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

  My breath caught, and my palms grew sweaty. Still, I picked up the pace and strode toward the sound.

  A few seconds later, I pushed through a wide swinging door and stumbled to a stop at the sight of the same guy as before.

  I stifled a gasp. Now, he appeared to be wearing nothing at all, or at least nothing that I could see. His chest was bare – well, except for all those muscles and tattoos. And I saw no sign of the red hoodie.

  As far as the jeans he'd been wearing earlier, I had no idea whether they were on or off. He was standing behind a tall kitchen counter – granite of course – and he was…What the hell? Making a sandwich?

  I blurted out, "What are you doing?"

  He looked up and said with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. "What, you never saw lunchmeat before?"

  Heat flooded my face. Oh, I'd seen lunchmeat before. I just prayed I wouldn't be seeing his meat, because that kitchen counter was the only thing that stood between me and whatever was below his waist.

  I just didn't know if his "meat" would be on full display or covered by clothing. Desperately, I glanced around, but saw no sign of discarded jeans.

  That was good, right?

  Regardless, I had a sneaky suspicion that his meat would dwarf the stack on the counter.

  At the thought, I gave myself a silent kick. Why was I even thinking of this?

  More annoyed than ever, I said, "I know sandwich stuff when I see it." I don’t know why, but I couldn't bring myself to say the m-word. Meat. Or doubly-embarrassing, man meat.

  Good Lord.

  Oblivious to my discomfort, the guy said, "Yeah? Then why'd you ask?"

  By now, I was so lost in my own confusion that I couldn’t even remember the question. But it didn't matter. There was only one thing I desperately needed to know.

  I took a single step forward and demanded, "Where the hell is she?"

  He returned his gaze to the partially made sandwich. "Out. Just like I said."

  I blinked. "You never said she was out."

  He was still looking down. "Yeah? What'd I say?"

  I tried to think. "You told me she wasn't here."

  "Yeah. Because she's out." As he spoke, he began stacking the meat – ham, turkey and bacon – onto some sort of Kaiser roll.

  I made a sound of frustration. "Out with who?"

  "My brother."

  His brother? That couldn't mean what I thought it meant? Could it?

  In the message, the caller had mentioned two rich brothers who'd been on the receiving end of Cassidy's offers to – I felt myself swallow – sell her body for drinks and gas money.

  But those brothers were supposedly rich, and the guy in front of me was – well, annoying mostly. On top of that, he was way too young to own a house like this, unless a very rich relative had died on the sudden side.

  Maybe it wasn't totally impossible. For all I knew, the guy could've killed the relative himself – because he was just that awful.

  I was still thinking when he looked up and said, "You wanna take over?"

  I gave a confused shake of my head. "Take over what?"

  "Making the sandwich."

  I felt my jaw clench. "I'm not making you a sandwich."

  A quiet scoff escaped his lips. "You're telling me."

  "What?"

  "I’m just saying, I know you're not making it. But you could."

  Slowly, as my teeth ground against each other, I looked down to the kitchen counter. The sandwich was mostly made. In fact, all it needed now was maybe a squirt of mayo, a dash of mustard, and the top bun. Surely, he could handle that.

  I gave a snort of derision. "It's almost done."

  "I know," he said. "So you're getting off light."

  "What?"

  "I mean," he said, "I've done most of the work already, so really, you should feel lucky."

  I wanted to throttle him. Lucky?

  What a total jackass.

  Within the last twenty hours, I'd lost my job, crashed my car, and driven halfway across the country in a vehicle that wasn't even my own. On top of that, I'd just spent my last forty dollars on gas, and I had no idea how I'd be filling the tank to get home.

  But all of this would be nothing if only I could find my friend.

  And what was this guy doing? Taunting me.

  I frowned. Or maybe he was stalling.

  Either way, I'd had just about enough.

  Speaking very slowly and deliberately, I said, "Where. Is. Cassidy?"

  He grinned. "Why? You worried?"

