Positively Pricked: A Billionaire Loathing-to-Love Romance Read online

  I sighed. Oh, screw it.

  If I was going to get tossed out anyway, there was no point in groveling. "You know what?" I said. "You're right. I was just hanging out here for fun. I mean, why would I be out watching a movie or something when I could be crawling around in a van, looking for a stupid candle in a pile of forks."

  He gave the van's floor a perfunctory glance. "If that's your story, it needs work."

  "It wasn't a story," I told him. "It was sarcasm. You did catch the tone, right?"

  His gaze narrowed. "I caught something."

  Again, I felt myself swallow. "What?"

  "And I don't know what she is," he continued, "but I'm gonna find out." He flicked his head toward the main house, where the party was still going strong. "Now, get your ass back to work."

  I blinked. "Excuse me?"

  "You heard me." He glanced toward the house. "Wherever your station is, find it. And don't leave until I say so."

  I stared up at him. "Until you say so?" Okay, I knew that he was the customer and all, but I wasn't his servant. "You can't talk to me like that."

  "Why not?"

  "Gee, I don't know. Because it's rude?"

  "You think I care?"

  No. He didn't. That much was obvious.

  Asshole.

  Probably, I should've been relieved. After all, if he was ordering me back to my station, there was at least some chance I'd get to keep my job. If I were smart, I'd probably scurry back inside and count my blessings.

  I bit my lip. Damn it. I was smart. I had a bachelor's degree in public relations. With honors, too. My stomach sank. And what was I doing? Working as a catering assistant.

  True, it was honest work, and I didn't mind it most of the time. But under the guy's scornful gaze, I was starting to feel like a giant loser – not because of my job, but because my degree had cost so much, and netted me so little.

  And now, I just had to ask, "Let's say I do go back inside. What then?"

  His eyebrows lifted. "If you go back inside?"

  "I mean…" I hesitated. "Are you gonna tell on me?"

  "The person I'd tell is me."

  "Well, yeah, sort of. But I mean are you gonna tell my boss?"

  "I am the boss."

  Talk about arrogant. And besides, that wasn't even true. Not really. I mean, it's not like he owned the catering company.

  I made a sound of frustration. "Oh, come on. You know what I mean."

  He studied my face. "Do I?"

  Okay, that was definitely a question, even if it was obviously rhetorical. "Listen," I said, "I don't want to go back in there, only to find out that I'm fired later." I lifted my chin. "If I'm getting bad news, I'd rather hear it now and be done with it."

  A shadow crossed his features, and the van suddenly felt ten degrees colder. "Trust me," he said in a voice that inspired zero trust. "Losing your job is the least of your worries."

  Was that a threat? It sounded like one. Still, I met his gaze head-on. I wasn't afraid of him, or at least that's what I kept telling myself, even as alarm bells kept ringing in my head.

  No – not alarm bells – a phone – his, apparently, because it sure as heck wasn't mine. I knew this, because I had no cell phone. Well, not since last Tuesday, anyway.

  This was yet another long story.

  As I watched, he reached into his front pants pocket and pulled out a cell phone. After glancing briefly at the display, he pulled it to his ear and said, "What?"

  He listened for a few moments before disconnecting the call without so much as a goodbye. He tucked the phone back into his pocket and eyed me with renewed scorn. "You're still here."

  Yes. I was.

  "Well, yeah," I stammered. "I haven't found the candles."

  "Fuck the candles."

  I tried not to flinch. "What?"

  "Your station," he said. "Find it. Now." And with that, he turned and walked away, but not toward the house. Instead, he walked in the opposite direction, heading toward the rear of his property.

  Through the open cargo door, I watched him as he strode across the narrow parking area and into his massive back yard. He kept on going, making his way around the swimming pool, past the pool house, and into the woods beyond.

  I felt my eyebrows furrow. Well, that wasn't weird or anything.

  I couldn’t see him anymore, but I could feel the remnants of our encounter, haunting me like a bad dream.

  Jerk.

  And where was he going, anyway?

