One Bad Idea: A Billionaire Loathing-to-Love Romance Read online

  One Bad Idea

  A Novel

  By Sabrina Stark

  USA Today Bestselling Author

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  Copyright © 2019 by Sabrina Stark

  Chapter 1

  I stared up at the stranger. "Excuse me?"

  Standing in the mansion's open doorway, he gave me another annoyed look and repeated, "She's not here."

  I gave him a look right back. I didn't care that he looked dangerous – and not only because of the tattoos. I also didn't care that he was looking at me like I was some kind of annoying bug, to be flicked off the sleeve of his faded red hoodie.

  Hell, I didn't even care that the guy wore no shirt, that his hoodie was fully unzipped – or that his abs looked like something out of my deepest, darkest fantasies.

  Really, I didn't.

  The guy was a total ass, and he was standing between me and my best friend, wherever she was.

  Already, I'd given my name – Allie Brewster. And I'd told why I was here – to pick up the friend who'd called me for a ride.

  And what had the guy given me?

  Jack squat.

  I tried again. "But she told me she was here." I glanced around. "At this address."

  "Yeah? Well maybe she told you wrong."

  I bit my lip and tried to think. She'd also mentioned a public beach, but that was crazy. I'd gotten Cassidy's desperate call late last night. She wouldn't've seriously slept outside? Alone? Would've she?

  Fearing the worst, I asked, "What about the beach?"

  "What about it?"

  I made a sound of frustration. "Where is it?"

  He looked at me like I was the biggest idiot on the planet and then flicked his head toward the side of the house, as if I hadn't noticed that the whole street – with its glorious mansions and manicured lawns – was sitting on some of the finest beach-front property I'd ever seen.

  Through gritted teeth, I said, "I meant the public beach."

  "There isn't one."

  "But there has to be."

  "Sure, if you drive maybe ten miles."

  I shook my head. "I meant nearby, like within walking distance." When his only reply was a bored look, I added, "She said there was one."

  "Yeah? Then she gave you a load of crap."

  I was glaring now. "She's not a liar."

  He crossed his arms, making his ab muscles shift annoyingly fine above the waistband of his tattered jeans. "I never said she was."

  My teeth were grinding now. Where the hell was his shirt? He should've been wearing one. After all, I never answered the door shirtless. Okay, maybe it wasn't exactly the same thing, but I didn't care. My friend was in trouble, and this guy was no help at all.

  I yanked my gaze upward and shot back. "Yes, you did."

  "I did what?"

  "You implied that she was a liar."

  "I don’t deal in implications," he said.

  I gave him a stiff smile. "That's an awful big word for a guy with no shirt."

  He looked down and frowned, as if noticing his bare chest for the very first time.

  Well, that made one of us.

  In happier news, my comment had obviously found its mark, because the guy was still frowning. In spite of everything, I almost smiled. Take that, Hoodie Man.

  He looked up and muttered, "Shit."

  "What? You didn't realize you were shirtless?"

  "No, I didn't realize you'd be such a pain in the ass. And where the hell is my pizza?"

  What? I squinted up at him. Pizza? Was he on drugs or something? Anything was possible, given his semi-scruffy appearance. And that wasn't the only thing that made me pause.

  The guy wasn't much older than I was, which put him somewhere in his late twenties. Wasn't he a little young to look so jaded? Plus, he'd been rude from the get-go.

  In reply to his question, I said, "I don't know. Where the hell are your manners?"

  His jaw tightened. "Manners are for pussies."

  Well, that was nice.

  "And," he continued, "you knocked on my door, not the other way around."

  "For the last freaking time," I said, "I didn't knock. I rang the bell." Not that it really mattered, but the guy was getting seriously under my skin.

  He looked past me, searching the street for who-knows-what. Finally, his gaze landed on the vehicle that had carried me here – an ancient pickup that guzzled gas like Uncle Joe guzzled beer at ball games.

  Still looking at the truck, the stranger said, "No wonder you're cranked. You won't make dick driving that thing."

  I didn't bother looking. That "thing" wasn't even mine. I wasn't even supposed to be driving it. But that was a problem for another time, probably after I was arrested for grand theft auto, assuming that Stuart – my jerk of an ex-boyfriend – made good on his threat.

  In front of me, the stranger was saying, "So, where is it? In the truck?"

  I gave a confused shake of my head. "Where's what?"

  "My pizza, just like I said."

  I felt my gaze narrow. He was messing with me. I was almost sure of it. "Oh, please," I said, "like a normal delivery person would knock on the door – without pizza, mind you – and demand to see her best friend."

  From the open doorway, he flashed me a sudden grin. "I thought you rang the bell."

  That grin – so damned cocky – sent a bolt of heat straight to my core. Worse, from the look in his eyes, he darn well knew it.

  I was so distracted by his smile that it took me a moment to realize that he'd just made fun of me. "Hey!" I said. "I was speaking metaphorically."

  "About what?"

  As if he didn't know. "About knocking on the door."

  He shrugged. "So was I."

  I opened my mouth, intending to say something sharp and cutting. The only problem was, nothing came to mind. In truth, the guy had a point, and really, did it matter whether I'd knocked or rang the bell?

