father asked, his brown eyes incredibly sad.

“Dad, I’m not going to answer that.”

The cab driver opened his window. “You going to be much longer, lady?”

Olivia shrugged. “I don’t know—maybe.”

The man rolled his eyes and closed his window.

“Olivia, please,” her father continued. “You’re such a good girl. Don’t act irrationally—and with a man who only wants to use you to get back at me.”

“I’m not acting irrationally, Dad. And I’m not a girl anymore.”

“I know….”

“No, I don’t think you do.” She bit her lip and contemplated broaching the subject about his fears and what the hell had happened so long ago. But his eyes still spit fire and he looked way too closed. “Listen,” she said gently, “you knew I was taking this job, and that it would mean working closely with Mac Valentine.”

“Helping my enemy.”

“I have a company to run, too.”

Owen seemed to consider this, then he said in a slightly calculating tone, “Okay, so you’re helping him do what exactly? Go after new clients?”

Olivia shook her head. “That’s confidential.”

Owen looked livid. “The man is a conniving bastard who wants to hurt you, and you’re worried about…”

She put a hand on his shoulder. “How long have I been living on my own, supporting myself?”

“Since you were eighteen.” He pointed at her. “But that was not my choice.”

“Exactly. I’m a grown woman who makes her own choices, and as I’ve told you before—respectfully—I don’t have to answer to you or to anyone.”

Owen wilted slightly, but it wasn’t the first time he’d heard her speak this way. After her mother had died, and after Owen had emotionally checked out, Olivia had made decisions for herself. Some of them had been downright stupid, even reckless, but the majority, she’d been proud of—like her business.

Her father’s gaze grew soft as he looked at her. “What happened to my little girl?”

“I left her back in high school.” Olivia leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. “I have a busy day, as I’m sure you do, too.” She got into the backseat of the cab and gave him a little wave before her driver backed out and pulled away.

Mac stood in the living room, watching Olivia’s cab take off down the street. The glass on every window in the house was pretty thin, and he’d heard their entire conversation. Looked like he had gotten it wrong; Olivia may not be that sweet, naive girl he assumed her to be. But where her father didn’t want to deal with it, Mac burned to know every detail of the past she seemed to be hiding—especially after last night.

Grinning, he left the living room and went into his study. Embers burned in the fireplace, and as he sat in one of the leather armchairs, his body twitched with the memory of Olivia in his arms, on top of him, underneath him. The way she’d responded to his touch, the silent, hungry demands. She’d felt pleasure before, but she’d been denied it for way too long. There was no need to push her, he realized. The demands of her body had started to take over her good sense and Mac was going to be there, totally available when it happened again.

After all, her father thought him to be a womanizing bastard, and Mac was ready to prove him right.

All in all a very successful day, Olivia mused, walking from one beautifully furnished room to the next. She’d quite outdone herself, and in record time, too. Each room complemented the next in leather and iron, glass and walnut.

She stopped in the living room and marveled at the classic, comfortable feel of the space. Not to mention the warm air puffing from the vents in the baseboards. She’d finally found a guy to come out in the snow and turn on the heat. A vast improvement in and of itself.

Though she’d purchased all the linens for the upstairs, the bedroom furniture wouldn’t be arriving until early tomorrow morning. But they were close—well on their way to creating a very modern, very homey, very Mac-like environment.

“Ms. Winston?”

Olivia returned to the living room where Dennis Thompson, a local art gallery owner who looked rather like a short version of Ichabod Crane, was hanging several paintings she’d purchased for Mac’s house.

“What do you think?” he asked, holding up two Josef Albers pieces, both in several shades of yellow. “On top of one another?”

She sat on the new distressed, brown leather couch to get a better view. “Hmm…I don’t know. How about—”

“Side by side?” came Mac’s voice behind her.

Dennis Thompson looked behind Olivia and beamed at Mac. “Perfect. I’ll just go get my tools from the car.”

Olivia turned, surprised. “You’re home early, Mr. Valentine. Are you here to supervise?”

He was dressed in a tailored black suit and crisp white shirt, his tie loosened from his neck. “I came home for a late lunch or an early dinner.”

“Oh, really?” she said with a grin. “I haven’t stocked the fridge yet and you ate the only frozen pizza, so what were you planning on having? The cocktail onions or that last, lonely bottle of Corona?”

He walked around the couch and sat beside her. “You’re a pretty good chef, aren’t you?”

“I like to think so.” He smelled so good. She tried not to breathe through her nose.

“Well, then, can’t you make something amazing out of onions and beer?”

“No,” said Olivia succinctly, lifting an eyebrow. “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“When do you normally leave the office to come home?”

His lips twitched. “Oh, I don’t know…”

“Approximately.”

“Seven, eight…nine, ten.”

