How do you resist the perfect guy?

You don’t

Journalist Lauren Hughes needs her job. And if that means writing a feature on Nico Donato—billionaire playboy and primo fantasy material for every straight woman with a pulse—so be it. All she has to do is not be charmed by him. Or tempted. Or invite this sexy, too-hot-to-be-true man into her real world...especially when he has the power to destroy it.

“DARE is Harlequin’s hottest line yet. Every book should come with a free fan. I dare you to try them!”

—Tiffany Reisz, international bestselling author

ALEXX ANDRIA is a USA TODAY bestselling romance author who writes about bad boys with a tough exterior but a soft, warm heart deep down. She loves sweet but dirty romance, with lots of witty banter and, of course, sizzling scenes in the bedroom (or kitchen, or wherever they happen to end up) and a guaranteed HEA.

If you liked Beddable Billionaire, why not try

Close to the Edge by Zara Cox

Getting Lucky by Avril Tremayne

Forbidden Pleasure by Taryn Leigh Taylor

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

Beddable Billionaire

Alexx Andria

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07133-8

BEDDABLE BILLIONAIRE

© 2018 Kimberly Sheetz

Published in Great Britain 2018

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.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

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

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Extract

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

Lauren

“AND I WANT YOU, Lauren, to cover the story.”

“Excuse me, I’m sorry, what?” I paused my notes to meet my editor’s stare, stifling the groan that wanted to pop from my mouth. Truthfully, I was only half listening during this morning’s staff meeting, but what little I’d heard wasn’t exactly flipping my interest switch.

“‘Hottest Bachelor in Town.’ I want you to write it,” Patrice answered, tapping her manicured finger against the slick tabletop. “Pay attention, please.”

I didn’t say the actual word, but my expression clearly said blech, and Patrice Winneham, executive editor of Luxe magazine, wasn’t known for her willingness to hear objections. “Problem?” she asked with a layer of frost blanketing her tone.

The last thing I wanted to write was some frivolous article on New York’s most eligible and, more important, rich bachelors, but I needed my job. “No problem,” I lied through my teeth. By now it should’ve become second nature, but it still curdled my guts to pretend to care about stories that held no bearing on actual life.

Like the world needed another spread on complete and utter nonsense. The longer I worked for Luxe, the more I was certain I would be required to turn in my feminist card because of crap assignments like this.

Who knew the going rate for a piece of your soul is the bargain-basement price of rent on a shitty apartment in Brooklyn. From my peripheral I caught our newest and youngest staffer nearly wetting herself to land this gig, and I readily threw her a bone.

“Actually, I really think Daphne would kill a story like that,” I suggested, casting a helpful look down the boardroom table toward the young redhead. Daphne was practically nodding her head off in eager agreement, salivating at the prospect. I smiled. “She’s got that young voice that I think would really sell the piece far better than me.”

Also, because the idea of pandering to an overprivileged prick is about as appealing as jamming a pen in my eye. But I couldn’t exactly say that without risking my job, and as shitty as the job was, it paid the bills—granted, barely—but still, they were paid.

“Yes, and she’s also gullible,” Patrice replied without apology, continuing with a briefly held smile, “and would likely end up falling in love with the man before the interview was finished. That’s a headache I don’t need. No, you’ll do the interview. End of story.” Patrice added with a warning glower, “And wear something nice. You’re representing Luxe.”

I ignored Patrice’s not-so-subtle dig. Fashion wasn’t my God, and I didn’t worship at the altar of haute couture. I’d wear what I pleased. “Fit before fashion” was my mantra, and I didn’t feel the least bit sorry for the women who chose to trudge around the city in high heels who, by the end of the day, were rubbing the agony from their barking dogs.

Nope, I sailed right past them in my sensible flats, happy as a clam and stealing their cab because I could run faster.

I caught Daphne’s crestfallen expression. Poor girl, I could only imagine how her dreams of working at a high-end magazine like Luxe were nothing like the reality.

I remembered being that idealistic newbie.

Now I was the jaded staffer who ran on a steady diet of cynicism and sarcasm, with the occasional sprinkling of “WTF?” thrown in for flavor.

Patrice, satisfied that her word was law, moved on with a smug smile. “We have managed to snag one of the sexiest bachelors yet from a distinguished family, old-world money, if you can imagine such a thing anymore. A real Italian stallion, if you will, and having this hottie on the cover is going to snag eyeballs, but I need someone experienced to handle the copy.”

Irritated and bored but having at least the sense to put on a good face, I forced a smile to ask, “And the name of this sexy and single vagina hound?”

“Wait for it...” Patrice paused for dramatic effect before gushing, “Nico Donato of Donato Inc. His family hails from Italy, starting with a humble yet wildly successful winery in Tuscany. Isn’t that dreamy? Does anything else scream romance more than the Italian countryside?”

I wouldn’t know, I wanted to quip. It’d been a long time since I’d experienced anything resembling romance after my ex ran off when I was five months pregnant—six years ago.

It was safe to say the most romance I’d had in my life consisted of furtive moments spent hiding in the closet with my Magic Wand.

Was it TMI if I admitted I’d already burned through three of those hardy vibrators? I rubbed at the phantom scorch mark left over from my last vibrator when it rudely caught fire in my hand.

So, yeah, romance? Not even sure I would recognize it if it bit me in the ass, but that was okay because men were a complication I didn’t need in my life. I was perfectly happy with the way things were, and I didn’t need wine and roses from some man to feel complete.

Did I miss an actual warm body to cuddle with on cold nights? Yeah, but then, I could always get a dog or a cat and achieve the same effect, which I’d been seriously considering.

“Wow, I’ve seen pictures of Nico Donato, and he’s definitely a hottie,” Daphne gushed, her eyes alight with envy. “I can’t imagine a woman alive who would turn him down if he asked.”

I tried not to roll my eyes. Continuing my Golden Globe‒worthy performance, I nodded like a good staffer and agreed with Patrice because I needed my job. “Sounds fantastic,” I murmured, trying not to gag.

Daphne sighed, and I could practically see the cartoon hearts and rainbows floating around her head. Good grief, Patrice was probably right. Sending someone like Daphne to interview this Italian stallion would be like sending a lamb to slaughter. Daphne was probably still in that stage of her life when her bra and panties matched.

I was sporting underwear with a hole in it, and my bra was three years old.

Any seduction attempt for my benefit would end in laughter. Mine and his.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not ugly and I do probably (maybe) own a matching bra and panty set, but let’s face it, fancy panties are uncomfortable, and these days, comfort was king.

#singlemom.

#allmymoneygoestomykid.

#myvibratordoesntjudge.

Patrice was talking again. “I don’t know how this man has managed to remain single, but after this issue comes out...we might be able to do a follow-up for the engagement because someone is going to snag him up, I can guarantee it.”

“Maybe he’s an asshole?” I suggested, and the table erupted with nervous laughter, except Patrice, who frowned. I shrugged, just pointing out what everyone else was thinking but was too afraid to voice. “I mean, that seems like the obvious answer, right? Good-looking, rich but maybe his personality is rotten. There isn’t enough money in the world to compensate for a shitty attitude.”

“I’m sure he’s a lovely human being,” Patrice said pointedly. “And it’ll be your job to make sure that comes across.”

“And what if, just clarifying, he isn’t a lovely human being?”

