The Playboy Bachelor (The Bachelors of Arizona #2) Page 9

  Not because he’d seduced her.

  But because she’d asked.

  And he had been too shocked and turned on to say no.

  The minute he’d pulled Margot into his arms, he’d had a hell of a time hiding his arousal. When she innocently brushed her body against his, he’d nearly exploded with the need to have her against the pool wall.

  His tumultuous feelings weren’t helping things…pity for her, pity he knew she didn’t want, lust, anger at being forced into this situation to begin with…

  Hell.

  And to think, before she’d jumped in the pool, he’d been toying with all those thoughts from his past. He would never end his life, but he’d been spending a hell of a lot of time thinking about all the things he didn’t have, rather than focusing on what he did. He’d been feeling sorry for himself.

  Which only made him feel like more of an asshole.

  He had two legs.

  He was healthy.

  He’d lost his parents as well, but he’d been too young to remember.

  She lived with the guilt of feeling like she killed her parents.

  At sixteen.

  Hell. Nobody deserved that type of soul-sucking guilt.

  He closed his eyes against the memory of her taunting right before the kiss, and once again his body pulsed with need for her.

  The throbbing in his body refused to go away.

  His mind was hell bent on reliving that kiss. So when he should have been apologizing, or seeing if Margot was okay, he grabbed himself in order to find a quick release.

  But nothing about the kiss had been quick or fleeting.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d responded so intensely to a woman. Like his body recognized something in her it desperately needed.

  He gripped himself and swore. But when he closed his eyes, all he saw was her horrified and angry expression.

  Lust gone.

  He rested his forehead against the cool tile and tried to think of a way to cheer her up—only for his thoughts to settle on the list his grandfather had left.

  An hour later, he was in the middle of one of the largest gardens he’d ever seen, with the unbearable Arizona sun sizzling on the back of his neck.

  Margot was holed up in her room again.

  With the door locked. He’d tried opening it only to hear shouting from the other side.

  He needed to apologize—for his panicked expression, and for the fact that he knew his reaction had hurt her feelings.

  It wasn’t pity.

  It was fucking human decency.

  And even with as many times that he’d been called a jackass in his life—he really did have a heart, even if he managed to ignore it 99 percent of the time.

  The garden was expansive; clearly she had a gardener, because the woman rarely went outside—unless she was trying to save poor drowning millionaires.

  His lips twitched.

  She really did deserve flowers.

  Every day of her life.

  * * *

  “Go away!” Margot hissed, for about the hundredth time.

  Would the man never give up?

  He’d been knocking for the past fifteen minutes.

  She had work to do.

  Her computer mocked her in the corner—okay, so she’d completely ignored her writing since returning to the house.

  She was too sick to her stomach.

  Too angry.

  At herself.

  At her body.

  A tear slid down her cheek before she could wipe it away. Was it so wrong? To want someone like Bentley to see her as more than just a girl who lost her right leg?

  To see her as a woman who was still worthy of kisses?

  Even if they weren’t his?

  Not that she wanted his.

  Liar.

  He’d take her heart, promise not to break it, then leave her for the next girl.

  Bah.

  “Margot…” Bentley said her name again, knocked, then yelled louder. “Margot, open the damn door!”

  He wasn’t going to go away.

  Why was it that when she wanted him the most he left, and now, now that she had him, he wouldn’t leave!

  “I’m not going to go away!” he yelled as if reading her freaking mind.

  Rolling her eyes, she limped over to the door, turned the lock, and jerked it open only to have wildflowers thrust in her face.

  It would have been sweet, the fact that he was still trying even though she hadn’t accepted any of his bouquets.

  It may even have been nice.

  Had a bee not attached itself to one of the petals, panicked at the proximity of her nose, and committed suicide by stinging her top lip.

  “Ow!” she wailed, swatting the bee to the floor as flowers went everywhere. “Ow, ow, ow, ow!” Eyes watering, she pressed a finger to her already swelling lip while Bentley scooped her up into his arms and carried her into the bathroom. “What are you doing? Put me down!”

  “Are you allergic?” He cupped her face gently with his hands.

  “Depends,” she mumbled as her lip started to go numb. “Was that a ploy to kill me?”

  “I had no idea that sneaky bastard was in there. I promise.” He cursed under his breath and went to the bathroom sink for a few minutes before returning with a wet washcloth. “I know it’s hard to believe now, what with your face swelling up to the size of a pregnant watermelon”—she scowled—“but I was trying to cheer you up.”

  Margot gulped and glanced away as her cheeks heated. “Oh.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever given a girl flowers so many times,” Bentley said then winked at her. “Clearly, you can see why.”

  She smiled, or tried to, but her lip was so swollen she was sure she looked anything but friendly. “How bad is it?” She removed the washcloth.

  Bentley bit down on his bottom lip and hid his smile. “It’s…hardly noticeable.”

  “You’re lying.”

  He nodded his head. “Absolutely.”

  She groaned.

  “It’s not like anyone’s going to see you except the cat you still haven’t bought me,” he teased.

