Chapter Five
Her eyebrows shot up. “You…” Her laughter filled the car, a joyous, highly entertaining sound he could listen to over and over again. “Oh, wow, I wish I could have seen that.”
A steely heat sank into his groin at the notion of her seeing him naked. He forced out a chuckle. “Is that so?”
She shot him a look. “I mean…that’s not…” She let out a frustrated growl. “I only meant it would have been interesting to see the great Thomas St. Clair in such a humbling situation.”
He grinned. “Well, I should point out, I only did it three times. And then Night of Whispers hit the New York Times bestseller list and my surreal life began. No more needing to go naked for food.”
A chill rippled over him. It had been a while since he’d allowed himself to think about that time of his life, when his parents were in their third year of destroying their marriage, and as a direct result, their family. Their venomous attacks on each other, the vitriol, the emotional manipulation as they used their own son to inflict more pain upon each other had all gone a long way to messing Thomas up.
College had been an escape he’d run to, even though he’d failed every goddamn class in his fall semester of his freshman year except his creative writing one. But then Shelby—a young agent building her list with a very influential agency—signed him, Night of Whispers released and exploded, and his new lawyer made sure his parents never had anything to do with him again.
But in that first year of college, when he was full of tormented anger, he’d refused to take anything from his warring parents, which meant he was hungry and broke often. Hence the life-drawing model gig. None of that had been public knowledge until it had all come out in the New York Times article written by one M.E. Elderkin, a person high on his people-he’d-like-to-punch list.
“Did you know it was going to be a bestseller?”
Thomas jerked himself out of the bleak reverie at Mila’s question. She studied the road, both hands gripping the wheel tightly.
“When you were writing it?”
“Hell no.” He snorted, shifting on the seat. “As I was writing it, I was just trying to process what was going on in my life. Channeling everything into the only thing I was good at—writing stories. A journalist once, a long time ago, suggested the horror of Night of Whispers was in fact a metaphor for my life between the ages of fourteen to seventeen.” He looked out the window, the streets beyond little but quiet buildings with curtained glowing windows. He thought of the words of that journalist’s article, thought of their sting, like acid eating into muscle.
That article had changed who he was, how he let the world see him. How he interacted with it. He’d still been young when it had come out, still enamored with his fame and success, still learning—with the selfish bravado of a suddenly rich twenty-year-old—how to navigate its deceptive pitfalls and brutality.
“In all honesty”—he turned back to Mila—“with the wisdom of age, I think that journalist was onto something.”
She flicked him a silent look.
He grinned. “That didn’t stop me killing a journalist character in the most brutal, horrific way in the book I wrote after that article was published, mind you.”
“Still Water Creek.”
A finger of delight traced up his spine. “You’ve read it?”
She nodded. “It was very…graphic. As was the film they made from it.”
No lie there. He’d been angry as he’d written it, a sense of being violated driving him. “That film,” he said, watching the dark houses outside, “was the first time Sebastian Hart directed a horror film. Won him an Academy Award, a BAFTA, a Golden Globe, and an AACTA.”
“Are you boasting?” She directed another quick glance his way. “Or trying to justify the way you tortured your journalist character in the narrative?”
He chuckled. Damn, he loved how she called a spade a spade. “A bit of both, to be honest.”
“Why?”
He frowned at her unexpected question. Why, indeed? He didn’t need her adulation, or approval, and he certainly didn’t need to feel guilty about a non-existent person in a book he wrote over eight years ago. “Because I want you to like me.”
Her eyebrows shot up her head. “You want me to like you?”
“Ridiculous, I know.” He scratched at the back of his head. Damn, when had his gut turned to a knotted mess? “Me, an international bestselling author, wanting you, a…a…” He didn’t want to say escort. He wasn’t entirely convinced she was. God knows where Shelby had found her, but something about her manner, her attitude, it just wasn’t…
“An escort?”
He swallowed at her blunt suggestion. “That’s not the word I was looking for.” He shifted in his seat again. “I just meant, we seem to come from different worlds. You’re not the kind of woman normally in mine. Oh Jesus, I’m just making this worse for myself, aren’t I?”
Her soft chuckle filled the Hyundai’s dark interior.
“You are making it worse.” She threw him a quick smile. “But it’s thoroughly entertaining to witness. As for me liking you? Surprisingly, the jury is still out.”