  No. It didn't.

  And I was wasting precious time.

  After all, I'd driven ten hours for a reason, and it wasn't to exchange insults with whoever this guy was.

  I mean, it was pretty obvious that he didn't own the house. If I were being generous, I might assume he was the owner's son or grandson. And if I were being less than generous? Well, let's just say that if he were robbing the place, he was a total dumb-ass to be opening the door at all.

  I glared at up at him. Speaking very slowly and clearly, I said, "Where is she?"

  The words had barely left my mouth when an electronic ringing sounded from somewhere near my feet. With a gasp, I turned to look. The noise was coming from my cell phone, which I'd set face-down on the fancy brickwork of the top step.

  The phone was attached to my charger, which I'd plugged into the outdoor electrical socket before ringing the doorbell.

  Yes, I was bumming a charge.

  It wasn't the kind of thing I normally did, but my phone had died hours ago, and Stuart's pickup was seriously lacking in charging ports.

  Desperately, I dove for the phone and yanked it free of the cord as I checked the display. It was her. Thank God.

  I answered with a frantic, "Cassidy?"

  But it wasn't Cassidy's voice on the other end. It was a different female, a stranger, who seemed absolutely determined to make me crazy.

  Just like him.

  Chapter 2

  I'd been on the phone for less than a minute, and already, I wanted to scream – profanities mostly, because it was p
retty darn obvious that the caller knew a lot more than she was letting on.

  In a sly voice, she asked, "Cassidy who?"

  My jaw clenched. "McAllister, like I just told you."

  At this, her tone grew snotty. "Hey, you called me, remember?"

  The comment was annoyingly similar to what the guy in the doorway had told me just a few moments ago. Now, doubly irritated, I mimicked his voice in my head. "You knocked on my door, not the other way around."

  Jerk.

  At the thought, I glanced toward the doorway and felt myself frown.

  He was gone.

  Odder still, he hadn't bothered to close the door.

  My frown deepened. Maybe he was robbing the place.

  On the phone, the girl was saying, "Did you hear me?"

  I yanked my gaze from the doorway and murmured, "What?"

  She sighed in obvious irritation. "I said, you were the one who called me."

  I shook my head. "I did not. You called me."

  "When?" she demanded.

  "Just now."

  "Yeah, well you called me like a dozen times last night." She gave a little sniff. "And just so you know, I didn't appreciate it."

  On this, she might've had a point. I had called a dozen times, but I'd been totally justified. Very late last night, I'd gotten a frantic phone call from a number that I didn't recognize. But I had recognized the caller's voice. It was my best friend, Cassidy, calling me at our apartment.

  Unfortunately, I hadn't been home at the time, so she'd left a message – a very scary message.

  In a hushed tone, she'd practically begged me to drive down here and pick her up.

  Even under normal circumstances, I would've been worried. But this situation was anything but normal. She'd been calling from Florida while I'd been ten hours north in Nashville, where both of us had been living until Cassidy's sudden move just last week.

  Even at the time, I knew she'd been making a terrible mistake, moving in with the monster she called her mom. I'd told her so, too – not that she'd listened.

  But that wasn't important, not anymore. Now, I just wanted to find her safe and sound.

  Into the phone, I said, "Who is this, anyway?"

  Sounding snippier than ever, the stranger replied, "Gee, I don't know. Who are you?"

  Who was I? I felt my fingers clench. I was the chick who was going to slap her silly if she didn't give me some answers, and fast. My friend was in trouble, and I was wasting precious time on this stupid guessing game.

  Unfortunately, I wasn't within slapping distance, and if I pushed too hard, she'd probably just hang up and refuse to answer when I called back.

  In the nicest voice I could muster, I said, "I'm a friend of Cassidy's."

  She gave a mean little laugh. "Cassidy who?"

  Oh, for God's sake. "Listen, I've had enough of the games. She called me last night, from your number, begging me for a ride."

  "Oh, please. She didn't sound like she was begging to me."

  My breath caught. "So you were there when she called?"

  "Maybe."

  "So…?" I prompted.

  "So…what?"

  Through gritted teeth, I replied, "So, where was she?"

  "At a party – not that she was invited."

  I paused. So Cassidy had crashed a party? That didn't sound like her at all. I asked, "Are you sure?"

  "Of course I'm sure. It was totally rude."

  I'd known Cassidy for years. She was polite to a fault, usually to her own detriment. Trying to keep my temper in check, I said, "Okaaaaay. When was the last time you saw her?"

  "I dunno."

  By now, I was gripping my phone so tightly, it was a wonder it didn't snap in half. I took a deep, calming breath and said, "Was it today?"

  "Hardly."

  "So, it was last night."

  "Maybe."

  I took that as a yes. "When you saw her, what was she doing?"

  "Aside from using my phone?"

  "Yes," I gritted out. "Aside from that."

  "Mostly, she was calling for a ride."

  Obviously.

  And hadn't we covered this already?

  Desperate for more information, I said, "And…?"

  "And what? You got my message, right?"

  I froze. "What message?"