She looked at her watch. “It’s four-thirty—why are you here?” Her heart began to pound in her chest as she wondered for a moment if he was there to see her. After what happened that morning with her father, she wouldn’t blame him. She just hoped he wouldn’t spread the story around town. “Are you going to fire me?”

“No.” He laughed. “That’s over and done with.” His voice turned serious. “As long as it doesn’t happen again. I can’t have your father showing up when the DeBolds arrive.”

“It will not happen again,” she assured him. “You have my word.”

Satisfied with that answer, Mac leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not exactly sure why I’m here. But I think the reason might be embarrassing.”

“For you or me?”

“Me. Definitely me.”

“Oh, well, then share, please.”

He glanced around the room. “It’s really warm in here.”

“I know. I had the tech come this morning and it took him hours just to—”

“No, I mean what you’ve created here from the furniture to the artwork to all those little things on the tables and in the bathroom and on the mantels. It’s all warm. I never thought I’d be comfortable with warm.…” He looked at her, surprise in his gaze. “As you start to make my house into a livable, family-friendly place I sort of want to be here to see it…and you.”

Her muscles tensed at his words and she could almost feel the pressure of his lips on her mouth once again. Her reaction to him, her attraction to him, wasn’t going away, she knew that. But she hoped that maybe the two of them could forget what happened last night and go on about their business.

When she found his gaze once again, Mac had that look in his eye, that roguish one that made her knees weak and her resolve disappear.

“Listen,” she began, “about last night…”

“Yes?”

“I was half-asleep.”

“Before or after you kissed me?” he asked huskily.

Right. Her brow creased with unease. “As clichéd as this is about to sound, it’ll never happen again.”

He grinned. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“We made sparks.”

His words and the casual way he offered them made her laugh. “I won’t argue with that. You’re one helluva kisser, Valentine, but…” And on that note, she sobered. “You’re also using me.” She put a hand up as she saw him open his mouth to speak. “I know you think I’m using you, too, but I’m not. And last night, I didn’t.”

His grin evaporated. “Then why…”

She stared at him, wondered what he would say if she told him she was starting to like him—that even with the information she had about him and why he’d hired her to begin with, she believed he was good man. A damaged man—but, under that hard-ass exterior, a good one.

“Ms. Winston?”

Dennis Thompson had returned from his car and was standing in the doorway with his toolkit and another painting. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but before we can hang the rest of the pieces, we need you to tell us where you want them.”

“I’ll be right there,” she told him before facing Mac again. “Now, we have guests arriving tomorrow afternoon, and I have to finish up here, then go home and plan a menu.”

He nodded. “Have you decided to stay here?”

“Not yet.”

“If you do, I won’t bother you.”

“I’m not worried about you starting anything.” It was all she had to say. The flush on his neck and the stiffness in his jaw were obvious clues that he’d heard the slight emphasis on the word you and understood her meaning all too clearly.

She got up and was about to leave the room when Mac called her back. “Olivia?”

“Yes?”

“As far as the menu, I’ve invited another couple to join us tomorrow night, so there will be six instead of four.”

“Okay. Anyone I know?”

He shook his head. “I don’t think so. It’s the DeBolds’ attorney and her husband.”

“Got it.” She tossed him a casual, professional smile, then left the room.

Nine

If someone called Mac Valentine an arrogant jerk to his face, he usually agreed with them before kicking them out of his office. He was arrogant. But in his defense he believed he was the best at what he did and that unshakable confidence was the only way to stay at the top of his game. Today, at around three o’clock in the afternoon, he’d had that theory tested and proven correct by one of the clients who, just a few weeks ago, had been running scared after Owen Winston’s foolish attempt to discredit him. After waiting for twenty minutes in the lobby, the client had sat before Mac and had practically begged him to take him back. Whether the man still believed that Mac had given preferential treatment and tips to his other clients or not, being at a competing firm had not proved lucrative and he wanted back in.

Mac pulled into his garage feeling on top of the world. When one client returned, he mused, the others would surely follow—they’d leave Owen Winston and other financial firms and come back to where they belonged.

He cut the engine and grabbed his briefcase and laptop. Today’s success would by no means deter him from getting revenge on Winston. And in fact, he actually felt a stronger desire to follow through on his plans with Olivia. By the end of the weekend, he thought darkly as he stepped out of the car and headed into the house, he would have it all: Owen’s little girl and a powerhouse of a new client to add to his roster.

The heavenly scent of meat and spices, onions and something sweet accosted his senses when he walked through the door. Home sweet home, he thought sarcastically, walking into the kitchen. But once there, he promptly forgot everything he’d just been thinking, plotting and reveling in. In fact, as he took in the sight before him, he realized he had little or no brain left. “You look…”

Olivia stood before the stove, stirring something with a wooden spoon. “Like a wife?”

He saw the lightness, the humor in her eyes, but couldn’t find a laugh to save his soul. He cleared his throat, his gaze moving over her hungrily. “I was going to say, breath-stealing—but I suppose you could look wifely, as well.”

