The Playboy Bachelor Read online

  They were the new face of Wellington, Inc., and people loved them for it. Besides, Bentley’s participation had helped his image—which in turn made his grandfather momentarily happy.

  Momentarily being the key word.

  He’d assumed some bored, rich trophy wife would take him home, have her way with him, then slap him on the ass and send him on his way.

  Instead, a woman with bright green eyes and equally bright white hair had lifted her paddle—and purchased him for a weekend getaway.

  She’d looked familiar.

  And then her name was called.

  A name that caused a slow burn to invade his body as he tried to suppress every single ounce of the guilt and longing that he’d fought to keep locked away all these years.

  She’d bid on him for her granddaughter.

  And suddenly, the past, his past, became the present as images of a girl with red hair burned his vision.

  And continued to do so for fourteen days straight.

  Bentley hadn’t had a choice—for the first time since they were children, his brother Brock was smiling, laughing, and disgustingly in love.

  It had been worth it.

  It was still worth it.

  And it was only a weekend.

  “I tried.” Grandfather’s shoulders slumped. “I tried to do right by you boys. Maybe, maybe I was just too focused on Brock to realize how horrible you and your brother have turned out.”

  “Thanks?” Bentley offered with a grimace. It wasn’t like he didn’t work for what he had. He just didn’t have to work very hard—a fifty-million-dollar trust fund had a way of doing that to a man.

  After all, people worked to make money.

  They worked for success.

  And he already had all of those things.

  A nagging voice shattered his confidence, the same voice that reminded him how he used to be a man who had dreams—an actual purpose—direction.

  And that same voice reminded him that his life was a boring, useless cycle of using women and hiding who he really was from the world.

  Because the last time he had tried to be himself…

  Hell, the last time he’d actually felt like himself, had trusted someone else, he’d put all of his eggs into one giant basket.

  His world had shattered.

  It wasn’t worth it.

  It would never be worth it.

  Grandfather glared at him. “The VP of marketing stepped down this morning,” he said hesitantly. “I want to hire within.”

  Bentley froze; his heart hammered against his chest. On the outside, he was calm, rational, thoughtful, but on the inside, he was freaking the hell out. “Oh?”

  He’d spent the better part of his teen years trying to impress his grandfather, not to mention his time at college, and once that crashed and burned he’d simply given up.

  “Yes.” Grandfather leveled a perceptive stare at Bentley, interrupting his dark thoughts. “I don’t suppose that would be something you’d be interested in? Although if you are, you’ll have to take ‘fucking’ off your list of hobbies in order for me to actually process your résumé.”

  Bentley smirked. He’d been pissed when he’d filled out his résumé, mainly because he didn’t think it was necessary for someone who owned part of the company to have to fill one out in the first place. “It was a joke.”

  Grandfather narrowed his eyes. “It wasn’t funny, nor was it professional.”

  “Brant thought it was funny.”

  “Your brother doesn’t count.” Grandfather’s mouth twitched like he wanted to smile but thought better of it. “So…what do you say?”

  “Are you hinting that you’ll give me an actual position within Wellington, Inc.?”

  With a heavy sigh, Grandfather nodded once. “The board, of course, won’t like the idea.”

  “They can go to hell.” Bentley clenched his teeth. The board never liked any of their ideas. Mainly Bentley’s.

  “It might help your image”—Grandfather’s body was rigid as he spoke—“to be seen doing charity work. The board isn’t impressed with your floozies.”

  Bentley stiffened.

  Because he knew exactly what type of charity his grandfather was referring to and her name started with an M.

  Hell. It would do more than help. But he had a life in Phoenix. One that on most days, he actually enjoyed, or at least liked.

  Seeing her.

  Being with her again.

  It brought everything back to the surface. Everything he’d fought like hell to keep buried in the past.

  “Or don’t make good on your promise with the auction and keep sleeping with every woman who will spread her legs for you in hopes you’ll get them pregnant and pay child support.”

  Low blow.

  “I’ll go.” Bentley sighed. It wasn’t like he had a choice, not if he wanted the job, not if he wanted more purpose outside of what he already did for the company, which was basically just smile for pictures when they had charity events and business dinners.

  His grandfather was finally, finally, giving him a chance to prove himself, and he wasn’t going to fail.

  He’d always wanted more.

  And now he was getting it.

  Three days?

  A weekend?

  He could do anything for a weekend. And then the job would be his and he’d leave.

  A small, annoying voice reminded him that was what he had done before.

  He’d left.

  But he’d had his reasons.

  Just like he had his reasons now.

  “Of course you will.” Grandfather straightened. “You’re going to be late.”

  “Does it matter?” Bentley snorted. He was already irrationally angry, and directing the anger at his grandfather when really he should have been directing it at himself.

  “Punctuality always matters.” Grandfather stood. His thick gray hair was swirled into one sweeping curl that fell across his forehead. Bentley and Brant might be playboys, but his grandfather had an Instagram page dedicated to that very curl. And he was pushing eighty-eight.

