Billionaire on the Loose (2 page)

“Scones? How very British of us, guv'ner!”

“Oh, god, Tay, that was the worst accent I've ever heard.”

“I'm doing Billie Piper from
Doctor Who
.”

“You're yelling.” Gretchen winced. “I don't think Billie whoever screamed at the Doctor all day long. Increasing your volume doesn't make you more British, nerd.”

“Cheerio and chop chop!”

“For the love of god, stop it.”

Taylor giggled and flung her arms around Gretchen. Man, it was good to see her. To have an interaction that didn't involve
Excelsior
lately. “Since you asked nicely, I'll stop.”

Gretchen just shook her head, put an arm around Taylor's waist, and led her down one of the many long halls of the manor. “So tell me what you're up to.”

“Oh, just more tech support stuff. Nothing exciting.”

“Did you take that promotion they offered you?”

Taylor winced. “No, I turned it down.”

“Oh, Tay! Why?” Gretchen pulled away and opened the swinging kitchen door, revealing a charming, large kitchen with checkered tile and a hanging pot rack. It looked like something straight out of a Martha Stewart baking sim.

“Well . . .” Taylor sat down on one of the stools and put her elbows on the ingredient-strewn table. A bowl of batter went flying and Taylor grabbed at it, only to knock over a pepper mill and a bottle of olive oil. “Oh, god!”

“Tay!” Gretchen bellowed, grabbing items as they rolled off the counter. “I forgot what a disaster you are. Don't touch anything!”

Chagrined, Taylor crossed her arms over her chest and ignored that one of her sleeves now had scone batter on the cuff. “Sorry.”

Gretchen just gave her an exasperated look. “Seriously. How is it that you're such a klutz after all this time?”

“Magic?” Taylor kept her smile bright. She just didn't pay attention sometimes, and her friends knew it. She was easily distracted.

Gretchen shook her head and swiped spilled batter into a bowl, then tossed the entire thing in the sink. “More like a voodoo curse. Don't change the subject, though. How come you didn't take the promotion? I know you're always tight on money.”

She shrugged. What could she say? That guild stuff—and Sigmund's neediness—was keeping her from being able to put in the extra hours a week that a supervisory position would require? That it meant working in the office instead of at home and she'd be unable to play much, which would make Sigmund spiral out of control? That she'd called in a lot in the last few months and they'd stopped asking her if she was interested in a promotion and started asking if she needed to talk to a counselor? “Just . . . didn't feel like the right time.”

“I swear, it's because you're addicted to that game, isn't it?” Gretchen put her hands on her hips, and for a moment she looked an awful lot like Taylor's mom. “Do we need to host an intervention, Tay?”

“No, I'm fine.” It really wasn't Taylor's choice to play all the time. If it were up to her, she'd put her accounts on vacation for a few months and take some well-needed days away. But every time she tried, the Sigmund thing got ugly, and her guilt got worse. So she lied, “I'm actually cutting back. It's just been hectic at work lately.”

“I hear you,” Gretchen said sympathetically. She slipped her hands into a pair of oven mitts. “The housing market's been crazy lately and Hunter's business has been booming. He doesn't sell direct himself of course, but all of his offices are scurrying to keep up and that means extra work for my poor sweetheart.” She pointed one of her mitts at Taylor. “Can you zest that lemon for me while I pull out the scones and somehow manage not to hurt yourself?”

“Sure.” As Gretchen turned away, Taylor picked up the lemon, accidentally dropped it on the floor, and then slid out of her chair to grab it. As she retrieved the lemon and got up, she banged her head on the underside of the counter. With a wince, she returned to her seat, rubbing her scalp. Dang. “I'm not sure you should trust me with sharp objects.”

“Use the grater, dummy.” Gretchen pulled a pan of triangle-shaped creations out of the oven, and the room filled with the scent of lemon cake. “If you hurt yourself with that, though, I'm not responsible.”

Taylor picked up the box grater gingerly and then began to rub the lemon on one side of it. “So, how's the wedding stuff going?”

“Terrible. Greer's my planner and she abandoned me to go stay with her dad for a few weeks in Vegas. I'm like, this is a crucial time, Greer! I have to pick out cakes and everything!” Gretchen shook her head. “Tragic.”

“Oh, right. Her father's getting married, isn't he?” Taylor wrinkled her nose. Greer was a sweet, demure type, but her dad was . . . well, he was old and skanky. She didn't hold it against Greer, though. Girl didn't have much to do with her family or her dad's business.

“To triplets,” Gretchen affirmed. She set the pan down and gave Taylor a shifty look. “Speaking of love and stuff . . . you seeing anyone?”

