The Billionaire’s Baby Plan Read online

  “You didn’t exactly beat her off with a stick!”

  “And offend Tyrus?”

  She made a disgusted sound.

  He laughed softly. “Martine kisses every man she knows. Tyrus doesn’t mind because he knows he’s the one she goes home with at night. And cheating for me extended only as far as English lit tests and that was a lifetime ago. I don’t cheat on my women, nor do I share them.”

  “Is that supposed to be a warning or something?”

  His humor dried up as rapidly as a desert rain. “Take it how you see fit. Once the terms of our marriage are met, you can do what you want.” He was reminding himself as much as her.

  “And if there’s another man I want?”

  “If there was another man you wanted now, we wouldn’t even be here.”

  “You don’t know that. You’re the one with the money to save the institute.”

  “If you were truly involved with someone, you would have found another way than me.”

  “I think there may actually be a compliment in there.”

  He shrugged.

  “Maybe there will be a man later on.”

  When a woman looked like Lisa there was always going to be plenty of men vying for that position. The thought was dark. “Don’t expect me to come chasing after you.”

  “Why would you?” She dashed a lock of hair away from her cheek where it had blown loose from that infernal knot of hers. “It’s not like you’re in love with me.”

  “Wouldn’t matter even if I were. If a woman betrays me, she can keep walking right out the door.”

  She slid him a long look. “Is that what Taylor did? Cheat on you?”

  Bits of gravel spun beneath the tires when he turned up the drive to the villa. He thought about not answering. Thought, too, about the logic in her assessment that there were some things they’d naturally be expected to know about each other. The reason behind the demise of his first marriage was probably one of those things. “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He grimaced. “She wasn’t.”

  “Would it have mattered if she were? How long were you married?”

  “Four years. Not long enough for me to even consider forgiving that.” The cheating wasn’t the worst, anyway, though he had no intentions of getting into that. It was who Taylor had chosen to cheat with. And why. “And before you ask again, it was over nearly five years ago.”

  “Then you were married pretty young.”

  Out of college and on the way to his second million. “Doesn’t excuse it.”

  She made a soft hmm. “I don’t see how couples ever get over a betrayal like that, no matter how long they’ve been together,” she added after a moment.

  “Some recover from it. If they want to badly enough.” He’d seen that in action. But then he didn’t possess the same kind of fiber that made up a man like Griffin Harper.

  And he’d never loved anyone the way that Grif loved Nora. Not even Taylor.

  Lisa was shaking her head. “Not me. Lies are unforgiveable enough, but that strikes me as the very worst kind.”

  “Then we’re more alike than either one of us thought.”

  She watched him for a long while. “That ought to be a frightening thought,” she finally said.

  “That there might be something we actually have in common?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you’re not frightened.”

  She sucked in her lower lip for a moment, leaving it distractingly moist. “No.”

  Then she sat back in her seat, leaving him with the disturbing knowledge that things would have been safer between them if she were.

  Chapter Nine

  When they arrived at the villa, there was no sign of Marta or Sylvie and, contrarily, Lisa found herself wishing that there had been.

  Because now, the silence only underscored her and Rourke’s privacy.

  Honeymoon privacy.

  Maybe she should have told Rourke she wanted to go to Nice, after all.

  Aware of his gaze on her like some physical thing, she crossed the living area to the doors and pushed them open, letting in the balmy, vaguely sweet-scented air. She toed off her espadrilles and walked out onto the terrace, and folded her arms over the top of the stone balustrade.

  Below, the ocean glittered sapphire blue. Beyond the narrow line of beach, the hillside rose sharply, verdant with fat trees and tall palms.

  “How could anyone not love this?” she wondered aloud. “It’s so perfectly beautiful.”

  Rourke joined her at the rail. “Yes. It is.”

  But a glance at him told her he wasn’t looking at the view, but at her.