Patrice tapped her Montblanc pen on the polished table surface, the chipped ice in her blue eyes growing colder. “I’m sure he is,” she finally answered. “And you’ll do a fine job. I look forward to reading your copy.”

More anxious laughter floated around the conference table. Why was I poking the bear in the designer suit? I don’t know. Maybe I was PMSing. Maybe I was tired of writing stupid, fluff articles that did nothing but perpetuate the stereotype that all women cared about were hot men with big cocks.

Or I was PMSing.

Honestly, it could go either way.

It was now or never if I wanted to throw something serious into the ring. I stilled the sudden bouncing of my knee beneath the table and pushed forward with my own idea for the magazine.

“I was thinking we could do an article on Associate Justice Elena Kagan, maybe focus on how women still have to fight for positions historically held by men?”

The silence was not only deafening, but the disdain was actually painful.

Patrice sniffed with distaste. “This is Luxe, not The Legal Review. No one wants to read about a dusty old woman in a black robe unless she’s wearing Donna Karan on the bench.”

Daphne tittered and I wanted to shake some sense into the young twit, but Patrice was right. Luxe wasn’t going to be breaking ground in the advancement of women’s rights anytime soon. Luxe was all about designer shoes, perpetuating the harmful stereotypes that fostered unattainable body goals and kept women bitching and fighting among themselves.

God, maybe I was beginning to hate Luxe, or maybe I was just becoming a bitter bitch because I hadn’t gotten laid in forever. Seeing as that wasn’t likely to change anytime soon, I had to suck it up, smile and agree to interview Mr. Big Cock or else I could lose my ability to pay rent.

“I’ll make the arrangements,” I said, privately scribbling, Sacrifice dignity and interview man-slut. “Have you already set up the photographer?”

“All done. Jacques will be shooting the spread. We’re thinking...Hamptons...beach time...crisp whites and blues.”

“It’ll make for good pictures,” I agreed but inside I was rolling my eyes. Like that idea hasn’t been done a million times before. “Everyone loves a hot guy on the beach,” I said, parroting what I knew Patrice wanted to hear.

“That they do.” Patrice nodded in wholehearted agreement as if she were relieved I’d finally agreed to pull my head from my ass. “And it’s easy to sell advertising for beach-themed spreads. Anyway, you all have your assignments. Go on, go forth, amaze me.”

As I left the conference room, Daphne attached herself to my hip, saying, “Have you seen Nico’s picture? He’s gorgeous. Blue eyes to die for, a body made for sin, and he’s so sweet. A real charmer.”

“How do you know he’s sweet?” I countered, wryly amused and vastly curious. “Have you met?”

“Oh, no,” Daphne admitted but added quickly, “just look at that face...he seems so sweet. You can tell from the eyes. His eyes tell a story.”

“I’m sure they tell some sort of story,” I agreed, resisting the urge to roll my eyes so hard they bounced from my skull. Perhaps I should burst her bubble and tell her the story of my sweet ex. The one who bailed on me and our son when he realized being a parent was going to be a full-time job that would likely cut into his playtime? I swallowed the urge because I wasn’t into wasting energy, and I doubted Daphne would see anything but my being a salty bitch—especially if she found out who my ex was.

Instead, I said, “Sounds like trouble to me, but I’d be happy to be wrong. It’s not likely, but it would be a nice surprise.”

“You seriously don’t want this assignment?” Daphne said, flabbergasted that I would turn my nose up at the opportunity to fawn over some rich guy. “I mean, Nico Donato is mega rich. I’m talking obscenely rich. Like golden toilets, I-wipe-my-ass-with-hundred-dollar-bills Dubai rich.”

I smirked. “That rich, huh? Sounds like a delight.” Although, why would anyone want to be that rich? Seemed like a lot of headaches. I’d rather be comfortable, not obscenely wealthy. Apparently, I was in the minority, considering present company. “Personally, I prefer actual toilet paper, but the good stuff, not the tissue paper that shreds the minute you slide it across your ass.”

“Are you seriously talking about toilet paper?” Daphne stepped in front of me just as I headed for the break room to grab my yogurt. “Take me with you,” she pleaded. “Please? He’s the man of my dreams. I’d kill to meet him. What if he’s my soul mate?”

“And that’s exactly why I won’t let you tag along,” I said, maneuvering around her. “Trust me, I’m doing you a favor. Men like Donato are narcissists and they spread heartbreak like disease. I’ll bet if I did a little digging I’d find scores of women who were used and tossed aside by this rich prick. Just because he’s got a nice face—”

Daphne injected, “And body.”

I exhaled in irritation as I continued. “Yes, and body, doesn’t mean he’s not the devil.” I retrieved my yogurt, adding for Daphne’s sake, “You’re young. When you get a little more seasoning, you’ll figure out that Dubai-rich guys are usually the ones you want to steer clear from.”

“You’re not that much older than me,” Daphne pointed out with a frown. “Why do you act like you’re an old lady?”

Are we close to the same age? Impossible. Most days I felt a hundred.

“Because I don’t think I was ever your age,” I answered, popping the spoon in my mouth. “But if you must know, I’ve been burned before by a sweet talker, and experience breeds wisdom, you know?”

“So, because you got your heart broken you’re never going to let anyone else in?”

Ick. When did this conversation turn into a Dr. Phil session? “As much as I adore this little tête-à-tête, I have work to do so...”

Daphne pouted but didn’t continue to dog me to my desk (thank God), and I was able to eat my yogurt in relative peace while I did some poking around on the net about Donato.

My Google-fu was pretty decent, and with a few clicks I had pictures and background information on the youngest Donato.

Okay, so he was handsome, I’d give him that.

Yeah, those blue eyes were panty-droppers, and that body looked fairly chiseled from clay.

And Nico was Dubai rich, as Daphne liked to call it.

But I couldn’t find any information on anything useful or worthwhile that he might’ve been associated with.

No philanthropy.

No peace work.

No good deeds on record.

However, I did find some paparazzi photos of Nico doing body shots off the belly of a hot-bodied coed during spring break at Lake Havasu.

Yep. I took another bite. Total douchebag. Life was so unfair. How did guys like Nico always get ahead when hardworking people, like myself, had to struggle and scrape for every dime?

I wallowed in a moment of self-pity before sighing and printing out the relevant information I would need for my fluff article.

“I love my job,” I murmured to myself. “I love my job.” To ground my motivation more firmly, I glanced at the picture of my son on my desk. Grady’s gap-toothed smile was all the motivation I needed to shut my mouth, put my head down and get the job done.

Houston Beaumont was a useless human being, but our son was the light of my life and I couldn’t regret deciding to cancel the adoption paperwork.

Grady wasn’t planned—hell, my relationship, if you can call it that, with Houston hadn’t been planned either—but I’d do anything for that cute little dirty-blond imp who called me Mama.

And I thanked my lucky stars every day that Houston hadn’t tried to sue for custody. He’d been more than happy to forget all about me and his son.

I didn’t mind being a single mom if it meant knowing that Grady didn’t have to be shuttled between two different worlds—mine and his father’s.

Drawing a deep breath, I nodded to myself, girding my loins, so to speak, so I could swallow my dignity without choking.

I could do this. No sweat.

At least one thing was for certain—there was no way Donato was going to charm the pants off me—a fact he would discover right away if he was dumb enough to try.

CHAPTER TWO

Nico

“NICE TO MEET YOU, Mr. Donato. Lauren Hughes, Luxe magazine.”