“God, no.” Just the thought made her want to vomit. Sigmund would freak majorly if she even had a whiff of a guy online, and she barely left her apartment long enough to meet anyone as it was.

Gretchen seemed surprised by Taylor's reaction. “Do you not want to date?”

“It's . . . complicated.” As in,
There's this guy online that threatens to hurt himself if I so much as walk away from the computer and I don't know what to do
.

“Well . . . the friend I want you to show around the city? He's new to the States.” Her eyes gleamed. “And he's damn hot, girl, so put on your lipstick.”

“My lipstick?” Taylor dropped her lemon again.

Gretchen swooped to retrieve the fallen fruit, and then took the grater from Taylor's hands. “Yes, your lipstick. Put on some makeup, fix your hair, and get your best flirt game on. He's a real catch and I think you'll like him.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “He's from Bellissime.”

“That weird little country that that Griffin guy is from?” She'd met Maylee, who was real nice, but a bit of a rube, and was surprised to find that her fiancé was a starchy aristocrat from overseas.

“Same one! Now, can we get rid of the Hello Kitty backpack?” Gretchen beamed at her.

Taylor clutched the straps of her backpack and shook her head. “I like my backpack.”

“So do all the eight-year-olds that own one. And that scarf. We need to ditch the scarf. It's summer.”

“It's the fourth Doctor's scarf!”

“Which is why we need to ditch it. I don't want you flying your freak flag until he sees how cute you are.” She pinched Taylor's cheek and then gave a tug on the scarf.

Taylor's hands went to her beloved scarf. She was a nerd and she was totally fine with it. Lots of hot guys liked nerds. So she hadn't met any yet, but that didn't mean they didn't exist. “I thought I was just hanging around with the guy for a few hours and showing him how to find the subway and stuff. Is this a
date
?”

“Not really? But trust me when I say that he is smoking-hot gorgeous and you can bounce quarters off of his sporty ass, so you want to look hot, okay?”

“Um, okay.” Taylor mentally pictured flicking quarters at a hot guy's bubble butt, then shook her head to clear the image. “Here's the thing, though. I'm not usually the type of girl those guys go for, so I'll probably be better off being his guide—”

“Makeup,” Gretchen bellowed. “Did you or did you not bring some?”

“I keep some in my backpack.” She winced at Gretchen's bossy tone. “Is he coming here soon?”

Gretchen turned and checked the clock on the wall. “Should be here any moment now. You need to hustle.”

Eek. She was going to be spending the afternoon with a super-hot guy? Instead of vague excitement, she just felt dread. If Sigmund found out, he was going to flip. God, why did she even care if Sigmund found out? That was how messed up she was. Ugh. She slid off the barstool. “You got a bathroom I can borrow to freshen up?”

“Go down the hall to the right. Just don't use the first bathroom on the left because the door sticks. Use the second one on the left.”

The hall had more than one bathroom? Jeez. “Right, left, right.”

“Right, left, left,” Gretchen corrected, and wiped her hands with a towel. As she did, the doorbell rang, a sonorous chime echoing through the kitchen. Her eyes lit up. “Oh, that'll be him! Scoot!”

“Scooting,” Taylor said, and headed out into the hall even as Gretchen moved in the opposite direction. All right. Find a bathroom, slap on some mascara so she didn't look tired, and show a hot guy around the city. She could do this. It might even be fun. She knew she wouldn't be his type, but that was fine. Truth be told, she went for hot scholars herself, like the one guy in
Criminal Minds
or Joseph Gordon-Levitt. A big buff guy was probably a himbo, and that was so not her bag.

But she'd put makeup on to please Gretchen. She desperately wanted everyone around her to be happy, and Taylor had long been a project of Gretchen's devious matchmaking mind. They usually ended in total failure, but that didn't stop Gretchen from trying.

The hallway Gretchen had pointed her to was seemingly endless, with a line of shut doors. Good lord. How many rooms did this place have again? She pulled her phone out of her pocket to Google it, curious, and then stopped before she could unlock her screen. She shouldn't look; if Sigmund was texting her, she'd get all anxious and freaked out again.

But surely it couldn't hurt to peek, could it? Just to see how the raid was doing? And if she saw nothing from him, well, that'd be the best thing ever, wouldn't it? She'd be able to enjoy her afternoon in peace.

And because she sucked at waiting and patience and things like that, Taylor swiped right to unlock her screen and looked at her phone.

A dozen messages crawled over her screen and Taylor's heart sank. She walked forward slowly, reading the messages.

Sigmund: Raid's about to start.

Sigmund: Daphine and LittleJohn didn't show up. We're missing a tank and a healer. This is ridiculous.