She wore pink. He hated pink. He’d always hated pink. It was for flowers or cotton candy. But Olivia Winston in pink was a whole different matter. The dress she wore was cut at the knee and cinched at the waist, and pushed her perfectly round breasts upward, just slightly—just enough so that she looked elegant, yet would also drive a man to drool. Her long dark hair was pulled up to the top of her head, causing her neck to look long and edible, and her dark eyes, still filled with humor, reminded him of warm clay beneath long, black lashes.

And she had wanted him to forget about the other night? Get serious. All Mac wanted was to pull her against him, ease the top of her dress down, fill his hands with her, play with one perfect pink nipple while he suckled the other. His groin tightened almost to the point of pain. He wondered, would she moan as he nuzzled her? Or would she cry out again, allow herself to climax this time?

“Well, thank you for the compliment,” she said, gathering up several bottles of wine. “Would you mind setting those things down and giving me a hand?”

“Sure. What do you need?”

She nodded in the direction of the island. “Wineglasses. Can you grab them and follow me?”

He picked up the spotless glasses that were laid out on a towel on the island and followed her into the dining room.

“Well, what do you think?” she asked, setting the bottle down on an impressive black hutch.

This woman wasn’t fooling around. She was damn good at what she did, and it showed in every detail. She’d set the table with unusually modern-looking china, gleaming stemware and silver silk napkins. But the most impressive part was the centerpiece, which sat in the middle of a round walnut table. It looked as though she’d brought the outdoors inside with cut branches from his yard, white candles and small silver bells.

He set down the wineglasses and released a breath. “It’s perfect.”

“Good.” She checked her watch. “Your guests will be here in thirty minutes. You’d better wash up and change your clothes.”

“I have time.”

She gave him an impatient look. “It would be rude, not to mention awkward, if you weren’t here when the doorbell rings.”

“Careful, or someone might think you’re the woman of the house,” Mac said with amusement, wondering how long it would take to kiss that pink gloss off her mouth.

Reaching for the dimmer switch on the wall, Olivia lowered the lights a touch. “For all intents and purposes this weekend, I am.”

His gaze swept over her. “Did I tell you how much I like the color pink?”

“No, you didn’t,” she said primly, putting her arm through his and walking him toward the stairs. “But we really don’t have time for that now. I have a dinner to get on the table, and I won’t allow anything to burn.”

He grinned. “Of course, can’t have things getting too hot now, can we?”

She glared at him, raising one perfectly shaped eyebrow. “I think a shower would be good for you.”

He nodded and said with sardonic amusement, “Yes, dear,” then took the stairs two at a time. She was right. He needed a shower, a really cold shower. Hell, he thought, chuckling to himself, he might do better diving into one of those piles of snow burying his lawn.

Harold DeBold was one of those guys people just liked the minute they met him. Hovering somewhere around forty, he was very tall and thin, and had pale blond hair and wintery blue eyes. He reminded Olivia of a surfer, relaxed and free-spirited. His wife Louise, on the other hand, was dark-skinned, dark-eyed, completely city-sexy in her gorgeousness and totally high-strung. But she also seemed sincere, and when she was told that Olivia was going to be their chef for the weekend, instead of thinking it odd that the person Mac had hired to help him was not going to stay in the kitchen and/or serve, but was going to eat and socialize with them, she’d acted as though it were the most normal thing in the world—even adding that she was thrilled that Olivia was going to cook some down-home Minnesota fare for them.

“Honestly,” the woman said to Olivia, curling her diamond-encrusted hand around her wineglass. “I feel like all I’ve eaten for days is foie gras, caviar and squid ink. I’m over it.”

Chuckling, Harold told Mac, “We’ve been in New York for the past week.”

They were waiting for the DeBolds’attorney and her husband to arrive as they sat in Mac’s den, which had been completely transformed into a contemporary, masculine, but family-friendly retreat with his two existing leather chairs and several other pieces of dark blue chenille furniture curled around the fire. Cozy rugs dressed the hardwood floor, and lights had been installed outside to showcase the wintery-forest view from the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Mac reached over and topped off Louise’s wine. “You two were in Manhattan for a week and you didn’t get around to pasta?”

Louise snorted. “Unfortunately, no.”

“Next time you go, let me know,” Mac said seriously. “There’s this tiny hole-in-the-wall in Little Italy that you’ve got to check out. The spiciest pasta puttanesca—not to mention the best-tasting parmesan cheese I’ve ever had.”

“Cheese.” Chuckling, Harold said with dramatic flair, “City folk think that all us backcountry Wisconsinites get to eat is cheese, so they refuse to take us anywhere that might serve it. Instead, they figure they’ve got to impress us with all those fancy, unpronounceable, unrecognizable foods.” As he said the last word he mimed air quotes.