The tall brunette thrust her hand toward me as if she were a man—strong, no-nonsense, obligatory—her deep brown eyes the only feature worth noting if I were to go off first impressions.

The handshake lasted all of two seconds, no lingering, and then she was sitting primly at the farthest point on the sofa in my living room, recorder in hand, expression blandly expectant, as if preparing to mentally vacate as soon as I started talking.

“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Hughes,” I said, my gaze quickly taking in the shape-swallowing shift dress that completely obscured her figure and the functional flats that finished off the wretched ensemble. I think my maid dressed better than this woman. “I hope the traffic wasn’t too heavy.”

“Dealing with traffic is just one of those things you get used to when you live in New York,” she said with a brief smile. The look in her eyes told me she wasn’t one for small talk, which suited me fine because I hated it, too—but I was definitely not quite sure what to make of this stiff-as-a-board reporter.

Definitely not what I was expecting, and I was fucking disappointed. Where was the hot chick in the curve-hugging pencil skirt, glasses sitting demurely on the bridge of her nose, hair upswept in a delicate yet artfully messy bun? Not sitting on my sofa, that’s for sure.

“Have you always been a New Yorker?” she asked with a direct stare. No makeup that I could tell. Not even a hint of mascara to brighten up her eyes. A pity. Those dark eyes with a little assistance might even be pretty. “My editor tells me that your family is from Italy, originally.”

“Yes, so the legend says,” I answered, trying for a little wry humor. When she didn’t so much as offer a polite chuckle, I cleared my throat and followed with, “Tuscany, actually, but we’ve been in New York for two generations now. Our Italian roots are fairly weak at this point. All I inherited from my Italian ancestors is a love of fine women, wine and pasta.”

“Ah.”

“Your skin tone is beautiful. Are you Latina?” Was she Latina? Or perhaps Native American? Maybe even Creole?

“A hodgepodge of nationalities,” she answered, adjusting herself on the sofa. “Just lucked out in the skin department, I guess. So, tell me, how does it feel to be named one of New York’s most eligible bachelors?”

“Well, you know the saying, the only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about,” I said with a wink. “But it should be interesting to see what crawls out of the woodwork once the magazine hits the stands. I’m always down for an adventure.”

“If you’re not interested in finding love, you could’ve turned down the interview,” she said, again with that brief smile that I was beginning to suspect was patronizing. “I’m sure we could’ve found someone who was more aligned with the purpose of the spread.”

“Who said I’m not looking for love?”

“Well, I mean, it was kind of implied by your earlier statement. To call the women who might be interested as things that ‘crawl out of the woodwork’ sounds insulting, don’t you think?”

Annoyance threatened to color my tone as I admitted, “That was a poor choice of words. Maybe I’m more embarrassed by the attention than I like to let on. The truth is, I’ve never considered myself interesting enough for an entire magazine spread, and I’m not quite sure how I was selected.”

False humility was always good for a few grace points, but I think Lauren saw right through my attempt, which, in itself, threw off my game.

Hell, everything about this woman threw me.

I’d thought Luxe might’ve sent one of their show ponies to interview me. Maybe an intern with a tight body, perky tits and an ass that would put a gymnast to shame; or, a more sophisticated staffer with legs for days and long blond hair, perfect for a man’s fist to wrap around to guide a hot mouth onto a ready cock.

I bit back my growing disappointment. No nubile intern; no savvy staffer. Luxe had sent her.

The dour killjoy.

Was that a coffee stain on her dress?

And that austere bun squatting on top of her head was tight enough to give her a poor man’s face-lift.

“So...you work at Luxe?” I asked, sinking into the sofa, regarding her curiously. Perhaps she was a freelance writer...

“Three years now,” Lauren answered with a short smile before moving on. “I can appreciate how busy you are, so thank you for agreeing to this interview. My editor, Patrice, was excited to have one of the hottest bachelors in the city as the center feature.”

Funny how her words said one thing but her tone said something completely different. This was starting off as the weirdest interview I’d ever granted. Didn’t she realize I was a catch? That there were scores of women who wanted to be on this sofa with me? Beneath me, specifically. Frankly, on a hotness scale of one to ten, she was reaching for a four; she ought to be the one excited to be interviewing me.

But she didn’t look tickled or impressed. Or even happy to be there. Was that a tick of boredom in those chocolate eyes?

My male pride demanded a better response. I couldn’t have a four turning her nose up at me. Maybe I just needed to warm her up.

“Tell me about yourself,” I suggested with a charming smile, the one that never failed to soften even the most rigid of women. “Do you enjoy working for Luxe?”

“Not here to interview me,” she said with a wag of her finger like a schoolmarm. “We’re here to talk about you.”

“I like to get to know the people who are interviewing me,” I returned, lobbing the ball back into her court, which she let drop with an unsatisfying splat when she remained silent, her fake, professional smile firmly in place. “Nothing? Hmm...have we met before?” I asked, half wondering if I’d slept with her at some point and forgotten to call her afterward. I mean, I couldn’t see myself purposefully sleeping with a four, but if vodka was involved...anything was possible.

“Not likely,” Lauren answered, puzzled by my question, and frankly, I was a little relieved until she said, “I doubt we run in the same circles,” and it was that tiny undercurrent of condescension that narrowed my gaze.

“It just seems that maybe we’ve met before and perhaps I made a bad impression...”

“Not at all,” she assured me, but her gaze remained unimpressed and flatly disinterested with anything that came out of my mouth, as if she were doing penance for a crime in a past life. Did I smell or something? I shifted against the unfamiliar sense of disdain emanating from the woman. “So, just tell me what you’d like the people to know about Nico Donato,” she suggested as if being helpful. “Charities you support, hobbies, what you do to make the world a better place?”

Suddenly, everything clicked. I saw her game now. It all made sense. The frumpy clothes, the sour attitude, the barely concealed contempt...and now the leading question that she was fairly certain she knew the answer to...all meant to paint me into a corner of her choosing.

Lauren Hughes wasn’t here to give me a fair shake; she was here to judge me. Time to make things interesting. If she thought she had me figured out, I’d give her something meaty to chew on. I grinned, sharing, “Actually, I don’t mean to brag but last week, I paid all the alcohol tabs at Buxom. Probably spent close to ten grand on that bill, but I was happy to do it. That’s just me...always giving.”

“Buxom...the strip club?” she repeated, her expression screwing into a frown.

“It’s more of a gentleman’s club, but yeah, I suppose you could call it a strip club, but you know, those girls work so hard. It’s really a misunderstood profession. I’m sure at least one of those ladies is working to put herself through law school, and how can you not support higher education, right?”

“Very generous of you,” Lauren returned drily, her lips pursing a little before saying, “It must be very nice to be able to fund other people’s vices.”

“Vice is fun, you should try it sometime.”

“Thanks but I think I’m good.”

“Oh, come now, surely there’s something taboo that flips your switch.”

“Sorry, pretty boring.”

That I can believe. But for the sake of argument, I said, “Indulge me,” my interest in the interview taking a hard left in a different direction. I wanted to see how ruffled I could make Little Miss Sourpuss’s feathers. “Perhaps...you enjoy a little spanking now and then? A little ‘tie me up, tie me down’ action behind closed doors?”