Sigmund: I can't believe these assholes didn't show. It's because you're not here!

Sigmund: They must hate me.

Sigmund: Why does everyone hate me?

Sigmund: Everyone but you.

Sigmund: I try so hard, Taylor, I really do.

Sigmund: I wish you were here right now. I hate it when you leave.

Sigmund: I just want to log off and crawl into a hole.

Sigmund: Or just log off of life entirely.

Oh, god. Should she answer? Ignore him? She'd told him she wouldn't be available and yet he was still texting her like crazy. What should she do? Send him a cheerful note to pick up his mood? But then she was enabling him, wasn't she?

Distracted, Taylor walked into the bathroom and slapped the door shut behind her. She took a step forward—

—And nearly choked herself. Her scarf was stuck in the door. Damn it. She turned and gave it a hard yank. Still stuck. With a sigh of frustration, she put her phone down on the bathroom counter and opened the door.

Or . . . she tried to.

The doorknob moved, but the door itself wouldn't budge. Her scarf hung in the doorjamb, stuck fast, and the door itself didn't seem to want to move. Uh-oh. Had Gretchen said the bathroom on the left or the bathroom on the right?

Oh, boy. Taylor was pretty sure she'd just locked herself in the bathroom and the hot guy had just shown up. Could this day get any worse?

With an uneasy glance at her phone, Taylor picked it up again.

Sigmund: I wish I were dead. No one cares if I'm here or not. They won't even show up for the raid. :(

Yeaaaah. She shouldn't have dared the universe. This day
could
get worse. She backed away from the toilet in case it decided to take her up on her dare and start overflowing or something.

Loch studied the stately manor house as he strolled up the walkway. Felt a bit odd to be showing up at someone's house without guards or at least a friend in tow. It was clear after a few days of being in the States, though, that while he was Someone Important in most of Europe, here, he was just another guy.

It was quite nice, actually. Quiet. Calming. He could get used to this.

He rang the doorbell, noting that even though the exterior of the house looked old-fashioned, the door was new and he'd wager that the interior was modern, too. He'd grown up in a manor house that was five hundred years old, complete with low ceilings and roof leaks and household ghosts. He'd sold the place after his parents had died and never regretted it. Didn't want the upkeep of that sort of place. Didn't mix with his lifestyle. He had a suite in a hotel downtown, but maybe he'd see about getting himself an apartment while he was staying in New York. Something modern. He liked the idea. Maybe something above one of the local pubs, though he hadn't seen many of those yet—

The door opened, interrupting his thoughts. A smiley redhead greeted him. “Oh, good lord, what are they feeding you over there?” She looked him up and down. “You must be Loch. My goodness, the internet does not do you
justice
.”

He laughed and extended his hand. “Loch delle Scogliere, Griffin's cousin. I'm told I'm expected?”

“Yes! Come on in.” She waved a hand at him excitedly, ignoring his extended one. “I'm Gretchen, the bride-to-be. My fiancé, Hunter, will be finished working soon, and your tour guide is going to be around here somewhere.” She shut the door behind him as he stepped inside.

“Pleased to meet you,” Loch told her. She seemed nice enough, if not a little frantic. “Cousin Griffin is still overseas, I suppose?”

“Yes! It seems like you missed him and Maylee. You were leaving Bellissime and they were going. Ships passing in the night and all that. I'm surprised you didn't stay to say hello to him.”

Then she didn't know about the political turmoil? That was good, then. That meant it was being nipped in the bud before it had a chance to spread. “Had business to attend to here. Diplomatic visits and all that.”

“Sounds boring.”

He laughed. “It can be, indeed.”

“Have you met Maylee?”

“I have not,” Loch said, opting to be diplomatic. “I hear she is . . . quaint.”

“She's a bumpkin,” Gretchen said, and then added, “But a cute one. She and Griffin are good for each other.”

That was definitely an opinion he didn't share. He'd heard about his cousin's strange fiancée and had been slightly appalled at the thought of such an uneducated and thoroughly common woman marrying his rich, titled cousin. Between Griffin's engagement and cousin Alex's new marriage to the actor, the family tree was getting diluted like—

Oh, bollocks. Now he sounded like the insurgents. He cleared his throat. “I'm sure she's quite lovely.”

Gretchen peered down a hall, and then turned back to him, opening her eyes a bit wider. Her expression of interest was intense. “So what is it you like to do, Loch? You into computers?”

“Not really.”

“Video games?”

“I prefer sports I can do with my hands.” He raised them in the air as if holding a ball. “Cricket, rugby, football. I'm the captain of the Bellissime polo team and I do enjoy running. Physical things. I'm not a big fan of computers and the like.”