  Grandfather lifted a brow. “Well, boy? Aren’t you going to pack?”

  Bentley clenched his teeth until it felt like they were going to crack. “I’m naked.”

  “Ain’t nothing I haven’t had the great displeasure of seeing before.” He moved to the doorway. “Now get your shit together before I cut you off and give your trust fund to your brothers and hire Brant for the VP position.”

  “You wouldn’t.” The words rushed out before he could stop them.

  “I would.”

  “You hate me.”

  “I love you.” Grandfather sobered. “You’re twenty-seven, Bentley. Time to stop playing around and actually take responsibility for your actions, starting with Prudence McCleery’s granddaughter. All you’ve got to do is give the girl a weekend that’ll put a smile on her face. It’s not like she’s a stranger to you anyway.”

  Hah.

  Well, she was now.

  Ever since the day he walked out of her life.

  “Margot,” Bentley whispered without thinking.

  “What was that?” Grandfather cupped his ear.

  “Nothing.” A vision of luscious red hair that went on for days, bright green eyes, and freckles burned before him. At sixteen she’d been breathtaking but quiet, too shy for someone like Bentley.

  Hell, she’d been too good for him.

  Too nice.

  Too proper.

  Too perfect.

  And now…too sad.

  He gulped. How the hell was he supposed to cheer up a woman who’d shut herself away from the world?

  Chapter Two

  His eyes whispered a promise his words had failed to convey,” Margot repeated out loud as the sound of her fingernails tapping against the keys of her computer filled the room. “‘I love you,’ he declared, tucking his beaver hat under his arm as he took a step toward her waiting invitation.”

  She
hesitated and contemplated the computer screen. I love you? Was that it?

  She had exactly forty-seven chapters of historical crap.

  Crap she had thirty days to fix if she had any hope of meeting her deadline.

  She glared at her computer and tried again. The scene was pivotal; it had to be perfect, it needed to be believable.

  Then again, what was believable about a rich, rakish duke falling for one of his scullery maids only to discover she was really part of the ton? Even if she came from a good family, it would still be frowned upon. The story wasn’t historically accurate, and it bothered her, but it was romantic, and that was why she’d decided to write it.

  It was a horrible idea.

  But that was what sold.

  Rakes and Rogues.

  And the poor, sad wallflowers who somehow magically became the object of their affection.

  It was complete BS.

  She’d been that wallflower.

  She was that wallflower.

  And nothing, not one thing, had set her apart from the other girls. Men might say they wanted character, but they wanted something different. They claimed they wanted the girl next door, child-bearing hips, whatever. Their actions, however, said it all.

  Skinny.

  Botoxed.

  Implanted.

  Airheads.

  Margot slammed her hands against the keyboard and stood in a huff.

  It was his fault.

  Because he was late.

  Not that she wanted to see him anyway.

  She could live an entire lifetime without seeing him and be perfectly happy.

  Liar.

  She tried to focus on the words she’d written, but her mind had other plans. She didn’t want to remember that day. She never thought about it. She didn’t allow herself to go there. Except now, now, it was all she could think of.

  “Your parents didn’t make it.” Grandma clenched Margot’s hands tightly. “But you have me. You’ll always have me.”

  And Bentley.

  Her best friend.

  But he never came.

  She’d lost three people that day.

  And so many pieces of her heart, it was a miracle she was able to survive surgery.

  Her grandmother meant well, most of the time. Margot didn’t blame her for being overprotective and worried. In a moment of complete insanity, her grandmother, God bless her, had bid on one of the country’s most notorious playboys in an auction set up for cancer research.

  Unfortunately, her grandmother had won.

  Margot still remembered the phone call from that night.

  “I’ve landed you a man!” her grandmother yelled loud enough for half the country to hear. “Paid a pretty penny for him, too! Oh, muffin, you’ll love him, he’s strong, and—”

  “You bought—” Margot pressed her fingertips against her temple “—a man?”

  “He was spendy, too.” Grandmother slurred her words a bit. “Cost at least half of what I was willing to spend, though.”

  “Half?”

  “Ten thousand dollars is a bargain!”

  Margot choked.

  Grandmother laughed.

  “Are you drunk?”

  “I had the whiskeys, yes.” Her grandmother sighed happily. “Such a delicious burn. Did you know Titus Enterprises just bought out Honey Whiskey, Inc.? Nadine’s such a dear, she even brought me a few bottles. Has her sights set on McCleery Whiskey, too, but we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”

  “Grand—”

  “You know him! This man.”

  “The man you paid ten grand for? That man?”

  “Yes. Your old friend.”

  Oh no, that was even worse. She knew the man her grandmother had bought for her?

  “Thanks, but I don’t need you to buy me a man. I can find my own man,” Margot said through clenched teeth.

  “How’s that working out for you, love?”

  “I’m busy!” she snapped.

  “You’re sad.”

  “I’m—” Margot flexed the toes of her left leg and tried not to stare at the right. “I’m not sad.” How many times had she said it before? She wasn’t sad! She was successful! “I’m fine. I have my books. I have my house. I have my work—”

  “You have wild tomcats, too, and cats are a bad omen.”