A flush climbed her throat to stain her cheeks as she shut me down. “Not really,” she answered, gesturing with professional courtesy to the recorder in her hand even as I sensed I’d gotten under her skin. “Shall we return to the interview, please?”

“Oh? Isn’t that what we were doing?”

“I can’t put in the article that you frequent Buxom. It’s not the most savory bit of information for an article trying to make you sound like a catch.”

“I am a catch.”

She shrugged as if to say, we can agree to disagree, but suggested, “Let’s get back to basics. I have some tried-and-true questions that usually lead to good, safe answers. Shall we?”

Sounds boring as hell. “Lead on.”

“Puppies or kittens?”

“Neither. They both shed, vomit and shit all over the place.” I gestured to my penthouse suite. “Clearly, I value a clean space in which to entertain.”

“Hmm...do you like any sort of pet?”

I considered her question, but I really couldn’t think of anything. Living things were too much work. Unfortunately, I learned that the hard way when I was seven. RIP, poor Bubbles the goldfish. “No, not really.”

“Nothing?” she pressed, as incredulous as if I’d admitted I enjoy tripping old people in my spare time. “Not even a hamster or a rabbit?”

I smiled, wondering how far I could push Miss Hughes’s boundaries. I wasn’t above playing dirty either—because dirty was fun. I drew a breath as if in thought, then said, “I do enjoy games.”

“Oh? Like board games? Clue, Monopoly, that sort of thing?” she asked, cocking her head with curiosity. “Or like card games?”

“Have you ever heard of pony play?”

Her expression screwed into a cute mask of confusion. “Pony play? Like polo or something?”

I chuckled, enjoying this way more than I should, but I was hungry for that sudden blush that would follow my explanation. For a brief—and I’m talking nanosecond brief—moment, when the high color brightened her cheeks, she was almost pretty.

And I was curious just how far I could push.

I started to explain, using my hands for illustration. “Imagine a beautiful mane attached to a short, notched column and then imagine that column going straight up a lovely ass, held in place by the cheeks, then you fit your sweet horsey with a halter and a bit and if you’re lucky, you get to ride her all night.”

She gasped in shock, thrown off her game. Flustered, she shut off her recorder, shooting me a dark, exasperated look, but those cheeks were so hot I could fry an egg.

And holy fuck, miracle of miracles, she’d just rocketed past a level four and hit a solid seven.

“Mr. Donato...that...that...that’s disgusting.”

I laughed. “Don’t knock it till you try it.”

“And inappropriate. Like, really inappropriate for the purposes of this interview. I can’t go writing that you like to stick things up women’s asses and ride them like horses. I mean, c’mon!”

I pretended to be perplexed. “I thought you wanted something authentic. This is the real me. I believe my potential mate should share my open-minded views on sex. Otherwise we’re not going to make it. I’d rather be honest and up-front from the start, don’t you think? Imagine all the pain and heartache we’d both suffer if I wasn’t honest and then when we discover we’re incompatible sexually, it’s nothing but tears and accusations. I’ve seen it too many times. Honesty is the best policy when it comes to sex. If you haven’t learned that yet, you will.”

I’d caught her neatly with seemingly earnest logic, and there wasn’t much she could say to refute my point.

Lauren pursed her lips as if holding back what she really wanted to say. Go ahead girl, let loose. Tell me what a perverted dick I am. I wanted to push all her buttons. “Mr. Donato—”

“Please call me Nico. Mr. Donato is so formal and boring. Besides, when I hear Mr. Donato, I immediately look for my oldest brother, Luca, or my father—both are giant killjoys, if you know what I mean, and I’m nothing like either of them.” I settled my gaze on her with intrigue and fluttered my fingers suggestively as I followed with, “Tell me, what taboo sexual act gets you all revved up? Surely, there’s something that gets the home fires burning...”

But instead of taking the bait, she narrowed her gaze and shut me down with a hard “May I speak frankly?”

This ought to be interesting. I gestured with magnanimous flourish. “Please do.”

“I know you have a reputation for being a playboy—”

“I have a reputation?” I repeated, pretending to be concerned. “Tell me...are they talking about my cock? Pardon my bluntness, but if they are saying it’s anything less than a full eight inches, they are lying through their damn teeth.”

Lauren ignored my provocative statement and pushed forward, saying, “Your reputation as a Lothario precedes you, Mr. Donato,” deliberately using my formal title rather than my name. “But I’m here to interview you as an eligible bachelor—an interview you agreed to, if I may remind you, so if you wouldn’t mind at least pretending to take this seriously, we can finish with the interview and I’ll be on my way. How does that sound?”

Now it was my turn to be annoyed. What would it take to knock loose the stick wedged up her ass? Even as she was determined to keep me at arm’s length and locked out, the subtle widening of her eyes gave away more than she knew—and that fired up my need for more.

“How about dinner, tonight?” I proposed, imagining what she might look like if her hair wasn’t pulled to the back of her skull like a nun’s visiting the pope.

“No, thank you,” she answered, pursing her lips with irritation. “The interview, please.”

Such a dogged sense of duty. I released a sigh and leaned back, motioning for her to continue. “Fine. I’ll answer your questions but only if you’ll answer mine.”

“That’s not how this works.” Exasperation colored her voice but not to the level I imagined she was feeling. If I were a betting man, I’d say Lauren Hughes wanted to hog-tie me, land a swift kick to my nuts and stuff my silk tie down my throat.

Not the usual response I received from women.

And, fuck me, I liked it.

The game we were playing had just leveled up.

CHAPTER THREE

Lauren

I PINNED NICO with a pointed gaze, my patience at its thinnest, realizing that my instincts were correct and that this interview was a waste of my time. Patrice could find a different person to dance in circles with this egomaniac. “I’m not here to play games. If you’d like to reschedule for when you’re feeling less like an immature jerk, please let me know.” I rose and shouldered my purse, ready to leave.

“Hold up,” Nico said, managing to hustle fast enough to catch me before I walked out the door. “I’m sorry. What can I say? I’m an immature jerk at times. Would you believe you make me nervous? Can we start over?”

I make him nervous? I wasn’t sure I bought that line, but there was something vaguely earnest about his statement that made me pause. If I could salvage this interview, it would work in my favor, but there was something about Nico that set my teeth on edge. Still, my life would be ten times easier if I could manage to get this story filed, and I couldn’t do that without his interview. I blew out a short breath before relenting with a wary, “You promise to behave?”

His blue eyes sparkled with mischief, but he managed a very solemn “Scout’s honor”—which was laughable in itself but at least he’d tried to apologize, right? I supposed I could give him another chance.

“I sincerely doubt you’ve ever been a Scout in your life,” I murmured, settling on the sofa again; but when he joined me on the same sofa, I narrowed my gaze, suspicious all over again. “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable over there?” I motioned to his previous seat.

“Actually,” he said with mild embarrassment, “I have a hard time hearing in my left ear—sailing accident when I was a kid—so in all seriousness, if we’re going to do this, I need to sit a bit more closely.”

I felt a bit sheepish as my mouth shaped an embarrassed moue and nodded. “Okay, then.” Nico waited patiently while I fished my recorder from my purse, ready to start again. “Describe your perfect date,” I proposed, thrusting the recorder toward Nico with an expectant expression.

He didn’t hesitate. “Sex. Dirty, sexy, sweaty sex.”