“Oh.” She looked rather disappointed with that answer. “Maybe sports games are the answer, then.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Nothing.” Her smile returned and she snapped her fingers. “Unless you're a big fan of those British sci-fi shows?”

He gave her a blank look.

“Yeah, that was a stab in the dark. It's okay.” She clasped her hands tightly in front of her. “We'll find common ground.”

“Common ground for . . . ?”

“Never mind.” She waited an awkward moment, and then glanced around. “My goodness. I don't know where Taylor's gotten off to. She said she'd be right back.”

He wasn't familiar with the name. “And Taylor is . . . ?”

Gretchen beamed up at him wearing a look he was utterly familiar with—the matchmaking-mama look. “She's one of my bridesmaids and has agreed to show you around the city, new guy! Isn't that sweet of her?”

“Charming.” He managed to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. Wonderful. His new hostess was going to be flinging women at him, was she? He was old hat at avoiding those types of entanglements. He liked his bachelorhood, thank you very much.

Gretchen frowned at her surroundings, then shrugged. She patted his arm. “Why don't you wait here and I'll get my fiancé? We'll sit down and have a nice lemon scone and tea. I made them fresh just for you.”

He nodded at her and watched as she hurried up the stairs. A matchmaking session with one of her bridesmaids? He should have suspected as much when he'd gotten the invite. And as a guest, he couldn't very well turn them down, could he? Hopefully his escort would be tolerable. He mentally tried to picture the type of woman they'd assume he liked. Someone with big blonde hair and even bigger, ahem, assets, he imagined. Americans didn't seem to do things halfway.

He lifted one of his Italian leather loafers and noticed gum stuck to the underside. Disgusting. That was one thing that New York City was taking some serious getting used to—everything was just . . . dirty and crowded compared to his pastoral little country. And there was a faint smell no matter where he went. Loch shuddered and pulled his shoe off. He needed tissue or something to wipe it off. Normally he'd have a manservant handle this for him, but his manservants were back in Bellissime, because he was supposed to be “incognito.” This was a damned inconvenient time to be incognito.

Loch looked around and saw no wastebasket or anything of the sort in the room, just a lovely rug that he was centimeters away from ruining if he took another step on it. Nor were there any servants around. All right, he'd have to man up and fix this himself, then. He headed down a hall, filthy shoe in hand, looking for a lavatory.

The first hall he turned down yielded nothing interesting, but off of the kitchen, he saw what looked to be a washroom. Excellent. He headed toward it—

—And stopped as a closed door down the hall rattled violently.

What in the devil was that? A servant stuck in a room? He narrowed his eyes and studied the door. There seemed to be a bit of ugly fabric sticking out of the doorjamb. He turned and headed toward it, his curiosity getting the better of him, and the door rattled again.

Now that he was closer, he could hear slight muttering.

“. . . Stupid . . . wish I had a stinking holodeck . . . or a freaking TARDIS. Bet Doctor Who never gets stuck in the damn TARDIS.” Another violent shake of the door, then a pause. “Don't be stupid, Tay. The Doctor doesn't take a shit. He's a time lord. They're evolved life-forms that don't need bowel movements.”

Er, okay. “Is everything all right in there?”

The door shook again and then the person spoke once more. “Beam me up, Scotty. There's no intelligent life in here.”

Right. A crazy servant. “Are you . . . looking for someone named Scotty?”

A pause. “It's a Trek-ism.”

“Beg pardon?”

“A saying common to Trekkies?” The doorknob twisted. “Haven't you ever seen the Star Trek movies? The TV shows? The cartoon?”

“I'm afraid not.” Why on earth would he watch any of those?

“Oh. Man, that's weird.” The woman's voice sounded skeptical. “I really need to talk to Gretchen about educating her staff or like, giving them a day off so they can watch TV or something. Poor souls probably only watch
Downton Abbey
or some crap like that. Double-yew-tee-eff.”

Against his will, Loch's mouth curved into a hint of a smile. “Not a fan of it, are we?”

“Sorry. No offense to your British people or anything, but no. It's a real snoozer.”

Loch snorted. His accent was about as British as hers was.

“Anyhow. Give me some good old science fiction any day of the week.” The doorknob twisted again. “Or fantasy. Speaking of fantasies, I have one where I can someday escape this bathroom, but I seem to be stuck.”

He chuckled. “Shall I assist you, then?”

“That would be just ducky.”

He put aside his offending shoe and studied the door. The wood was old and he could see where the door had warped at the top and the bottom, likely due to humidity and settling. It happened at his old manor house, too. There was usually a trick to forcing the door open, but the ugly bit of fabric sticking between frame and door would be a problem. “You might need to cut this bit of cloth—”

He could hear her gasp on the other side. “Fuck that noise! This is the fourth Doctor's scarf!”

