And suddenly the cease-fire shattered in front of him, because he’d given her a dick answer. Because as much as he wanted to tell her the truth, he was leaving soon.
Going back to his passionless life.
Fuck.
A tense silence wrapped around the room.
“You should go,” she finally said, sadness blanketing her face. And he knew he was the one who put that look there. She’d opened up, she’d shared, and when it was his turn to prove he was more than a womanizing playboy, he’d defaulted. “I have a chapter to write.”
“A kiss to write,” he corrected, trying to regain ground. “Don’t you mean a kiss?”
Margot stood abruptly, limped to the computer, and took a seat. “Ah, the kiss—our kiss—sorry, I completely forgot about it. Must not have been memorable.”
Bentley gritted his teeth and followed her to the computer. “Not. Memorable?” The hell it wasn’t! He still remembered it, and he’d kissed countless women. Holy shit. Was he a horrible kisser now?
She lifted a shoulder in a shrug as she ran her fingers over the mouse pad and stared at the screen. “I’m sure most women wouldn’t agree with me. Why don’t you go find one of them and leave me alone?”
“The hell I will,” he growled, grabbing the back of the chair and spinning her around. “Pity your top lip’s too numb to remember this.”
He closed his mouth over hers.
Sucked her lower lip like he was dying for a taste—which he was.
And then punished her with a kiss that had his body anticipating its release. Pulling back, he blew cool air across her wet lips.
She blinked at him in a daze, and he ran quick nibbling kisses down her neck, returning to her lips seconds later as his hands slid to her stomach and then down to her thighs.
She squirmed toward him.
“That.” He stood. “Write that.”
A pencil flew by his head, hitting the door before he unlocked it and pulled it open.
“Good luck, Red!” He pulled the door closed behind him.
“You’re a bastard!” Her muffled yell came just as he reached the top of the stairs.
As a matter of fact, yes, he was.
Chapter Fifteen
Writing the kiss was almost worse than reliving the kiss. She had to write about hand placement, the sensation of his mouth, the feel of his skin, the slide of his mouth. By the time Margot was done with the last few chapters, she’d written two kissing scenes, was sweating profusely, and was desperate for a cold shower.
A really, really, cold, Bentley-free shower.
She closed down her computer and leaned back in her chair. Why had she let him kiss her a second time? She’d known it was coming; she’d seen the fire in his eyes and known she’d pushed him too far in their previous conversation. Maybe it was because the more run-ins she had with him, the more she wondered if there was something below the surface.
The lines between them were blurring in a quick and confusing way. Was he kissing her to prove a point? Or was he kissing her because he really did like her lips? However swollen one of them might be.
“Why?” She groaned out loud and then banged her head against the desk¸ once again reliving the searing kiss.
Maybe he just wanted to be her friend.
With added benefits.
Right. Like she’d agree to that. He still hadn’t even apologized for abandoning her or even explained why. And honestly, she was afraid to ask.
Afraid that he would say something earth-shattering like, You weren’t worth it, or I was too busy. Or, worse, I didn’t really care.
His lips had been soft, his hands hot as they traveled over her body. She shivered.
Friends with benefits?
Really awesome, mind-numbing, tummy-clenching benefits?
“This is what men like him do, Margot,” she whispered to herself. It was why he had the reputation that he did.
She eyed her computer.
And before she lost her nerve, she opened it up again and typed Bentley’s name in the search engine. Her finger hovered over the Return button.
Did she really want an update on his escapades?
Yes. She did.
Because it would be sobering.
And revealing.
And a painful reminder of why people like Bentley Wellington were users, the type who didn’t care about anyone but themselves.
The first story was from the auction, with a photo of him looking gorgeous in a tux, smiling for the cameras on the arm of her grandmother. It made her grin; he looked more pissed than anything.
How was it after only a few days with him she knew what type of smile was forced or real? That really couldn’t be a good sign.
She kept scrolling through stories, some old, some new, all of them confirming her suspicions.
The stories of his glamorous lifestyle sucked her in, so much that an hour passed before her stomach reminded her she hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast.
Just one more.
She clicked the third page.
And frowned.
BENTLEY WELLINGTON HOSPITALIZED FOR EXHAUSTION, read the headline.
Exhaustion?
She clicked on the article. It was vague. He had a towel over his head and was walking into a treatment center. The buzz in the article mentioned drugs and alcohol, but that didn’t feel right.
Oh great. Now she knew his medical history based on the fact that it didn’t feel right?
She kept reading.
And then felt her entire body go numb.
The date was the day after her parents’ accident.
He’d been hospitalized?
Her eyes raked over the article until they fell on the name of the hospital that he’d been checked into.
With a gasp she shut her computer and placed her hands over her mouth as tears welled in her eyes.
They’d been in the exact same hospital.
And he’d still never thought, Hey, I’m going to go hop in that elevator and see my best friend?
Anger surged through her, and then sadness. The same choking sadness that threatened to overwhelm her all those years ago.
