Beauty and the Billionaire (BILLIONAIRE BOYS CLUB NOVEL) (5 page)

“Still not funny.”

“Come on. Just a little bit funny.”

“Nope.”

Igor began to purr, and Gretchen scooped him up in her arms, cuddling him. The cat was surprisingly soft despite his lack of fur. His skin felt like crushed velvet, and she couldn’t resist his sweet but ugly face. “Tell Audrey it’s funny, Igor.”

“Gretch, you’ve really got to get out of the house more if you’re talking to that cat.”

She wiggled Igor back and forth, crossing her legs under her. “Tell Audrey that Mommy’s out of the house right now, Igor.”

“This is what I mean.” Audrey sighed. “That cat gets more attention than your last boyfriend.”

“This cat is better to cuddle with than my last boyfriend,” Gretchen said cheerfully. “And you’re going to be late to work.”

Audrey sighed again and adjusted her dark gray jacket, then picked an imaginary piece of lint off her matching skirt. “You’re going to be fine?”

“Igor and I will be just fine.”

She rolled her eyes and pulled out her phone, jiggling it in her sister’s direction. “Call me if you need me. And keep your phone on you so I can check you via text.”

“I’m twenty-six, Audrey. I can handle myself.”

“You’re in your pajamas, talking to your cat. Forgive me if I feel a moment of doubt. It’s like you’re turning into the crazy cat lady before my eyes.”

“Am not. Igor and I are having a month-long slumber party,” Gretchen said, holding the cat in front of her and making a kissy face at him because she knew it’d drive sensible Audrey bananas. “Isn’t that right, Igor-Wigor?”

“God, you and that cat.” She waved a hand. “It’s no wonder you’re eternally single. I’m out of here.”

“Text ya later,” Gretchen said, and moved the cat’s paw up and down in a facsimile of a wave. She laughed to herself when Audrey shut the door to the bedroom behind her, her sigh of sisterly annoyance still echoing in the hallway. “I’m thinking she’s not fond of you as a roomie, Igor.”

The cat said nothing and simply blinked up at her.

Gretchen sighed and placed him on the bed. “Okay, so Audrey might be right about the whole me-still-in-pajamas-talking-to-a-cat-is-pathetic thing. And given that I’m still talking to you, she might also have a point about the eternally single thing.”

It wasn’t that Gretchen ran into a lot of spectacularly eligible men in her line of work. The only people she knew in publishing were female, as it was a female-dominated business, and when she wasn’t doing job-related networking, she was more or less at home, working on her latest manuscript.

And sometimes she didn’t change out of her pajamas for days, which was kind of gross and not something that a boyfriend would approve of. So it was a good thing that she was single. Single let her hit her deadlines.

Well, theoretically. Since she wasn’t good at hitting those either, she really had no excuse.

She waited a few minutes, listening to her stomach growl, and then glanced over at the clock. Audrey had to be well on her way to work by now.
Good.
Gretchen rolled off the bed, bounding up onto her feet and heading for the bedroom door. Having her sister around for the weekend was enjoyable for the first night, but after that it sort of made the weekend crawl by. She wanted to explore the house and poke around on her project at her leisure, but all Audrey wanted to do was work on PowerPoints and go through her work email, even on Saturday nights.

The girl needed a hobby. Of course, the odds of that happening were about as good as the odds of Gretchen getting a boyfriend.

She slipped out the door of her room and down the hall. There was no sound of vacuums today. Today they were cleaning the boathouse and greenhouse or something. No flood of maids to drop in on and say hello, since she didn’t know where either the boathouse or greenhouse were. That meant that the only person around was Eldon, and he tended to avoid her.

This also meant that the north wing—Mr. Buchanan’s wing—would likely be deserted.

Gretchen headed there, unable to help herself.

It was a crazy idea, but the more she entertained the thought of apologizing to Mr. Buchanan, the more she wanted to do it. Her spying was going to hang in the air between them, and she didn’t want to spend the next thirty days hiding from him—or having him retreat at the sight of her.

They needed to deal with it like adults. Adults saw nudity all the time. Penises? No big deal. She wanted to apologize and make this next month as smooth as possible, since they’d be living together.

