Playboy's Ruthless Payback: Playboy's Ruthless Payback. Laura Wright
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mug from the dish drainer and poured herself a cup of coffee. “We’re just worried about you, that’s all. If everything you said about this guy is true, he’s up to more than just having you refurnish his house to bag a big client.”
“Of course he is. I told you both that.”
Mary put the pan down, grabbed Tess’s cup and took a sip of her coffee. “What if he’s having you design the bedroom he’s going to try and seduce you in?”
“What? You’re both acting nuts. He may be trying to use me, but he’s incredibly clever and creative and interesting in his thinking. Whatever he’s planning has got to be far more elaborate than—” She stopped at the worried looks on her partners’ faces. “What?”
“You like him,” said Mary.
“Oh, come on.”
Tess nodded slowly. “You think he’s ‘clever’ and ‘creative,’ and you probably think he’s hot, too.”
Olivia laughed and stepped down from the ladder. “Of course he’s hot. Anyone with eyes could see the guy is hot.”
“Oh, dear,” Mary began, one hand to her belly as if she were protecting the baby from hearing anything too scandalous.
“Not good,” Tess agreed. “I think I should take over the job.”
“Will you two chill out?” Olivia grabbed a pen from her drawer and began writing down the names of several pieces of cookware. “Mac Valentine may be great-looking and charming and all the other things I said, but I’m not an idiot. He is also an arrogant womanizer with no furniture and no moral compass.”
Tess nodded. “Yeah, that’s pretty much what that article I read last week said. But somehow they made it sound like it was a good thing.”
“What? What article?”
“Tess, go get it,” Mary commanded, then turned back to Olivia.
“Oh, you read it, too,” Olivia said.
Mary shrugged. “I was going through all the old magazines for recycle and you know how once I see something I can’t stop reading, blah, blah, blah…” Tess returned and handed the copy of Minneapolis Magazine to Olivia. Mary said, “It’s from a few years ago. Page thirty-four.”
Letting out an impatient breath, Olivia grabbed the magazine and quickly flipped through the pages until she found the right one. And she knew it was the right one—not by the page number on the bottom right-hand corner, but by the enormous photograph of Mac and another man sitting on a stainless steel desk, a killer view of downtown Minneapolis displayed out the windows behind them. The spread was called “Workaholic, yet Woman Friendly,” and featured both men holding BlackBerries in one hand and gold bars in the other. The sight of Mac, looking both handsome and arrogant as hell, didn’t bother Olivia at all. It was the picture of the other man who sat beside him that had her stomach turning over.
Tim Keavy.
Her heart pounded furiously against her chest and she broke out in a sweat. The one guy from high school who knew what she truly was, knew her most shameful secret. God, did this mean that Mac knew, too? Was he going to use it against her? Against her father?
Olivia brushed a hand over her face. So much for her calm professionalism around Mac Valentine. Damn him. She hadn’t expected him to go this route. She’d expected a full-out seduction—not using her past against her.
She stared at Mac’s dark, dangerous face. Was it possible that he didn’t know, that this was just an odd coincidence? A nervous shiver went through her entire body. She was going to have to be extra vigilant now. Watch every move he made and be prepared for it.
For a moment she thought about quitting the job, but she didn’t run away from difficult situations anymore. She was no coward. She rolled up the magazine, then grabbed her notes. “I’ve got to go.”
“Just watch yourself, okay,” said Mary.
“I will.” And on her way out the door she tossed the magazine in the trash.
* * *
November snow in Minnesota was said to be only the warm-up act for what was coming in January, but as Mac pulled into his driveway, his tires spinning and begging for chains as thick flakes of snow pelted his windshield, he wondered if Christmas had already come and gone without his knowing.
He pulled into the dry haven of his garage and shut off the engine. For a moment, he just sat there. He’d left the homes of many women before, but never had he come home to one. Yes, Olivia was an employee so it should have made the situation feel less domestic, but it didn’t. He found her too pretty, too passionate, too smart to be just an employee.
When he entered the house a few minutes later, he heard the clanging sound of pots and pans being put away, and walked the short distance to the kitchen. His body instantly betrayed him as he spotted Olivia bending down, stacking pan lids on a shelf inside the island. Her dark hair was pulled back in a girlish ponytail and her pale skin looked flushed from all the activity. She wore a red sweater that hugged her breasts and waist, and jeans that pulled deliciously against her firm, round bottom. Devilish thoughts went through his head…like how good it would feel to be there when she stood up, to wrap his arms around her waist, to feel her backside press against him, to slip his hands under that soft wool sweater and feel her skin, her bones and her nipples as they hardened.
She turned then, caught him staring at her and gave him an expectant look. There was nothing new in it, she sported this look quite often, but today there was something more in her eyes, as though she seemed to be silently accusing him.
He dropped his briefcase and keys and walked into the room. She’d done wonders. The space was perfect, homey, yet surprisingly modern with its green, gray and stainless steel accents. She had actually created a family kitchen for him, based on his tastes. She was damn good at what she did, and he couldn’t wait to experience the aspect of the job were she had the most skill: the cooking.
“Well, Ms. Winston,” he said, trying to lighten the mood. “You’re going to make some man a great wife.”
But the joke was lost on her. Her brows drew together in an affronted frown. “That was an incredibly sexist remark.”
“Was it?”
“Yes.”
“Why? I was giving you a compliment. The room looks amazing.”
“So, only a husband can appreciate it?” she said, holding an incredibly large frying pan in one hand. “This is my job because I love it, not because I chose something stereotypically female. Okay?”
“Sure.” He eased the fry pan out of her hand and put it on the counter. “This is not a weapon.”
She stood a foot away, looking altogether too attractive, even in her ire. “I don’t need stainless steel to do harm, Valentine.”
He nodded. “I believe you.” He reached up and brushed a stray hair off of her cheek. Her skin was so soft it made him ache to keep touching her. “Tell you what, when I go out back later and chop firewood you can say that I’d make a fine husband.”
Not even a hint of a smile. He had no idea what he might have done to make her so mad at him, but he knew he was in trouble.
“I doubt very much that you chop wood,” she said, picking up a pot from the sink. “But even if you did it would take a lot more than watching you to make me think that you’d be a good husband.”
“Why are you so angry with me?” he said finally. “I could sense it the moment I walked in. You look damn pretty, but clearly pissed off.”
“I’m not angry!” she shouted, snatching a dishtowel off the counter.
“What is it? Have a conversation with your father today?”
“Listen, buddy,” she said sourly. “I