Oh, good grief. Was it too much to ask to get a PG-13 answer from the man? “Can you perhaps give me something to work with? I can’t write that all it takes to make a perfect date in your book is lots of sex.”

“Why not? It’s the truth,” he said, and this time I could tell he was being completely honest. I stiffened against the unwelcome and inappropriate thrill that chased my spine as he added, “It’s the best way to get to know someone.”

I hesitated, trying to decide which way to proceed. My gut said to pack up and leave, but I was genuinely curious as to why he believed in his answer. Curiosity killed the cat, remember? And yet, I challenged for the sake of argument, “Seriously? Pardon me if I call bullshit. Don’t you find that just a little shallow?”

“Not at all,” he said, enjoying the chance to defend his answer. “What’s a date all about? Getting to know someone, right?”

I took the bait and nodded slowly, remaining wary. “Yes, I suppose so.”

He smiled, asking, “May I?” reaching for my hand. I hesitated but relented, allowing Nico to grasp my free hand. He flipped my hand, palm-side down, to trace the small veins beneath my skin. I fought to keep the shivers at bay, trying to remain outwardly unaffected, even bored. “Let’s say the underside of your palm represents your private self and the top of your hand represents the shield we put up to protect the soft parts of our hand that we only trust with those we know won’t hurt us.”

“Okay,” I said, puzzled, drawing a short breath as my heart rate quickened. “How does that relate to sex on the first date?”

“I challenge you to tell me any other way to truly get to know someone without using sex.” He slowly rotated my hand so my palm faced up. “Sex reveals vulnerabilities, our deep truths, and strips away the facades that we readily wear to hide ourselves from the world. In other words, sex removes the shield, leaving us with our soft spots unprotected.”

I swallowed as tiny trembles I couldn’t contain shook my body. I pressed my lips together before my tongue darted to wet my bottom lip. Suddenly, it was very warm in his apartment, and the air had become charged with electricity. “I...guess I see your point...but it’s a stretch,” I lied, loathe to let him see how his little demonstration had turned up my internal heat.

He laughed, disagreeing. “In truth, Miss Hughes...sex is the great equalizer, and what better way to determine whether or not you are a match than when you are in your deepest reality?”

I allowed him to hold my hand a moment longer than necessary, then quickly withdrew, shaking my head with a wobbly “Interesting theory but I’m not sure I can put that in the article. Luxe isn’t that kind of magazine. We’re more about classy, not trashy.”

I was totally lying. Patrice would eat that shit up and probably highlight the passage in a glitzy pull quote, but I couldn’t bring myself to admit that.

The awful truth was, Nico had somehow turned a far-fetched explanation into the sexiest demonstration I’d ever experienced, and I hated the way I felt way too breathless for my own comfort. I wasn’t like Daphne, easily seduced or beguiled with a few choice words, but I could still feel the phantom touch of his fingers tracing my skin.

Nico didn’t seem to mind and shrugged. “I’m only being honest. You asked what my idea of a perfect date would be, and I answered you.”

I rubbed at my hand. “So lie to me,” I quipped with a flustered laugh, realizing my gaffe, then amended quickly, “I mean, don’t lie but maybe use your imagination. You have to remember that women are going to read this and want to know how they can impress you. This is your chance to put your dreams out there.”

“As in my dream woman?” he asked for clarification, shaking his head, as if he knew there was no such thing. Something about that fatalistic opinion struck me as sad, though I wasn’t a hopeless romantic by any means. I knew that true love was just a greeting card sentiment, but a part of me wished it were real. Maybe deep down, Nico did, too.

“Sure,” I answered, curious as to what he considered the epitome of a female partner.

But Nico didn’t seem interested in following that plot thread and detoured neatly as his gaze traveled the angle of my neck as sensuously as if his lips were nibbling a trail. “Were you ever a dancer?” he surprised me by asking.

My cheeks flushed with heat as I admitted, “Uh, yes, when I was younger. A long time ago.”

“But you’re not anymore.”

“No.”

“Why’d you give it up?”

Even though my hopeful ballet career died a long time ago, it still hurt to revisit those memories. I should’ve snapped my mouth shut but I didn’t. “I hurt my knee performing a grand jeté when I was sixteen. It was never the same afterward and I knew I’d never make it to the New York City Ballet with that kind of injury, so I quit dancing altogether.”

“Tragic,” he murmured, and I sensed he was being genuine. His expression turned quizzical. “From what I understand, injuries are common for dancers but many heal with the right care and therapy. Why didn’t you?”

Nico could never possibly understand how something like that would’ve been totally outside of my family’s capabilities financially. I’d known the minute the muscle had torn that my career was done. “My parents didn’t have the money for the intensive care that my injury required to put me back to where I was,” I explained, stiffening against the inevitable ache in my heart for what would never be. “I wasn’t going to ask my parents to bankrupt themselves so I could continue dancing.” The clip in my tone was a warning that he was treading on dangerous ground. I lifted the recorder with a pointed look. “Now, about that dream woman...”

Nico smiled, slow and easy, ignoring my lead. “I’ve always had a thing for dancers. There’s just something about the graceful way they carry themselves that always seems to stick with them, even long after they’ve stopped dancing.”

I couldn’t argue. I prided myself on maintaining proper posture, a throwback to my dancing days. An imaginary string pulled taut perpetually suspended my head. I could still hear my dance instructor’s voice, “Backs straight, chins high, dahling!”

“Do you miss dancing?” he asked, interrupting my short reverie.

I exhaled a long breath. “It was a long time ago.”

“That’s not an answer,” he chided.

“I’m not the one being interviewed.”

His gaze inadvertently dipped to my dress, and I could practically feel his judgment, same as when Patrice openly curled her lip at my fashion choices. I lifted my chin and met his gaze squarely, almost daring him to make a comment so I could shoot him down. I swear, don’t people have better things to do than judge what other people are wearing? Is the world really that shallow? Of course it was... I worked for a fashion magazine and I saw it firsthand.

Nico surprised me when he pulled away, his gaze narrowing as if he’d heard my internal dialogue. “Let’s get down to brass tacks. You don’t like me very much,” he stated matter-of-factly. “Why?”

My cheeks flushed with guilt. I really needed to work on my poker skills if he saw through me so easily. Or maybe I hadn’t really tried all that hard to disguise my contempt. Either way, my inability to smother what I was thinking or feeling had just bitten me in the ass—again.

“I like you just fine,” I protested, trying for an earnest expression, but I felt as if I probably looked like the Joker with a pasted-on smile so I tried a different tack. “I mean, fine enough to do this interview. I doubt we have enough in common to enjoy a friendship, but other than that...I’m sure you’re great.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” he said, enjoying my sudden squirming. “Why don’t you like me?”

He wasn’t going to stop pressing. I could lay it all on the line and risk everything or I could try to lie through my teeth and maybe flirt a little. The latter made my dignity shrivel like a raisin, so that left me with pure honesty. I shut off the recorder—again. “Not that it matters for the sake of this interview, but maybe, I don’t care for your personality type.”

“Which is?”

I waved away his question. “Are we really doing this? Look, I’m sure there are plenty of women who would give their right foot to date you, I’m just not one of them.”

“I didn’t ask if you wanted to date me, I asked why you didn’t like me. But since you brought it up, why wouldn’t you want to date me?”

I hesitated, wondering how I’d lost control of this interview. I should’ve realized the Donatos were master manipulators. I should’ve been more diligent—or walked out when I’d had the chance.

