The Boss and the Brat: A Billionaire Romance Page 2

  I was in trouble.

  He was exactly the sort of man who’d weaken both a girl’s knees and her resolve with a single touch.

  Good thing the champagne dripped over me as well. At least the sticky droplets cooled me down until they sizzled off my heated skin.

  Was it me…or did he feel it too?

  “Are you usually this clumsy?” he asked, his voice fueled with irritation and impatience. “Or did you deliberately ruin my suit?”

  Okay. Maybe he didn’t feel it.

  “It was an accident,” I said.

  He gave a dismissive snort. “Then you must be drunk.”

  I wasn’t nearly tipsy enough to still my tongue. “No. I’m perfectly sober, thank you.”

  He gestured over the broken glass at our feet—two flutes worth of glass.

  Fantastic.

  I didn’t owe him an explanation, but the heat churning in my core hoped for a pleasant and wicked reconciliation.

  Should’ve realized that was my first mistake.

  “Only one was for me,” I explained.

  That amused him. He plucked the cherry from my hand and claimed it for himself. His voice popped every champagne bubble dancing in my belly.

  “If you wanted to get me in bed…” His thick eyebrows arched. “There’s an easier way.”

  My heel clicked against the wooden bridge—a sharp crack to let him know he’d made a big presumption. “Excuse me?”

  “No need to get me drunk. A beautiful woman like you only needs to ask for the night of her dreams.”

  This man had been perfect. Figured. Why’d he have to go and open his mouth.

  I’d chalk that up to yet another massive disappointment this evening.

  “I should’ve splashed the drink in your face.” I scowled. “What a waste of champagne.”

  “It looks good on you.”

  So much for my hand-made dress. The material had been thin—figured it’d work for an early spring event. But the champagne soaked through it, and the light chill in the air not only plastered the satin to my curves—it embellished them.

  My family made their name producing women’s undergarments.

  What a night to go without a bra.

  He brushed a calloused hand over his saturated suit jacket. “This was an expensive suit. Quite an expensive accident.”

  The fit had impressed me—not the cost.

  “Let’ see…a gray Brunico suit.” I surveyed his beautiful body while mourning the asshole beneath. “A Charvet tie. John Lobb shoes. You’re walking around in eight-thousand-dollars’ worth of clothes…and hundred-dollar champagne.”

  “Ah, you’re superficial too.”

  Hardly. Just educated in my damned industry.

  “You tell me,” I said. “You’re the one sporting a Rolex. How cliché.”

  He tapped the shimmering gold faceplate. “This was a gift, actually.”

  “Surprising. Someone must actually like you.”

  He laughed, and I hated that I’d somehow amused him. “Most people like me…when they’re not drenching me in alcohol like we’re at a frat party kegger. This is a formal gala, young lady, not a wet t-shirt contest.”

  Could’ve surprised me after the disaster that was the fashion show.

  “Forget my apology.” My voice nearly cracked with irritation. “I officially don’t feel bad for bumping into you. If you can afford an outfit like that, you can afford your own damned dry cleaning.”

  His lips twitched. A challenge. “Who needs dry cleaning? I’ll throw these away and buy a new suit for tomorrow.”

  Of course he would. Only a party thrown by Cameron Mitchell could attract men sucking off the teat of their parents’ trust funds.

  I attempted to push past him, but an oversized velvet umbrella masquerading as a woman’s hat blocked my exit. It gave him enough time to appraise me once more.

  “You recognized the exact brands,” he said. “You must work in fashion.”

  “Rich and a detective.”

  And still frustratingly gorgeous. Life wasn’t fair.

  He ignored my sarcasm. “Are you a part of Maxwell Intimates?”

  A part of it?

  I lived it.

  I’d waited my entire life for this night, when I’d finally take a proper role in my family’s business and assume my rightful place at the top.

  Unfortunately, Daddy’s retirement came a few years too early, and I’d spent more time working as a designer in New York than a proper businesswoman in Ironfield with him. Now I couldn’t learn from the best.

  But that was fine. I was a Maxwell. I knew where I belonged.

  “You can say that I’m an integral part of Maxwell Intimates,” I said.

  “Good.” His voice lowered, a deep, graveled amusement. “Then we’ll make a deal. Apologize, and you can keep your job.”

  Oh, this man redefined trouble. At least the jerk was entertaining.

  He had no idea the mistake he’d made.

  “Is that a threat?” I asked.

  “Let’s just say…” His smile oozed charm, confidence, and charisma. All the qualities I thought I’d love in a man. “I’ll put in a good word for you with the boss.”

  Daddy already thought the world of me.

  And soon, this pompous jackass would too.

  “You don’t deserve an apology,” I said.

  The man only genuinely laughed when challenged. If he got off on defiance, he’d need a cigarette and cuddle once I was done with him.

  “So, you’d lose your job over some spilled champagne?” he asked.

  “Oh, I’m not going to lose my job.” I nearly laughed. “If anything, you should be apologizing to me.”

  “For…standing still while you destroyed my suit?”

  “You’re not the only one with ruined clothes.”

