The Pretend Boyfriend 2 (Inhumanly Handsome, Humanly Flawed Alpha Male Erotic Romance) Read online

  “Yes?” he says.

  Butterflies swarm in Sam’s stomach. Especially when Mrs. Moody gives her a look of ‘how dare you interrupt my husband on a Saturday?’ dislike.

  “I’m Samantha Fox.” She puts out a be-ringed hand.

  He takes it, clearly charmed. Sam is somewhat surprised. She doesn’t have enough confidence yet in her own feminine wiles to gauge if she will instantly make an impact.

  “Henry, darling, shouldn’t we be going in for Act Three?” Mrs. Moody says pointedly.

  Sam says in a rush, “We’ve met before at a charity benefit.”

  Henry frowns in puzzlement. “Forgive me, but I can’t remember . . . and I would certainly have remembered such a pretty young thing as yourself.”

  “Henry,” chides his wife.

  “I’ve got one of those really unmemorable faces.” Sam laughs. Oh gawd. She sucks so badly at this. “I was with Landry and Sons, but they have been taken over recently by Sapphire. We’ve just launched our latest product, the A677, which is guaranteed to make the old model, the CG506, look like last century’s invention. And at half the price too.”

  Henry Moody looks genuinely interested. “I’ve been using the CG506 in all my factories.”

  “I know. If you would permit me – ”

  “Henry, we really have got to go in.” Mrs. Moody firmly grasps his elbow.

  Sam hurriedly fishes out her card. “If you would permit me to make an appointment with you at your office, I would be more than happy to show you how I can save you hundreds of thousands of dollars at double the efficiency.”

  She’s so glad she has her one-sentence, elevator selling spiel rehearsed to the doldrums.

  “Of course.” Henry Moody trails after his insistent wife with a twinkle in his eye. “Make an appointment with my PA on Monday.”

  A rush of exhilaration floods Sam’s cheeks. “It would be my pleasure, sir.”

  Oh, oh, oh. She can’t wait to tell Brian.

  But where is he? She catches sight of Cassie and Caleb with their martinis in one corner, huddling in intimate conversation. They are a real couple in every sense of the word . . . and she and Brian are –

  Well . . .

  Don’t lose sleep over this.

  She tries to look for Brian amid the crowd, but she can’t spot him anywhere. And she’s sure he would stand out too, being as tall as he is.

  She makes a beeline for Cassie and Caleb.

  “Caleb, have you seen Brian?”

  “I just got this text message from him.” Caleb holds his phone up.

  Sam takes it and reads the display:

  SOMETHING CAME UP, AND IT’S NOT MY DICK. GOTTA RUSH. SEE SAM HOME SAFELY, WILL YA?

  Frowning, she checks her own cellphone, which has been put on ‘Silent’.

  FOR A GOOD MOOD, BREAK A LEG.

  She can’t help smiling. And also wondering what the hell is up with Brian that he had to rush off like this?

  9

  The alarm has long been deactivated when Brian arrives at the doors of his penthouse. Two security guards are waiting for him.

  “We can find no signs of breaking or entering, sir,” one of them says, indicating the door. “It may be that the alarm system is faulty.”

  It’s true. The doors do not appear tampered with. And it’s unlikely someone climbed in through the window, seeing as they are thirty-three floors up.

  “Thanks, Gus,” Brian says. He inserts his key into the lock. Pushing the doors apart, he enters his apartment.

  The complex alarm system on the side of the door is flashing. Brian swiftly disarms it.

  “Zone Three,” he pronounces. “That would be . . . ” he raises his head skyward “ . . . the bedroom.”

  “Let us check it out, sir,” Gus says.

  The guards fan out. One of them combs downstairs while the other rapidly ascends the wooden spiral stairway that leads to the upper level. Brian’s pulse taps a steady beat at his neck. He’s not unduly worried that anyone would break in. That is the reason why he has a penthouse – for the security.

  But he has had a lot of visitors. A lot of one night stands.