Surprisingly? What did that mean? And why did it fill him with a strange sense of hope.
He noted the way she fought to rein in her smile, like enjoying herself was something forbidden. He wanted to hear her laugh again, really laugh, like she had when he’d confessed to his nude modeling. What could he do to really loosen her up?
What could he…
What if instead of Gabe using the demon blood to open the portal, he uses blood from the Child That Never Was? And then, he’s betraying her as well as himself and—
“Shit.” He shoved his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket. “Shit, shit, shit.”
“What’s wrong?”
He ignored her startled question, withdrawing the small notebook and pen he carried with him at all times before turning on the map light above his head with a sharp jab of his finger. “Just give me a second,” he muttered, flipping open the notebook to an empty page.
Heart racing, he wrote frantically, the scenario he’d been desperate to discover for so many months suddenly there. There. Vivid and perfect.
One page. Two page. Three. Four.
He scribbled, sentence after sentence, arrows pointing to future plot points, lines of dialogue, character development. His hand began to ache, a glorious ache deprived of him for months.
Fifth page. Sixth. He muttered, reading what he’d written, adding to it, crossing some out, adding more.
Seventh page.
A subtle pulling sensation on his gut jerked his head up. He blinked, the view beyond the car’s windows confusing him. When had they arrived—
“Home.” Mila turned off the ignition.
He frowned at the front of his brownstone. His heart thumped faster. No. He didn’t want to be home. Home meant Mila…
No.
He twisted in the seat and fixed her with a steady gaze. “Come inside with me.”
“I can’t.”
He drew a deep breath and leaned toward her. “Come inside with me, Mila. Please.”
She studied him, her teeth catching her bottom lip for a split second before she frowned. “Why?”
“Because I’ve been fighting with the worst case of writer’s block I’ve ever had, but from the second I opened my door to you, the words, the story, has come back.” He shook his head. He sounded ridiculous. Hell, he sounded melodramatic. But it was the truth. If she left… “Because I’m terrified if you drive away, the words will drive away with you.”
She didn’t move.
“I’ll pay you.” Okay, now he sounded fucking desperate. Which he was. “Name your price.”
“Pay me to do what, exactly?”
…
Numbers swirled through her head. Quotes from different laptop suppliers, budgets set by her school administrators, the grand—and extremely woeful—total in her bank account.
Numbers. And images. Images her stupid, traitorous brain kept throwing at her. Images that had started tormenting her the moment they met. She’d cured him of writer’s block? Made his words come? Great. Awesome. But he’d somehow turned her into someone who couldn’t stop thinking about how incredible sex with him would be.
Him. The guy that had destroyed her goal of being a New York Times journalist. Him. The guy who clearly had no idea who she was.
He still thought she was a…a…what?
Another image flickered through her head, this one beyond X-rated. Where the hell was her mind getting them from? Sure, it had been a while…a long while…but, still?
“Be with me.”
Heat flooded her cheeks at his murmur and her mouth turned dry.
Be with him. Oh God, was he asking…
“Just be around me,” he went on, resting his elbow on the dash, his gaze on her face. “That’s all. Nothing else.”
“No sex?” Holy heck, what was she doing even putting the idea out there?
He drew a slow breath. “Mila, I would be lying if I said I didn’t find you the sexiest thing on the planet. But this offer, right now? All I want, all I need from you is just to be able to interact with you, see you, hear you. I just…” He scrubbed at the back of his neck and shook his head. “Please. Come inside with me. If nothing else, come say hi to Reaper.”
She let out a sigh. “Okay, I’ll come in. But only to pet Reaper. And then I have to go.”
He beamed. His teeth flashed at her in the dark, white and perfect.
What the hell was she doing?
Laptops. Lots of laptops.
By the time she’d pulled the keys from the ignition, he was out of the car and opening the driver’s side door. “Don’t do that,” she admonished, climbing out.
“What? Be a gentleman?”
She ground her teeth.
He grinned. “Come on. Inside. How do you take your coffee?”
“I’m just petting your dog.”
“Sure.”
She gritted her teeth harder.
Two steps into his home, the fact she’d done a very foolish thing hit her. It had nothing to do with seeing him once again fully illuminated, his breath-stealing good looks undeniable in the light cast by the foyer’s chandelier. Nor did it have anything to do with the way a shiver of awareness danced over her skin as he placed his palm on the small of her back after opening the heavy wooden door for her.
