Hot Sexy Desire Page 4

  “Thanks, man,” Dominic says. “I owe you one.”

  “Hey,” Antoine says. “What are friends for?”

  “We had no idea,” Liza says. “We’re both off the Internet. If I’d known what the Blaze did, I would’ve had Tolyan deal with them.”

  No! Not Tolyan! Not that I don’t like him, but getting Tolyan involved would mean no Antoine.

  “He called me,” Antoine says. “I told him I’d handle it.”

  Oooooohhhhh, you did…? Suddenly, I feel a little bit more optimistic.

  “She obviously can’t stay at her place now,” Dominic says.

  “No,” Antoine agrees.

  “I’m not doing hotels forever,” I say, doing my best not to bounce around. But Antoine can stay with me to keep me safe! What a brilliant idea. Not that I’m going to say that out loud because if I do, Antoine will do the exact opposite. The man can be positively perverse.

  “I wasn’t going to suggest that,” Dominic says. “You should stay at my place until this dies down.”

  I make a face. Dominic’s penthouse has excellent security. But at the same time, I’ve worked very hard to establish my independence and make my own way in the world. That’s why I live in a small apartment that I can afford, rather than the big, swanky place he wanted to rent for me. I never want to be known as “that girl who mooches off her rich brother.”

  What Dominic should’ve done is suggest I stay at Antoine’s place…

  “Dominic’s right,” Liza says. “You have to be careful.”

  “But I’m nobody!” I protest.

  “What you are is a fresh, juicy target,” Liza says. “Famous without any scandal attached to her name yet.”

  Antoine’s expression turns stormy.

  She continues, “I called Ryder, and he’s going to have his people handle things for you. You don’t have to do anything except sit tight and let them work their magic.”

  Oh my. Normally I would be squealing at the mention of her brother Ryder Reed. He’s one of the hottest leading men in Hollywood. Voted the Sexiest Man Alive four times, he has the face and body to match the title, with the kind of blue eyes that can make a woman’s heart stop. Unlike some stars who are only pretty in pictures, he’s fabulous looking in real life too, almost unnaturally so. He struck me dumb when Liza introduced us.

  But despite all that, he isn’t my type…because my kind of guy is Antoine. I glance at my perfect man and give him a small smile.

  Antoine grows more serious. “She didn’t ask for the publicity,” he points out, his voice flatter than a squished pancake.

  “That’s precisely why Ryder’s team is going to handle it,” Liza says. “They can do whatever necessary to minimize the damage, and restore normalcy to her life as quickly as possible. They’re experts at this.”

  “She still needs a bodyguard,” Dominic says, talking like I’m not present for the conversation. “I’m not having her run around free for some pervert to grab or flash or whatever.”

  “I agree. Someone professional, un-bribable and loyal,” Liza adds.

  Someone like Antoine!

  “Antoine?” Dominic says.

  Yay! Great minds think alike!

  “There’s no one else I trust more,” my brother adds.

  “Perfect.” Liza’s voice is lighter.

  Antoine’s brow furrows as my brother and his wife go on and on about how perfect Antoine is. Oh no. He’s going to find a way to excuse himself.

  No, no, nonononononononono! “I think—”

  “Fine, I’ll handle it personally,” Antoine says.

  Oh my God, did he just say fine? I pump my fist. “Yes!”

  “What?” Dominic and Liza say at the same time, while Antoine glances over.

  My cheeks heat, and I cover them with my palms, doing my best not to grin like an idiot. I should be ridiculously embarrassed, but I’m too happy to care. Finally, something has gone right on this disastrous day. And the pleasure’s going to be all mine.

  Chapter Seven

  Antoine

  As a rule, I’m not a big fan of grocery shopping. It’s a mundane and “needed for survival” kind of task that I find about two rungs above bowel movements.

  But going grocery shopping with Kristen? That’s a whole ‘nother circle of hell.