  Just like earlier, that grin did funny things to my insides. This would've been bad enough under normal circumstances, but now, it was doubly annoying, because that warm funny feeling was followed by a bolt of guilt so strong it should've toppled me over.

  I was a monster.

  My friend was in trouble, and here I was, going all weak-kneed, just because some lunkhead smiled at me.

  For some reason, it was the final straw. "Of course I’m worried!" I yelled. "She's in trouble. I just know it."

  If he was startled by my sudden outburst, he gave no sign. "You're telling me," he muttered.

  I froze. "What?"

  "I'm just saying, my brother's got that look."

  "What look?"

  Now, he was frowning, too. "Trouble."

  "Trouble for who?" Again, I felt myself swallow. "Her?"

  He shrugged. "So, you're not gonna finish it?"

  "Finish what?"

  "Making the sandwich."

  It was then that something snapped. I strode forward and grabbed the sandwich off the counter. With an embarrassing little scream, I hurled it onto the floor and stomped on it, good and hard.

  It felt squishy under my shoes, and I stifled a disgusted shudder even as I yelled, "How's that for finished?" I gave it another stomp, and then another. "Asshole."

  When he made no reply, I kept on stomping until it felt more liquid than solid. The whole time, I didn't even bother looking down, because let's face it, the sight would not be pretty.

  While the guy watched in silence, I gave it one final stomp and glared across the counter. "Well?"

  This whole time, he'd shown no reaction – not even surprise. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I couldn't help but wonder if this sort of thing happened to him a lot.

  With a personality like his?

  Definitely.

  When he still said nothing, I threw up my hands. "Aren't you gonna say something?"

  He paused for another long moment. The kitchen was very big and way too quiet. The only noise I heard was the sound of my own ragged breathing.

  Finally, looking annoyingly calm, the guy leaned over the countertop and studied the mess on my side of the floor.

  I should've been embarrassed, but I was too far gone to care.

  The only upside was that the movement revealed that yes, he was wearing pants, thank God. They were the same tattered jeans that he'd been wearing when he answered the door.

  They looked good on him, too – hugging his tight hips and displaying a set of ab muscles so fine it gave the term "washboard" a whole new meaning.

  The bastard.

  Was I staring? I felt like I was staring, which made me feel ten times worse, not because I cared what the guy thought of me, but rather, because drooling over some jackass would do nothing to help my friend.

  I shook my head. "You know what? Forget it. I'll find her myself."

  And with that, I turned on my heels, intending to stride out of the kitchen with my head held high. There was only one problem.

  The floor sandwich.

  It was surprisingly slippery. Or maybe it was my shoes. Either way, I lost my footing and slid sideways, hard and fast, until something caught me in mid-slide.

  Him.

  Chapter 4

  I couldn’t see him, but I could feel his hands on my hips, steadying me, even as I struggled to find my footing on the slippery floor. His hands were strong, but surprisingly gentle as they kept me from slidin
g further into the mess of my own making.

  Okay, now I was embarrassed. Slowly, I turned my head to look.

  He asked, "You okay?"

  He was leaning across the countertop, with his bare stomach pressed tight against the cutting board where he'd been prepping his sandwich. The last time I'd seen it – meaning the cutting board, not his stomach – it had been stacked with cheese, extra bacon, and the top half of the Kaiser roll, the one that might've topped his sandwich, if only I hadn't just destroyed it.

  I saw no sign of these things now. All I saw was him, looking almost human, even as his muscles corded under the effort of holding most of my weight while I stared at him like a total idiot.

  I snapped, "I'm fine."

  He gave me a dubious look and held on tight while I found my footing enough to mutter, "You can let go now."

  Slowly, he did and then smiled when I stepped back, more carefully this time, and muttered a disgruntled thanks, along with an obviously false claim that I really hadn't needed his help anyway.

  To my infinite surprise, he didn't argue. Instead, all he said was, "If you wanna look, be my guest."

  My gaze dipped to his abs. He was standing upright again, and his bare torso looked annoyingly fine in spite of the fact that it was now slightly marred by shiny smudges of what could only be bacon grease.

