Laura Wright - Playboy's Ruthless Payback - Playboy's Ruthless Payback

Mac put a hand up. “Don’t worry about it, just get him out—”

“Don’t apologize to him, Olivia,” Owen said with a sneer. “He’s a monster, a conniving—”

Before Owen could hurtle any more insults Mac’s way, Olivia took his hand and pulled him out the door, calling over her shoulder, “I’ll be back at ten for the delivery. If you’ll just put a key under the mat…”

Not expecting a response, Olivia led Owen down the walkway toward her waiting cab. She was furious, and could barely contain her anger. She understood her father’s need to protect her, but this was way over the top.

As soon as she believed herself to be out of earshot, she faced him, her tone grave. “Dad, seriously, what are you doing? Coming here and attacking a man in his own home?”

“He’s no man, he’s a—”

“He could have called the police. Hell, he still could…and I have to say I wouldn’t blame him. What were you thinking?”

Owen suddenly looked very weary as he reached out to touch her hair. “I was trying to protect you, honey, stop you from making a huge mistake.” His eyes clouded with sadness. “But it looks like I’m too late for that.”

“Too late for what? What mistake…?” Then she understood why her father had come. She heaved a sigh. It was the same old thing—her father’s desperation, and constant fear that she was going to turn out like his older sister Grace. Her poor aunt Grace, who had been way too wild, made way too many mistakes and had been totally incapable of picking a decent guy. Poor Aunt Grace who, after staying out until dawn partying with some jerk from the local college, had been killed in a car accident on her way home. She’d just turned eighteen the week before, and Olivia’s father had never gotten over losing her.

Olivia understood her father’s fears and his need to protect her, but she wasn’t sixteen anymore. This over-protectiveness needed to stop.

Standing beside the open door of the cab, Owen was shaking his head. “That monster stood there in his doorway and smiled when I asked him where you were.”

Oh, great. “What did he tell you?” As if she needed to ask.

“That you were in his bed.” Her father said the words as though he had acid on his tongue.

So Mac had baited her father. What a shocker. God, they were both acting like such juvenile idiots….

“Is it true then?” her father asked, his brown eyes incredibly sad.

“Dad, I’m not going to answer that.”

The cab driver opened his window. “You going to be much longer, lady?”

Olivia shrugged. “I don’t know—maybe.”

The man rolled his eyes and closed his window.

“Olivia, please,” her father continued. “You’re such a good girl. Don’t act irrationally—and with a man who only wants to use you to get back at me.”

“I’m not acting irrationally, Dad. And I’m not a girl anymore.”

“I know….”

“No, I don’t think you do.” She bit her lip and contemplated broaching the subject about his fears and what the hell had happened so long ago. But his eyes still spit fire and he looked way too closed. “Listen,” she said gently, “you knew I was taking this job, and that it would mean working closely with Mac Valentine.”

“Helping my enemy.”

“I have a company to run, too.”

Owen seemed to consider this, then he said in a slightly calculating tone, “Okay, so you’re helping him do what exactly? Go after new clients?”

Olivia shook her head. “That’s confidential.”

Owen looked livid. “The man is a conniving bastard who wants to hurt you, and you’re worried about…”

She put a hand on his shoulder. “How long have I been living on my own, supporting myself?”

“Since you were eighteen.” He pointed at her. “But that was not my choice.”

“Exactly. I’m a grown woman who makes her own choices, and as I’ve told you before—respectfully—I don’t have to answer to you or to anyone.”

Owen wilted slightly, but it wasn’t the first time he’d heard her speak this way. After her mother had died, and after Owen had emotionally checked out, Olivia had made decisions for herself. Some of them had been downright stupid, even reckless, but the majority, she’d been proud of—like her business.

Her father’s gaze grew soft as he looked at her. “What happened to my little girl?”

“I left her back in high school.” Olivia leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. “I have a busy day, as I’m sure you do, too.” She got into the backseat of the cab and gave him a little wave before her driver backed out and pulled away.

Mac stood in the living room, watching Olivia’s cab take off down the street. The glass on every window in the house was pretty thin, and he’d heard their entire conversation. Looked like he had gotten it wrong; Olivia may not be that sweet, naive girl he assumed her to be. But where her father didn’t want to deal with it, Mac burned to know every detail of the past she seemed to be hiding—especially after last night.

Grinning, he left the living room and went into his study. Embers burned in the fireplace, and as he sat in one of the leather armchairs, his body twitched with the memory of Olivia in his arms, on top of him, underneath him. The way she’d responded to his touch, the silent, hungry demands. She’d felt pleasure before, but she’d been denied it for way too long. There was no need to push her, he realized. The demands of her body had started to take over her good sense and Mac was going to be there, totally available when it happened again.

After all, her father thought him to be a womanizing bastard, and Mac was ready to prove him right.

All in all a very successful day, Olivia mused, walking from one beautifully furnished room to the next. She’d quite outdone herself, and in record time, too. Each room complemented the next in leather and iron, glass and walnut.

She stopped in the living room and marveled at the classic, comfortable feel of the space. Not to mention the warm air puffing from the vents in the baseboards. She’d finally found a guy to come out in the snow and turn on the heat. A vast improvement in and of itself.

Though she’d purchased all the linens for the upstairs, the bedroom furniture wouldn’t be arriving until early tomorrow morning. But they were close—well on their way to creating a very modern, very homey, very Mac-like environment.

“Ms. Winston?”

Olivia returned to the living room where Dennis Thompson, a local art gallery owner who looked rather like a short version of Ichabod Crane, was hanging several paintings she’d purchased for Mac’s house.

“What do you think?” he asked, holding up two Josef Albers pieces, both in several shades of yellow. “On top of one another?”

She sat on the new distressed, brown leather couch to get a better view. “Hmm…I don’t know. How about—”

“Side by side?” came Mac’s voice behind her.

Dennis Thompson looked behind Olivia and beamed at Mac. “Perfect. I’ll just go get my tools from the car.”

Olivia turned, surprised. “You’re home early, Mr. Valentine. Are you here to supervise?”

He was dressed in a tailored black suit and crisp white shirt, his tie loosened from his neck. “I came home for a late lunch or an early dinner.”

“Oh, really?” she said with a grin. “I haven’t stocked the fridge yet and you ate the only frozen pizza, so what were you planning on having? The cocktail onions or that last, lonely bottle of Corona?”

He walked around the couch and sat beside her. “You’re a pretty good chef, aren’t you?”

“I like to think so.” He smelled so good. She tried not to breathe through her nose.

“Well, then, can’t you make something amazing out of onions and beer?”