  Inside his estate, there had to be at least a hundred guests. Was he ditching them?

  It sure looked that way.

  I blew out a long, unsteady breath. He was right about one thing – forget the candles. If I hadn't found them by now, they obviously weren't out here. And besides, I'd been gone far too long for a simple errand.

  I scrambled out of the van and slammed the door shut behind me. With my heart still racing, I dashed back through the rear entrance and returned to my catering station – well, what was left of it, anyway.

  And it wasn't good.

  Chapter 5

  Dumbstruck, I stared down at destruction. What on Earth had happened?

  Where the serving station used to be, all that remained now was a giant mess. Oh sure, the table was still there, but it was now lying on its side, surrounded by broken dishes, scattered food, and toppled serving trays.

  Even the chafing dishes were upended, along with all of the edibles that we'd been so determined to keep warm. As far as the lit candles, they were nowhere in sight, but I did spot a few burn marks on the formerly pristine tablecloth, which happened to be covered in stains and wadded up into a loose blob.

  In the middle of everything was Naomi, who was crouched on the floor, plucking crab cakes off the ornate rug.

  I stared down at her. "What happened?"

  Only barely glancing up, she tossed a crab cake into a nearby wastebasket and said, "Don't ask."

  I looked around. Except for the catering mess, the party hadn't really changed. In the far corner, the jazz band was still playing. Around us, the guests were still laughing and drinking. On the room's opposite side, Ms. Hedgwick was back at her old spot, giving me another dose of the stink-eye.

  Well, that was nice.

  Returning my attention to the mess, I crouched down beside Naomi and followed her lead, plucking food off the rug and tossing it into the trash. Trying to lighten the mood, I said, "I guess we should look on the bright side, huh?"

  She stopped in mid-motion to ask, "What bright side?"

  "Well, we don't need those extra candles anymore." I gave her an encouraging smile. "So, that's good, right?"

  Naomi only frowned. Under her breath, she muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "Fuck the candles."

  Like so many other things tonight, it was déjà vu all over again. It seemed like the perfect time to repeat my question. "So what happened?"

  Naomi sighed. "There was this guy, drunk off his ass, and—"

  "And he flipped the table?"

  She gave me an annoyed look. "No. He went careening into the table when our 'gracious host' body slammed him."

  My jaw dropped. "You don't mean Zane Bennington?"

  "Who else would I mean? It's his place, right?"

  I glanced around. Yeah, it was his place, and it was absolutely fabulous.

  He so didn't deserve it, especially considering how callously he was willing to toss others out of their home. I felt my jaw clench. That guy? What he deserved was a giant kick in the ass.

  Hoping for the best, I asked, "So did the guy body-slam him back?"

  Naomi tossed another crab cake into the trash. "No."

  My shoulders sagged in disappointment. "Well, did he at least hit him or something?"

  "You mean did the drunk guy hit Zane Bennington?" Naomi paused. "He threatened to hit him. Does that count?"

  Damn it. I muttered, "Not really."

  I considered the timetable. Odds were pretty good that th
e drunk was Teddy, the guy who'd been arguing with Zane outside the van. What he actually looked like, I had no idea, but I'd definitely recognize his voice – well, if he slurred, that is.

  How he sounded sober, I could only guess.

  Mulling all of this over, I continued plucking food off the rug while Naomi went in search of cleaning supplies.

  As I worked, I eyed the rug with growing concern. It was creamy white with black and tan swirly patterns. And yet, as ornate as the patterns were, they did nothing to hide all of the food stains.

  Probably, I should've been happy. Like everything else, the rug looked beyond expensive. If the stains didn't come out, Zane would surely need to replace it, and it wouldn't be cheap.

  Good.

  My joy lasted like five whole seconds before I gave a silent scoff. A new rug? The expense would be pocket change for a guy like Zane Bennington.

  Probably, he'd simply send out a servant to buy a new one. Or more likely, a servant would send a servant, because let's face it, Mister Fancy-Pants probably had a million better things to do – like kick puppies or burn down orphanages.

  Jerk.