  There was no way to will away the flush that began climbing her cheeks. She turned her gaze resolutely back out to the sea. “Do you sail?” There were several boats out in the water.

  “Occasionally. Are you shy?”

  Her cheeks warmed even more. She tried a laugh, but it only came off sounding nervous. “What makes you ask that?”

  “Tricia mentioned it. I told her she was off base.”

  “Well, there you go, then.” What was the point of telling him that his sister was closer to the mark than he was?

  His forearm was pressing alongside hers on top of the warm stone and it took every ounce of willpower she possessed not to move her tingling arm away from his. “When I was young, we went sailing as often as we could.”

  “Your family?”

  She suddenly wished she hadn’t even brought it up. That was what she got for trying to focus on something other than Rourke’s overwhelmingly masculine appeal. “Derek,” she admitted slowly. “Dad took me one time. It was Memorial Day weekend. Usually he was too busy to ever go, and my mother—” She shook her head. “Sailing wasn’t exactly her cup of tea.” Her lips twisted a little. “Would have mussed her hair.”

  “Like this?” Rourke tucked the strands of hair that had fallen loose from her chignon during the drive behind her ear.

  She swallowed hard, unable to find her voice just then.

  Rourke’s hand went back to the railing. His forearm back to scorching hers. “What about Paul and Olivia?”

  Her throat eased a little. “Paul had his own interests— usually his studies—and Olivia was always dancing.” She didn’t want to think about how much time Derek had always been willing to give her when she’d been growing up.

  He’d been her pal, taking her sailing or to hockey games.

  Her confidant, listening without judgment when she’d railed against Emily’s stringent standards about the behavior of proper young ladies or when she’d been left alone on the night of every school dance because nobody had asked her out.

  He’d even been her hero, helping her to see the value she had where the institute was concerned.

  And now, she wanted to hate him for the position he’d put them all in. She did hate him. But she couldn’t help still loving him.

  “I can’t believe what he did,” she admitted. “Can’t understand why.”

  The silence ticked between them, broken only by the hushed rustle of the palm fronds extending over the terrace. “He checked into a rehab center, if that helps you with the why.”

  Shocked, she looked up at Rourke. He was standing even more closely than she’d thought. “Rehab for what? When? And how do you know?”

  “For what, I don’t know. But it was Saturday. And that I know because my media director kept a story about it from seeing the light of day. I told you that I would do what I can to keep the institute and your brother’s actions out of the press.”

  She remembered the bits of Rourke’s phone conversation that she’d overheard the day they’d arrived. “I wasn’t sure you’d meant it.”

  “I gave you my word.”

  This close, she could have counted every one of his thick, spiky eyelashes. “I’ve always thought you were impossibly arrogant.” Her voice was little more than a whisper. “But I think there might actually be a wide streak of decency in
there.”

  “And I used to think you were just an ice princess. Turns out that’s just a mask you wear to keep anyone from seeing the heat that’s inside. Same as this knot you wear hides those long, wild waves.” He reached behind her head and she felt him pluck one of the pins out of her hair.

  It dropped to the smooth stone beneath their feet with a soft ping. Soon, it was followed by another. And another.

  Her mouth went dry. Her heart felt as if it was climbing up into her throat. “Do I remind you of your ex-wife? Is that what the attraction is?” She feared knowing the answer because she wasn’t sure if it would even matter. Not with the way he made her heart pound.

  “If you really reminded me of her, there would be no attraction,” he said so flatly that she couldn’t help believe him.

  He pulled every pin from her hair, unwinding it and threading his fingers through it until it hung over her shoulders and down her back. When he seemed satisfied, his hands drifted to the buttons that lined the front of her snug bodice. His knuckles brushed against her as he deliberately undid the top one.

  She exhaled shakily.

  His head lowered. He slowly kissed the point of her shoulder, almost distracting her from the release of a second button. And a third. “Are you going to protest?” His words whispered against her neck, below her ear, more seduction than question.