  Margot snorted and stood to look in the mirror. Once she made her way over to the sink, she dropped the washcloth and gasped. “I look like I belong on that plastic surgery show! The one where they show all the mistakes people make with Botox before almost dying!”

  Bentley moved to stand behind her. He touched her shoulders and then slowly slid his hands down her arms until they were pressed against her hands on the granite counter. “At least both of your lips match now.”

  Her eyes narrowed at him in the mirror. “Excuse me?”

  “Your bottom lip.” He reached around her and thumbed the lip in question. “It’s slightly larger than the top.” Voice husky, he whispered in her ear, “Believe me, I know, I measured it with my tongue.”

  Her breath hitched.

  “And now…” He removed his hand from her lip and nodded at the mirror. “They match, er, kind of.”

  She grinned and then grimaced since the grin made her look like she was a circus clown. “Thanks for the flowers.”

  “Anytime.” Something about his expression gave her pause, like he actually wanted to be talking with her—that it wasn’t part of this ridiculous auction charade, but that he genuinely wanted to cheer her up, make her feel better.

  Warmth spread throughout her body.

  “Maybe next time you give me a gift you can include a scorpion,” she teased.

  “I’ll be sure to hunt one down after dinner.” He held out his hand.

  She frowned and then placed her hand in his. “What? You want to shake hands? Over the scorpion hunt?”

  He tugged her against his rock-hard chest. “I’m sorry that I panicked.” She tried to pull away but he was too strong, so she stayed there, against his warm chest and sexy scent. “I was surprised. It won’t happen again.”

  She gulped.

  “And for t
he record…” His eyes lowered to her legs.

  She squeezed her eyes shut in a stupid effort not to show him how much his words affected her.

  “You still have sexy legs.”

  Her eyes snapped open.

  “Both of them,” he whispered. “Just because one holds battle scars doesn’t mean it isn’t beautiful.” He seemed to hesitate and then pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Survival always is.”

  He walked away from her.

  Just like she’d asked.

  He left her alone in the dark, gloomy room.

  Just like she’d begged.

  And he shut the door.

  He did everything she’d asked of him.

  And for the first time since he arrived—she wanted him to argue, she wanted him to push past the barriers she’d thrown between them. Because Bentley had done the impossible.

  He made a half…feel like a whole.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Bentley!”

  Was he hallucinating? Or was Margot actually yelling his name in a Hey, return to my cave of doom and I won’t kick you out way?

  He’d been headed down to the kitchen to start lunch or to find something that would occupy his mind when her voice rang through the upstairs hallway.

  “Yeah?” he called back without moving from the stairs.

  She didn’t answer.

  Right, so he really was hallucinating. Great.

  “Sorry.” She startled the shit out of him, and he almost fell face-first down the stairs. He gripped the railing and turned. Margot’s face was flushed red, her top lip still huge. “I’m going to punch you if you laugh.”

  “Sorry.” He coughed to hide his laugh and crossed his arms so he wouldn’t reach for her. It seemed now that his body knew what her touch was like, it craved more. Just great. That was what he needed—he’d always shied away from commitment of any kind, and she wasn’t the type you could just screw and leave. His throat went completely dry at the realization that kissing her would turn into sex, sex would turn into more sex, and more sex would turn into pain. For both of them. Besides, this little cease-fire wouldn’t last. “What’s up?”

  She put her hands on her hips. “Why do you keep picking wildflowers?”

  “Is this a trick question where if I answer wrong you get to push me down the stairs or yell at me more?”

  “What?” She frowned. “No.”

  “In that case…” He wasn’t technically supposed to tell her he had a list that was helping him romance and cheer her up—and his pride wouldn’t let him admit that he had an old woman giving him romance lessons, so he went for vague. “I picked flowers because women like flowers. Right?”

  “I’m allergic to flowers,” she said in a deadpan voice, and then sneezed and shoved them against his chest. “It’s the thought that counts, though, right?”

  “Are you flirting with me?” He moved closer to Margot, only to have her stumble backward.

  “No!” she denied, her cheeks turning a pretty pink. “I was just telling you, for future reference, if you want to do something nice…don’t bring flowers to a girl who’s allergic to flowers, especially not flowers carrying kamikaze bees.”

  “Noted,” he said, taking the flowers back from her, his hand falling to the side awkwardly. Why did it feel like he’d just got rejected on his first date?

  Hell.

  “So.” She nodded. “I should probably go back to…work.” She swallowed and didn’t budge, her eyes locking on his like she wanted to say something more.

  He reached for her arm. “Do you ever work anywhere other than your office?”

  “No.” She pulled away. “My creative process is very…” She licked her lower lip. Damn it, he was hungry for another taste. “…precise.”

  “Precise?”

  “I like ritual. I’m a creature of habit. Everything in my room creates the perfect environment for me to be creative.” Her chin lifted, just daring him to defy her.

  So he did.

  Because that was what he did best.

  And honestly he’d rather fight with her than go back downstairs by himself, because he’d already learned that being alone with his thoughts was a really dangerous thing.