  I tried to avoid it. Told her we could get Thai delivered for dinner. Or pizza. But she pointed out that there was nothing to eat in the fridge, which was true. Dominic and Elizabeth apparently tossed all the perishables before leaving for their honeymoon. There isn’t even a slice of cheese left. Then Kristen added that we needed breakfast. That’s also true, and Kristen is serious about eating before her day starts.

  I told her I could get everything if she’d make a list, but she wanted to tag along just in case she saw something she needed. Should’ve said no. The papholes are after her, and a couple of them were even clever enough to tail me, although not good enough to keep up. But Kristen looked at me with those pleading puppy eyes, and I gave in with a suppressed sigh.

  Given the crap she’s gone through today, I want to humor her as much as possible. For some reason it’s terribly important that she be okay, not just physically but emotionally. I want to incinerate the eyeballs of every person who saw that fucking picture.

  It infuriates me some sleazeball took that shot of her, and that shithole site published it. I don’t want anyone to see her like that, ever. And it isn’t just because it’s a gross violation of her privacy.

  Kristen picks up some packaged sliced meat, something that looks like water chestnut and eggs. She also grabs a huge loaf of crusty bread a couple Swiss cheeses, Emmental and Gruyère. Some other stuff. I get some bacon and her favorite cereals with nuts and dried fruit and soy milk.

  As the cashier scans, she starts pulling out her plastic, but I’m quicker.

  “It’s seriously my treat,” she says. “After all, you’re keeping me safe out here, and this is the least I can do.”

  “It’s not a good idea for you to leave a credit trail, unless you want a bunch of papholes here the next time you come. And I’m not having a girl pay for my food.” She’s too damn pretty, and I don’t want her providing for me. It should be the other way around, especially since… Well, she’s the sister I never had. I wouldn’t ask my baby sister to pay, would I? No, I wouldn’t.

  I need to keep remind myself she’s like the SINH…the sister I never had.

  “How very twenty-first century of you,” she says, her voice extra dry.

  “Never let it be said I’m not a modern feminist.” I smile as I hand my credit card to the cashier.

  I almost whistle when she tells me the amount. Kristen merely looks resigned, and I know the eye-popping total is correct. Whatever she bought is worth almost as much as a diamond.

  As we carry our food to the car, Kristen brushes by me. Accidentally or not, it doesn’t matter. Every time she comes close, my whole body prickles as though it’s full of electric charge.

  Because I don’t want her to be so close, I tell myself, while my brain points out that my reaction is more like a man on a diet sniffing around a banquet.

  I’m not crazy enough to think Kristen still has feelings for me. Stating my preference for a basset hound with a bad Botox job probably killed her youthful infatuation.

  The next several days are going to be hell, living under the same roof with Kristen. The only guest bedroom available is the one across from her room, which is not ideal for my sanity. Although I don’t have a sister, I’m certain people don’t put brothers and sisters in rooms facing each other. That’s just…weird. And wrong. But I can survive the arrangement…so long as Ryder’s people work fast to fix the mess.

  Chapter Eight

  Kristen

  I would’ve preferred to stay up late, cuddled with Antoine, watching a movie or something, but he didn’t seem to know we were supposed to be cuddling. That’s what you do after a close call, right? Not that it really was that close, b
ut it could’ve been. But no. He just sat, scowling at his phone most of the evening, so I went to bed early. I have a plan for tomorrow…to show Antoine what we could have together.

  I get up at five—an hour earlier than usual. Then I shower and shave, slather sweet jasmine-scented lotion all over myself and rub some heady floral perfume on my wrists and behind my ears. It isn’t easy executing a plan overnight, but I know I can do this.

  I put on makeup with extra care, making my eyes look smoky and large, and my lips super luscious. It’s sexy enough for a night out, but still appropriate for daytime. It’s an art I learned from a makeup guru in Paris.

  Then I stare at my hair. Up…or down? Down is sweet…touchable. But if it’s up, Antoine can appreciate my neck. Maybe even be tempted to place a kiss at the back of my neck…at the base…then slowly move along…

  The thought sends delicious shivers through me. Up it is.

