Kate Carlisle - How to Seduce a Billionaire

It wasn’t enough that she’d changed the playing field with her hot new look, but now she was shoving her panties at him. Didn’t she know that those little scraps of silk would be forever imprinted on his fragile male psyche? Now he would be forced to spend the next millennium imagining her in that black thong. Was she really that clueless?

“I didn’t mean to shock you,” she said. “But you said you would help.”

“Didn’t shock me,” he insisted, his voice sounding as if a frog had taken up residence in his throat. “Coffee went down wrong. Just… give me a minute.”

She finally moved back to her side of the desk and quickly shoved the bits of lace into the shopping bag.

“They’ll work just fine,” he said softly, not trusting his voice yet.

Her eyes glittered with hope. “Really?”

“Believe it,” he said with a nod. “Any normal guy would be grateful to see you in either pair.”

“You mean it?” Her eyes cleared and she smiled. “Thank you, Brandon. Oh, and I apologize again for springing them on you.”

“No problem.”

“To make this work, I really need to know what guys consider sexy.” She frowned, then admitted, “Roger never thought I was.”

“Never thought you were what?”

“Sexy.”

Brandon sat forward in his chair. “Does Roger have some kind of learning disability or something?”

She laughed. “Thanks for that. I’ll go order lunch now.”

“Good idea,” he said, thankful his voice had returned to full volume. “Oh, and Kelly?”

She stopped at the door. “Yes?”

“Go with the black thong.”

Later that afternoon, Brandon hung up the phone from a two-hour teleconference with his brothers and their lawyer.

“That guy never stops talking,” he said, shaking his head at the sheer immensity of the lawyer’s convoluted vocabulary.

“I was thinking you must pay him by the word,” Kelly said, flexing her fingers. She had taken notes during the entire meeting and now she stood and stretched her arms. The movement caused the knit fabric of her dress to stretch so tightly across her perfect round breasts that Brandon had to look the other way to stifle the first stages of another rock-hard erection.

“I’m getting more coffee,” she said. “Would you like some?”

“No, thanks. Will you have a chance to type up your notes and analysis this afternoon?”

“Definitely. I’ll get right on them.”

“I appreciate it.”

She closed the door and Brandon gritted his teeth. He needed Kelly to rethink this new wardrobe situation if he was going to survive the week. Hell, even her ankles were causing him palpitations. There was something about those high heels she was wearing that did awesome things to every inch of her legs.

An hour later, after the rest of his team had gone home, he walked out to Kelly’s area to find a property file and caught her pouting at herself in her compact mirror.

“Oh.” She blinked in surprise and quickly slapped the mirror closed and threw it in her drawer.

He rested one hand on the doorjamb. “I know I’m going to be sorry I asked, but what were you doing?”

“Nothing. What do you need? A file? Which one? I’ll get it.” She jumped up and pulled the top file drawer open.

“See, now you’re just raising my curiosity level,” he said, “so you might as well tell me.”

She clenched her teeth together irately. “Fine. Roger complained about the way I kissed, so I was practicing in the mirror. There. Are you happy?”

He shook his head. “Roger is a complete idiot. Why do you care what he thinks?”

She glared at him. “I told you, I want to get him back.”

“Yeah, that’s what I don’t get.” Disgusted with the subject of Roger, he moved to the file drawer and began to sift through the folders himself. “Where’s the new Montclair Pavilion file?”

“I’ve got it right here.” She picked up a thin folder and handed it to him. She looked so dejected, he couldn’t help but feel sorry for teasing her.

“Look, I’m sure you kiss like a goddess,” he said. “So stop worrying about what Roger thinks.”

“I just wish I could practice on something besides a mirror,” she said gloomily.

“Yeah,” he agreed absently as he thumbed through the file. “It usually works better to go with a real-life target who’ll actually kiss you back.”

She shot him a hopeful look. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to help me out with that.”

He glowered at her. “Get real, Kelly.”

“What do you mean?” Realization dawned slowly. “Oh! No, no! I didn’t mean for you to kiss—oh, dear. I would never want you to… well, this isn’t going to come out right, no matter how I say it.”

“So just say it.”

“Okay. I wasn’t talking about you kissing me.” She sat on the edge of her desk. “But the thing is, I’ve made a list of potential, um… participants. So I was thinking maybe you could help by looking it over and making some suggestions?”

“You have a list?” Why was he surprised? Kelly made lists for everything. It was just one of the ways she stayed so organized.

“Of course I have a list.” She jumped up, ran around the desk and pulled a pad and pen out of her drawer. “I’m good at making lists.”

“Let me get this straight,” he said, absently slapping the file folder against his pants leg. “You’ve made a list of men you’re thinking of approaching to ask for help with—what? Kissing lessons?”

She flipped a page over and studied it. “That’s right.”

“But I’m not on the list?” he asked warily.

“What? No, absolutely not.” She shook her head as she held up her hand in a pledge. “Of course you’re not on the list. You’re my boss.”

“Good. As long as we’ve got that settled.” He should’ve felt nothing but relief. So why was he getting more annoyed by the minute? She considered him good enough to judge her damn panties but not good enough to kiss?

Okay, that might be the most ridiculous thought he’d had all day. This entire situation was getting out of hand. With a heavy exhalation of breath, he shoved away his own ludicrous reactions and tried to empathize with Kelly’s bizarre quandary.

“So who’s on the list?” he asked, almost afraid to hear her answers.

She glanced up. “What do you think about Jean Pierre?”

“The hotel chef?” She couldn’t be serious.

“He’s French,” she explained. “They invented the sport, right?”

“No way in hell. Not Jean Pierre. You’d probably start an international incident. Absolutely not.”

“Okay, okay.” She crossed Jean Pierre’s name off her list. “What about Jeremy?”

“The guy who mows the lawns?”

“He’s a landscape designer,” she said pointedly. “Practically an artist. He might know a thing or two about the art of l’amour.”

“He’s gay.”

“Really? Why don’t I know these things?” She blew out a frustrated breath as she drew a line through Jeremy’s name. “Nicholas the winemaker? He’s German, right? He might be—”

“Let me see that list.” He snatched the pad from her and gazed at the names. “Paulo, the cabana boy?”

“He’s cute,” she insisted, a little too desperately. “Forget it. Who’s Rocco?”

“One of the limo drivers.”

“Which one?”

“The big guy with the—”

“Never mind.” He shook his head. “No.”

“But—”

“No,” he said, handing the list back. “Throw that away. I don’t want you going around kissing the staff, for God’s sake.”

“Fine.” Glaring at Brandon, she ripped the page out, crumpled it up and tossed it in the waste bin. “I suppose you’re right. It might send the wrong message.”