Billionaire With a Twist (10 page)

She shook her head, as if trying to
shake the memory from it.

“I’m not judging,” I
told her.

Martha went on. “After I got
fired, Hunter looked me up. Said he’d always thought I seemed
like a good employee and he wanted to hear my side of the story, and
after he did, he gave me a job. Good pay, good benefits, he doesn’t
get handsy, and he trusts me. Lets me handle things. And I do.”

“I’m sorry it’s been
rough,” I said. I didn’t know what else to say. My job
experience didn’t look half so bad compared to hers.

Martha shook her head, rejecting my
pity. “It’s in the past. And I’ve always been a
present girl, myself.” We peeled into the parking lot of an
outlet mall. Martha grinned wide. “And speaking of presents,
let’s get you looking like something these boys can’t
wait to unwrap…”

#

“Yo, babe, can I top you up?”
A young man with more muscles than hand-eye coordination waved a
bottle of vodka at me. I was honestly impressed that he was still on
his feet.

“I’ll stick to punch,
thanks,” I said, taking a sip from my half-f cup. Tonight’s
research only involved alcohol at a remove, which was a good thing—I
was not looking forward to repeating my last drunken experience with
any of these immature dudebros. Or any of my drunken college
experiences, come to that.

I winced at the blurry memory of
several different parties; there was that time when I vomited green
puke all over my closet on St. Patrick’s Day and woke up in the
bathtub, that time I confessed my love to a stoner guitar player who
stopped me in the middle to tell me he didn’t even know my
name, that time I accidentally made out with a former professor and
then started crying when he said he was married—

Yeah, no alcohol was definitely the way
to go tonight.

I looked around, trying to observe
drinkers in their natural habitat. What do twentysomething dudes
want? Let’s see, there was a dreadlocked guy leaning into a
blonde’s personal space, a clean-shaven polo player topping up
a redhead’s drink, a sloppy drunk bearded hipster trying to hug
a brunette and toppling onto the couch instead—

Okay, let me rephrase that: what do
twentysomething dudes want besides sex?

I looked deeper. Dreadlocked guy had a
shirt with Bob Marley and an inspiration quote on it. The polo player
was plying the redhead not just with alcohol but with Maya Angelou
quotes. And from the couch, the bearded hipster was protesting that
he’d totally had the brunette’s back at that march last
weekend when some scumball tried to make off with her purse.

Underneath the hormones and bravado,
these were just kids. Kids who wanted to belong, and make a
difference, but were afraid to go looking for something on their own.

But I could show them the way.

And just like that, I knew exactly what
the new tagline for Knox needed to be.

I stood, eager to find Martha so that I
could get back to my little guesthouse desk and start writing all of
this down.

Unfortunately, as I stood, the surface
of the Earth decided to take up waltzing.

Shit. The punch hadn’t been
nonalcoholic after all.

I never should have trusted that
douchewaffle trying to bring the seventies porn mustache back. That
had been the most untrustworthy facial hair I had ever seen. You just
knew his whole life was going to be a series of increasingly terrible
decisions. And I thought it had tasted a bit off. Crap.

I wandered through the house, trying to
keep my legs steady as the walls spun around like a teacup ride. My
eyes refused to focus properly on the faces of the people I
passed—they were doing all they could to keep track of up vs.
down—and I couldn’t see Martha anywhere. Damn, whatever
had been in that drink was strong.

I pulled up a cab number on my phone
before remembering that it was for a company in D.C. Damn, I wished I
could afford a smart phone! One Google search and it’d be
problem solved. I eyed the iPhone in a rich frat guy’s hand,
but didn’t approach him. Considering these guys’ track
record with the punch, a request for a cab company number would
probably get me the digits of a crack house.

Still…asking someone for help
wasn’t a bad idea. I scrolled down to the number for the manor
house. I hated to get one of the servants up out of bed, but they
could fire up a computer and get me a cab number, and I’d get
them something nice in thanks.

But it wasn’t one of the servants
who answered.

“Hello?”

Hunter. I almost hung up.

“Hello?” he asked again.
There was a pause—he must have been looking at the Caller ID.
“Ally, where in the world are you? We’ve been worried
sick.”

