Billionaire Erotic Romance Boxed Set: 7 Steamy Full-Length Novels (123 page)

Sophie tapped her foot impatiently. “So what’re you suggesting?”

“We admit it.”

Her jaw fell open. “How does that help me at all?”

He held up his hands defensively. “Hold on, let me finish.” Sophie jerked a short nod. “We admit
part
of it. Pretend we’re a couple. Be seen in public together. It takes the starch out of the story. A couple having a spat is no news at all.”

“No.” She didn’t even have to think about it. It was ludicrous, she never wanted to see Henry again let alone play house with him. She would have to get herself out of this mess on her own, he was only going to make things worse. “No,” she said again.

“Sophie, this will save your business. We have to diffuse this situation. You need—”

The cauldron of anger in her belly had been bubbling ever since he’d arrived, but the sheer arrogance of his words sent it boiling over. “
Don’t
.” she bit out through clenched teeth. “The only thing I need from you is for you to get out of my life. Now.”

She pointed at the back door, breath quick and short. Heat burned in her cheeks like a fever as Henry rose, his face grim. “Sophie—”

“Out.”

His shoulders slumped. Darren opened the rear door, motioning for him to exit. Henry went, pausing on the threshold at the last second. His dark eyes were deep and wide with apparent remorse. “I’m sorry, Sophie. If you change your mind, you know how to reach me.”

“Goodbye, Henry.”

The second the door closed behind him she began to shake. Darren was at her side in an instant, wrapping her in strong arms as she wept.

“Oh, god, Dar. What am I going to do?”

“First things first. Let’s get the heck out of here.”

She sniffled. “I like that plan.”

They quickly gathered their things, not bothering to turn off the lights in fear that they might alert the paparazzi to their escape. At the back door, Darren took her elbow and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Ready to go?”

Sophie nodded. “Beyond ready. If I don’t get away from them now I think I’m going to scream.”

Darren swept open the rear door and ushered her through it. “Your wish is my command.”

Chapter Ten

“Oh god, I’m going to explode.” Sophie pushed her plate away. The gesture was an empty one, since the plate was scraped clean. Wayne chuckled.

“But, there’s lemon meringue pie. Or coconut cream. Or
Boston
cream.”

Sophie groaned. Boston cream pie was her favorite dessert. Which Wayne and Darren knew, of course. Just like they knew she liked baked ziti and French cut green beans and salad loaded with radicchio. And Shiraz. They’d plied her with all her favorite foods from the minute Darren had ushered her through the door of their cozy Bed-Stuy apartment. As if comfort food, no matter how delicious, would make her forget her new reputation.

“Let’s have some coffee,” Darren suggested. “Watch a movie. We can have pie later.”

“Guys. I really appreciate all of this but pie or no pie, I’m still ruined.” She gulped her wine.

Wayne patted her shoulder. “There’s always Henry’s propositi—”

“No,” she and Darren answered in unison.

Wayne held up his hands. “Okay, okay. Plan B. You could sue for libel?”

Darren grimaced. “I don’t think she can. For one thing, that would take too long. By the time she won a case, the damage would already be done. And they didn’t claim she
was
an escort. They just speculated as to the reason Henry Medina would be handing a gorgeous woman an envelope full of cash.”

Sophie thunked her forehead against the table. “See? I couldn’t even really prove them wrong. Like I told
him
.” she sneered the pronoun. “We did sleep together, and he did give me money. So I guess I am what they say I am.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Darren said. “The two events are unrelated, remember? And even if they weren’t, you didn’t take the money.”

“So I’m not even good at being an escort. Great.”

“Well,” Wayne said. “You’re in good company. Julia Roberts wasn’t either.”

Sophie’s head jerked up. “What?”

Wayne’s brows merged with his hairline they shot up so high. “Pretty Woman. The movie? How have you never seen that? We have to watch it. Right now.” He began tugging her up from the table. Sophie gave a soggy giggle.

“Honey,” Darren warned softly. “I don’t know if that’s the best choice right now.”

“Oh.” Wayne’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah, you’re right. Sorry, Soph.”

“No, it’s fine. Let’s do it. Clearly my cinematic education has been lacking. Show me this Pretty Woman you speak of.”