Right. “Very well, then. Stand back.”

“Hang on! Let me take my scarf off!”

He waited, and as he did, he heard a small choked noise. Uh-oh. “All right in there?”

The woman on the other side coughed. “Yep. Just . . . forgot I was attached and all. I'm good now.”

“All right. Move away from the door.” He took a step backward. “And if I break the doorjamb, give my hostess my apologies, will you?”

“Eep!”

Loch squared his shoulder, eyed the door, and then flung his body against it. The wood rattled hard, but stayed put, even though the woman on the other side squealed. A second slam of his weight against the door did the trick, though, and it flung open, and Loch pushed inside.

The washroom was a mess. There was water all over the counter, spilled soap, the scarf seemed to be tangling around his legs, and there was a young woman sprawled on the carpet, her legs splayed and her head resting against the lip of the footed claw tub.

Blast. He rushed forward to her side. “You all right?”

She groaned, rubbing the back of her head with a hand. “Did anyone get the number of that truck?”

“I told you to step back from the door.”

“Yeah, but then I thought I'd help out by pulling on this side. That was probably a bad idea.” She rubbed the back of her head and let him help her sit up on the rug. “My damn head's killing me now.”

Helping him pull? That was the most foolish thing he'd ever heard of, but Loch kept that thought to himself.

He should have been looking at her head, he really should have. But he couldn't help but notice that she was wearing a white shirt, and it was completely soaked and sticking to her body. Through the wet fabric, he could see an outline of a pale bra, two spectacular, well-formed breasts, and tiny, pert nipples that were just begging for attention.

“I hate to ask,” Loch murmured, helping her to her feet. “But why are you all wet?” Rather magnificently wet, if he said so himself. She was cute enough, her face round and sweet, but those breasts were drawing all of his attention—and rightly so. They were damn magnificent, and they were completely outlined by her drenched clothing.

“Oh.” She blinked up at him with big gray eyes surrounded by thick lashes. Then she glanced down at her shirt and grimaced. “There's a reason.”

“Do tell.” He pulled a towel off a nearby rack and handed it to her, even though it was a shame to cover up those glorious breasts.

She immediately dropped the towel, bent over to pick it up, and smacked her head on the counter. “Ow!”

Good lord almighty. “Hold still. Let me get that for you.” He bent down to get the towel and as he did, she leaned forward, and one of those nipples scraped against his arm. His cock stiffened in response. It had been a while since he'd taken a woman to bed, and his body was definitely responding positively to this strange but attractive girl.

“Sorry,” she said, rubbing her forehead. “I guess I should point out I'm a bit of a klutz.”

Bit of
was probably an understatement. “S'all right. Do you need to sit down?”

“Nah.” She blinked several times. “My scarf okay? You didn't have to cut it, did you?”

Since she didn't seem to be in a hurry to do so, he draped the towel around her shoulders, feeling oddly protective of her. “Your scarf is fine. Why are you wet?”

“Me? Oh.” She bit her lip and gave him a sheepish look. “So I was reading online that you should use soap and water on a stuck door, and I tried that but I ended up getting more on myself than on the door.” Her mouth flattened. “Then I tried to clean it up and made an even bigger mess. The soap they use here is downright slippery.”

“I've heard that about soap,” he said dryly. “Perhaps you should put in a word with your employer about purchasing less . . . slippery soap.” And he'd have to thank Gretchen for putting her employee in a thin white T-shirt, though the jeans were throwing him off. It didn't seem like a typical servant uniform.

“My employer?” She giggled. “I do tech support. My employer doesn't know the first thing about soap.”

Ah. Realization dawned. “Taylor?”

“How do you know my name?”

“Wild guess.” He found himself grinning down at her. “My name is Loch. I believe we're supposed to be spending time together.” He should have been appalled, he really should have. The woman was clearly a mess . . . but she was a mess with a magnificent set of tits and rather nice eyes. He'd wager that there were other parts of her that were equally nice, and he was looking forward to seeing them.

Those nice eyes fixed on his face, and then traveled down his chest and then his legs. “
Mamma mia
. What are they feeding you guys in Europe?”

His lips twitched with amusement. “Goat cheese and baguettes?”

“Damn,” she breathed. Her gaze went up to his face and then back down his body again. “You are eating a lot of goat cheese, then. You're like Thor. I mean, not the mythology one but the Marvel Comics one. The hot blond Chris Hemsworth one. Though I think you're definitely more
Avengers
Thor than
Dark World
Thor.”