Bedding the Wrong Brother(24)

He stood, unconcerned with his nudity. “Come here, Ladybug,” he said quietly.

She shook her head. “You're Max. Tell me you're Max.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, standing proud and tall. “I'm sorry. I can't do that.”

With her one free hand, she covered her mouth to stifle her moan of horror. She felt her knees about to buckle and put a steadying hand on the wall. She'd needed to steady herself on the bed last night, she remembered. She'd thought it was because she wasn't wearing her glasses, but it had more likely been because of the alcohol. The alcohol that had emboldened her to climb into the bed and masturbate while she fantasized about Rhys while actually thinking that she could go to bed with his brother. All in the interest of science, of course.

And what she'd done instead was throw herself at Rhys. Begged him to please her, she remembered with mortification. What had she said? Please me. Suck me.

“Melina,” he began again.

She shook her head. Now that she knew, it seemed so obvious. His hair was shorter. He spoke more slowly. He touched her differently. More hesitantly.

More and more hesitantly as time went on.

Except for last night.

A slicing pain tugged at her stomach, and she automatically clutched at it. His surprise last night had been just that. He hadn't been expecting her to throw herself at him. He'd gone along, probably to spare her feelings. It certainly wasn't because he'd been overcome by desire. He hadn't even tried to seek his own release. Maybe he'd already known he couldn't achieve that kind of satisfaction with her. Maybe Max had warned him.

Now a hollow feeling of betrayal burned along with her embarrassment and heartache. “Whose room is this?”

“Mine.”

“Not Max's?”

“Max is on a different floor.”

A different floor. So had the front desk made a mistake? Or had Max chickened out at the last minute and tricked Rhys into filling in for him?

That made the most sense.

Despite her brief suspicion that Max had told Rhys she was waiting for him, the evidence didn't point to him purposefully deceiving her. When she'd said his brother's name, he'd sounded displeased—with her, with his brother, with the entire situation.

“Why…what…what are you doing here?”

“I flew in to give you your birthday present. It's right on the dresser. Didn't you see it?” Holding out his hands as if she was a rabid dog about to bite him, he nevertheless took two steps toward her, skirting the bed much like she had the night before. She moved backward, matching him step for step, suddenly feeling like a tiny rabbit being stalked by a very hungry wolf. “You gave me a present instead. Too bad it wasn't meant for me, but—”


“But nothing,” she said. “You need to leave.”

He swept his hands down his tall, muscular form. “You're going to make me walk out of here naked?”

“You can-you can dress first. While I shower.”

Another step forward by him. Another step back for her. “Let's talk.”

Talk. What was there to talk about other than her wanting to die from humiliation? “You weren't expecting me.”

He froze and seemed to weigh his words carefully before answering. “No, but—”

“You didn't want this.”

“Now, that's not true.”

She laughed even as she swiped at the tears gathered in her eyes. “Oh, is that why you've been hounding me with so much attention? Who are you dating now, Rhys? I bet she looks just like me, doesn't she?”

The look that flashed across his face was subtle, but she caught it. She remembered the picture on her bookcase. The one where he posed with a woman Hugh Hefner would've been proud of. She'd had Barbie-like dimensions. Thirty-eight double D’s if she wasn't mistaken. Melina was barely a B-cup, and her hourglass shape was bottom heavy. She probably wouldn't have been allowed to clean the Playboy mansion, let alone live there.

As she came even with the open bathroom doorway, he shook his head. “Melina, please, don't—”

“Just go,” she whispered.

She saw him tense, saw him shift on the balls of his feet and knew he was going to lunge for her. But he was too far away. He'd never make it in time. Which is why he cursed when she propelled herself into the bathroom, shut the door and locked it.