Billionaire Bad Boy

By: C.J.Archer

"It's all right, Snoopy," she said, "Zack's not abducting me, he's just..." What was he doing?

"Rescuing you?"

She frowned. Snoopy cocked his head to the side.

"Cute," Zack muttered. He placed her gently on the sofa and disappeared into the bathroom.

Uh-oh. What if he looked inside her cabinet? She did a mental check of all the embarrassing contents and was thankful he wasn't there to see her blush.

He emerged carrying a tube of burn cream. She doubted it would be all that effective on blisters but she didn't say anything as he knelt beside her to apply the cream to the soles of her feet.

At first it tickled and she struggled not to giggle and pull her feet away. But then she relaxed as the cream cooled her heated skin. After a few minutes, the gentle, circular strokes had lulled her into a sense of deep satisfaction.

"Mmmm, that feels sooo good." She sighed and flopped back into the cushions.

The stroking stopped abruptly. "I think that's enough," he muttered, voice gruff.

She opened her eyes and blinked. "Why did you stop?"

He screwed the top back on the tube of cream. Although she couldn't see his eyes, his lips were drawn into a taught, white line. "I've finished."

"What about the other foot?"

He handed the tube to her. "You do it," he snapped.

Weird. What the hell had she said to make him close up? They'd been enjoying a nice, almost sensual experience and he'd stopped as if he were afraid of—

Realization thunked her in the head. For her it was a sensual experience, but not for him. He probably thought she was falling for him and he didn't want her to. He wanted to keep their relationship on a business level. No wonder her near-orgasmic reaction to his foot massage worried him.

And he definitely wouldn't want her to fall for him. Noooo... Not her, a mousy nobody.

Well, if he didn't want her, that was okay. She certainly didn't want to fall for an arrogant jerk like him either, and she'd have great satisfaction in doing it. Or not doing it. Whatever.

"I'm going," he announced.

"Fine. I've got a lot of things to do anyway."

"Fine. I'll pick you up tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? What for?"

"A ride." He strode to the door, opened it and was gone without even a backward glance.

She sighed and flopped back on the couch. Wonderful. Zack thought she was a loser. Worse, a desperate loser who wanted him. Problem was, she did want him. Only physically of course. But he'd made it clear he'd never want her in the same way. Just as well. She wasn't a casual fling kind of girl.


Zack closed the front door of his Beverly Hills house and leaned back against it with a loud sigh. That had been close. He'd had a lucky escape. Annie looked so good lying on her couch, her skirt riding high on her slim legs, her body responding to his touch. He'd felt her tension ease as he massaged her feet.

Oh yeah, those feet! He wasn't a foot fetishist—in fact, he'd never noticed a woman's feet before, never touched them the way he'd touched Annie's. But she had soft soles, high arches and sensitive toes. Sexy toes.

He stripped off his T-shirt and headed to the bar. He poured a strong Scotch, no rocks, and swallowed it in one gulp. He made another but didn't drink it. He'd develop a drinking problem by the end of this assignment if he wasn't careful. He needed to keep reminding himself that Annie was just that—an assignment. Nothing more.

Definitely nothing more.


The next morning, Annie rummaged through her closet for something suitable to wear. It didn't take long before her bed disappeared under a mountain of clothes. She'd tried on every pair of shorts, Capri pants and trousers she owned, but none of them seemed right for a ride with LA's sexiest businessman. That was assuming he was talking about a motorbike ride and not a horseback ride.

Boy, she hoped he hadn't meant a horseback ride. The thought of getting onto the back of a live animal with Zack watching was too frightening. Imagine all the things that could go wrong! The horse could bolt and she'd fall off. She could step in horse poop. She could slip on horse poop and end up on her ass, or on her back with it in her hair.

She rifled through the clothes-mountain. What do I have that's poop-proof? She paused, then searched again. What do I have that's dork proof?

Nothing. Everything in her closet screamed 'conservative'. She settled on a pair of navy Capri pants and a white T-shirt, then checked herself out in the mirror. She looked great—for a day of sailing.

The doorbell chimed. She glanced at the clothes strewn around her room and sighed. No time to change or tidy up. She made a mental note not to ask Zack back inside after the ride, in case he wanted to make wild passionate love to her in the bedroom. There was a perfectly good sofa in the lounge.

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