  After fussing with my hair, I select a cream-colored maxi dress with bright red poppies on the strategic parts to bring Antoine’s gaze to my assets. I designed this one myself, and I’m really proud of it. Lola loved it too, calling it sweet and sexy, and she modified it a bit and added it to our spring collection this year.

  I twist around in front of a full-length mirror, making sure I look fabulous from all angles. Now I’m ready to face him.

  And make him a breakfast that’s going to bring him to his knees.

  I didn’t want him to pay for the food I bought because I knew it was going to be hideously expensive, but then he paid without a word. I still cringe at the cost. I should’ve insisted.

  But hopefully he’ll moan with joy when he gets a taste of what I can whip up. I want to impress him, show him what a good cook I am. An omelet with smoked duck and white truffles is the most gourmet food I know how to make, and I haven’t even made it for Dominic yet.

  By the time I reach the first floor of the penthouse, I can smell coffee. Did Antoine set the timer before going to bed?

  Then I see him at the counter, reading something on his tablet. He looks stunning, his hair slightly damp, and his crisp white shirt and black slacks stretching over his broad shoulders, tight butt and thighs. I stand there to admire the view, then something finally hits my caffeine-deprived brain.

  He’s up, drinking coffee. And there’s a plate in front of him…with small bits of bacon on it.

  “Did you already have breakfast?” My voice sounds loud…and I sound slightly horrified.

  “Uh-huh. There’s coffee for you in the pot, and soy milk is in the fridge.” He tilts his chin at a bowl covered with Saran wrap on the other side of the counter.

  I go check it out. It’s full of crunchy cereal, with chopped nuts and dried fruit. My favorite. How did he know? And most importantly, how in the world am I going to impress him with my culinary skills if he keeps doing this?

  I open the fridge. Sure enough, there’s a small carton of soy milk along with the sliced smoked duck, white truffle and a dozen eggs. Argh. I close the fridge and bump my forehead against the door three times. This is not how I wanted the morning to go. I had a perfect scenario in my head, which played like a blockbuster movie—with me making the most gourmet omelet Antoine has ever had and him enjoying it and my company…and us flirting with each other…which escalated into a kiss. The kiss that rips the shroud of “you’re Dominic’s baby sister” so he can see me as a woman—the kind he can fuck.

  But now…it’s too late.

  Sniffling, I blink fast as my eyes prickle. I want to cry. Or scream. Or sob. Or wail. Or maybe all of the above.

  “Something wrong?” he asks.

  Yes, everything! “No. I just need coffee.” I pour myself a mugful, then stir in sugar and cream and drink it. What else can I do at this point, except vow to get up even earlier tomorrow?

  Antoine pours soy milk into the bowl and pushes it my way, along with a spoon. “Eat up.”

  “Thanks.” I sigh and start munching on my favorite cereal prepared by the love of my life. This isn’t how it was supposed to go. But the day’s still young. Liza texted me last night, saying she was sending me reinforcements and asking for my precise measurements, then told me I was welcome to her closet. Our sizes are similar, and she has sublime taste in clothes.

  I just need to wait for Liza’s backup, then figure out what I’m going to do after work.

  It’s only Tuesday, and Dominic and Liza won’t be back until late Saturday. I’ve still got time.

  Chapter Nine

  Antoine

  Kristen seemed a bit bummed about breakfast. I wonder if I should I have made her bacon, too…

  I ponder the question as I drop her off in the alley, the back door to the same cafeteria I picked her up from yesterday. She waves at me, her smile bright. The dress is classy, but the poppy flowers on the cleavage keep drawing my eyes, like a red cape rippling before a bull.

  You’re not a bull, Antoine.

  With an effort, I focus on her face. She looks prettier than yesterday, her blue eyes deep and mesmerizing. When she tilts her head forward as she checks her texts, a sudden urge to press my nose behind her ear and taste the delicate skin there surges inside me.

  Get a grip.

  Just like there seems to be a Woman Code saying you can’t date your best friend’s ex, the Man Code says you can’t screw around with your best friend’s baby sister. You don’t violate those rules unless you want to ruin everything. And I’m not going to ruin what I’ve built over the last eight years.