  I was still plucking food off the carpet when the sound of throat-clearing made me look up. Standing over me was the senator's fiancée, dressed to kill in a sleek black dress and big diamond earrings that looked like the real deal.

  She looked down to ask, "Do you have any more crab cakes?"

  I hesitated. Was that a serious question? I mean, she did see the mess, right? I said, "Excuse me?"

  She sighed. "I said, do you have any more crab cakes?"

  I glanced around. Yeah, I had dozens, assuming she didn't mind scraping them off the rug. But telling her that would be a mistake, so I gave her an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, but they're not really edible."

  And did she smile back?

  No.

  She didn't.

  Instead, she made a little huffing noise and said, "But they're the senator's favorite."

  Oh, please. If the rumors were true, the senator's real favorite was something called a cheerleader sandwich.

  Still, I forced another smile. "Gosh Tiffany, I'm really sorry, but—"

  She stiffened. "What did you call me?"

  "Uh, Tiffany?"

  She was frowning now. "That's a little personal, don't you think?"

  I stared up at her. Surely, she remembered me. In college, we'd had at least ten classes together, maybe more. After all, we'd majored in the same thing. Hoping to jog her memory, I said, "Well, I remembered your name from –"

  "From the papers, I know." She gave a toss of her ice-blonde hair. "But that hardly makes us friends."

  Now, I was the one frowning. "What?"

  "I'm only saying, just because you've seen my name in the society pages, that doesn't put us on a first-name basis."

  I felt my eyebrows furrow. Society pages? Was that even a thing anymore?

  I tried to think. The last time I'd handled an actual newspaper was when I'd been unpacking some rummage sale coffee cups. And even that newspaper had been old and yellow, with more coupons than actual news.

  I was still kneeling at Tiffany's feet. Suddenly, I didn't like it. I stood and brushed the crumbs off my apron. She was taller than I was, and I still had to look up to meet her gaze. But then again, she was wearing heels higher than the Empire State Building.

  I crossed my arms. "What should I call you?"

  She shrugged. "I dunno. Maybe 'Miss'?"

  I almost laughed. "Seriously?"

  "Or, if you want to make it more personal, you could always go with Miss Bedford." She lifted a hand and wiggled her fingers, making her massive diamond engagement ring sparkle in the light of the chandeliers. "Until I’m married, that is." She gave me a thin smile. "And then, you can call me Mrs. Senator."

  Okay, that had to be a joke. Ever the optimist, I forced a laugh. "Good one."

  She blinked. "A good what?"

  I studied her face. So that wasn't a joke?

  Could she seriously not remember me? I tried to think. I'd run into her just last month at a nearby book store. She'd recognized me just fine then.

  And then it hit me.

  At the book store, I'd been just another customer – an old college classmate. Now, I was the poor slob plucking seafood off the floor. Apparently, that put me so far below the future Mrs. Senator that we weren't even on speaking terms, even as acquaintances.

  How lovely for her.

  Probably, I should've let it go, but for some reason, I just couldn’t. "Oh come on," I persisted. "I sat next to you in graphic design."

  Her mouth tightened. "So about those crab cakes? That's a 'no', then?"

  Oh, so that's how it was.

  I pointed to the floor. "There's a couple. Want me to toss them onto a plate for you?"

  She didn't even look. "They're not for me. They're for the senator."

  Oh, for crying out loud. First of all, he was a state senator. And second of all, assuming Tiffany even made it to the altar, she'd be wife number four. "Fine," I said. "Want me to toss them onto a plate for him?"

  She glanced at the floor, and her brow wrinkled. "Are they still warm?"

  Oh. My. God. She wasn't seriously considering it? I said, "Well, they do have a nice coat of lint."

  She frowned. "Can't you scrape it off or something?"

  I gave her a disgusted look. "Are you serious?"

  She lowered her voice. "I mean, like so he wouldn't know?"

  "Oh, he'd know," I said. "And if he didn't, I'd tell him."

  Her gaze narrowed. "You wouldn't."

  "I would."