She reached for her computer again. There had to be an explanation. What was she now? A stalker? It was not like she was writing a book about hospitals, exhaustion, and reasons for abandonment.
With a groan she shook her head, stood, and went in search of food. Maybe after a full stomach she’d be able to think clearly; maybe then the hollow feeling would go away.
When she opened the door she nearly tripped over a giant basket. A note was taped to the outside.
One day we’ll go on a real picnic, but for now, I thought you might be hungry. Eat me. It had a smiley face next to it.
She shivered. Yeah, she knew exactly what “eat me” meant.
Because that was just how his twisted mind worked.
Her smile fell.
She was getting attached to him all over again. Only this time they were alone in a huge house filled with her pain and his secrets.
He’d been hospitalized. In the mental wing of the same hospital she’d been in. He’d never done drugs in high school, and back then she’d known him better than anyone. And while she knew he was guilty of underage drinking, he’d never been a huge partyer. That came later.
It was staggering, thinking she knew everything about him, only to find out that maybe he’d kept her in the dark even back then.
With a shaky hand, she opened the basket to find it empty. Where the heck was all the food?
Something at the top of the stairs caught her attention.
A bag of Doritos?
With a smirk she picked it up, opened the bag, and walked down the stairs. On the middle landing there was a sandwich wrapped up in a Ziploc bag, and on the bottom of the stairs a waiting Bentley with a soda in hand.
“Let me guess.” She eyed the soda, leery of his motives. “It worked on your dog so you thought it might work on me?”
“Stole the words right from my mouth.” He winked and handed over the soda. “Also, my arm’s cramping. I thought I heard you get up a while back and then nothing, no door opening, no yelling. I almost called 911, and then I remembered you’re a vampire who prefers darkness to light, so I banked on you still being alive. Question: When you get hungry do you just lure wildlife into your room and stake it, or—”
She covered his mouth with the part of her hand not covered in glorious Doritos cheese. “Are you done?”
His eyes darted down to her fingers. Before she could pull back, Bentley had snatched her fingers and slid his tongue around the one covered with the most cheese. With a moan he closed his eyes, giving her a quick moment to freak out over the fact that if his tongue felt that good against her finger, what else was his mouth capable of? And why wasn’t she pulling away?
“Delicious.” His deep voice interrupted her vivid daydream about him licking her neck like a Popsicle. “Careful, Red, when you look at a man like that he’s bound to get ideas.”
“Like you need my help with your…ideas.”
Heat spread through her and she had to grip the railing to keep from pressing herself against his chest.
“Soda?” he asked in a low voice.
She was parched and starving and had Doritos breath and was so confused she didn’t know what to do.
Cringing, she took a huge gulp of Coke and eyed him over the aluminum can. “Why are you staring?”
“Your lip’s a bit better.” He pointed. “How does it feel?”
“Oh, I don’t know, like I got stung by an angry bee whose home you destroyed.”
“Bees live in hives.”
“And flowers, apparently.”
“Touché.” His smooth voice really was addicting. Damn him for making her realize that.
Another shiver wracked her body.
“So do you want the rest of the food?” Bentley asked.
“The rest of the food?”
“A plethora of food.”
“Big word.”
“Big basket.” He smirked down at the basket. “What do you say?”
“What’s the point of this? The luring me out of my room with food?”
“The point,” he repeated, “is to make sure you don’t starve while enjoying a nice, friendly conversation about something besides the elephants in the room.”
“Plural?”
Bentley nodded. “Your leg, my sexcapades, your grandmother, my grandfather, your parents, hell, my parents—”
“I get it,” she snapped. “‘Elephants’ works.”
He held out his hand. “Come on, let’s go eat.”
She didn’t have a chance to protest, because it was Bentley, and he took what he wanted, which included her hand when she refused to give it to him. He led her into one of her two large living rooms, the one with the ninety-inch flat-screen TV and the bar. Except for the fact that it was decorated in bright pinks and whites, it was more man cave than anything.
A bottle of expensive whiskey sat on one of the coffee tables next to pita bread and hummus, ice, fresh fruit, and chocolate.
“You did all of this?”
“I’m a man of too many talents to count,” he said in a teasing tone, which upset her more than it should. He always teased, but she was noticing his teasing took on two very different tones—one was playful and fun, the other was distant.
She preferred playful over distant.
The distance reminded her he wasn’t really there for her.
But for her grandmother.
For charity.
Bentley poured her a large shot of whiskey and pressed the thick glass into her hand. “Drink.”
“It’s three in the afternoon!”
He blinked. “So?”
“So it’s…not five yet.”
“Do you have a curfew still, too? Because I remember a few nights where I snuck you in at least five minutes before eleven.”
“Shut up.” She grinned at the memory and took a sip and nearly gagged. “That’s way too strong.”
“Thought you might say that.” He took her Coke and poured some in the glass then handed it back to her. “So how’s the book coming?”