  Did she even want to? Hadn’t she known this would happen when she’d declined driving to Nice?

  “No.” The word was barely audible.

  “Good.” Between them, she felt the bodice of her dress loosening. Inching downward.

  A bird flew overhead, cawing loudly. She could barely hear the sound of the ocean above the pounding of her heart.

  Then he slid one hand behind her head, catching the nape of her neck, his gaze locked on hers as he slowly pressed his mouth against hers and the only thing she knew then was the darkly seductive taste of him. The only thing she cared about was the feel of his hands on her.

  He was devouring her by slow degrees and she didn’t care.

  He tore his mouth from hers, lips burning against her jaw, his breath as ragged as hers. He lifted his head, staring down at her as he took a step back. His hands were on her shoulders, fingers burning hotter than the sunshine.

  Her loosened bodice fell away, the folds of her dress caught only by the swell of her hips. The sweet, warm air drifted over her bare breasts, her achingly tight nipples.

  He twined his fingers gently in her hair, tugging her head back until she looked up at him.

  “This is who I see when I look at you.” His voice was low. Husky. “Fire in your eyes. Lips naked and soft. Skin warm and waiting.”

  “Then you’re the only one,” she admitted, feeling oddly thrilled. Wholly aroused.

  “I could spend an hour or two explaining how wrong you are.” His hands slid down her bare spine, pushing the dress beyond her hips, and the cotton crumpled around her ankles. Her feet. “But I’ve got better things in mind.” He caught her hips and lifted her right off her feet and out of the dress.

  She gasped and caught his shoulders more tightly.

  “Put your legs around me.”

  Trembling wildly, she did, and he turned away from the balustrade to walk across the terrace. She pressed her head against his shoulder, agonizingly aware of the hard press of his chest beneath the soft friction of his linen shirt. He carried her down the steps to the lower terrace and nudged through the French doors of the bedroom.

  It was cooler inside. And dimmer, thanks to the slant of the shutters on the windows. He left the door open and carried her to the wide bed, settling her in the center.

  Her hands slowly fell away. She stared up at him as he began flicking open the buttons on his shirt. “I thought you were heading down to the beach.” Her gaze felt glued to the expanding wedge of muscular chest he was revealing.

  “Disappointed?” He reached the last button and tossed the shirt aside. His narrow belt jangled softly as he pulled it loose.

  She swallowed. Hard. “Maybe,” she admitted faintly.

  His lips curved. His pants stayed where they fell, and so did the body-hugging boxers beneath. He bent one knee on the mattress, slowly moving toward her.

  She knew she was staring, but there didn’t seem to be anything she could do about it. Everything about him was hard. The muscles roping his shoulders. The ridges of his abdomen.

  “We’ll make love on the beach,” he murmured, settling between her thighs where she felt that hardest part press insistently between them. “And anywhere else we want.” His hands burned over her thighs, guiding them along his hips. “As often as we want.”

  Her fingers pressed into his chest. The swirl of dark hair there felt softly crisp against her palms. “You’ll change your mind.” The words came without warning, probably pushed out by the sudden tightness in her chest.

  “I seriously doubt it.” He turned onto his back, pulling her with him until she was draped over him like a wet blanket. “I’ve wanted you for months.” His hands caught her face. Drew her closer. “Turn off that brain for a while, Lisa.”

  Her chest felt even tighter. “But I’m not any good at this,” she warned miserably.

  He didn’t move a muscle. Didn’t even seem to breathe for a moment. “I’m going to assume that some fool told you that. Because I know you’re too smart to come up with such an asinine idea.” His voice seemed to rumble up from deep within his chest, vibrating against her.

  She straightened her arms, finding some distance between her racing heart and his. “But it’s true. I’m not good with…with men.”

  He eyed her for a moment and even though she was shaking with desire, she still felt like a bug on the head of a pin.

  And knew that she was the one who’d stuck herself there.