  “But you’re the only one who could change their outfit tonight.” He gestured towards the nearly naked model strutting through the party. “I’m sure one of the ladies can find something in your size.”

  The man had a talent for blending insult with compliment.

  I shook my head. “Absolutely not. I would never wear one of those silken abominations. Bad enough they already paraded down my runway.”

  His smile deepened—an intimate sort of smirk that both appraised and memorized me with a single glance. I dreaded the revelation that would come in the morning…

  I liked his stare.

  “So…you weren’t a fan of the lingerie?” he asked. “You were the only one.”

  Christ, I hoped that wasn’t true. “Believe me. The company’s Board and investors were scandalized—I’m sure of it. I can’t imagine what the public will even think.”

  He pulled his phone from his pocket and checked the screen. “The public knows. Maxwell Intimates is trending.”

  “You’re kidding.” I grabbed the phone. The man was a jerk, but he wasn’t a liar. “Now everyone is going to see the lingerie!”

  “That’s the point.” He plucked the phone out of my hands. “This is just the sort of publicity this company needed.”

  “A scandal isn’t good publicity. The lingerie goes against our values.”

  He tousled his chestnut hair with a carefree hand. “Afraid of change?”

  “This isn’t change. It’s vulgar.”

  “No, the lingerie is beautiful.” The warmth in his voice heated all the wrong parts of me. “Like you.”

  I refused to accept the compliment. “It’s insulting. Demeaning. Entirely too revealing.”

  “Any other constructive criticism?”

  I snorted. “At least the material was the same shade of pink as her nipples. It’s that attention to detail which defines Maxwell Intimates.”

  He chuckled. “Don’t tell me you’ve never purchased your own silk teddy? A corset? Thigh high stockings?”

  I stiffened. “Absolutely not.”

  His words turned wicked. “Oh. So you prefer to sleep naked?”

 
I regretted that I had only two glasses of champagne to spill over the asshole.

  “That is none of your concern,” I said.

  “Oh. I understand now. You’re sleeping alone.”

  Was it that obvious? “You don’t know a thing about me.”

  “I know you’ve come to the party alone…” And he delighted in the revelation. “And you’ll be heading back home alone as well…”

  “This is the fashion industry,” I said. “If I’m looking for a date, I’ve come to the wrong function.”

  “Must be such a relief. You’re not single, repressed, and frigid—it’s the fault of the guest list.”

  Was this bastard trying to get into my panties or under my skin?

  “You think I’m repressed because I don’t think it’s sexy to pick out a wedgie made from a fifty-dollar scrap of lace?” I arched an eyebrow. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I expect men to work for the privilege of my company.”

  “Playing hard to get?”

  “If that’s what you want to call it.”

  “Can’t imagine an insufferable brat like you gets chased that often.”

  “Only by the men too arrogant to realize that they don’t stand a chance.”

  I scowled, but he reached for me, grabbing my hand before I could escape.

  A fierce and desperate heat swelled through me.

  I shouldn’t have let him touch me. Shouldn’t have let him speak to me in such a way.

  Shouldn’t have stayed rooted in place as his silken words caressed my skin. Secrets. Promises. Seduction.

  “Call me arrogant then…” he said. “I want your name.”

  His demand was every command I longed to follow. I resisted the urge, wishing away the swirling heat desperate to lure me into my complete undoing.

  “And why would I tell you?” I asked.

  “How else will I know where to send a key to the hotel room?”

  He was as impulsive and irritating as he was unabashedly sexy.

  It just wasn’t fair.

  I’d always fantasized about doing something reckless and exciting with a mysterious stranger as perfect as him. Those intense eyes. His hardened hands. A mouth better suited for kissing, not insults.

  All the more reason for me to flee before my temper tangoed with my hormones.

  The man stared at me, his eyes undressing and redressing me. “I think cream is your color.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The lingerie I plan to send you. Cream. It’ll compliment your complexion. Light on dark. Sinfully alluring.”

  He had no qualms about propositioning me in the middle of a party, especially as guests and models squeezed passed us on the undersized bridge over the pond.

  But I’d be damned before I retreated.

  “Save your silk,” I said. “I don’t need lingerie to catch a man.”

  “Of course not. You’re the most beautiful woman here.”

  He was as much a charmer as he was a prick.

  “Take your pick of the lovely ladies here tonight,” I said. “I’m sure you could bag a model of your choosing.”

  His gaze steadied only on me. “But I’m a man who loves a challenge.”

  “Hope you also like disappointment.”

  “I’m always disappointed.” At least he spoke the truth. His face had edged hard with a lifetime of too many scowls. “That’s why I like the chase. Maybe one day, I’ll find exactly what I’m looking for.”

  “Charm? Personality? Manners?”

  His laugh resonated deep in my core. “So that’s why you don’t wear lingerie—your panties are twisted in a knot so tight it’d take the whole damned night just to get them off.”

  “Afraid of a little work?” I asked. “Let me give you some advice when you’re talking to a woman. You could be nice. Act like a gentleman. Pretend that you aren’t just another womanizing player.”

  “Where’s the fun in that?”

  “You’re so damned conceited you can’t even imagine that a woman might not want to spend the night with you.”