Wayne moved to the DVD player and sorted through the collection of movies him and Darren stored beside it. “You know we’re going to back out of the deal,” he said as he pulled a movie from the pile.

Sophie frowned. “What deal?” Was he reneging on the Boston cream pie?

“The apartment. There’s no way we’re going to go through with it now. Right?” He cast his husband a raised brow.

Darren nodded. “Oh, totally. He can stick his apartment in his incredibly cute backside.”

Both Wayne and Sophie shot him dark looks. Darren held up his hands. “What? He’s a total jerk, and there’s no way we’re taking that apartment, but you can’t deny that his butt is fantastic.”

She gave a soft laugh knowing that it was true. “You guys are taking that apartment.”

“Soph, no,” Darren replied.

Wayne squeezed her shoulder. “We don’t have to, Sophie. We’ll find something else.”

“At that price? Hardly. And anyway, if you’re in there then Henry can’t make more money on it. Think of it as sticking it to him for me.” She poked a finger into Darren’s chest. “And not a word from you.”

Wayne’s gave her a skeptical side glance as he poured them each another glass of wine. “Okay then. To sticking it to Henry Medina!”

“Hear, hear!” Sophie cheered, raising the glass to her lips.

***

“I never should have had that last glass of wine.” Sophie groaned. Her reflection seemed to agree. She looked terrible. There were dark smudges under her eyes and her skin was a little pale. Not to mention the fact that her head was throbbing like a particularly difficult tango beat.

She, Darren, and Wayne had run through almost every romantic comedy the couple owned and two, maybe three, bottles of Shiraz. She had awoken that morning sprawled on their couch, still in her clothes from yesterday. As usual, she was the first one up. Even hungover, Sophie was an early riser. She’d left her friends a note and gone home to shower and change.

And then she’d found herself here. At the closed studio. The place was empty and with all of the lights off it seemed sad and forlorn. Thankfully, the reporters were no longer crowding the studio’s entrance. They must have gotten the message that she wasn’t going to talk.

She sipped her water and took a deep breath. She’d always done her best thinking while rehearsing so she cranked up the classical music and began moving through her yoga stretches. She ignored the world outside her window and just tried to concentrate on herself.

There had to be some way to clear her name. But no matter how she wracked her brain, no solution came. Except Henry’s. And there was no way she was going to agree to spend any more time in that man’s company. Whatever he claimed, he’d meant to push her away when he handed her that money. She wasn’t about to let him off just because it was inconvenient for her.

A light knock interrupted her reverie. She let out her breath and cautiously approached the back door. It was Darren, surely, or the more persistent of the reporters. But the quickening of her heartbeat said maybe it was Henry.

But when she pulled the door open it wasn’t any of those people. Sophie blinked up at the tall form of Carl Barrett, her mouth hanging open. His cropped blond hair was thinning on top and the slight paunch of his belly pressed against the grey button-down he wore tucked into his slacks. But his blue eyes twinkled from their web of lines with the humor that was his trademark.

“I know,” he said, mouth twisting wryly. “I get that reaction a lot from women. Can I come inside before you throw yourself at me? I’m not really big on public displays of affection.”

Sophie hiccuped a surprised laugh. “Uh. Come in, Mr. Barrett. You know we’re closed, right?” He’d come to the back door, which seemed to indicate he did. But the news was full of stories about the odd stunts he pulled. Maybe this was one of them? Was he looking for a headline too? “Also, I’m really not an escort. So if you’re here for that...”

Carl chuckled. Heat splashed Sophie’s cheeks as he stepped past her into the studio. “I am aware of both of those things, Ms. Becker, believe it or not.”

She closed the door, watching him with wide eyes as he strolled around the office area. He picked up a stack of flyers for children’s free style dance classes and fanned them out. “I’m a terrible dancer, did you know that?”

“I didn’t.” She also didn’t know what the hell a famous comedian was doing sneaking in the back entrance to her besieged studio. Carl picked up a single loose tap shoe and twirled it between his hands.

“I am. Always have been. Not just two left feet, but two left
lame
feet. But my sophomore year in college, I fell crazy in love with this girl who was... you guessed it... a dancer.”

Sophie frowned. “Is this about a class? Because we’re closed for the foreseeable future.”