  Once she’s safely behind the door, I go straight to my office since today, at least, I don’t have any appointments with people who harbor a fake interest in working for King Consolidated. Maman finally stopped calling and texting around midnight. Guess she eventually got the hint.

  Two sedans follow me. Probably some bottom-feeding shitholes who want to sell more pictures of Kristen. Since I don’t give a damn if they know where I work, I ignore the persistent pests.

  Sarah is already at her desk outside my office. Her hair’s up in a chignon, and her dress is breezy, the cut a little low to show off her cleavage.

  My gaze has no interest in lingering below her chin.

  “Antoine, you have a guest,” she says.

  “Who?” I don’t remember any appointment. This better not be another fake job candidate.

  “Your family.” She smiles apologetically, then clears her throat.

  I run my fingers roughly through my hair. “Seriously?” Maman’s gone too far. “Should’ve called security when she showed up.”

  “It’s actually a man.” She flushes. “He was, uh, very persuasive. Said it was urgent.”

  I frown. Is Papa joining the nonsense too? I’ve always considered him the more rational of my parents, and thought he tempered Maman’s drama a bit…

  On the other hand…he did marry her. And loves to humor her.

  I walk inside, my scowl deepening when I spot Nicolas perusing my bookshelves.

  He straightens and looks at me. “You really read all this crap?” He gestures at the leather-bound classics.

  “Of course not. They just look good on my wall,” I say, walking to my seat behind the desk and gesturing at one of the empty guest chairs. “Sit down.”

  He does, then crosses his legs.

  Nicolas looks just like his mother—the thick brown hair, the wide-set brown eyes with exceptionally long lashes. His hands are soft, having never done anything more strenuous than typing. He maintains his trim physique with diet and bodyweight exercises. He always puts on a vaguely intellectual and thoughtful demeanor, as befits his official job as a novelist, although his clothes are on the trendy side. He writes literary fiction as himself, but I know for a fact he also publishes porn under a pen name to make enough money to afford the lifestyle he desires. It’s a secret; his mother would die on the spot from an aneurysm if she knew.

  Tante Nicole’s proud of the fact that her son is an artiste. And she never lets anybody forget what an amaz
ing, talented, sensitive soul he is.

  It’s tempting to send her Nicolas’s latest smut. But I’d never do that—not because I particularly care about my dearest tante, but because I really don’t want to spend weeks listening to Maman crow over the phone.

  “What do you want?” I ask. We aren’t particularly close. There’s no reason for Nicolas to visit just because he’s in town. “I presume you aren’t here to ask me to hook you up with a real job.”

  “I have a real job. I write modern literary masterpieces.”

  After dealing with Maman’s bullshit yesterday and the frustration of spending the night and morning with Kristen, I don’t have the patience to humor Nicolas, too. “Nikky Ardent.”

  If he were drinking, he’d spew liquor all over himself. His complexion turns redder than canned beets, and he stares at me, eyes bugged out. “How do you know ab—” He scowls. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  “Banging My Dirty Best Friend. Lusting After Professor Nolan. Ruining the Virgin Next Door.”

  Nicolas’s expression is now a study in horror and outrage.

  I roll my wrist. “Should I go on?”

  “How… How did you…”

  “It’s my job. Now, what do you want?”

  “Are you going to tell Maman?”

  “I could, I guess… Overnight some print copies to her…”

  “You bastard.”

  “That’s the best you can do? And here I thought you were a great novelist.”

  “Because ‘bastard’ is the best word for you, other than asshole.” Nicolas inhales deeply, visibly calming himself. “Anyway, the reason I’m here. You probably haven’t heard, but Papy’s decided what he’s going to do with his money—”

  “Whichever of us marries first and produces a baby gets the entire estate.” For once, I’m almost grateful for Maman’s harassment.

  Nicolas blinks, but recovers quickly. “Don’t you think that’s unfair? We’re both his grandsons.”

  I shrug.

  “It’s over a billion dollars, Antoine. How the hell can you be so nonchalant?”