A silly grin spread itself out over my
face before I realized what I was doing. Why should I care if he was
worried about me? He was strictly off-limits.

But that grin wasn’t going away.

I leaned into the wall, my eyes sliding
shut as I imagined leaning into his arms.

“Did you miss me?” I
teased. Shit, was I slurring? I tried to focus, make my words come
out crisp and clear. “There was a, a party. Martha. Martha
party. At a frat.”

Hunter sighed, a mixture of
exasperation and amusement. “Of course there was. I know
exactly where you mean. I’m on my way.”

“No, I didn’t mean, I just
wanted—”

But he had already hung up.

Well, I guessed that meant Prince
Charming was on his way in his carriage, whether I liked it or not.

#

“Well, this is a new side of
you,” Hunter said, eyeing me up and down. His voice was
tight—almost…angry? “And here I was, thinking you
were a pure professional.”

“Well, I’m not onna—on
the clock, am I?” I snapped back, embarrassed. I could feel my
blush burning my cheeks as I became even more aware of the short
plaid skirt, kitten heels, and low-cut red blouse that Martha had
talked me into purchasing at the mall en route. “Is it a crime
to wear nice things?”

“Depends on who you’re
wearing them for,” he growled, sending a look at a nearby frat
guy that was pure poison. Frat guy had been coming forward proffering
a drink; he back-pedaled like a mouse who’d just seen a lion.

“Didn’t realize you were
CEO of my wardrobe too,” I grumbled. Who was he to comment on
my outfits? Just because we’d slept together once didn’t
mean he owned me. “Look, if you’re taking me home, take
me home.”

I tried to stand, and Hunter grabbed my
arm to keep me from falling, walking me gently to his car. I leaned
into him, savoring his solidity, his strength.

The feel of his hands on me made it
very difficult to remember why I was angry at him.

He helpfully reminded me. “I
don’t understand why you’re here to be taken home in the
first place.” His voice was a tightly wound spring, emotions I
couldn’t quite grasp bottled up under pressure. “After
what happened last time, I would have thought you’d swear off
‘research’ of this nature.”

I fumbled at the door handle to the
car, my face flushed with drink and embarrassment. “For your
infor—infor—informayshun, I wasn’ planning to drink
at all.” I flopped onto the car seat, nearly strangling myself
with the seatbelt. “Dammit! Shit. I’m fine, just—”
I waved away his assistance, buckling myself in with only a few dozen
fumbles. “Some asshole spiked the punch.”

“Well, that explains why you’re
currently walking as if your legs are made of Jell-O,” Hunter
said. “It doesn’t explain why you’re here in the
first place.”

“I was doing more research,”
I admitted as he started the engine. “Just on the demo—dem—the
graphic thing. Not booze.”

I expected him to give me more of a
hard time, but he just nodded, tight-lipped. Then: “Did it
work?”

I thought of that tagline again, and
grinned. “Oh yeah.”

I thought I saw Hunter smile, just a
bit, his shoulders relaxing, before he pulled out of the driveway.

The cicadas sang almost as loud as the
engine as we flew along the highway. I watched the horizon to keep
from getting carsick, silhouettes of dark hills and moss-laden trees
and kudzu along a deep sky backlit by the lights of the city that
drew dimmer and dimmer as we left civilization.

“Over the river and through the
woods…” I murmured.

“To Grandmother’s house we
go,” Hunter finished dryly. “Seeing as we’re
heading to my house, I can only draw the conclusion that I’m
the grandmother.”

“Oh please,” I said,
turning to him and contemplating his profile with a lazy grin. I laid
my hand on his leg, up on his thigh. Hey, I was drunk. And it was a
nice thigh. “Like you could be anything but the big, bad wolf.”

He swallowed, hard.

There was a forced lightness in his
tone as he said, “I take it you think I should get a haircut.”

“Don’t you dare.” I
shook my other finger at him. “You stay shaggy, Mr. Sexy Wolf.”

I never knew someone could choke on air
before.

When Hunter had regained his
composure—and I had stopped giggling—well, mostly
stopped, I was still giggling a little bit, I find it very hard to
stop giggling when I’m tipsy—he went on. “I’m
surprised Martha didn’t find you a gigolo before she went off
to cultivate her harem.”

