Billionaire Bad Boy

By: C.J.Archer

Yeah, right. Like he'd want to see her naked.

She hurried to open the door just as the bell rang a second time.

"What took you so long?" Zack asked when she opened the door. He wore black jeans and a heavy, black leather jacket over a black T-shirt. He also wore a cheeky grin and two adorable dimples. At least he was over his little spat from the previous night. He was more fickle than...well, than her with PMT. "Couldn't decide what to wear, huh?" He was a mind reader too.

She grabbed her purse and shuffled out the door but he blocked her path.

"You're not going anywhere dressed like that." He pushed past her. "Let's see what else you've got."

"But, but...wait!"

He didn't stop and she had to run to catch up to him. Too late. He'd already reached her bedroom door and opened it.

"You really aren't very decisive are you? Or neat."

She shrugged, trying to appear as if she didn't care that Zack DiMarco was in her bedroom picking up her clothes and studying them with a casually discerning eye.

He handed her a black T-shirt without looking her way. "Put this on. Do you have any leather pants?"

None that she could squeeze into. "No."

"Then put on these." He held up a faded pair of jeans with a rip at the knee and yellow paint splotches down the legs from the time she'd painted her kitchen cupboards. "What about a leather jacket?"


"Denim jacket?"

"Nothing I'd be caught dead wearing this decade. Even I've got fashion standards."

He laughed softly. "Too bad. Find it and put it on. Fashion's not the issue. Yet."

She crossed her arms. She certainly was not going to be seen wearing that jacket. It had Spice Girls patches sewn onto it for crying out loud! Her father had got it for her years ago. It had been cool in the Nineties. She hadn't worn it then either.

"Do you always tell women what to do?" she asked.


"And do they listen?"

"Some do," he said, studying a pair of flat, brown sandals she wore to the beach on the occasional visit.

"Which ones?"

"The ones who want to sleep with me," he said from the depths of her closet.

She blushed. "I guess that means I don't."

"The day's not over yet."

What sort of ego trip was this guy on anyway? And how did he know she'd thought about sleeping with him? "You're arrogant, you know that?"

"So they tell me."

"Oh yeah? Who?"

He turned around, a pair of sturdy hiking boots dangling from his fingers. His eyes sparkled as he fought back a grin. "The ones who pretend they don't want to sleep with me."

She snatched the boots, spun on her heel and marched into the bathroom, a trickle of quiet laughter following her.


Annie followed Zack out to the street where a gleaming black motorbike parked at the curb screamed rebel. He pulled on a helmet and settled onto the seat. The soft leather molded to his rear end like it was made for him. Mmmm, yum. He looked sexy sitting astride the sleek machine. She had to admit, he was cool.

Way too cool to hang out with the sort of girl who wore dated denim jackets. It must be torture for him to appear in public with her a second time. His reputation would take a beating if they were seen together too often.

"Get on," he said, holding her helmet.

Still annoyed by his arrogant comments in her bedroom, she really wanted to refuse, but one look at where she would sit kept her mouth shut. She'd go along. For now. She put on the helmet and slid onto the seat behind him.

"Now put your arms around my waist," he said.

She sniffed. "I don't want to." Liar. Every hair on her arms screamed to touch his body. No doubt his stomach was washboard flat and his chest hard.

"Okay, fine with me. Hang onto the seat behind you. Use both hands—I hate it when people fall off."

He was joking. Wasn't he?

She reached around and found a little handle on the back of the seat. She gripped tightly as Zack kicked over the engine. It roared aggressively, defiantly, challenging her neighbors to come outside and complain.

Before she knew it, the motorbike leaped forward and they took off. Fast. Way too fast. For the first time in her life, Annie felt fear. Gut wrenching, white knuckled fear. She squeezed her eyes shut and made a mental note to never get on a motorbike again.

They turned a corner and she bit back a scream as the bike tipped dangerously to the right. Her grip on the handle behind felt awkward and insecure. If she let go there was nothing stopping her from falling off except for the grip of her inner thighs around the large black bike. And the muscles in that region were sadly weak from disuse.

She opened her eyes but closed them again when she saw they were in the midst of traffic on the Santa Monica Freeway. At least Zack wasn't weaving in and out of lanes as she'd seen other motorcyclists do, but he wasn't slowing down either.

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