She rolled her eyes. “You want to drink whiskey with me and ask about my book?”
“It’s either that or the elephants, remember?”
Margot chugged more whiskey and shuddered.
“Good choice,” he muttered under his breath.
“The kissing scene was good,” she finally managed to squeak out. “Probably one of the best I’ve ever written.”
“Margot.” He leaned in so close she could smell the whiskey on his breath. “Are you saying I inspired you?”
“No. Because saying that would inflate your ego and it’s hard enough being in the same room with you as it is.” She shoved his chest playfully.
He retreated with an easy grin and picked up a grape, popping it into his mouth before saying, “You only write historical romances.”
Margot traced her fingers around the rim of the glass. “Have you been Googling me?” she asked. And immediately images from her own Google search of him flooded her brain. No. Elephants.
“I own a phone, it has Internet access; it took me three seconds.” He shrugged as if stalking her wasn’t a big deal. As if it didn’t mean anything more than mild curiosity. “I bought one.”
She spit out her whiskey. “You what?”
“Bought one of your books.” And then he proceeded to quote, straight from one of them. “His flavor was unique, like leather and honey…the whiskey of his lips was—”
“Okay!” she yelled, interrupting him. “That was…what did you do, memorize one passage for the past three hours?”
“No. Actually, I read the entire book and then memorized it. I think you should have killed the duke, though. He was a complete bastard to Rosalyn. She forgave him way too easily.” He drank more whiskey and then just kept on talking as though her mouth hadn’t just dropped open in shock. “I mean, I get what you were trying to do with their relationship, create enough hate for it to turn into love, blah, blah, blah. It’s a fine line, it always is, but you pushed him too far, almost made it so you couldn’t redeem your own character. You basically wrote yourself into a corner, and it was painful watching you try to write your way out of it. But then, just when I thought you couldn’t do it, you did. I liked it. I’m not saying I like the guy, but it was good.”
When he quit talking, Margot responded in the only way a shut-in afraid of the world knew how.
She kissed him.
On the mouth.
And quickly pulled away. “Thank you.”
Holy crap, what did she just do?
The silence was thick. Bentley’s wavy dark hair was mussed, unkempt, as though he’d been running his hands through it. His eyes hooded as the rasp from his voice interrupted her internal meltdown. “Here’s a thought. Feel free not to shoot it down right away.”
“I’m listening.” Her body still felt heavy and needy from the stupid kiss she’d just given him.
See! This was why she was a shut-in! Among numerous other reasons! You didn’t just go around kissing houseguests on the mouth, especially ones who feel sorry for you and who abandoned you when you were at your worst! God, why was it so hard to keep hating him?
“Every time I read one of your books, I get a kiss.” His eyes twinkled. “What do you say?”
“I say I have eighteen,” she whispered as a laugh took hold.
“Give me twenty-four hours,” he said immediately.
“A question for a question?” she asked.
His eyes were hesitant, but he nodded anyway.
“What does your grandfather have over you that’s keeping you here for thirty full days?”
“That’s easy. He threatened to send the mafia after me.” Bentley shrugged. “But I’ve got friends in low places, so I think I could probably make it out alive.”
“Be serious.??
?
He lowered his gaze to a spot on the floor and then finally spoke. “If I said I was here out of the goodness of my own heart…would you believe me?”
“Nobody’s that good. Besides, I talked to my grandmother. I know this was something she and your grandfather cooked up. Because they’re insane.”
He laughed, but there was no humor in the sound. “Well, what if I said I wish I was…that type of man, the type that would drop everything to help a friend he hasn’t spoken to since she was sixteen. What would you say if I told you I wish I could go back in time, and be the friend you needed then, rather than be coerced into it now?”
A lump formed in Margot’s throat. She tried to clear it away, but it was useless. “I’d say—” her voice thick with emotion, she locked eyes with him “—that I don’t believe you.”
Bentley cursed. “Margot, look, back then—”
“No.” she interrupted; she wasn’t ready for the truth.
His eyes searched hers. “What if I told you there was a reason?”
“Is there ever a good reason for abandoning your best friend in her time of need?” Her voice dropped as she tried desperately not to let any tears fall.
Bentley pinched the bridge of his nose. “Back then, I would have said yes.”
“And now?” She just had to ask.
“No.” He looked angry, his nostrils flared, his jaw clenched. “Now, I say it’s a fucking excuse, and a poor one at that.”
He shouldn’t have said that.
It gave her hope.
Hope that she misunderstood the situation.
Hope that they could start fresh.
“Do you believe me?” He reached for her hand.
“Maybe.” She found her voice.
He exhaled. “Then that’s all that matters.”
“Is it?”
“For now?” He reached for his glass. “It has to be.”
Chapter Sixteen
He waited for Margot to call him out. It was something she would do, call bullshit when he deflected, but instead, she blushed.
Bentley would rather have been punched in the face.
Her blush meant he was getting to her.
It meant that part of her façade was cracking.