“Puh-lease!” I scoffed.
“They’re babies. Big hairy whiny drunk babies. Oh wow. I
think I just made babies terrifying. Just…giant babies. Hairy.
Wow.”

Hunter returned my hand to my own lap,
his hand lingering just a second to pat my knee. “You just
sleep that off there, darling,” he drawled in that
smooth-as-honey accent.

My eyes were feeling kind of heavy…I
leaned back into the leather seat and giggled one final time.

#

“Ally. Ally, wake up.”

I moaned fretfully, and opened my eyes.
I was compensated for this Herculean labor by the sight of Hunter’s
handsome face only inches from mine.

Thankfully, before I could drunkenly
decide to kiss him, he pulled away. “We’re home.”

“Oh,” I said, standing.
Yep, it was a good thing he had pulled away. I wasn’t
disappointed. At all.

Unfortunately, the drive hadn’t
been near long enough for me to have sobered up. The second I stood,
the lavish grounds of the Knox plantation set themselves a-spinning,
and I stumbled.

Hunter caught my arm. “Allow me.”

Heat coursed through my veins at the
touch of his strong hands on my bare skin. He was holding me upright,
holding me safe…his hands were so callused, and yet so gentle…

He was looking at me so earnestly with
those deep dark eyes, shot through with pure gold…

“You don’t have to,”
I mumbled, half-heartedly pulling away.

His grip stayed firm, and he smiled,
his expression as gentle as his touch. “I do if I want to save
my company.” The smile widened, mischievous. “After all,
you can’t explain your brilliant strategy from beyond the
grave.”

I stumbled on the gravel as if to prove
his point. He chuckled under his breath, and then he swept me off my
feet.

Literally.

I considered making another protest,
but his chest was really comfortable, and he smelled really nice.
Protests were overruled in favor of snuggling back into his warm arms
and giving out a little sigh.

“Comfortable?”

“Very.”

Oh, he did smell so nice, though. Only
this annoying shirt was in the way. If I could just reach over and
undo those buttons…

No, no, no! Bad drunk Ally! No groping!
I snatched my hand away before it could do more than awkwardly wave
through the air, and tried to distract myself with snark.

“You carry all the girls you meet
over the threshold?” I asked as we came to the guesthouse.

Oh no, that was a terrible choice, much
too wedding-themed, much too romantic—

“Only the ones with the best
research methods.” His voice was honey and bourbon and caramel,
warm breath on my ear, a comforting vibration against my skin.

“Yeah, you liked it last time,
didn’t you?” I teased. I nuzzled against his shirt, and
lost myself in the texture. “I wish I could’ve shown you
how much I liked it too. Wish I could still show you. I wish that all
the time.”

I felt him start against me. This was
it. This was the moment of truth. Would he respond? Would he kiss me?
Would he?

He walked quickly through the door of
the guesthouse and set me on my chair. He was about to go but I
reached up, caressing his cheek.

His eyes closed, like a contented cat.
He sighed. “Ally…”

“Want to show you so much,”
I murmured. I let my hand wander down his neck, trailing my fingers
above his collarbone.

He swallowed, hard.

“I still remember how your lips
taste,” I said. I ran my finger over them. His tongue flicked
out, tasting the skin there, and I was undone.

I leaned forward, pressing my lips
against his. Oh, nothing had changed, still that tang of honey, still
that softness of his lips and the rasp of his stubbled cheek, still
the way he kissed me back gently at first and then greedily, as if I
were water and he were lost in a desert, as if I were water and he
wanted to drown.

My hands were on the buttons of his
shirt, clumsy but determined to uncover his tanned skin, and his
hands had found my breasts, kneading them with a sweet urgency that
made me gasp into his mouth, and push against him.

I wanted nothing more than this,
nothing more than him—

And then he pulled away with a groan.

I reached for him, dismayed. “Hunter—”

“Ally, I can’t,” he
said softly. “You’re drunk.”

“But—” I protested.

He laid his fingers over my lips and I
found I could think of no more words, only of him. I begged him with
my eyes not to leave.

“Professionalism, right?”
he reminded me.