Baddest Bad Boys(66)

Fourakis had been circling like a buzzard ever since the news leaked that Ellie McMann DeLuca, dubbed gorgeous, loaded, and available by the tabloids, would soon gain full control of her substantial stakes in DSI. A photograph of Ellie and Fourakis dining together had fueled speculation of a romance. It had given Max heartburn. So had the stories that implied Fourakis was the reason she refused to extend her agreement with Max.

Knowing such stories were usually fabricated didn’t help. Though immune to seeing his own name in the tabloids, seeing the private details of Ellie’s financial holdings splashed across cheap newsprint infuriated Max. Especially in light of the security briefing he’d just received.

He frowned, recalling the details. According to the report, Ellie had a cyber-stalker, one she’d only recently reported, despite weeks of harassment. Weeks. That bit of information left Max seeing crimson. Part of him wanted to go snatch her up out of bed and shake her for not being more circumspect. The other part of him thickened.

Once again, Max’s thoughts drifted down the hall, to the guest suite. To what he’d really like to do if he hauled Ellie out of bed.

He drained his Scotch and stared at the cloud-strangled moon. Coming here tonight, in such a dangerous mood, had been a mistake. Not that staying away had been an option. Perhaps he’d change clothes and go downstairs to the gym. Punching a bag, taking a cold shower, would help.

He headed for the master suite. Just outside he halted. The door stood ajar but what stopped him was the scent of cologne. It was stronger here.

Was Ellie in his room?

He shut his eyes against the vision that filled his head: Ellie naked. The thought of her in his bed sent a hot rush of blood to his cock. Down, boy. He recalled her message: I want to propose a private deal. So would he. Face-to-face, straight up, inside her. It didn’t get more private than that. Maybe it was time Ellie and he had it out—cleared the air, once and for all.

He pushed open the door and stepped inside. A gentleman would knock, but that was the last thing he felt like at the moment. Besides, this was his room, the open door an invitation.

The perfume was stronger inside. And all wrong. Too heavy. He paused, senses alert.

“Hello, Max. Miss me?” The words hissed out from a dark corner, snakelike.

He recognized the woman’s voice, knew the reason for her antagonism. Bridgette St. Regis was the thrice-divorced daughter of oil magnate Arnaud St. Regis. Max had dated her casually, but broke off their affair completely two months ago. The split had not been amicable; they were both control freaks.

What was she doing here? And where was Ellie?

Max pinpointed Bridgette’s exact location in the dark before flicking on the light switch. His eyes took in the disheveled bed. Had she been in it?

“How did you get in?” He kept his voice calm.

She stepped out of the shadows, diamonds sparkling at her throat as she shrugged. “The doorman recognized me.”

His jaw tightened. “Maybe what I should have asked is why in the hell you’re here. Because I’m in no mood to talk.”

“That’s a relief.” She raised a brandy snifter in an exaggerated toast and shifted unsteadily, confirming this wasn’t her first drink. “Talking never was our strong point. Let’s just move on to making up.”

“There’s nothing between us, Bridgette.”

“Don’t say that!” She lowered her voice, feigning contrition. “I know why you’re mad. You’re right—perhaps I shouldn’t have talked with that reporter.”

It took Max a moment to figure out what she meant. Then he recalled the interview she’d granted to one of the celebrity rags. “That’s old news. Give it a rest.”

“How can I? That reporter was an idiot. He twisted everything I said, including the bit about us being engaged. Obviously he read quite a bit into the fact I was defending you.”

“I can defend myself.”

“Well, I couldn’t just stand there while he insinuated Il Diavolo had no heart.”

The Devil. If she were sober, she’d remember Max detested the tabloid nickname, detested being in the spotlight. She’d also recall he had ended their affair weeks before she’d dished a few X-rated details to the reporter.

Bridgette stepped closer, invaded his personal space. “I’ve missed you, darling. And I miss this.” Her hand moved to his crotch and tightened. Her dilated eyes widened, gleaming in anticipation. “We can start over. It can be like it was in the beginning. No commitment. No strings. Just sex.”

The magazine had a field day with that one. Max’s motto: No commitment. No strings. Just sex. Suddenly he loathed it, loathed himself. He moved free of her grasp.

“It’s over, Bridgette. You need to leave. I have company and—”

She cut him off as she twirled away. “You had company, though I’d hardly call that little tart of Stefan’s a guest.”

“What do you mean had?” His gaze went to the door.

“Look at me! I came here tonight willing to grovel and what do I find? Her—half-naked in your bed, claws extended.”

“I doubt that’s what—”

Bridgette stamped a foot. “Don’t you dare defend that witch! The note she left, oh-so-casually propped against the Tiffany lamp in the foyer—very clichéd, Max, really—made it very clear what she intended.”