  She gave a loud sigh. "You don't seriously expect me to repeat it?"

  My jaw clenched. "Well, since I didn't hear it the first time, yeah, that would be really nice."

  "Well, this is just great," she said. "I go to all the trouble to call you back, and you just ignore the message."

  "I wasn't ignoring it," I told her. "My phone was dead, so if you left a message, I didn't get it."

  "It couldn’t be dead," she shot back. "You called me like a million times."

  Somehow, we'd gone from a dozen to a million in the blink of an eye. Talk about exaggeration. I hadn't even meant to call her. Rather, I'd been trying to reach my friend.

  I was still trying, not that I was having any luck.

  But arguing the details would only waste time. Working like hell to stay calm, I explained, "Yes. I did call you – from a truck stop in Alabama, where I took five minutes to charge my phone. That's when I left those messages."

  "So, why didn't you answer when I called back?"

  Wasn't it obvious? "Because my phone died like ten minutes later."

  Again, her tone grew snippy. "They sell chargers at truck stops, you know."

  "I know they do," I said. "But my vehicle doesn't have a charging port."

  "Oh come on, they all do." She gave a little snicker. "Unless your vehicle's older than dirt."

  The vehicle was old, vintage actually, and it wasn't even mine. But none of this was important. I sighed. "Just tell me the message, okay?"

  "Why?" she said. "It's too late now."

  Oh, no. That sounded bad. "What do you mean?"

  "What do you think it means?"

  What was this? A trick question?

  I shoved a hand through my long blond hair and tried to think. This wasn't as easy as it should've been. I'd been awake for over twenty hours, and half of those hours had been spent on the road, driving a semi-stolen pickup across unfamiliar terrain.

  Into the silence, she said, "It means, you should've followed my advice."

  "What?"

  "Yeah," she said. "And if you didn't bother to listen, it's not my problem, so don't call me again."

  And with that, she hung up.

  More confused than ever, I pulled the phone from my ear and studied the display.

  Sure enough, I had two missed calls and two messages. Frantically, I hit the play button and listened with growing trepidation to the voice of the person who'd just hung up on me.

  After giving her name – Morgan Fletcher – she got right to the point. "Listen," she said in the message. "If you're planning to get your roommate, you might want to hurry, because she's drunk off her ass and making a spectacle of herself."

  I shook my head. No. That couldn't be true. Cassidy wasn't remotely a partier, and she hated drama more than anyone I knew.

  There was a brief pause before the voice continued. "No, it's more than a spectacle. You want the truth? She's whoring herself out for drinks and gas money."

  I swallowed. What?

  "It's disgusting," she was saying. "There's these two rich guys who own the place, and she's all over them, promising the lewdest things for a little cash. And just so you know, they like to share." Her voice grew shrill. "So if you're planning to pick her up, get your ass in gear and just do it already before I call the police!"

  And then, she was gone – or rather, her voice was.

  I stood there for a long, silent moment, wondering what planet I was on, because there was no way on Earth that message could be true.

  And yet, a little voice in my head whispered that Cassidy's mom was a partier, and would've done exactly the sort of thing the stranger had described. Even worse, Cassidy had be
en living with her for the past week.

  Cripes, for all I knew, that monster had dragged Cassidy to the party and put crazy ideas into her head – or more likely, drugs into her drink. Date rape drugs?

  Oh, God. Maybe the story was true.

  Now, I was desperate to hear the second message.

  There was only one problem. The phone was dead. Again.

  Shit.

  I should've left it plugged in, even if it meant that I had to huddle next to the outlet to talk. But I hadn't. And now, I was totally screwed.

  No. Cassidy was screwed. Literally? I sure as hell hoped not. My gaze drifted to the open doorway, and I felt my eyes narrow.

  If Cassidy was in there, I was going to get her – or kill someone trying.

  Chapter 3

  Bracing myself, I stepped through the open doorway. The place was more like a palace than a house, but I couldn't appreciate any of it. I stopped to call out, "Cassidy? Are you here?"

  No one answered, not even the idiot who'd originally come to the door.

  I looked around. Where was he?

  Maybe he'd skirted out through the back?

  I frowned. If so, what did that mean? Was he, even now, making his way down the beach with a bunch of jewelry and a wad of stolen cash?

  It wasn't completely outside the realm of possibility.

  As I glanced around, I tried not to worry that if such a thing had happened, I was probably in danger of getting blamed for whatever was missing.

  But I wasn't going to let that stop me, not with Cassidy in trouble.

  Still calling her name, I strode deeper into the house, keeping a sharp eye out, not only for my friend, but also for any sign that I was on the right track.

  Supposedly, there'd been a party here last night, but I saw no signs of it – no empty drink cups, no dirty dishes, no mess at all.

  Instead, I saw expensive-looking furniture, obscenely high ceilings, fancy woodwork, and through the stunning patio doors, a breathtaking view of the ocean.

  Whoever owned this house, they had money. Serious money.

  I thought back to that awful message. The chick, whoever she was, had mentioned two rich men who apparently owned the place. I saw no sign of them either, but I did hear something – a sudden clank from a nearby room.