But my chance to right the ship had just sailed.

Nico snorted with derision. “C’mon, you really think I can’t smell your condescension from a mile away? Sweetheart, you’re going to have to be a better actress than that if you’re going to fool anyone into believing that you don’t think I’m a big pile of shit.” I opened my mouth to protest, but he wasn’t finished. “What I don’t understand is why Luxe would insult my family in such a manner as to send someone who clearly hates me to do this interview. I mean, what the fuck? Was this all a joke or something?”

Just apologize and appease his monster-sized ego. The answer seemed so simple, and yet I couldn’t do it. I stiffened, wary. “If you planned on being a dick from the start, why didn’t you let me leave?”

He shrugged. “I was curious but now I’m just bored and irritated.”

“Why should my opinion matter at all?” I countered, feeling reckless. There was something about Nico that I couldn’t quite shake, something that made me want to push when otherwise I might wisely fold.

Or maybe I was just tired of being railroaded for the sake of a paycheck. Patrice had never been my biggest fan, and this colossal train wreck of an interview shouldn’t come as too big of a surprise, right?

Would she fire me?

Maybe?

Nico leaned forward, invading my space. “You think I’m another useless trust-fund baby with nothing better to do than spend my money on hookers and blow or at the very least strippers and booze.” When I didn’t deny it, he barked a laugh at my expense, as if I were an unprepared newb who hadn’t done a lick of research. “My family donates gobs of money to various organizations and charities, but it is scattered among the different companies we own. We choose not to advertise our philanthropic endeavors because we believe that’s private and we aren’t looking for accolades. So we don’t talk much about those things, but because we don’t advertise, you make an assumption that I’m just another rich playboy who wipes his ass with money.”

I had thought all of those things. Had I underestimated him? Was it possible? Right now I felt like an embittered, snarky bitch who hated all men, and it wasn’t a nice feeling at all. “I may have misjudged you on first appearances,” I admitted in a low tone, “but you haven’t done much to disabuse me of my first impression.”

“Was I supposed to? Or were you supposed to come here with an open mind?”

I swallowed, squarely put into my place by the most unlikely of people.

“You were rude,” he stated flatly.

I chewed the side of my cheek before uttering a reluctant “Yes.”

“You admit it?”

I’d have rather swallowed knives but nodded. “I didn’t realize I was being so rude. Please let me start over.”

“I should probably just ask for another reporter. Might be for the best.”

“Please don’t.”

“I think it would be better for everyone involved.”

“I assure you, it’s not. Unless you want an idiot writing your article,” I ground out. For someone who was supposed to be groveling, I was terrible at it.

“Nobody likes to be judged,” he said quietly, and I understood where he was coming from. I suppose not even Nico Donato was free from judgment, though I never imagined that he might care what others thought.

“I’m sorry,” I said again, meaning it this time. “I shouldn’t have come in with a preconceived idea of who you were.” Nico appeared mollified enough to accept my apology. I drew a deep breath and tried a real smile. “Can we start over? Wipe the slate clean? I promise you, even though I might’ve started with a bad attitude, I’m a pretty good writer. No one else at Luxe will do as good a job as me.”

Nico regarded me with speculation, his blue eyes deepening a shade. As much as I wanted to ignore the obvious, Nico Donato was easy on the eyes, and it’d been a long time since I’d allowed a man to enter my thoughts in any sort of sexual way.

Raw energy pulsed between us, parching my throat and leaving me out of sorts. Patching things between us might save my job, but I feared something far more frightening than job hunting in New York with a near-useless degree.

Nico had a thing about him...some kind of sexual voodoo, and I could already feel something happening between us even if it was in fits and starts—but it took only a spark to burn down a forest.

And that was the part that worried me.

CHAPTER FOUR

Nico

“I’M REALLY NOT an asshole,” I insisted, but I couldn’t quite prevent the tiny half smile curving my mouth. Even I couldn’t make that statement with a straight face, but the fact that she handled my curveball without missing a beat was arousing as fuck. I had to know more about this woman—by any means possible. “Okay, how about this... I will answer any question you have for me...over dinner.”

“Dinner,” she repeated with open suspicion. “Why dinner?”

“Let’s be honest...we both bungled this interview. Let’s wipe the slate clean and start fresh. I’m willing to believe that we’re both reasonable human beings, so why not forget this terrible first impression happened and start over. Preferably over a glass of wine.”

Her gaze narrowed, but the tiny smile playing at the corners of her mouth told me she enjoyed negotiating as much as I did. Oh, the things people reveal without realizing it. “Dinner, no wine. Purely business. No funny business,” she countered, her gaze glittering as she tacked on, “at a well-lit restaurant.”

I shook my head. “Here.”

“I’d rather a restaurant.”

I knew if I pushed, she’d push back. She wasn’t the kind of woman who was easily impressed or intimidated, so I had to try something else. “May I be completely honest?” I asked. She nodded slowly, curious. “It may come as a surprise, but I love to cook. It’s the one thing that I wasn’t given simply because of who I am. I’ve earned my skills through plenty of trial and error. If I’m going to have a shot of changing your perception of me, cooking you a meal is the best way I know how.”

Her stunned silence was more telling than she knew. What she couldn’t know was that I was being completely honest. I felt most comfortable in the kitchen, and I took great pride in knowing that every skill I had with food was 100 percent legit. Of course, I withheld the mention that I’d discovered long ago that women found men who can cook irresistible. I couldn’t count how many panties had dropped over a seemingly innocent homemade dish of risotto alla Milanese paired with a perfectly roasted leg of lamb.

After a long, contemplative pause, Lauren nodded, accepting my proposal. “You have yourself a clean slate, Mr. Donato. I’ll see you tonight. Seven o’clock,” she said, rising as she thrust her hand toward me to seal the deal. I chuckled and accepted the handshake when I really wanted to brush my lips across that pale, soft skin to watch the goose bumps cause an all-out riot. I wanted to know what stole Lauren’s breath and caused those beautiful dark eyes to darken further—and I definitely wanted to know what she was hiding beneath that ugly dress. However, I played the part of the gentleman, opening her door and watching her leave without a further suggestive remark or inappropriate suggestion.

Pretty proud of myself, actually. I rarely denied myself whatever pleasure caught my eye, but I suspected Lauren was a diamond hidden inside that crusty coal and I was more interested in discovering how to reveal what I was truly interested in.

The question was, what about Lauren turned my clock? Hell, I hadn’t a clue. Generally speaking, I preferred women to be soft and malleable, maybe even a little on the vapid side. But then, I wasn’t accustomed to women actively pushing me away. Usually it was the other way around. Most times I had to shake the women off with a stick.

Got quite annoying, actually.

But not Lauren.

Her employment with Luxe came to mind, as she clearly didn’t fit the blueprint for the self-indulgent magazine.

Hence, the plot thickens, eh?

Everything about the woman intrigued me, and for fuck’s sake, I was bored enough to dig into the mystery.

CHAPTER FIVE

Lauren

I COULDN’T EXPLAIN what had happened between Nico and me. I’m not entirely sure how he’d managed to turn the tables so neatly, but I had to give the man props for style and finesse.

For all his talk about wanting a fresh start to make a better impression, I wasn’t buying into his story, but there was something about Nico that made me want to play the game.