  He hasn’t been too careful in that regard. Any one of them could have ferreted out his alarm system. But they are all women anyway. He didn’t think any of them were criminals.

  Maybe he should buy himself a separate fuck pad. Somewhere he doesn’t live.

  Gus comes down the stairs. “All clear, sir.”

  “Good to know. I need to head out again. Thanks and sorry for the literally false alarm.”

  “You should get the alarm company to have a look at it Monday, sir.”

  For answer, Brian smiles and holds the door open.

  When the security guards have taken the elevator downstairs, he arms the alarm again and exits, locking the door behind him. Aida has probably finished killing herself over her hot commander by now, but maybe he can catch Sam and the rest for drinks – provided Cassie hasn’t burned the opera house down with her witchery.

  He pushes the button for the private elevator – the only car available on the floor. When it arrives, he steps in. He rides all thirty-three floors down, thinking of Sam pitching to Old Man Moody and smiling. He has full confidence in her, even if she doesn’t seem to have much in herself.

  The elevator doors slide open and he steps out.

  And collides into a woman carrying a dish.

  Whatever was in that dish upturns and spills onto the woman’s dress. But she manages to catch the dish before it can slide down her front and splinter into a thousand pieces upon the floor.

  “Oh, oh, oh,” she wails.

  “I’m sorry,” Brian says, reaching for the dish and righting it again. “But look on the bright side. At least we managed to save half of whatever’s cooking.”

  If there’s a glass lid to the dish, which is made out of white china, he can’t find it on her, or on the floor, or anywhere else. Unless it has slid down her dress.

  And what a dress.

  He finds himself looking at a pretty redhead in a green gabardine dress cut to show off plenty of cleavage. And that cleavage – which immediately arrests his eyes – is now covered with a generous helping of Bolognese sauce.

  She says, “Now I’m a mess.”

  “It goes well with your hair.”

  She glares at him. “Are you always this smug?”

  “I was only trying to compliment you . . . and to get you to see the bright side of the situation. That’s me, an eternal optimist.” Brian flashes his most charming smile, the one he knows will get women out of their panties faster than they can raise their skirts.

  He points at her cleavage. He is on his predatory mode again – the one that comes naturally to him like the air he’s breathing.

  “If you’d like to come up to my place, I can get you cleaned up. And nothing else will happen, scout’s honor.”

  Of course, he was never a scout. But they don’t know that. He also knows that his large brown eyes are lighted up by the dim overhead lamps into a rich liquid golden, and they are at their most alluring. Besides, he is devastatingly handsome in his tux.

  The redhead says doubtfully, “Well . . . I was here to visit a friend . . . and I’ve got to really be getting back . . . ”

  “To a husband? Boyfriend? Laundry service?”

  “No.”

  Brian holds his hands up. “Well, when you get back to your significant whatevers smelling of lasagna, don’t say I didn’t offer to get you cleaned up.”

  Nothing like the seeming withdrawal of an illicit promise to get their juices churning.

  The redhead pauses. “Well, OK. You got detergent?”

  “I have a silk bathrobe.”

  He punches the button of the private penthouse elevator again. The smile is still on his face as they step in together.

  In a corner of the ceiling, the roving security camera is trained on them.

  10

  Brian pushes open the front doo
r of his penthouse; aware that only minutes ago, he had made up his mind to be more careful about letting strangers into his home. Still, what can an itsy-bitsy girl like her do to a big, strapping man like him?

  “Come on in,” he says.

  “Wow.” Her dark eyes sparkle.

  This is the reaction he always gets when he brings someone back to his apartment for the first time. It’s designed to wow. The entrance opens up to a lounge bedecked with a plush Persian carpet that cost him a hundred thousand dollars. OK, it was a gift from his aunt. Tasteful Italian furniture is set in artful arrangement, and the centerpiece is a grand piano.

  “You play?” she asks.

  Has he heard her voice before? Something about her seems awfully familiar.

  “Only with one finger.”

  “And you have a whole grand piano just for that finger,” she teases.

