The Playboy Bachelor Read online

  Maybe he’d luck out and she’d answer the door, tell him to go to hell, and kick him to the curb.

  Finally, the door creaked open, revealing just how dark the inside of the house was.

  A feminine hand with red fingernail polish slid elegantly across the door frame, and then the woman attached to that oddly pretty hand appeared.

  And Bentley Wellington, certified playboy, knew he had been completely and royally screwed by lying down on the altar of brotherhood and sacrificing himself in order for Brock to be happy.

  He was screwed.

  Sad?

  She looked anything but sad.

  She looked…

  Angry.

  Spirited.

  He gulped and then narrowed his eyes. “I think I have the wrong house.”

  “Do you?” she asked in a husky voice that wreaked havoc on certain parts of his anatomy.

  Bentley grinned. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

  And then, without another word, she slammed the door in his face.

  “Hell.” He should have expected that.

  He knocked again.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Then resorted to pounding.

  “Damn it, open the door, Red!”

  With a whoosh the door opened wide, revealing her voluptuous curvy body in all its glory.

  He swallowed and tried to find words. After all, he was good with words, almost as good as he was with his hands.

  “I don’t want you here,” she in that husky sexpot voice. “And I’m one hundred percent sure you’re here because you have no choice. So this is how this is going to work.” She shoved a key in his hand, the metal digging into his palm. “You can come and go as you please, lie out by the pool, eat my food, watch TV, and do whatever bored millionaires do—and when this whole disaster is over with, we’ll go our separate ways. I’ll tell my grandmother I had the time of my life, and you’ll do the same and continue sleeping your way through the greater Phoenix area and—” she sighed, finally sucking in a breath “—and, well, I think that’s it.”

  He opened his mouth to speak when she turned back on her heel and called over her shoulder. “By the way, you’re late.”

  “About that—”

  “Your room is that way. It’s the one on the left, can’t miss it. It’s blue.” She said the word slowly like he had a learning disability then pointed to the right of the stairs. “I’m not cooking for you.”

  “Red—”

  Her hips swayed as she limped up the stairs, and his gut clenched as his eyes fell to her legs. Her right leg seemed almost stiff.

  Frowning, he tried to recall details from the accident that had taken her parents’ lives. He’d heard she’d shattered most of the bones below her right knee and her parents were killed instantly, but beyond that, he’d been too engrossed in his own life, his own demons, to get all the grisly details of that day.

  Demons that flared to life the minute her parents lost theirs.

  If he was being completely honest—they’d always been there, but they’d hidden in the shadows until Margot’s accident and then they pounced, attacked, ripped him to shreds, and left him a bloody mess.

  She wasn’t the only one hurting.

  But he knew he couldn’t compare their pain.

  And at the time, he’d taken the only option given to him.

  By the time he was healthy again, he’d looked for her, only to find out she’d moved out of the city.

  And it was easier.

  Ignoring her.

  Ignoring the past.

  Ignoring his mistakes.

  So he did what he did best, what he did when he needed a distraction, when he wanted to ignore the pain—he fucked any girl that batted an eye in his direction and forced himself to forget just how much Margot had inched herself into his life.

  He fucked to forget.

  And as he gazed into her emerald green eyes, he finally realized: You couldn’t forget a woman like Margot.

  No matter how hard you tried.

  The skin on her neck burned bright red under his perusal.

  He grinned.

  Some things…never changed.

  “I hate it when people are late,” she said more to herself than anything and then flashed him a glare that would send most men running. “Don’t stare.”

  “I was just—”

  “It isn’t polite.” He could have sworn her heard her mutter jackass under her breath.

  “So I’ll just see you at lunch?” he called after her quickly disappearing form. She hobbled a bit, but she still managed to take the stairs pretty fast.

  Was she still injured from the accident? Even after all this time?

  “I eat in my room.” she said once she reached the top of the stairs. Then she disappeared from sight.

  “What the hell just happened?” Bentley muttered, key in hand, sanity left somewhere between the door and the stairway, and pride a bit wounded that she hadn’t once given him the impression that she cared he was here after all these years.

  Everyone cared.

  They always said they didn’t care.

  They lied.

  They did.

  They always did.

  He represented money, power, sex, although he knew it was the sex part that got him the most attention.

  Bentley gazed up at the tall spiral staircase and waited for any sort of sound that indicated she was coming back.

  He waited for a good five minutes then begrudgingly went back to his car to grab his things. Damn, the house was monstrous for just one person. He gazed up and smirked when he saw a curtain fall, hiding the woman who had just been spying on him from a second-floor window.

  Just like he thought.

  They always cared.

  Chapter Four

  It wasn’t fair.

  It wasn’t right.

  That he should be so handsome. But wasn’t that just the thing she wrote about on a daily basis? The guy who made the girl’s heart slam against her chest in an unnatural cadence. Her pulse hummed, and yes, she did in fact feel the intense need to flex every muscle in her body in order to keep herself from touching him to make sure he was real.

  His hair alone.

  God, his hair.

  Why?

