The Reluctant Heiress: A Novella(3)

My brother’s best friend.

After a minute of companionable quiet, he asks, “Are you bringing Robert to the dinner party at Alex’s tomorrow?”

“No, definitely not.”

“Ah,” he says knowingly. “Does the poor man know his time is limited?”

I glance at Robert, now grinning down at Sebastian’s date. They’re standing altogether too close for their conversation to be a casual one. Even knowing it’s irrational, I feel a pang of irritation. He had his dick in me two hours ago, for Christ’s sake.

“I don’t think he cares,” I say caustically, looking back at Sebastian. “What about your date? Aren’t you annoyed?”

He shrugs. “Jessica and I aren’t seeing each other, per se.”

My brows lift. “Just fucking, huh?”

His eyes cut to my face, flaring dangerously. “Candace,” he says with quiet censure. I flush, turning to stare at the angry painting. He continues mutedly, “What’s going on with you?”

“I’m fine,” I say quickly. “Just a lot on my plate. Funding issues for the gala.” And lack of orgasms, I add privately.

Sebastian stiffens minutely and I turn, already aware of the approach of high heels. Many of them.

“Damnit,” he mutters, even as he smiles brightly at the gaggle of girls. “Ladies, how are we this evening?”

Swooning and blushing commences, as well as a few unsubtle adjustments of shirts to better display cleavage.

“Mr. Bellizzi,” croons the pack’s alpha female. “Can we have a picture with you?”

Sebastian smoothly replies, “No pictures tonight. Will you settle for a hug?”

Squeals.

Sebastian stands, six-feet-four inches of jean-and leather jacket-clad sex appeal, and the girls crowd closer. “You first,” he says darkly to the pack leader. She turns bright red and saunters sensually—or tries to—into his open arms.

By the time the last girl has been dutifully embraced, I’m feeling a little bad for Sebastian. He was groped at least six times.

“Goodnight, ladies, it’s been a pleasure.” They ogle for another few moments, then bounce away. Sitting heavily beside me, he angles his mouth to my ear. “Wanna get out of here?”

The low tone lifts goose bumps. I jerk a little, then bend away to see his face. It’s the mask—sensual and dark. He hasn’t looked at me this way in years. Predatory. Carnal.

The axis of my world shivers and tilts.

“No,” I say weakly. “We have dates.”

His eyes are fixed on my mouth. “Just a drink, Candace, for old times’ sake.”

I have a sudden, technicolored recall of old times. Warmth floods my core, bathing my silk panties. Horrified by my body’s betrayal, I snap, “Unless you’re referring to milk and cookies in the kitchen of the big house, no.”

I flinch as soon as the words leave my mouth. His eyes shutter immediately, his shoulders bunching.

“Sebastian, I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “You know I don’t think—”

“That I was a stray dog begging for scraps from the Hughes’ family table?” he asks with a dangerous undertone. “I was.”

I want to touch him, but I can’t. Won’t. “That’s not true,” I say, but my lies don’t work on Sebastian. He’s always seen right through them. “Sorry,” I add feebly.

His lips curve, lashes sweeping down as his gaze trails over my chest and lower. More heat builds, pulsing low in my body.

“Make it up to me,” he murmurs silkily. “I can think of something I’d like to eat that tastes better than milk and cookies.”

I almost slap him. Almost. Instead, I stand and walk away.

I don’t bother fetching Robert. We took separate cars. He’ll no doubt be relieved by my abandonment, having clearly moved on to greener, more responsive pastures. I can’t blame him.

Even though they’ll deny it to their dying breaths, sex isn’t enough for most men. After a certain amount of time, they want to be loved.

Love is a game I don’t play.

Neither is sex with Sebastian Bellizzi.





3





The trilling of my cellphone pulls me from sleep. Dream images collapse onto themselves, painting my mind with fading color. Sensation. Warm silk and dark eyes. My skin is damp, aching with need.

Damnit.

Growling with irritation, I swipe my phone off the nightstand. “What?” I snarl.

“Wow, good morning to you, too,” chirps Vera Sharp.

Vera and I met at a bar in Hollywood four years ago. Instead of picking up men, we’d picked up each other. The running joke among our friends is that if we were gay, we’d be married by now.

“Sorry,” I sigh. “Bad dreams.” I glance out floor-to-ceiling windows, gauging the angle of sunlight on the deeply green landscape and glittering ocean beyond. “What are you doing? What time is it?”

“Eleven o’clock, you lazy bitch. I’m calling because I’m at your front door and want to know if you set the alarm last night.”

She has a key, not to mention the alarm code; the question is a loaded one. “No one’s here,” I answer. “Come on in. And start some coffee, would you? I’ll be out in a few.”