Was this how it started? There was a saying, “bad judgment made for good stories,” and it certainly applied to my current situation. I should’ve shut him down, told Patrice that Donato wasn’t a good fit for the center feature and moved on. But somewhere between being completely annoyed and defensive to the point where he actually had me anticipating a countermove, my interest level had changed.

I had no doubt he was playing a game with me, but I wasn’t without my own skills. If he thought he could charm the pants off me with an impressive culinary show, he was headed for an aching case of blue balls, but I wasn’t above enjoying a fine home-cooked meal on someone else’s dime and effort.

My ex had come from a wealthy family, and Houston had pulled out all the stops to impress me. Unfortunately, it’d worked on a naive girl, but I wasn’t that girl anymore. Getting knocked up and abandoned did a lot to make a girl grow up.

When I’d met Houston, I’d been just out of college, and much more trusting.

Now I was fairly certain everyone had an agenda.

Except my sweet son.

Oh, crud. Speaking of, I’d have to find a babysitter for Grady tonight. I didn’t want to call my mom because she’d ask questions, but the last time I left Grady with my best friend, Ronnie, he’d gotten Grady hooked on Drag Race. It’d taken weeks to convince Grady that a feather boa was not an acceptable choice for kindergarten attire. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I loved that Grady was exposed to different lifestyles and completely open to alternative ways to be a human being. But I had a hard enough time as it was with the school administrator each time Grady said or did something that shocked the pants off his teacher.

I called my younger sister, Claire, hoping that she was available. Voice mail.

I chewed my bottom lip, vacillating between calling my mom and calling Ronnie.

I went with Ronnie.

“Hey, babe, you available to watch Grady tonight for me?” I asked, hailing a cab.

“Oh, honey child, why do you do this to me? You know I would die to watch the little man, but I totally have plans already. Unless you don’t mind if I take him with me,” he answered with a dubious tone that immediately set off alarm bells.

“Where are you going?” I asked, wary. “No drag shows.”

“Oh, poo. Well, if you’re going to be like that, then no, I already have plans.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “You know you can’t take Grady to a drag show. Most are held at a bar.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. This is a private show, and mostly kid-friendly. I think.”

Yeah, I wasn’t about to take the chance. “Not this time,” I said, chuckling. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Grady to be safe with Ronnie, but sometimes my friend didn’t think about how impressionable a six-year-old was, and learning how to effectively tuck a penis wasn’t a skill set I needed my son to pick up anytime soon. “No worries. Enjoy your show,” I said and clicked off.

That left my mom.

Ugh. My mom and I were often on opposite sides of everything. For example, my mom thought I ought to be going after Grady’s dad for child support even though I’d explained that it was better for Grady and me if Houston wasn’t involved. I wasn’t about to poke the sleeping bear. Houston was content to pretend that he didn’t have a son, and I was totally fine with that. But my mom saw only the potential dollar signs floating out the window.

“He needs to take responsibility for his son,” she’d said during one of the many pointless arguments on the subject. “He has enough money—he needs to pay up.”

“I don’t want Houston around Grady,” I’d replied, hoping the conversation was finished. “We’re better off. Houston isn’t exactly ready to be a father.”

“You should’ve thought of that before getting knocked up,” Ellen Hughes disparaged with a cool look. “If your father were alive today...well, let’s just say he’d be having words with that young man.”

I winced, hating when she brought up the subject of my dad. “Leave Dad out of this,” I warned. “The man has earned his rest after being married to you for thirty years.” It was harsh, but things tended to slip out when I argued with my mother.

“Lauren Elizabeth Hughes, you watch your mouth. I didn’t raise you to be disrespectful.” My mother’s mouth pinched as she added disapprovingly, “A boy needs his father.”

“No, he doesn’t if that father is a useless playboy who cares more about partying than raising a child,” I returned sharply, giving my mother “the look” as I finished putting away Grady’s toys. My mother took the hint and gathered her things to leave. “Do you need me to call a cab?” I asked helpfully, but my mom was already out the door.

So, yeah, I wasn’t super excited to have her babysit.

I could always bring Grady with me.

The thought popped into my head almost as a joke, but then I realized maybe that was an excellent idea.

I doubted Nico would try anything inappropriate with a six-year-old boy in attendance.

Maybe I was risking my mom card for using my kid as a shield, but the idea had merit. The more I thought about it, the more I realized it was a viable solution to a sticky issue.

With Grady there, I could keep the conversation on point and I could also use Grady as a legitimate reason to leave on time.

I’d get my interview and escape with my integrity.

Problem solved.

CHAPTER SIX

Nico

IN PREPARATION FOR TONIGHT, I had the best mood music set, soft lighting and a menu course that never failed to impress.

My buddies never failed to give me shit about my enjoyment of cooking, but I took pride in my work.

I believed men should be able to do two things well: cook and fuck.

And I excelled at both.

My doorbell went off, and I smiled at her punctuality.

I strode to the door with a wide smile, ready to go another round with Miss Hughes, but when I opened the door I stopped short, my smile freezing in place as confusion rapidly set in.

“Hello, my name is Grady.” A small boy with glasses perched on his button nose thrust his little hand up at me. I faltered, inelegantly surprised by the unexpected plus-one, but Lauren filled in the blanks quickly—and, if I wasn’t mistaken, I caught a spark of mischief in her dark eyes.

“Single mom, no babysitter so that means it’s take-your-kid-to-work night. I hope you don’t mind.” She smiled broadly as if she knew throwing a kid in the mix had just crumpled all of my elaborate plans. Just then, a sexy song came on the playlist and I felt as exposed as if she’d caught me with my pants down.

Hot damn, she’d just taken things to the next level.

But I was nothing if not quick on my feet and recovered with a smile. “No worries, nice to meet you, little man,” I said. I shook the boy’s hand, impressed with his solid handshake. “Come in. You’re in luck that I didn’t plan for the lobster soufflé. I thought I might go with something a little less stuffy for our interview. I hope you like spaghetti.”

Grady answered first, piping in, “I love pasketti. It’s my favorite, but are you going to make garlic bread, too?”

Precocious little kid. I liked him already. “Of course,” I answered. “Have you ever known a self-respecting Italian to serve a meal without bread?”

“Good man,” Grady said, nodding with approval as he made his way into my living room, taking in the surroundings. “My mom says that you’re a rich man with poor morals, but how good are you in the kitchen?”

Lauren gasped, embarrassed by her son’s honesty. “Grady! Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry,” she exclaimed, sending Grady a look that said, cool it, kid, but a smile pulled at my mouth. If I had a quarter for every time I’d embarrassed my mother by what’d popped from my mouth...well, I’d be even richer than I already was. “I don’t know what’s come over him. We have this problem at school, too. We can’t always say what we want to say whenever we think it. Isn’t that right, Grady? Please apologize.”

“Not necessary,” I assured her, grinning more widely. Yeah, I definitely liked the kid, especially when I knew now that I could probably get whatever information I needed out of the loose-lipped terrorist. “That’s the thing about kids and drunks—they’re always honest.” I winked at Grady, then gestured for him to follow me into the kitchen. “But to answer your question, I kick ass when I’m cooking. The bigger question, little man, is what are you going to do to make yourself useful?”

My brow arched with mock sternness, but he wasn’t intimidated in the least, which I found another point in his favor.