  Oh, she wants him all right.

  “I’ll promise not to tell you where that finger has been if you promise not to tell anyone I can’t play.”

  She laughs. “I guess I’d better ask you to promise to point me the way to the bathroom.”

  “The swimming pool is out there just in case you need a larger body of water.”

  She gives him a knowing look and disappears in the direction of the guest bathroom.

  He shrugs his tuxedo jacket off and goes to the bar. An array of liquor bottles greets him. He wonders what she would like. Something hard? Or maybe a little wine? He picks up a shot glass and pours himself some bourbon.

  She reappears – in his white silk bathrobe. Her cleavage is pronounced in between the lapels, and she has the sash loosely tied around her waist. He can see that she has an amazing body under the robe. Her red hair falls prettily around her shoulders. She carries her partially wet green dress.

  “Bourbon?” he asks her.

  “No, I think I will have myself some vodka.”

  “I’m Brian Morton, by the way.”

  “Delilah.”

  Fetching name, he thinks.

  He puts down his drink on the bar. “Well, Delilah, if you don’t mind, I think I will change into something more comfortable before I get bourbon all over my dress suit.”

  “Do you have a tumble dryer?”

  “It’s over that way in the laundry room, which is behind the kitchen.” He points her in the direction. “Make yourself at home.”

  When he comes back to the lounge, in jeans and a grey sleeveless tee which shows off his shoulder muscles to maximal effect, she is seated on his black leather sofa, sipping vodka. She pushes an identical glass towards him.

  “I don’t like to drink alone,” she says.

  Her eyelashes bat suggestively at him. So she’s also a predator. He likes that. He wonders what she would be in bed with her hair all mussed up and sprawled gloriously upon the pillow.

  A fleeting image of Sam graces the top of his mind, but he pushes it away. This was their deal, after all. They are just ‘hanging out’. No obligations, no commitments, no regrets. The way they both like it.

  He sinks into the sofa seat next to the redhead and takes the drink she proffers. It’s more bourbon.

  “Bottoms up,” he says, clinking glasses with her. “Here’s to laundry.”

  “To laundry,” she agrees.

  “May your stains always be washed away by the detergent gods,” he adds. He has to restrain himself very hard from making more quips with other types of stains.

  She finishes her drink, straight up, and slams her glass down on the table. Her cheeks are lightly flushed.

  He grins and does the same to his.

  “Now, how do we go about this?” he says.

  He leans over. His mouth closes in on hers. She tastes of vodka and clean lipstick. His hands roam down the silky expanse of her bathrobe. His bathrobe. He cups her breasts beneath the silk. Her nipples are pointed and hard.

  His cock grows hard – ready for action as it always is. He always did have a healthy libido, one he can summon at will. She kisses him back – sensual and raw and needy.

  Is it just him or is the room spinning a little? Sam’s pretty face with its upturned nose comes back to his semi-glazed vision. Let’s see. What did he take tonight? Two glasses of bourbon. He didn’t order anything at the bar of the Galois, did he? He could always hold his liquor. It’s his trademark.

  He blinks to clear the daze and kisses her with climbing fervor. His hands grow bolder. He gropes her waist, her buttocks, her thighs. He doesn’t come up for air as his tongue probes her mouth.

  He feels her hands go around his head, gripping bunches of his hair, and then down his back.

  The rest of the evening spirals away into blackness. A blackness that he will try very hard to remember for a long time . . . but can’t.

  11

  There’s a pounding in his head that he can’t get away from. Someone is hammering nails into the base of his skull. A splitting headache like a hundred hangovers rolled into one comes charging through the noise, breaking through the barriers of murkiness and haze and dreams filled with shadowy figures that are wraiths and yet not wraiths.

  He claws through the murk and tries to open his sleep-encrusted eyes. Shapes swim into being. A vivid red and gold pattern assails his vision, and he realizes that he is face down on his own lounge carpet. To be precise, his one hundred thousand Persian weave. The house-warming present from his billionaire uncle’s wife.