  “How about an entire weekend?” He shrugged away the party and lights, champagne spill, and thrumming music. “A private Caribbean island. My beach-house. We’ll be in the air within the hour, and the only thing you’ll need to pack is that lingerie—maybe a garter belt if you’re feeling brave.”

  I wished I hadn’t imagined it.

  The salty air. The crisp crash of the ocean waves. A sunset kissed bedroom, French doors opened to the tropical breeze as we twisted beneath sheets silkier than the damned lingerie.

  “Sounds perfectly wretched.” I lied. His whispered promise licked a wicked fire over my skin and dizzied my head as if I’d thrown back an entire bottle of champagne. “First you threaten to fire me…now you want to sleep with me.”

  “Can’t it be both?”

  “Do you even work for Maxwell Intimates?” I asked.

  “I’ve recently come aboard the company.”

  “Then I don’t know whether to demand your resignation or keep you around,” I said. “Nothing would entertain me more than spending every day, all day, Monday through Friday, eight until five, doing everything I could to ruin your existence.”

  The man edged closer, his voice a deep, mocha grumble. “Doesn’t matter what happens during the day. You’ll stay in my bed every night.”

  I groaned. That was it.

  No more flirting. No more insults. No more reckless games that lured me closer to the danger of career-ending mistakes.

  I scowled and pushed passed the man.

  Unfortunately, my dramatic first stomp slammed what I had believed to be a sensible heel between two wooden planks of the arched bridge.

  I teetered on one leg and lost my balance, tumbling head-over-heels into the mystery man.

  Of course, the jerk chose that moment to become chivalrous and catch me before I fell.

  I braced myself for a crash that never came. Instead, I clobbered the man with my full weight.

  Knocking him off-balance.

  With one foot on the edge of the little bridge.

  And the other kicking over thin air.

  His splash into the koi pond silenced the party save for the pulsing base of the techno music. The guests gasped. The dancing ceased. A woman shouted for help.

  My laugh echoed over it all.

  The man scowled as two of the largest koi slunk through the water and tested if his fingers were a satisfactory snack.

  He wiped his face, though teeny flecks of duckweed clung to his hair, in the scruff of his beard, and dripped over his suit.

  “This is what I get for trying to save you,” he said.

  I yanked my heel from the bridge with a laugh. “At least it rinsed out the champagne.”

  I hated myself for extending the olive branch, but, with the eyes of the party focused on us and my company’s reputation on the line, I knelt and extended my hand to help him up.

  His fingers slid over mine, calloused and perfect. But his gaze turned devilish.

  With a grunt, he yanked, casting me off the bridge and slamming me into the water.

  With the fish.

  The hundreds of swirling, circling, golden, hungry fish.

  The chilly water wasn’t deep, but it surged over my waist in a flurry of silt, obscuring the little devils peeking under the surface.

  A scaled tail swept against my ankle.

  I screamed and scampered over the man, leaping into his arms as the fish eagerly attempted to gobble my toes.

  “Oh God!” I shrieked. “Oh, oh, oh!”

  My savior-turned-bastard snorted, casting me into his arms as he carried me to the shore, unfazed by the startled, scandalized guests dissolving into their own gossip.

  “I knew I’d make you moan in my arms,” he said.

  I kicked the water, chasing away a koi the size of a Kia. “I’ll cry out some very uncouth words if you don’t get me out of this water!”

  His voice lowered as
he set me back on land. “At least now you have an excuse for getting wet.”

  My dress—ruined.

  My meticulously silk press bob—already starting to curl.

  My reputation—completely obliterated by this monster of a man.

  “You have no idea what you’ve just done…” My voice lowered to a hiss. “I will personally ensure you are fired. Immediately.”

  He winked. “I’ll race you to the unemployment line.”

  I stormed away as the attention of the entire party shifted over us. At least the heat of their stares would dry my thoroughly destroyed dress.

  Who the hell was that absolute cretin of a man?

  How quickly could I get him fired?

  …And how badly would I regret not surrendering to that mysteriously seductive stranger?

  2

  Cameron

  The girl was irritatingly beautiful.

  Frustratingly interesting.

  Annoyingly challenging.

  And undeniably—a brat.

  I’d pitch the ruined suit. Not like I didn’t have an entire closet full of the damned things. Didn’t care about the cell phone either. I’d have a new one delivered personally before the party even ended. And I could pay one of the party planners an extra thousand bucks to dredge the pond for my keys. A passing waiter fetched me a towel, and, once I’d removed most of the pond pebbles from my shoe, my temper cooled.

  Problem was, I’d hoped to have something prepared for when I gave my speech.

  The paper stuffed in my pocket hadn’t survived the pond. The soggy clumps disintegrated in my hand.

  Fantastic.

  Not that it mattered. It wasn’t the first time I’d attended a party in my honor, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

  I knew what to say, how to captivate the crowd, and, most important of all, how to solicit investors.

  After all, a company managed by Cameron Mitchell was as good as printing money for those who dared to trust my vision.

  My only hope was that one day I’d care about being recognized in a field I disliked by people with whom I shared no common interests while conducting business that made little to no difference in anyone’s life.

  But the brat…