Jennifer Greene - The Billionaire’s Handler

“Is that what you’ve been feeling bad about for the last couple days?” she asked gently.

“When the subject is my older brother, I’ve tended to feel bad from the day I was born. He has my father’s fine, sterling character. No amount of money is ever enough. He always has a way of justifying whatever he does.” He tried to make his tone sound light, as if the subject of his brother were at least halfway funny. Instead, he heard his voice come out terse and snappy. “Forget it, Carolina. The call’s over with. It’s not your problem. Just wasn’t a pleasant thing to handle.”

She nodded, as if she had the grace and courtesy and kindness to back away from something he obviously didn’t want to talk about. Only, then she pounced again. Cocked her head, kept looking at his face, kept crowding him. With all that damn softness. “You know, Maguire, you were the one who taught me about drawing lines in the sand. About how you have to draw clear lines to deal with some people. Lines, about what you’re willing to do, what you’re willing to give, how much you’re willing to bleed for someone else. So…”

“So what?”

“So I have to believe you drew some extra-clear lines with your brother.”

Damn, but she was annoying. “I sure as hell did. The line I drew in the sand with Jay is that I would never, ever sucker into him again. I’m through enabling him. He may be my brother, but he needs to accept real consequences for his behavior, and my helping him doesn’t get that done.”

She nodded again, still looking at him with all that empathy, even though he’d practically snapped her head off. Every word came out a snarl. Hell, his whole mind was a snarl.

“It sounds like you drew really good lines. Lines that put up clear boundaries that kept your brother from yanking your chain. Just like you’ve been trying to teach me to do with people who want to use me. Only…it sounds as if something happened when you talked to your brother and you caved.”

“Exactly.” Maguire didn’t slug a fist into the glass wall for obvious reasons. But he wanted to. “I know better than to cave. Jay always plays the same card. He knows the exact card that always works on me. Damn it. I want him to change. I want him to want a real life. I want him to have a relationship with Tommy. I want him to give a damn about something besides himself, for his own sake.”

“So he promises you that…”

“And whenever he promises me that, I sucker in, like the stupidest fool ever born.”

She cocked her head again. She had this way of looking like an innocent waif when she did that, not like a woman who was about to deliver a stinging zinger. “You know what?” she said softly. “Maybe it’s okay if sometimes we can’t hold tight to those lines. Maybe it’s okay if sometimes the lines get blurry.”

“No, it’s not okay.”

“Maybe this time will be the charm and your brother will actually mean what he promises.”

“Oh, yeah. That’ll be true when hell freezes over.”

You’d think his tone of voice would have warned her off pursuing this topic. Instead, she seemed determined to wave a red flag in front of a bull. “Maguire…you feel responsible for so many people. You really work up a sweat about doing the right thing. I just think life is always touchier when it’s about family. Next time, maybe you’ll be able to say no. But even if you don’t…I don’t think it’d be all that awful if you cut yourself a little slack.”

“What is this, the mentor suddenly turning into the mentee?”

“No, you big lummox,” she said patiently. “It’s about trying to crack open that hard, hard head of yours and letting someone else in.”

“Like you, I suppose.”

“Yup. Just like me. C’mere, Maguire. You’re hurting. What’s so terrible about letting someone else comfort you?”

She’d called him a lummox.

No one called him a lummox.

No one in the universe would think he was the kind of man who needed “comforting.” The idea was idiotic. Absurd to the nth degree. So ridiculous, he couldn’t believe it.

Touching her wasn’t on his mind. Kissing her wasn’t remotely on his agenda. He was just…aggravated…that was all. That she’d think he needed someone. That anyone as jaded and tough as himself would ever, ever lean on the Softie of the Universe. A man would never do that. Not a good man. A good man never preyed on the vulnerable.

And my God. She was softer than silver. Than pearls. Than a kitten’s cry.

He didn’t slam her up against the glass wall because he would never use aggression with a woman.

He didn’t slam his mouth over hers, either. Same reason. You didn’t bruise roses. You never got rough with a lady.

He was just a tiny bit out of control. For that one small second.

And then she messed with his head. The way she’d been messing with his head from the second he met her.

She kissed him back, all hot and rough. She spread her hands up on that glass wall, inviting him to pin her harder, sharper. Inviting his chest to iron those soft, small breasts. For his pelvis to grind against her hips like some kind of dominant jungle idiot.

Maguire valued finesse.

He just couldn’t find it for another minute. And while he was looking, searching, trying to figure out what had happened to him, how to apologize, how to backtrack…

Carolina flicked a wet tongue on his lips. Shivered her hips to nestle tight against him. Made sounds. Not soft sounds. Hissy sounds. Dares. Taunts.

Invitations.

Somehow she wriggled around, threw him off balance, and suddenly she had him against the glass wall, with the hundred-foot drop below…and a thousand-foot potential drop, from the expression in her eyes. She leaned him against that glass pane, risking life and limb. Sneaked her hands between their bodies to find the buttonhole of his jeans, the zipper.

Talk about a way to put combustible fuel in his engine.

“Wait,” he said.

But she didn’t. And he didn’t, either. The truth was…hell, he didn’t know what the truth was. Her taste, her scent, pushed every trigger he had. Her top peeled up; her jeans peeled down.

Where was the foreplay? Darned woman never did anything he could expect. You didn’t start out with the zipper. You started out with tenderness. Any man knew that. But now there were all these windows, all that sunlight, all that nakedness.

He couldn’t remember feeling this naked, this raw. Physically, yeah, of course. But not soul naked. Not with anyone.

She was just there. For him. The way no one had ever been there for him.

So maybe he couldn’t put the cork back in the champagne. But she couldn’t have everything her own way.

He lifted her, kissing her at the same time. Her legs swung tight around his waist and her eyes closed. He bumped a shin against something, cracked a toe on something else. Eventually he located the double beanbag chair, which was completely useless as a mattress.

It had potential, though.

He curled her on top of him, started on a long, lazy tongue bath. He found a cookie crumb on her right breast, went searching for more. She convulsed in giggles when his tongue did the Mission Impossible thing-possibly not the response he was seeking-but damned if that laughter of hers didn’t challenge him to make her laugh again.

He tried toe kisses. Behind-the-knee kisses. Upside-down kisses. Sideways kisses.

He tried strokes and rubs. He tried soft caresses, whispered touches…and then demanding pressure, bold kneading. He tried loving her with his eyes. He tried test after test, to discover what she liked, what moved her, what surprised her, what pleased her.

He loved her skin. Her lips. Her hair, the fine-lined scar on her shoulder, her bony knees, her sleek, slim body, the smell of her. And for a while, he was concentrating so hard, so fiercely, that he almost didn’t realize that he was going out of his mind.