  He raises his head. There is a persistent knocking on his front door. He groans. His body feels as though a steamroller has flattened it. He raises himself to his elbows.

  The door bursts open and feet clatter into his apartment. Black boots, regulation style.

  “Mr. Morton?” says an unfamiliar voice.

  Brian squints into the light, dazed. Outside, the sun is streaming through the ceiling-to-floor glass windows. He holds a hand up to block out the light. He thought he had drawn the fucking curtains.

  “Yes?”

  “You are under arrest.”

  The rest of his Miranda rights are lost in the drone of the officer’s voice as hands jerk his naked body up, and his wrists are cuffed behind his back. Brian stares in horror at the ruins of the evening. Broken glass coffee table. Scattered shards of glass everywhere. Smashed three thousand dollar lampstand. Torn curtains.

  His clothes strewn all over the floor.

  And a torn silken bathrobe crumpled in a heap beside them.

  What? What? What? What? A ship is plowing through the mists of his brain – a flotsam of memories struggling to come to the surface, like a shipwreck victim clawing for air. And failing miserably to ascend.

  Something cuts through his bare feet. He lifts his right leg up and stares at his sole.

  Blood.

  Embedded glass fragments.

  And that’s not the only damage to his body. The bloody trails of four fingernails have been raked and imprinted upon his chest.

  What the fuck happened here?

  12

  Brian is fucking her, gazing into her eyes oh so deeply and murmuring, “I love you, I love you, I love you” as his hips thrust and slam into hers. She can look into his large liquid brown eyes forever – those eyes of endless promise and discovery.

  “I love you too, Brian,” she whispers, wishing this moment will last.

  The bedside table phone rings. And rings and rings, even as he continues to fuck her.

  Something pops.

  Brian disappears and Sam’s eyes flutter open. Beside her bed, her cellphone buzzes insistently. The ringtone she has chosen for this particular caller is ‘Independent Woman’.

  Sam sleepily reaches over for her cellphone. It momentarily stops, and then starts up again as she gropes for it and almost drops it. She presses the ‘Answer’ button.

  “Yes?”

  “Why the hell didn’t you answer?” Cassie’s annoyed voice compresses the Verizon sound barrier. “Caleb’s gone to the police station.”

  “What for?”
/>
  “Didn’t anyone call you? Brian called his lawyer, and his lawyer called Caleb. So I’m calling you now. Brian’s been arrested.”

  Sam sits up in bed. “What?”

  “Get dressed and pick me up in thirty minutes.” Cassie sounds almost gleeful.

  Sam is peeved. She knows Cassie doesn’t like Brian, but really – is that a good reason to gloat over someone else’s misfortune? Is there ever?

  “OK.” Sam rings off, her mind churning. She is going to have words with Cassie about this. She supposes Cassie sees it as retribution for Brian’s collective sins – for fucking around, for ‘cheating’ on her when, really, all Brian has ever done was to be himself. And he has never lied to her, never promised her anything he couldn’t deliver.

  What the hell has he done now?

  13

  The police interrogation room is claustrophobic – grey walls, metal table, four metal chairs, TV and video player mounted on a stand.

  Welcome to the next level, Brian thinks with a grimace. Congrats, you’re going up the ladder. He has been arrested before for drunk driving when he was in college, but he has never been in an interrogation room. This is a whole new level of misdemeanor entirely.

  Karen Sandler, his lawyer, is seated beside him. She is an attractive brunette in her mid-thirties with a no-nonsense attitude. And yes, he has slept with her. Once. She totally gets him – gets what he’s about – because she’s the same way too. She doesn’t believe in marriage or relationships or being shackled to a ball and chain for the rest of her life. She’s a woman after his own heart.

  Shackled is a good word to use in this place.

  He has told her exactly what happened.

  “Don’t say anything unless I tell you to,” she cautions him.

  That should be a first for him. He has never been one to keep mum on anything. He supposes it’s as good a starting point as any.

  “I’ll try very hard not to,” he says.