  “How much whiskey did you say you had again?”

  “Whiskeys. Plural,” Grandmother corrected with a hiccup. “Now, he’s going to report to the estate in two weeks. He’ll arrive at nine in the morning, I told him to be punctual. And you’re to give him the downstairs blue room during his stay.”

  “His stay?” Margot yelled. “He’s not staying anywhere!”

  “Of course he is,” Grandma said in soothing albeit slurred tones. “It’s part of the package. Hah, not his package, but the package. I bought you a Wellington!”

  Margot gasped.

  “I know! A full weekend! Think of the possibilities!”

  “Did you say Wellington?”

  Please God, she thought, let it be Brant. He always had a teasing smile for her. Besides, Brant didn’t tempt her; he didn’t promise to be there and then abandon her during the darkest moments of her life. At least let it be Brock. Brock, the serious one. No, it wouldn’t be Brock, didn’t he just get married?

  “Bentley Wellington!” her grandmother shouted with glee. “Lovely man. When he keeps it in his pants, which, let’s hope for the sake of my great-grandchildren he doesn’t—”

  Tears burned the back of Margot’s eyes as she blinked away the blurry vision of a boy she’d always wanted.

  And never had.

  He was a man now.

  Featured in Forbes, among other magazines.

  He dated supermodels, celebrities, gorgeous women.

  Her ex–best friend.

  The one who didn’t even visit her in the hospital.

  The one who pulled her out of her shell in high school only to drop her the minute she wasn’t pretty anymore.

  She was exactly the type of girl men like Bentley Wellington turned their noses up at.

  She glanced down at her right leg. The amputation had been done right below her knee, so while her thigh looked normal, the prosthetic clearly marked her as damaged goods.

  “Oh, must go, I’ll fill you in later on the more pertinent details.” Her grandmother hung up before Margot could protest.

  Two weeks later she still hadn’t figured it out. Why would Bentley agree to be auctioned off? It made no logical sense. He was either bored, stupid, or doing it for good PR. God knew he needed it, since he’d allegedly been having an affair with a senator’s wife; not that she was the first—or the last—of his conquests. The boy she’d known had clearly grown up to be a sex addict.

  Though he’d already been well on his way to charming every single female in the city when their friendship had ended.

  She’d called.

  She’d waited.

  She’d made numerous excuses.

  And still. Nothing.

  Which just proved the point. Bentley was friends with the beautiful, the pretty, the people that made him look good.

  It was probably why Brant was always so hesitant about her relationship with his brother. He knew that Bentley only wanted something from her, just like he only wanted something from every girl he hung out with.

  Sex.

  A good time.

  She groaned into her hands.

  And now she was going to be stuck with him. For an entire weekend!

  Margot shook her head at the memory of Bentley’s smile and wandered over to the window. A sense of dread filled her as a red sports car sped up her driveway, scaring the crap out of every small creature in its way and kicking up enough dust to make the road nearly impossible to see.

  Bentley Wellington had arrived.

  Chapter Three

  He’d driven like hell to get to the damn mansion in time.

  But he was still late.

  A
nd if there was one thing he remembered about Margot, the woman loved rules, and shirts tucked in, polite smiles, and sweet good-byes.

  Etiquette.

  The woman loved etiquette.

  And God, he’d loved being the guy to throw her off her perfect little path. Not a day had gone by where he didn’t tease her until they both laughed so hard they cried.

  He was always tugging that tight bun loose and dipping his hands into her thick, luscious red hair.

  Bentley shuddered as he finally allowed a few memories out, one, two, maybe three and then they were going back on lockdown.

  She wasn’t his to want.

  Not then.

  Not now.

  “What are you doing?” Margot covered a yawn with her free hand while Bentley toyed with her left hand, drawing small circles across her palm.

  “Looking at your lifeline.”

  “Is it long?” She nearly hit his head when she peered over their clasped hands. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  Because I could love you, he thought.

  Because at eighteen you make me think I could do anything if you smiled at me like that.

  He knew saying those things would freak her out, so he settled for: “Because you look way too excited over the fact that I’m touching you.”

  She rolled her eyes and shoved him away, but not before a pretty blush stained her cheeks.

  His fingers strained to touch those cheeks.

  Instead he grabbed the remote, scooted away, and pressed Play. “All right, you ready for the movie?”

  It was one of the last times they were together.

  Before the accident.

  Before he disappeared from her life.

  And she from his.

  All he knew about her now was that she wrote books and kept to herself, which made sense. He’d teased her relentlessly about her reading, and now she had a very successful career as a writer. It made sense.

  It wasn’t hard to picture prim and proper Margot with a tight librarian bun sitting behind a computer typing out romantic scenes. She’d always been a romantic, and a romance novel addict.

  He rang the doorbell, tugged off his black Prada sunglasses, and tapped them impatiently against his leg.

  When she didn’t come to the door, he double-checked the address his grandfather had texted him.

  It was the right house.