  He needed distraction.

  He needed Margot.

  Which was why he took a step toward her and whispered, “Show me.”

  “Sh-show you?”

  “Yes. Show me your ritual, and maybe if you’re lucky I’ll lie down on your bed while you explain all about your creativity in the bedroom. I’ll even keep my mouth shut the entire time.”

  She snorted even as her cheeks pinked.

  “What? Don’t believe me?”

  “You like the sound of your own voice way too much.”

  “Now, Margot, why wouldn’t I like the sound of my own voice? I’ve been told it’s addicting…”

  She burst out laughing. It was the nicest sound he’d ever heard. “And I’m sure every time it was by a girl with dollar signs in her eyes and dreams of broken condoms in her future.”

  “Why else would I carry my own condoms? Can’t trust theirs not to have holes poked in them. Now that we’ve got that out of the way…” He grasped her shoulders and turned her around. “Lead the way. I promise I won’t lock the door behind me and try to take off your clothes.” Was it his imagination, or did her body shake? “Unless you want me to.”

  “No,” she said quickly. “Sorry, but you’ll never see me naked.”

  “Way to let me down slowly.”

  “I’m more of a rip-off-the-Band-Aid kind of girl.”

  “Oh, I see, you’re more into instant pain than long bouts of pleasure…” He grinned at her back.

  She stumbled a bit then glared over her shoulder. “You say things like that on purpose, don’t you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You’re a manwhore.”

  “Finally.” He trailed a finger down her exposed neck where a few pieces of tantalizing red hair kissed her skin. “Something we agree on.” He’d be lying if he said her barb hadn’t hit home. Why was it okay for him to admit it to himself, but it hurt when Margot said it?

  She jerked away from him and continued into her room. He followed. And locked the door behind him.

  Margot froze and then slowly turned to face him. “You said you wouldn’t lock the door.”

  “I lied.”

  Her eyes bugged out. “If you touch me I’ll use my stapler on your balls.”

  Bentley laughed. “Relax, I was teasing. It’s only a joke.” Her expression was unreadable. “And apparently I’m not funny. So where do we start?”

  Margot raked her gaze over him and then pointed at her computer. “That’s where I work.”

  He tilted his head. “Shocker. You work at a desk. Why hadn’t I thought of that?”

  “Probably because you don’t work?”

  Frustration welled up from deep within Bentley. What the hell kind of impression did she have of him if she really thought he sat around on his ass all day?

  “Actually…” He cleared his throat. “I organize most of the charity functions for my family—not to mention I’m more the face of the company than Brock, since he hates functions. Brant, well, lately he hates life, so it’s all me, but thanks for the insult.” He shrugged. “Though years ago I was a marketing intern.”

  He almost missed her confused look before she turned away.

  “What? What was that look?”

  She waved a hand at him then sat in one of the recliners by her desk. “Sorry, I have to sit, my leg, it—” She averted her eyes.

  “I’m sure it hurts to stand for long periods of time,” he said gently.

  She nodded, and then glanced back up at him. “Why marketing?”

  Bentley froze.

  Nobody had ever asked him that before.

  Not even his grandfather.

  He was so used to lying, so used to using his charm to avoid questions just like that one, but for the first time, he wanted to
tell someone the truth.

  “Why writing?” He deflected her question with one of his own. “Is it because you love books so much?”

  “Fine.” A pretty smile spread across her face. She was on to him. Of course she was. “You know I like books.”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s how we met. You dropped your book on the ground; I, being the Prince Charming that I am, handed it back to you and let my fingers linger a little longer than necessary because I was curious.”

  “Curious?”

  “About how soft your skin was.”

  She gulped. “And?”

  “I was right.”

  “Right about what?”

  He liked this side of her, the side he remembered: wide-eyed, beautiful, flushed. “So you write because you like books?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You’re the king of subject changes, you know that, right?”

  “Some things never change, do they, Red?”

  Her eyes flashed before she looked away from him and down at the ground. “And some things…have no choice but to change.” After clearing her throat she glanced back at him, “I like words. I like creating worlds and making people happy. To me it’s not a job.”

  Her words struck a chord in him. Marketing would be a job.

  Being a vet would have been a passion.

  “Not all of us are so lucky.” Once again he was weighted down by the shit from his past.

  “Your turn.” She crossed her arms.

  “Can’t we go back to talking about your skin again? I liked that topic.”

  Her eyebrows arched.

  “Fine, it was the only internship they had after graduation. I needed a job so I wouldn’t—” He caught himself.

  “So you wouldn’t what?”

  Kill himself with boredom? No, that wasn’t it. He needed a job so that he could prove himself, and so that he wouldn’t focus on the crippling anxiety that tended to attack when he wasn’t screwing and drinking his way through life. Work actually helped with that—just never as much as a willing woman or bottle of whiskey.

  “Do what twenty-one-year-olds do, I guess?” he said lamely. “I needed a job, and I knew I could get it.”

  “But—” She was still frowning at him, her eyes piercing in their assessment. “Do you love it?”