  Unfortunately for me, the new sheen only further accented the lines and ridges of his flat, defined stomach. I felt my tongue dart out between my lips as I stared stupidly across the counter. And then, with a little gasp of horror, I sucked in my tongue, realizing far too late that he meant that I could look for Cassidy – not for signs of bacon on his body.

  And now, I'd been caught staring. As heat flooded my face, I told myself that it was surely was the thought of bacon, and not him, that had me licking my proverbial chops.

  It wasn't that far-fetched. I mean, seriously, I hadn't eaten since Nashville. And in truth, I had a real thing for bacon.

  Was it any wonder that I'd be drooling at the sight of, well, not him, that was for sure.

  He asked, "You hungry?"

  Absently, I mumbled, "What?"

  His mouth twitched at the corners. "If you want, you can have my sandwich."

  Slowly, I looked down at the mess on the floor. It wasn't a sandwich anymore. I didn't know what it was, but I did know that it wasn't anything I'd ever put in my mouth.

  I looked up and gave him my sweetest smile. "No. That's all yours. I insist."

  Without waiting for his reply, I turned away, more carefully now, and picked my way out of the kitchen, trying like hell to ignore the fact that I could hear his footsteps following directly behind me.

  Just outside the kitchen door, I paused in mid-step and looked down at my sneakers. I frowned, considering what might be stuck to the bottom of them.

  The house was clean and nice, well, except for the kitchen anyway, and I hated the thought of tracking sandwich goo all over the place.

  As my face flooded with new embarrassment, I made a move to slip off my shoes, only to pause in mid-motion when I heard a low chuckle behind me.

  I whirled to look. "What's so funny?"

  "You."

  I glared up at him. "Oh yeah? Why's that?"

  He glanced down at my sneakers. "Because it's a little late for that, don’t you think?"

  "Late for what?"

  He gave me a crooked smile. "Worrying about messes."

  The comment grated on me – and not only because it was true. It was because, somehow, the guy had known exactly what I'd been thinking.

  I squared my shoulders and said, "I just don’t want to slip, that's all." And then, with a look of defiance, I deliberately shoved off my shoes and kicked them to the side.

  The guy spared them half a glance. "That'll show me."

  Whether it would or not, I didn't care. In truth, I was mostly surprised that I hadn't flung both of them in his face, because he definitely had it coming.

  I spent the next half-hour stomping through the house – well, as much as I could stomp in just my socks. The whole time, the guy followed after me, making smart-ass comments and refusing to take any of this seriously.

  For what felt like the millionth time, he said, "Is that her?"

  Unlike the first few times, I didn't bother turning to look, because if I did, he'd only shrug and say something stupid like, "Nah, just a lamp."

  Or a chair.

  Or a bed.

  Yes, we had made our way upstairs.

  The only break I had from his stupid commentary was when he paused at random intervals and tapped at his cellphone. Maybe he was texting someone to call the police. Or maybe I should call the police – except that sometime during this whole misadventure, I'd come to an unbelievable conclusion.

  Probably, this was his house.

  Damn it.

  Now, I didn't know what to do, except keep on looking – if not for Cassidy, then at least for some clue on where she might've gone. Already, I'd been through most of the downstairs and a couple of bedrooms on the second floor.

  Unfortunately, I'd seen nothing to indicate that she'd been here at all.

  From inside the third bedroom, I whirled to the guy and said, "At least tell me this. Do you have any idea where she is?"

  Standing in the open doorway, he said, "Yeah. Out."

  I rolled my eyes. "Gee, thanks for the help."

  "How about this?" he said. "You find her phone, I'll give you a clue."

  I paused. "So, her phone's here? In the house?"

  He gave another shrug. "Could be."

  I made a sound of frustration. "You do know you're no help, right?"

  At this, his expression turned serious. "And you know, you're taking a big chance, right?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, I could be anyone." He was frowning now. "Does anyone know you're here?"