  He pushed up on his arm suddenly, and without letting her go, pulled her with him up the mattress until his back was against the carved headboard. “No men,” he said quietly. “Just one man.” His hands slid slowly down her back, then slid up again. “Me.” None of the fire had left his eyes but there was a watchfulness there that made her throat tight. “Are you afraid I’m going to hurt you?”

  “No.” Not in the sense that he meant.

  “Are you a virgin?”

  She shook her head yet again, this time flushing. “Of course not.”

  “When were you last with a man? Six months? A year? Two?”

  “Seven.” She was grateful that he didn’t gape at her. “He was a guy in college.”

  “The only guy?”

  She groaned and covered her face with her hand. “I should wear a muzzle,” she muttered. “Then maybe my stupid tongue would stop getting in the way.”

  His chest lifted and fell with the choked laugh he gave. “I have plenty of thoughts about your tongue. None of them involves a muzzle, believe me.” He pulled her hands away from her face. “There’s nobody here in this bed but you and me. You have just as much control as I do.” His lips twisted slightly. “More, when it comes down to it, because as much as I want you—and it’s gotta be obvious as hell to you that I do—you’re still the one who can say no.”

  Which she’d been doing all along. And which he’d actually been respecting, she realized, no matter what the terms of their agreement were.

  “Will you trust me?” He tipped her chin up. “At least in this?”

  “I want to,” she admitted helplessly, surprising even herself by the truth of it.

  “Good enough,” he said softly. He slowly rubbed his thumb over her lower lip. “Kiss me.”

  She blinked. Moistened her lip only to taste the faint saltiness of the tip of his thumb. Her gaze flicked to his and she caught the flex of a muscle in his hard jaw.

  Still he waited for her to make the move.

  She leaned closer and brushed her lips across his. Felt the surprising softness, the unexpectedly lush curve of his lower lip. A faint sound rose in her throat and she sank a little deeper agains
t his chest. Her hand roved over one wide, muscled shoulder; slid against the strong column of his brown neck and felt the push of his pulse against her fingertips.

  That tattooing beat seemed as deeply intimate as the feel of his body pushing against her increasingly damp panties.

  She grazed the tip of her tongue over his lip. Caught it lightly between her teeth.

  His hands suddenly closed tightly around her hips only to ease off a second later.

  What fascinated her more? That unexpected, uncontrolled motion? Or the very deliberate control he exercised over it?

  She tilted her head slightly. Settled her mouth over his, tentatively tasting the inner curve of his lip, feeling the ridge of sharp teeth.

  One of his hands shifted, slid over her rear, hovered over the elastic edge of her panties.

  Her tongue found his and his chest expanded against her breasts. Like a needy cat, she felt herself arching against him, wanting more of that. Wanting more of his hands on the curve of her bottom, wanting more of the press of him between her legs.

  She pulled her mouth from his, hauling in a shuddering breath.

  “Tell me what you feel.” His low voice was even huskier. More ragged.

  “You,” she breathed.

  His teeth flashed. His fingers flexed against her spine. “Too obvious. How you feel.”

  He was in her head more than he was in her body. As little as a day—maybe even a matter of hours—earlier, and she would have shied away from that. From him.

  She ran her hands down his arms, circled the sinewy wrists, then caught his hands. She drew them between them. Slowly pushed them flat and pressed her mouth to one palm, then the other.

  Then she pressed his palms to her breasts.

  “I feel empty,” she whispered. “And I want you to fill me.”

  His hands cupped her breasts, shaped them. Thumbs roved over her drawn nipples, sending waves of need to the clutching space inside her. When his hands left her, she wanted to protest, but that desire died instead in the moist fire of his mouth closing over her while he shifted and bore her steadily down onto the mattress.

  And then his tongue was branding a line down her abdomen, the edge of her underwear, and then beneath as he dragged the bit of cotton down her thighs and right off her legs.