Two steps in, he called for Reaper.
The honest love and joy in his voice as he called his dog’s name, the way his face lit up and his eyes sparkled when the Boston Terrier came scampering toward him from somewhere in the house, claws clicking on the marble floor, it was too much.
Too adorable.
Too…too wonderful. Goddamn him.
“I have to go.” Fire filled her cheeks and she stepped backward.
Thomas straightened, a frown on his face. At his feet, Reaper jumped and pranced, begging for more attention. “Go? Why?”
“Because…” She faltered. No way was she letting him know why. “Because I forgot my sister needs me right now.”
She turned, only to stop when he slipped his fingers around her elbow.
“Mila.”
Another current of awareness shot through her, radiating from his hand on her arm. She licked her lips, her mouth suddenly dry.
“Please?”
Was it the completely unexpected word, or the vulnerability in his voice that clenched her chest? That made her want to brush her fingers over his jaw and tell him it was going to be okay? Goddamn it, what was he doing to her?
Turning back to him, she sighed. “I have to go. I really do.”
His jaw bunched. His Adam’s apple slid up and down his throat. What would it feel like, moving beneath her lips, her tongue? “I will pay you. By the hour.”
Her blood roared in her ears. She squeezed her eyes shut, head spinning.
“Name your price.”
She opened her eyes and frowned at him. Her price? “You have no idea who I am. What if I can’t…what if I can’t give you what you want?”
“I told you, I don’t want to pay you for sex. I just…” He released her arms and swiped a shaking hand over his mouth. “I just know I’ll be able to finish my book if you’re around. Please?”
That word again. That vulnerability. She swallowed, her throat thick. Thomas St. Clair, bastard, selfish billionaire author was not meant to be vulnerable. He was meant to be, well, a selfish, rich bastard.
A soft scratching at her toe made her look down. Reaper pawed at her foot, tongue lolling out in a doggy grin as he silently pestered her for a pat.
Name your price.
How many laptops could she buy for her students with the money he was offering to throw at her? It would be selfish of her to say no.
Lowering herself into a deep crouch, she stroked Reaper’s head. The dog tried to lick her hand and climb onto her legs, tail wagging.
“See?” Thomas said. “Even Reap doesn’t want you to go.”
She trailed her fingers over Reaper’s head again. He looked up at her, liquid-brown eyes pleading.
Damn it, even his dog was ganging up on her.
Letting out a sigh, she straightened to her feet and met Thomas’s gaze. “I can’t stay. Not tonight. But…but I can come back. Another time.”
He grabbed her. Wrapped his arms around her waist with a wild whoop of happiness and swung her around. “Thank you. Thank you.”
She clung to him, heart racing. “Okay, okay. You can put me down n—”
He returned her feet to the floor and captured her lips with his all in one swift move.
Wicked delight and hunger lashed through her. She groaned, gripping his shoulders tighter, her whole body awakening with need.
He tore his lips from hers and released her, stepping back from her. “Go. Now.” The order fell from him in a ragged breath. “Before I beg you to stay for other reasons.”
She licked her bottom lip, the warmth and moisture there from his possessive kiss shaking her to the core. “Thomas, there’s something—”
“Tomorrow.” His nostrils flared as he shoved his hands deep into his hip pockets. “We’ll discuss payment tomorrow. For now…” A lopsided grin tugged at his lips. “I need to write. Good night, Mila.”
He dipped his head in a single nod and then, with a soft whistle to Reaper, turned and walked from the foyer.
She stood, pulse pounding, tasting him on her lips.
Wanted to taste more…
“Okay, time to leave.” Shaking her head, she quickly exited his home, hurried to her Hyundai, and climbed in.
Between now and tomorrow, she had a lot of thinking to do. A lot of soul searching. For starters, was it morally wrong of her to accept his money if he had no clue who she really was? What their past relationship was? Or was it morally right to accept it knowing what it would give her students?
With a sigh, she turned over the engine and pulled out into the quiet street.
Hopefully, she’d have all the answers by the time she made it home.
A dry snort scratched at the back of her throat. “Yeah, and how’s that snowball doing in Hell, woman?”