“I can do whatever you can do,” he boasted without a hint of bashfulness but added when Lauren laughed a little nervously, “Except work the oven. Mama says I’m too young, even though I watched a YouTube video on how to work the burners and that worked out pretty good.”

“What did the world do before YouTube?” I asked, only half joking because I was fairly certain YouTube was going to make college courses obsolete at some point. “But your mom is probably right about the oven. Best leave that to the adults or at least someone tall enough to ride the big-kid rides at Disneyland.”

“Grady, I’m sure Nico is kidding about having you help.”

“I’m absolutely not kidding. You’re going to work, too,” I told her, earning a wary smile. “The best way to get to know someone is in the kitchen.”

“Then you’re gonna find out real fast that my mom doesn’t make very good food,” Grady confided, then cast his mother an apologetic look. “But you try real hard, and that’s what counts.”

I laughed. “Can I rent this kid for parties? He’s a riot.”

Lauren blushed and rubbed her hands together as she surveyed the layout of ingredients I had spread around. “Yeah, I wish I could say he was lying, but he’s right. I’m all thumbs in the kitchen.”

I smiled, noting that she’d changed into something far less reminiscent of a flour sack—jeans and a simple T-shirt—and unlike the ugly dress, the jeans molded perfectly to her hips and ass, blasting away the impression that she’d been hiding a less-than-stellar figure.

Hell, if I was being honest, Lauren had the kind of banging curves that always managed to turn my head. I was a sucker for wide hips, a fat ass and a small waist—and Lauren had it all. I took a brief second to whisper for her ears only, “How did you manage to hide that beautiful ass beneath that ugly dress? The jeans are a big improvement.” Before she could gasp, I pulled away and continued in a normal tone, “Lucky for you, most of the dinner is already prepared and your parts are easy.”

“Mama, maybe Nico can teach you a few things, too?”

Oh, little man, I’d love to teach your mama a thing or two. The thought raced across my mind, but I kept the comment behind my teeth, choosing to indulge the kid with a smile. “Sure, if your mama is open to learning, that is...”

Lauren caught the double entendre but instead of shooting me down with a look, she blushed a little, which only made me wish I could sample those pouty lips and grip a handful of that amazing ass.

Forget everything I’d said earlier about Lauren not being my type. Clearly, I was being fed bad intel because honest and true, if she’d walked in wearing what she was wearing right now, I would’ve changed my tactics immediately and the day would’ve ended with her in my bed.

Now I had to go a different route to get what I wanted.

But an easy victory was a boring one.

I pulled a chair over for Grady to stand on so he was level with the counter. “All right, little chef, you’re on butter duty. I’ve made a garlic spread already, and it’s your job to cover this freshly baked French bread with the spread so I can put it in the oven to cook. Can you handle it? I mean, it’s an important job, so don’t blow smoke up my behind if you’re not up to the task.”

Grady giggled and rolled his eyes as if I were an idiot and accepted the duty by grabbing the spreading spatula. I received an assured “I got this,” and he went to work carefully spreading the garlic butter. I turned to Lauren with a cocked brow. “Now, as for you...can you manage chopping up the veggies for the salad without losing a finger?”

Lauren answered around a smile that stubbornly wouldn’t stop forming. “Yes, I can handle the salad prep. I’m not a complete idiot in the kitchen.”

“I don’t know, junior here didn’t exactly give you a glowing recommendation, and he knows you best,” I said, winking at my pint-size partner in crime. The happy grin I earned twisted something unfamiliar for a brief moment, but I recovered in a blink to tease, “I’m no vampire, I don’t want blood on the arugula.”

Lauren laughed and shook her head, grabbing the cutting board and the assorted vegetables. “Just do your thing and I’ll do mine.”

“Excellent,” I said, throwing some fresh basil in the sauce I’d already started the moment Lauren had left earlier that day. “The upside to being two generations removed from my Italy roots is that I was raised on solid, authentic Italian cooking and I know the difference between good parmigiana and crap.”

“Do you mind if I set the recorder so we can do the interview at the same time?” Lauren asked, already reaching for her device. I shrugged as if I didn’t care, but I didn’t want her so focused on the interview that she completely missed all the subtle cues I was sending her way.

“Mama is a good writer. What do you do?” Grady asked. “Mama said you’re just rich, but don’t you have to do something to get rich?”

“Starting with the hardball questions, all right, all right,” I said with an appreciative whistle. “Okay, so yeah, your mama is right, my family is wealthy, and because of that, I have a trust fund that enables me to pretty much do whatever I want—such as learn how to perfect the ultimate spaghetti dinner to impress difficult reporters.”

Lauren blushed and bit her lip, no doubt to keep from skewering me in front of her kid, but I liked the way things were going thus far. In fact, the only thing that would improve the night was a glass of wine, a detail I planned to handle right now.

“My mama is hard to impress,” Grady warned, finishing his butter duty. “Uncle Ronnie says it’s ’cuz she’s been too long without a man, but I think he’s wrong ’cuz Mama has me and I’m the man of the house. I can take care of Mama just fine.”

At that, I burst out laughing as Lauren’s cheeks burned a brilliant shade of magenta. She fairly choked on the words, “Grady, let’s go wash your hands. You’re all buttery, sweetheart,” before shooting me a pointed look when I struggled to contain my laughter.

“First door on your right,” I managed, gesturing to the hallway, still smiling at the intel dropped from precious little Grady’s gob. So, Mama Hughes is on a bit of a dry spell, huh? It didn’t surprise me that Lauren wasn’t a casual dater, especially with a kid like Grady on her heels. He probably kept her on her toes and served as an efficient cock-blocker.

I poured two glasses of 2009 Chateau Lafite Rothschild, a complex Bordeaux of red blends from Pauillac, Bordeaux, France, but I was at a loss as to what to serve Grady. I wasn’t exactly equipped with juice boxes for the preschool set.

When Lauren and Grady returned, I handed Lauren her glass above her mild protests, and turned to Grady. “Here’s the deal. I have water, cranberry juice and root beer. What’s your poison?”

“Cranberry, please.”

Odd choice for a kid but I’d oblige. “One cranberry, coming up.”

Lauren explained, “Grady has a weakened kidney. It’s nothing serious, but the doctor put him on cranberry juice since he was about three years old, so he developed a taste for it.”

Kidney issue? I slid the short glass over to Grady. “So, it’s nothing serious? What happened?”

“Mama.” Grady looked at Lauren, and I understood that whatever ailed the kid embarrassed him so I dropped it.

“I’m starved,” I announced, moving to the bubbling pot of pasta. I removed the pot and drained and dropped the pasta into the awaiting sauce so it could absorb some of the sauce’s flavor. “In Italy, this is called pasta saltata in padella,” I explained when I caught both Grady and Lauren watching with interest.

“Well, it smells good,” Lauren admitted. “Did you learn how to make pasta from your mother?”

“Actually, a combination of my mother and the family cook, Greta. My brothers were always expected to trail after our father because of the family business, but that left me to do as I pleased. I happened to enjoy eating good food, so I naturally ended up learning how to cook for myself.”

“Which no doubt has made you plenty of points with the ladies,” Lauren said drily, and I didn’t deny it. “Should I put that in the article, that you’ll cook if she cleans?”

“Sounds like an equitable arrangement,” I said, though in my head I answered a bit differently. I cook, she sucks my cock and I leave the cleanup for the maid in the morning. Not to be left out, my shaft hardened as if it were part of the main course.

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