  The question sounded vaguely ominous. "What?"

  "I'm just saying, you barge in here, at a place you don't know, with no one watching your back?"

  Embarrassingly, I knew what he meant. Maybe I had been stupid, but it hadn't started out that way.

  I lifted my chin. "So?"

  "So, for all you know, I could be some psycho nutjob."

  I gave him a stiff smile. "Could be?"

  Ignoring the obvious insult, he glanced around the bedroom. "You do this a lot?"

  "No," I snapped. "I don't do this a lot. In fact, I wish I weren't doing it now."

  "Yeah, that makes two of us."

  I was glaring again. "And what does that mean?"

  He gave me a look. "You've gotta ask?"

  Something about that look set me off. "Fine. You want me to find her phone?" My fingers clenched. "Oh, I'll find her phone, alright."

  I stalked toward the nearest dresser and yanked open the top drawer. I reached inside and dug through the clothes, not caring that a whole bunch of them tumbled to the floor.

  I was even less careful with the second drawer. Maybe I wanted to make a mess. Maybe I wanted to make him pay. Or maybe I didn't know what I wanted, except to drive him half as crazy as he'd driven me.

  When I turned to glare at him, he leaned against the doorjamb and crossed his arms. "I'm just saying, you should be more careful."

  I forced a laugh. "What? With the clothes?"

  "No. With yourself." An edge crept into his voice. "I could be someone a lot worse than me."

  I forced another bark of laughter. "As if that's possible."

  But he wasn't laughing. "You think it's not?"

  In the back of my mind, I knew exactly what he meant. He was a complete stranger and half-naked. As for myself, I was upstairs in an unfamiliar house – a house where my best friend had apparently gone missing.

  But the truth was, when I'd first arrived, I'd been far too angry and worried to care. And now? I was still angry, but some of the worry had faded, probably because the guy's attitude – as annoying as it was – had made the whole thing see
m more stupid than sinister.

  Was I making a mistake? Somehow, I didn't think so.

  And in spite of what the guy might believe, this wasn't the kind of thing I normally did, even under better circumstances. Cripes, I'd never even had a one-night stand, so his warning – if that's what it was – was totally unnecessary.

  And besides, this was none of his business. All I said in reply was, "I'm not afraid of you, you know."

  "Yeah? I wish I could say the same."

  Well, that was nice.

  In retaliation, I turned away and yanked open another dresser drawer. I reached inside and tossed a wad of clothing over my shoulder, praying that something whacked him in the face, even as I demanded, "What does that mean?"

  "I mean, you're pretty scary for someone so small."

  I was definitely on the short side, so I knew what he meant, except for the part about me being scary. I wasn't scary. I was merely going insane. And it was all his fault.

  Without bothering to look back, I told him, "If you think I'm scary now, just wait."

  "For what?"

  I bit my lip. "I don't know, but you're gonna regret it."

  "Hell, I already regret it."

  Yeah, you and me both, asswipe.

  I yanked open the next dresser-drawer and started flinging aside more clothes – shorts, T-shirts, socks and even a few unmentionables, many that were decidedly feminine.

  But they weren't Cassidy's. Of this, I was absolutely certain, because this stuff was beyond expensive, and Cassidy – like me – didn't have that kind of money.

  From behind me, the guy said, "If you think she can fit in that dresser, you're nuts." He paused. "Well, unless we chopped her up or something."

  I stiffened. Was that a joke? If so, it wasn't funny. And besides, as he darn well knew, I wasn't looking for Cassidy – not at the moment, anyway. I was looking for her phone – and yes, the opportunity to make the stranger a little crazy, too.

  Still, I wasn't about to let his comment pass. I turned to him and said, "I swear to God, if you did anything to her, I will kill you. Slowly."

  He smiled. "Hell, you're killing me now."

  With a few choice words, I moved away from the dresser and strode toward the closet. I began shoving aside clothes in search of who-knows-what. My friend? Her phone? My sanity?

  By now, I had no idea. In truth, I was hardly thinking at all.