Getting Lucky. Avril Tremayne
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rushed at him like a bullet. He wanted to suck the breath out of her, rip the clothes off her, lick the scent from her skin.
What the fuck was happening to him?
“Sorry to make you wait,” she said, her trying-but-not-quite-making-it smile telling him she felt his tension. “I had to call Lennie to report on last night’s restaurant.”
She’d taken off her overcoat, and when she paused on her way to the desk to drape it over a chair he saw what she meant about bursting out of her clothes—her bodice was skintight, and she looked ripe as a ready-to-eat-immediately peach. He really didn’t think he was going to survive tonight.
“It’s two in the morning in London,” he said, the snap in his voice a symptom of his overwrought edginess.
“So?”
“So don’t try telling me you called Lennie.” Not that it was anything to him if she called Lennie at two in the fucking morning.
“I...I did,” she said, and blushed, defensive. “Chef’s hours. I couldn’t have called him any earlier.”
“Yeah, well, Lennie’s an asshole, expecting you to report in after every meal,” he grumbled, and swiveled his chair back to the desk, because the blush pissed him off and he didn’t want to see it. Not that it was anything to him who she blushed over, but she shouldn’t be blushing over Lennie of all people. “You’re a restaurant consultant not a slave.”
She’d reached the desk and took her seat, holding her briefcase on her lap as though it were that chastity belt he’d told himself she needed. “You know I have to jump when he says jump.”
“I know you can’t trust a guy who fricassees garden snails,” Matt said, because he didn’t trust Lennie. Lennie thought he owned her.
She gave an agitated little huff that told him he was being a dick. “And here I was thinking you might have given up burgers for escargot.”
“Why would I do that?”
“The house...this room.” She looked around. “Your tastes have changed.”
“It’s just a library.”
“Yes, and it’s very library-like,” she said, looking around again. “Hmm. It reminds me of the library in Teague’s family’s place in the Hamptons. All those shelves full of...of books.”
“Hel-lo! Library!”
“Yes but the chairs, tables, Persian rugs, velvet curtains. That fireplace! Big enough to incinerate an elephant!” She laughed, but it sounded forced. “Remember that time we were all invited to the Hamptons for the Hamiltons’ Fourth of July ball? Even Veronica was wowed by the library!”
“You went into raptures over it, too, so what’s the problem here?”
She grimaced—grimaced! What the fuck!
“I just...wondered if you’d bought the place already furnished, that’s all,” she said.
“Why? Because I don’t have Teague’s good taste?”
“Well, you don’t, actually. Nobody does! But what I meant was that not even you could get all this done in a week.”
“Oh.” He shrugged, suddenly self-conscious that it hadn’t been furnished, that he’d hired people to do it, that he’d told them to copy Teague’s style and to get it ready in a week in time for Romy’s visit. The library, the kitchen, two bedrooms—his and a spare in case she decided to stay—and an outdoor table, two chairs and a patio heater so they could eat breakfast on the deck tomorrow, because the deck wasn’t as oppressive as the rest of this fucking ginormous house. And now it felt all wrong. “Look, are we going to spend the night talking about decor or can we get on with the business at hand?”
“Okay!” She huffed a breath in and out as she pulled a sheaf of pages out of her briefcase and put the briefcase on the floor beside her chair. And then she frowned at him. “You know all this paperwork is only to help you make an informed decision, right? I’m not here to torment you with red tape.”
“I’m not tormented.”
“You sound tormented. You look tormented. You—”
“I’m not tormented!”
Pause. “Let me put it a different way.”
“Fuck!”
“If you’re having second thoughts about giving me your sperm, I’ll let you off the hook, no questions asked.”
He almost laughed at that! “Romy, I’m having so many thoughts about giving you my sperm I can barely keep up with them—but not one of them involves being let off the hook.”
“I just want us to be...you know...normal.”
“So we make that a nonnegotiable condition, okay? We stay normal or it’s off.”
“Yes, but—”
“Jesus, Romy, move things the fuck along or I’ll think you’re having second thoughts!”
She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it, closed it, opened it, and all that drawing attention to her mouth was not helping because it made him want to kiss her! And then, “Fine!” she said. “Fine. If you’re sure.” She sorted agitatedly through her paperwork. “Here,” selecting a page and holding it out to him as she placed the rest on the desk in front of her.
He took the page. “What is it?”
“A waiver my lawyer drew up for your protection.”
“Protection from what?”
“From me. Think of it as the prenup you have when you’re not getting married.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me!”
“I’m not going to have people say I baby-trapped America’s favorite dot-com billionaire.”
He stared at her for one long, fraught moment. And then, “Okay,” he said, and read the document. “Right.” Looking up. “Got it.”
“Read it again.”
“I don’t need to read it again, Romy.”
“Yes, Matt, you do. You make decisions too quickly. And this is important. Important enough that you might want to have your lawyer read it. In fact, you should get your lawyer to read it.”
“I don’t need my lawyer to read it, because I’m not signing it.”
“Well, of course I’m not expecting you to sign it right this minute.”
“I’m not signing it, period.”
“What?”
“Will this make it easier to understand?” he asked—and ripped the page in half, dropping the two pieces back onto the desk.
“Why did you do that?”
“Because if you think I’m going to sit here on a fortune while my kid lives on a budget on the other side of the world, you’ve got rocks in your head. I may know fuck-all about being a father, and we both know I’d be a shitty role model for a kid—”
“You would not!”
“—but one thing I can do, and do easily, is money.”
“I don’t want your money, Matt.”
“The money’s not for you, so get over it. You’re getting just about everything you want out of this deal, Romy, and that’s fine. That’s great. I’m cool with it. But for the love of God, stop rubbing in the whole I-don’t-need-you-Matt thing.”
“Rubbing—? Need—? I don’t—!” She peered at him as though trying to dive into his brain. “I don’t understand.