  Why would God bless a man with hair that thick? That wavy and tantalizing? Shots of caramel mixed in with the nearly black tresses, falling in a haphazard fashion over his forehead. The dimple was deeper; his blue eyes were even clearer and more mesmerizing than she’d remembered.

  And his body?

  She shuddered and took a steadying breath, in and out, in and out. He was just a man. With broad shoulders, and full lips. His mocking smile burned. How dare he stomp in here like he owned the place? And stare!

  His stare.

  Her cheeks burned. She’d always dreamed of the way his hypnotic eyes looked at her—made her want things she had no business wanting.

  The accident had stolen so much more than her parents.

  It had stolen her dream of ever being with someone who was able to look at her like she was still her. Still a desirable woman.

  Whole.

  Instead, men treated her like she was broken, fragile, disabled.

  Just thinking about it made her want to punch something. Once she had looked forward to seeing Bentley’s smile. And now? Now she just wanted him to go away.

  His gaze had lingered on her leg; she’d felt it. And she’d seen it. Her stomach did flip-flops, and not the good kind.

  She put her hands on her hips. Well, he’d better know how to cook or he was going to starve to death.

  Not that she cared.

  At all.

  He could die for all she cared.

  A fleeting wave of guilt washed over her. Okay, maybe that was too far, but still. She worried her lower lip and glanced out the window only to see the man himself glance up at her with a knowing wicked grin.

  With a gasp, Margot dropped the hea
vy gold curtain and stumbled backward. Hands shaking, she allowed herself a few moments to organize her jumbled thoughts and the irritating way they all pointed toward the man who would be living with her for the next few days.

  His smile was the same.

  Okay, that was a lie. The smile resembled the boy she once knew, but all traces of that boyish charm were gone, replaced with this red-hot manly vibe that she barely recognized.

  Not that she wanted to even acknowledge the way he made her feel.

  He was still a horrible person.

  And an even worse friend.

  He reminded her of everything she tried to keep in the past: the accident, her pain, the feel of the uncomfortable hospital bed, and the sheets that scratched against her skin.

  He had walked out of her life years ago.

  Why now? Why would her grandmother do this to her now?

  What type of auction sold a grown man as a companion for a weekend?

  And a millionaire on top of it? Didn’t he have more important things to do?

  He was either really charitable, or he’d done something so horrible that he needed to get back into his grandfather’s good graces. Yeah, her money was on the latter.

  Huffing out an exhale, she marched over to her desk and pulled out the chair. She had a deadline to make.

  But as she stared at the cursor blinking on the blank screen before her, all she could think about were Bentley’s lips, the way they curved into that deliciously sinful smile, spreading across a row of perfect—and more than likely, capped—teeth.

  Because, really, who had teeth like that?

  She was never going to finish this book if her thoughts kept straying toward Bentley Wellington’s teeth.

  “Focus,” she scolded herself. “You’re a grown woman. You can—”

  A knock sounded at her door.

  Nobody ever knocked on her door.

  Ever.

  Even her grandmother knew not to disturb her if the door was closed. That was why they invented texting! Anger surged through her. He’d been here, what? Five minutes? And already he was ruining everything that kept her sane. Peace and quiet, the hum of her computer. She held in her anger, digging her fingernails into the desk, and waited.

  He knocked again—this time louder.

  “Go away,” she barked, her heart in her throat.

  “No,” came his quick reply.

  Rolling her eyes, she stood and winced with pain as she adjusted her prosthetic, then marched over to the door and jerked it open. Bentley breezed past her like he owned the place. And anger was quickly replaced by fear; but, really, weren’t they, a lot of times, the same thing? “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Oh, I thought you remembered.” He ran a hand over the back of her favorite chair, his fingertips drumming across the green leather before he called over his shoulder, “I’m an explorer at heart.”

  How could she forget?

  More like he wasn’t used to hearing the word no and thought she was just playing hard to get. Besides, this wasn’t one of her romance novels, right? Where the drop-dead sexy guy realizes what he lost and accepts the broken woman for who she is. Her heart deflated a bit, sadness twisting into unjust anger.

  Directed at the only person available.

  Him.

  “Explore,” she replied, fighting to keep from yelling at him, “elsewhere.”

  His lips twitched; his eyes raked over her as though he could see every inch of skin beneath her clothes. It would have worked. Maybe if she was a different person. Whole. It would make her feel good, like a woman.

  Shoving the longing she felt away, she gritted her teeth. “Stop that.”

  In two strides, he was at the window tugging open the dark curtains, exposing her body to more sunlight than she’d been exposed to in years. “There, that’s better.”

  Panic gripped her as she stomped over to the curtains and tugged the fabric as tight as she could, once again blanketing the room in blessed darkness. Sunlight meant that he’d be able to see her missing leg that much more, and it was hard enough having that reminder between them. Her pain. Her loss.

  His abandonment.

  “Leave.”

