Page 3 of The Billionaire in Her Bed

Ohmigod.Did she seriously just say that? No one would ever accuse her of being shy, but sexually aggressive wasn’t in her wheelhouse. What had come over her? It was like aliens had taken over body. Horny, sex-starved aliens.

Eli jerked his head toward the end of the bar, where the homeless guy was fast asleep with his Fireball. “What about him?”

“There’s a shelter a few blocks over. I’ll have a cab drop him off.” She took a shot glass, filled it with a liberal portion of Jägermeister, and lifted it halfway to her mouth. Nothing like a little liquid courage to unlock her inhibitions. “So, what do you say? Are you in a rush to get home? Or can you help a girl out?”

“Well, when you put it that way…” He clinked his glass with hers. “Far be it from me to abandon a damsel in distress.”

…

Eli Ward smiled as he sipped his crappy scotch. Poor quality of the booze aside, things were definitely looking up.

Not hard, considering how his day had started.

His morning joe—black with two shots of espresso—all over the front of his gray and white pinstripe Robert Graham dress shirt? Check. His driver out sick and not an empty cab to be found in SoHo during morning rush hour? Check.

And then, the trifecta. The rancid cherry on top of his shit sundae.

They’d lost the East Harlem project, the latest in a series of business disasters for Momentum Development. An old sugar refinery in Dumbo. A former elementary school in Stuyvesant. An abandoned warehouse in Flatbush. All snatched from under him at the eleventh hour by his biggest rival in the New York City real estate game, Noel Dupree.

Somehow, some way, Dupree was getting the best of him. Eli had made an art of flying under the radar with his projects until it was time to go public. And that meant working with only the most circumspect, trustworthy people. His vetting process was extensive. But not for the first time he wondered if Momentum had a mole. It was the only explanation he could think of for Dupree’s recent successes.

Which was why he’d played it closer to the vest with the East Harlem project. The only people in on it were Eli and his best friend and business partner, Simon Adler. Eli had even left his totally trustworthy PA Ginny out of the loop to be on the safe side.

And, in all likelihood, that meant only one thing. His best friend and business partner was selling him out. Exactly how and exactly why, Eli didn’t know. But he was going to find out.

To do that, he needed some space. Otherwise he ran the risk of either tipping Simon off that he was wise to him or punching his face in.

So, he’d run—told a shocked and confused Ginny to cancel his meetings and hopped on a subway to anywhere, winding up thirty minutes from Manhattan in Sunset Park. Which, according to the charming, attentive, and extremely attractive Brooke, was soon to be the site of a new Fairway. What developers like him referred to as a green shoot, a harbinger of gentrification and increased property values.

He logged that fact in his brain and moved on to more pressing matters. Like the fetching female across the bar.

He sat back and studied her as she moved about the room, wiping down tables, pushing in chairs, sweeping the floor. Not his usual type, for sure. Instead of sharp angles and hard edges, she was soft and warm and inviting, with curvy hips and a J-Lo booty he was dying to get his hands on. Raven hair fell in lush, dark waves to her shoulders, framing a face that housed a sensuous mouth begging to be kissed.

And to top it all off, like a red, ripe cherry perched on the seriously scrumptious ice cream sundae his day had transformed into, she had absolutely no freaking idea who the hell he was. No clue he was a member of theForbes400. No chance she was after him for his money or his social status. She was just a woman—a damned attractive woman—who seemed like she wanted him as much as he did her.

She caught him staring and gave a thick, throaty laugh. His dick twitched in his pants. Fuck, she was a walking, talking wet dream.

His for the taking. No strings attached. The perfect end to an imperfect day.

He knocked back the rest of his shitty scotch, thunked the empty glass down on the bar, and slid off his stool. “Need a hand?”

She shook her head, sending her blue-black tresses swaying around her face like a velvety curtain. “I’m almost done. Have to count out the night’s receipts—what little there are—and lock them up in the office safe.”

She swapped the broom for the cash drawer and motioned for him to follow her down a narrow hallway off the back of the bar. She stopped in front of an old-fashioned wood-paneled door with a frosted glass window, took a ring of keys from the belt loop of her super-short mini skirt, and inserted one into the lock. “Here we are. My home away from home.”

She pushed the door open and flicked on a grainy fluorescent light overhead. He trailed in after her. When he could drag his eyes away from the seductive sway of her generous ass in the skintight mini, he saw she wasn’t kidding about the home away from home thing. The office was like a combination kitchen, bedroom, and workspace, complete with a microwave, mini-fridge, and futon in addition to the traditional desk, chair, and filing cabinets.

He opted for the futon, taking a seat and crossing an ankle over his knee. “Nice digs.”

She sat behind the desk and started sorting the cash from the drawer. “I spend enough time here. Figured I might as well make it comfortable.”

“You own this place?”

“Manager. Bartender. Jack of all trades. It pays the bills.” She stuck the money in an envelope, sealed it, and scrawled something across the front. When she was done, she crossed to the safe and knelt to dial in the combination. The door swung open, and she shoved the envelope inside. “There. All set.”

She slammed the safe shut and stood. “I have a surprise for you.”

“Oh?” One corner of his mouth lifted in a half smile.