Carl waved his long fingered hand, smiling at her. “No, no. This is about Mirielle, who didn’t even know I existed of course. I was even gawkier than I am now.”

“You didn’t move in the same circles?” She had no idea where the story was going but she figured Carl Barrett hadn’t shown up at her studio just to chat about unrequited love.

“Worse than that. If Mirielle moved in a circle, I moved in a square. We lived in that different of worlds. But I desperately wanted to be in hers, so I auditioned for the school’s performance of West Side Story.” He plopped down in Darren’s chair, stretching out his long legs.

“Mr. Barrett, I really don’t understand—”

He crossed his arms over his paunch. “Now, my roommate had the moves like Jagger. And he gamely tried to teach me how to not completely suck at dancing, but despite his determined efforts I didn’t improve much. But when it came to audition day he was right there in the auditorium by my side, cheering me on.”

Sophie bit her lip, unable to keep herself from asking, “Did you get the part?”

He snorted. “Of course not. I was tragic. The only impression I made on my darling Mirielle was that of a spastic dork. Not my finest hour.”

“Mr. Barrett, please. Why are you telling me this?”

“My friend,” he continued as if she hadn’t interrupted, “had, it turned out, anticipated the possibility of this very thing happening and signed up for an audition himself, unbeknownst to me. So he gets up there and knocks it out of the park.” Carl leaned down and plucked an unopened bottle of water from the mini-fridge. “So, my roommate gets the part opposite Mirielle. And let me tell you, she is thrilled. He’s tall, dark, handsome. And he can dance.”

Cold tendrils of dread began to snake through Sophie’s guts. Tall, dark, handsome, and a good dancer? “Wait a minute—”

But Carl ignored her. “I am, of course, devastated. Not only have I failed in my mission to let Mirielle know I’m alive, but she’s now turned her sights on my much handsomer, more accomplished friend. I was out of luck.”

“I don’t want to hear anymore.” Sophie stomped her foot. Carl quirked a brow.

“I’m almost done. Hear me out.” He took a sip of water. “I moped around our dorm room for months, mooning over Mirielle and barely speaking to my roommate. Every day that he went to play practice I got a little more morose. And then, one day, out of the blue there’s a knock on our door. Who do you think it is?”

“Mirielle?” She asked, knowing he was dedicated to finishing his story.

Carl toasted her with the water. “Mirielle. She wanted to know if I’d like to go out some night. I jumped at the chance, and two nights later we went on our first date. So while we’re talking over dinner I ask her what made her come to my dorm. And she says how my roommate talked about me a lot during practice. Said she’d gotten to know me without even realizing it.”

Sophie cocked a brow. “And you lived happily ever after?”

“God, no. The break-up was Broadway levels of theatrical. But we did end up dating happily for several months.”

“Was Henry good in the play?” Why had she asked that? She didn’t care about Henry Medina or anything he did. Past or present.

Carl gave her a pointed look. “He didn’t do it. He dropped out the minute Mirielle asked me out. He’d only been going to practice to talk to her about me.”

Sophie pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger, trying to relieve the pressure that had built in her head as Carl was talking. “So, what? He did you a solid by talking to your dancer paramour and you thought you’d return the favor? Is that it?”

“I’m trying to tell you that Henry is a decent guy,” he said, taking a serious tone for the first time.

She inhaled a slow breath through her nose. Carl Barrett’s touching story did nothing to negate what Henry had done to her. “Your decent guy slept with me and then handed me an envelope full of cash!” Hot blood throbbed in her cheeks.

“Henry told me what happened. He said he was paying you for dance lessons, not sexual favors.”

“They only reason he’s even bothering to apologize is because of that picture in the paper.” Sophie wanted to pace, or stretch, or dance. Something. Her muscles ached for movement.

Carl frowned at her. “He said he called you multiple times the next day and you didn’t answer.”

“He did not! I didn’t go anywhere all day.” She narrowed her eyes. Now Henry was lying to his friends to make himself sound better? How despicable.

“This phone?” Carl pointed at the one sitting on the front desk.

Sophie scowled, her forehead tightening with the force of the expression. “What? No. I was home.”

“He said he called you here. Does he have your home number?”