  "Well, this is just great." She made a sound of frustration. "I can't go back without them. He gets all super-intense when he's hungry." She gave another huff. "And he's in the worst mood already."

  No doubt, he was. After all, his fiancée had just been caught dry-humping the host. That would be enough to put anyone in a bad mood.

  Still, why was she confiding in me of all people? After all, it's not like we were on a first-name basis or anything – as I'd been so recently informed.

  Summoning up my last ounce of professionalism, I pointed to my left. "You do know they've got shrimp cocktail in the solarium."

  She perked up. "Really? Why didn't you say so?"

  "I just did."

  "Oh, fine," she muttered. "Whatever." And with that, she turned and flounced away, heading toward the solarium. As for me, I returned to the floor and tried to count my blessings.

  Oh sure, I might be plucking food off the carpet, and sure, I might've just been shunned by a former classmate, and yeah, I'd been caught eavesdropping by our not-so gracious host.

  But it could always be worse, right?

  Probably, that was the wrong question, because – almost as if I'd willed it personally – things did get worse, thanks to who?

  Zane Bennington – the biggest prick in the universe.

  Chapter 6

  A voice, cool and masculine, sounded from the darkness. "Going someplace?"

  I stifled a gasp. It was nearly three in the morning, and I'd finally hoofed it out to the rusty heap that passed for my car.

  I whirled toward the sound and spotted him a few feet away, watching me from the shadows.

  It was Zane Bennington, wearing the same clothes as before. But where I felt wrinkled and worn out, he looked just as glorious as he had three hours earlier – the last time he'd caught me by surprise.

  Like everything else tonight, it simply wasn't fair. I gave him an annoyed look. "Yes, in fact. I'm going home."

  "Don't tell me you forgot."

  "Forgot what?"

  "You know what."

  I did know, but I refused to give him the satisfaction. Instead, I gave him a loose shrug and utter silence.

  Take that, you jerk.

  The sidewalk was wide and lined with trees. Probably, it was designed so that rich, happy couples could walk hand-in-hand and admire all of the estates that lined
the super-exclusive gated neighborhood.

  Unfortunately, I was in no mood to appreciate any of it. I wasn't rich. I wasn't happy. And I certainly wasn't part of a couple. Even my last date had been months ago, because seriously, who had the time?

  Not me.

  Not lately, anyway.

  Into my silence, Zane said, "We had a deal."

  "What deal?"

  "You. Not leaving 'til I say so."

  I lifted my chin. "It's only a deal if both people agree. And besides, you weren't around."

  It was true. For once, timing had been on my side – or so I'd thought. When my shift had finally ended, Zane had been nowhere in sight. At the time, it seemed like a lucky break. I should've known better.

  The street was very quiet, with no traffic and only the faint sound of wind rustling the trees. As I watched, Zane moved closer until we were sharing the same stretch of sidewalk.

  He said, "I'm around now."

  I felt myself swallow. Yes. He was. And he was even more imposing then I remembered. I took an involuntary step backward and almost tripped on the curb. I caught myself just in time, but only by grabbing the nearest thing within reach, which happened to be my side-view mirror. Of course, it came loose and crashed onto the pavement, where it shattered into like five pieces.

  I stared down at the destruction. Damn it. How much would that cost? I looked back to Zane. "That was your fault."

  If the accusation bothered him, he didn't show it. "Was it?"

  "You know it was."

  I waited him for him to argue. But he didn't. Instead, he gave my rust-bucket a perfunctory glance and said, "Your car sucks."

  Yeah, it did. But did he really need to rub it in? Under my breath, I muttered, "Not as much as you."

  His eyebrows lifted. "You don't care about your job much, do you?"

  Well, this was just great. I made a sound of disbelief. "What is that? Another threat?" I threw up my hands. "You know what? Fine. Tell my employer. I don't care."

  He studied my face for a long moment. "You're lying."

  He was right. I was.

  I did care. But there was no way I'd ever admit it now, not when it was too late to take it back. So instead, I doubled down. "It doesn't even matter," I told him. "I’m off the clock, so I can say whatever I want."