  He looked down and frowned. The light had been enough for him to see her limp up close and personal. It had hurt like hell to walk up the stairs without as much as a grimace and now, now his eyes were trained on her leg like he was trying to put the pieces together and found they didn’t fit. “What’s wrong with your—”

  “I said get out!” She shoved his rock-hard chest as panic swelled in her body. What type of sick person pretended not to know about her injury? Bentley Wellington, that was who. He damn well knew what happened. “Now!”

  “Red—” His eyes widened in confusion.

  “Never come into my room again,” she said in a hoarse whisper as she fought to keep herself from bursting into tears. People always had the same reaction. What happened? Does it hurt? Will it ever get better?

  A memory of her mom’s face flashed, causing her to stutter-step against Bentley. He caught her by the elbows, his eyes full of pity.

  God, she hated pity.

  Besides, he was a whole lot of years too late to be giving her such a concerned look.

  She’d rather he look at her with disgust than pity. She’d had enough pity to last a lifetime.

  Margot jerked away and lifted her chin. “Please, just go.”

  Sighing, he released her and quietly left the room, clicking the door shut behind him. Her body trembled for a few seconds after he’d left. Maybe because she hadn’t been touched by a man in—a very long time. Or maybe because he was exactly how she remembered: hard in all the right places, gorgeous, unavailable, and spoiled.

  Margot marched over to the window to make sure the drapes were pulled and then examined the room. It was dark again. It was safe. It was home.

  She needed to feel safe. Safe in the darkness. Safe from the stares and whispers, and most of all, safe from the only guy who had ever seen past the timid, shy girl she used to be.

  “Hey.” The beautiful boy held out his hand. “Are you okay? I saw you fall.”

  Embarrassment smacked her in the chest, nearly knocking her over onto her butt again as she blinked up at Bentley Wellington.

  The Bentley Wellington.

  The most popular guy in her high school.

  From one of the richest families in the United States.

  It was her freshman year, and she’d finally gotten her braces off and grown into her lanky arms and legs. Maybe he had noticed?

  The only Wellington boy who ever gave her the time of day was his twin, Brant, but Brant was nice to everyone.

  “Yeah.” She found her voice and stood with his help. His hand was warm. And strong. “I probably shouldn’t…read and walk.”

  “It’s a safety hazard for sure.” His grin widened. “What’s your name?”

  She should have been insulted.

  After all, their parents were a part of the same country club, and she’d gone through middle school with him sitting behind her in at least half of her classes.

  And he didn’t even know her name?

  “Margot,” she answered, trying to keep the wobble out of her voice. “What’s yours?”

  His stunned expression was priceless. She bit down on her bottom lip to keep from laughing.

  Did she imagine it? Or did Bentley’s chest puff out a bit as he took a step closer and said in a low voice, “Bentley Wellington.” He tilted his head. “Then again, you already knew that, didn’t you?”

  “Guilty.” Her cheeks heated. “But it was worth it to see your face.”

  Who was the girl saying all of these things?

  Flirting?

  “I deserved it,” he finally admitted, taking a step back.

  “Bentley!” a whiny voice shouted, drawing his attention away from Margot and toward a gorgeous brunette in a short white sundress. “Hurry up!”

  “You sure you�
�re okay?” he asked again, his hand reaching out to cup her shoulder like he actually cared, like it mattered to him.

  With a jerky nod, Margot managed to give him his answer. Her smile was forced as he slowly pulled away and rejoined the group of friends he’d been walking with.

  Once he joined them, laughter rang out, and then a few of the girls glanced back at her and whispered.

  She didn’t care. She normally did.

  But not today.

  Because Bentley Wellington had just proved he was more than his good looks and easy smile.

  He had a heart.

  It was the start of their friendship.

  One that gave her confidence and courage to step outside her comfy little shell. Only nobody warned her that the minute you start to finally trust—you risk losing it all.

  He’d taught her that lesson.

  Never again.

  A door slammed downstairs.

  Margot jumped a foot and shook the memory from her head as she slowly moved toward the door and pressed her forehead against it.

  She was proud of herself for waiting at least another five minutes before allowing the warm sting of tears to fill her eyes and run down her cheek.

  Chapter Five

  Well, she was a hell of a delight, now, wasn’t she? Her fire-engine hair matched her winning personality, that was for damn sure. Bentley stared at her bedroom door, then retreated down the stairs, angered by her rebuff and mildly intrigued as to why she limped—and why she seemed so upset when he asked a completely innocent question.

  Her face had contorted with pain, as if she was still in it. Which was crazy, right?

  What type of accident left a woman in pain ten years later?

  He wasn’t sure if her pain was more emotional than physical, or maybe both. Not that it was his problem if she wanted to live out the rest of her life as if it was already over.

  A nagging voice reminded him that he’d abandoned her all those years ago. He’d been her best friend, and he’d just walked away. Something he’d rather not think about, hadn’t let himself think about, but something that this weekend made impossible to ignore any longer.

  She blamed him, probably as much as he blamed himself. His goal in high school had been to get Margot to smile, that was it. And then suddenly, that one goal morphed into more smiles, more time together, until they were inseparable.