Unfortunately for her, his wing of the estate was
entirely
deserted. She spent a good half hour knocking on doors, only to come to that maddening conclusion. This place was a maze, and it would be near impossible to find the owner unless she knew where to look for him.

Disgruntled—and a bit hungry—Gretchen headed to the kitchens in the north wing, since it was the only one stocked. Even here, the place was immaculate. Not a crumb marred the gorgeous granite countertops, and the fridge and pantry were brimming with all kinds of delicious things that she was itching to bake with. It wasn’t her kitchen so she wouldn’t touch anything that she didn’t have permission to. Though it killed her not to rummage through the pantry and start baking, she made herself a simple sandwich out of some of the fresh bread left out on the counter (she’d come back later for Igor’s food), washed her knife and plate once she was done, and then wrapped the sandwich in a paper towel and walked the halls as she ate, musing to herself about her surroundings.

As she finished her sandwich, she strolled past a long corridor of windows and almost missed the sight of Mr. Buchanan in the gardens. His tall figure cut a dark form against the naked rosebushes. She moved to the window to watch him, and she noticed that he seemed to be inspecting the bushes. They looked pretty dead to her, but maybe they weren’t supposed to be? Intrigued, Gretchen hunted for a door that led outside.

Five minutes later, she was slogging through the light dusting of snow in a pair of boots that she’d found in the mudroom. Her flannel pajamas were warm enough for the indoors, but the bitter winter wind cut right through them. For a brief moment, she pondered heading back to her room to dress in something other than pajamas, but in that time, the mysterious Mr. Buchanan might disappear on her again.

And she desperately needed to talk to him.

Her footsteps crunched loudly as she walked, and she crossed her arms over her chest, heading toward him with determination. He didn’t seem to have noticed her yet, so she studied him from behind. She’d seen him previously, of course, but not clothed, and he looked different, somehow. Rich guys didn’t need to work hard to get chicks. She always suspected that more often they looked like pasty nerds rather than soldiers. But this man was definitely of the latter variety, however. His shoulders were thick and burly underneath the tan jacket he wore, and his entire frame seemed built for muscle. He wasn’t short either, which was nice. Not that she was interested in those sorts of things. She just wanted to apologize for ogling his junk.

He turned around even as she was considering his nicely formed behind, and her face flushed bright red. She was forever going to be caught leering at him, wasn’t she?

Mr. Buchanan stared at her for a long moment, frozen. Then color began to dot his cheeks. It made the scars on his face stand out even more, like jagged talons of white cutting across his tanned skin.

He also looked like he was torn between running for cover or choking her with the length of rope he held.

“Hi there.” She tried to keep her tone cheerful and nonchalant. “I thought I’d come out and say hi.”

His eyes narrowed warily, and she was reminded for a moment of a wounded animal. That piercing gaze moved up and down her form, noting her pajamas. “Are you drunk?” he asked abruptly.

“No,” she said, drawing out that one syllable. Okay, so the pajamas weren’t making the best first—um, second—impression. “I’m friendly. I saw you out here and wanted to talk.”

His face darkened into a scowl, the scars at the corner of his mouth twisting his entire face into an ugly grimace. He turned away. “I have nothing to say to you.”

So this wasn’t going well.
When he began to stalk away at a pace more rapid than she could sustain in her oversized borrowed boots, she panicked. “Your penis!” she called out. “I saw it!”

He stopped in his tracks and turned to give her an incredulous look.

She stomped after him, nearly losing her balance in a snowdrift. “It’s true,” she said, struggling to stand upright. “I was snooping and I saw you naked. All of you. Really naked. That’s why you won’t talk to me, isn’t it?” When he began to scowl again, she continued. “I mean, you can sit here and pretend you don’t want to talk to me, but we both know it’s totally awkward because I saw your dick before I saw your face.”

His scowl seemed to turn even blacker, making the scars livid on his face.

Oh shit, his
scars
. He thought she was insulting his face.“I, uh, didn’t mean it like that. Damn, I’m much better at banter when it’s on the page.” Gretchen trailed after him when he began to walk away again. “Can we try this again?” She assumed a cheerful expression and made her voice two octaves higher. “Hi there! I’m Gretchen, and I’m working on ghostwriting the project in your library. I’m only going to be here for a month, but I hope we can be friends.”

And she thrust her hand out.

He stopped, stared down at her hand for a moment, and then looked back at her. “I trust you’ll stay out of my way for the next month, then.”

Ouch.
She couldn’t help the flinch that crossed her face. “I guess I will.”

He gave a curt nod. “See that you do. I’m a very busy man.” Winding the length of rope around his arm, he continued back toward the house.

Gretchen watched him leave, frustrated and a little embarrassed at herself.
Not exactly a smooth conversationalist there, Gretch. Did you hope to wow him with your witty “Your penis, I saw it!” Did you really think that would break the ice?

“Seems to work for Astronaut Bill and Uranea,” she muttered to herself. Then, shivering and rubbing her arms, she headed back to the manor house.

So much for apologizing to the owner of the place.

***

Hunter ripped his snow boots off and tossed them down in the mudroom, discarding his gardening gloves and the rope he’d brought inside. She was heading for the mudroom, too, and he needed to get out of there. Tearing down the hall, he headed for the one place he could truly relax and think—his greenhouse.

God, he’d fucked it all up again.

He headed down the covered garden path that led to the side of the manor house and his private greenhouse. He walked in and the humidity hit him, as well as the perfume of the roses. Immediately, his pounding heart began to calm. He moved to his table of tools and picked up his favorite pruning shears and then moved to inspect his roses. As he knelt and began to prune away the dead leaves, his thoughts whirled with the bizarre, abrupt encounter.

She’d come out to talk to him.

Him. She’d wanted to talk to
him
. Part of Hunter had been thrilled at the thought, but the larger part of him—the scarred, wounded part—had lashed out. She’d seen him naked. Commented on his face. Pointed out quite bluntly that she’d seen his cock.

It had almost seemed like she’d wanted to break the ice and was having a hard time spitting it out.

And what had he done? He’d snapped at her and tried to chase her off. To her credit, she hadn’t been deterred until he’d more or less told her to stay out of his way for the entire month.

Hunter gritted his teeth, viciously snapping a browned leaf off a wilting Gemini tea rose.

He didn’t want her to avoid him. He wanted to see her. Watch her work. Talk to her. Have her turn that odd sense of humor on him. And instead, he’d driven her away.

Fuck.
Why did he always freeze up around women? Hell, around people in general. Eldon was the only one who didn’t make him stiffen with alarm. And she’d been so lovely and . . . odd. He thought back to the sight of her, standing in his snowy garden in Eldon’s borrowed boots and ratty flannel pajamas that outlined the hard tips of her nipples when the breeze had blown her shirt a certain way.

That had made him panic as much as anything, even as it made him hard with need. Hunter groaned and pressed a hand to his cock, willing his erection to go away. He’d give in to the need later, in the privacy of his room. He’d dream about that spill of messy red hair, her pale skin, and the way her mouth made a perfect little bow when she was startled. And then he’d dream of that bow of a mouth descending on his cock, licking the head—

. . . we both know it’s totally awkward because I saw your dick ever before I saw your face.

Yeah, that fucking killed his boner.

Hunter shook his head to clear his thoughts, forcing himself to concentrate on the maintenance of his roses. Some people read or painted to calm their minds but Hunter liked tending to his roses. He grew all varieties, but his favorites were the showy hybrid tea roses that were so delicate in their constitution and yet so incredibly beautiful and fragrant when coaxed into blooming. He ran his fingers over a velvety petal of a Cajun Moon, his exterior calm despite his roiling thoughts.

He’d more or less demanded that she leave him alone.

He didn’t want that. How could he fix it? Demand that Eldon prepare a candlelight dinner and then insist that she show up? Act as if he said nothing to her at all? Better yet, act as if they’d never even met and start fresh?

She’d think he was crazy if he did. Well, more than she already thought.

There was no good answer to this. He thought for a long moment, touching a petal of a blooming Blue Girl. The rose was lovely, the color a cross between pewter and baby blue. He wondered if her eyes were the same color. They’d been pale, making her entire face seem almost too pale in color, and overly round. But he liked that about her. It made her seem less . . . perfect.

With careful fingers, he cut the blue rose and trimmed the thorns off the stem. He’d have to apologize. He wasn’t good at that sort of thing, but perhaps a rose would say more than he could.