The Playboy's Ménage (The Billionaire Bachelors Series) (3 page)

“I’m still not sure why you didn’t tell him,” she muttered, starting to pace again. “It’s not like we’re doing anything wrong, or even anything close to the kind of wrong you two are capable of, according to the gossips.”

Henry sent her a speaking look. “You know better than to believe everything you read, Holly. The truth is infinitely more complex and thankfully a bit more X-rated. And I already told you why yesterday. I made him a promise years ago, and for the most part I kept it. Until last week. His reaction told me all I needed to know—namely, that until he sees proof, he rarely takes me seriously, and that it’s doubtful I’ll get away with my sin of omission without some physical pain and a shitload of payback.”

She tried to laugh. “You two and your paybacks. But I doubt he’ll care enough to be that upset. He hasn’t seen me since college.”

“If you were that naïve you wouldn’t be pacing.” He tilted his head, his dark, mussed hair brushing against his shoulders. “Your reaction is telling as well, but far more promising. I knew it would be, which is why I’ll promise to try not to be offended that you’re so comfortable around me. Now sit down and have a drink. We don’t want you nervous when he gets here, which should be any minute.”

Holly bit her tongue before she admitted how
not
comfortable she was around him. How hard it was to remember that too much time had passed for it to be acceptable to climb into his lap and nibble on his neck. “I’m not nervous, I’m wisely cautious and not looking forward to feeling awkward when the happy reunion you’re expecting doesn’t happen. Anyway I’m sure he’ll call first. You didn’t even tell him where you were. That picture of my ankle could have been taken in Morocco for all he knows.”

Henry held up his phone. “He knows. Have you forgotten how smart our Mr. Faraday is? He hasn’t. Peter could take over the world if he wanted to, probably via cell phone while playing Sudoku and single-handedly solving the problem of global warming. How he didn’t find you first is a mystery to me. But then, so many things are. Not this, though. I’m right about this. I think.”

“Comforting.” And she hadn’t forgotten how smart Peter was. How could she? She’d been in awe of him in college when she found out he was more than he seemed. More than filthy rich and handsome and too charming to hate. Peter was a genuine genius. Her favorite professor called him a polymath. He had an eidetic memory, could rebuild an engine, paint and play piano like a savant, take eight finals in one day and still have the time and brain power to stay up all night talking to her about the stars, about history and art and life, without making her feel like an idiot.

The way he used to touch her… The man excelled at everything.

But what had he done with all those skills? She walked over to the couch, sat down and accepted the drink from Henry. Everyone with a television or an Internet connection knew how the globetrotting Peter Faraday spent his time. The man with degrees in chemistry, physics, art history and computer science was his own after-hours cable show, entertaining the masses with his special brand of kinky experimentation.

“He doesn’t want to take over the world.” She stared into the glass morosely, watching the ice cubes he’d added clink against each other and crack. “Neither do you. You want to shock it and strip it and make it do wicked things it will most likely regret in the morning.”

The Peter from her memories was romantic. Sexy and capable of erotic feats that—combined with Henry’s skills—were unrivaled, yes, but she didn’t remember him being such a…

Playboy? Casanova? Man-whore?

Henry’s laugh was loud and uninhibited. “We’re men, babe. Spoiled men, as you were always so fond of pointing out. You don’t point a hungry, spoiled man in the direction of a buffet if you don’t want him to sample everything.”

She rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t help smiling. “I appreciate your honesty, if not your sexist food analogy. Anyway, it kind of goes with the territory for you, doesn’t it? Women tear off their tops and throw themselves at you in every city in the world for the chance to touch some of that creativity.”

Henry chuckled again. “I’m almost positive it’s not my creativity they want to touch. At least, that isn’t the first thing they reach for. But sure, I’ll use the musician defense. Poor Peter doesn’t get the same easy out, I’m guessing. If only he’d gone into underwear modeling or porn instead of living off his savvy investments and family fortunes, then you’d be able to understand his appetite. Too bad for him, huh?”

Holly frowned at him when her cheeks heated. “I didn’t mean it like that. Not really. I suppose I wasn’t expecting him to turn an extracurricular activity into a lifetime occupation, but who am I to judge? You know I haven’t exactly done what was expected either.”

Henry’s smile widened and he licked his lips. “I only know enough to whet my appetite. All those jobs, all that research just to be a professional ghostwriter. I have to admit your life sounds more exciting than mine. I keep playing the same old songs, but you sing a new tune every few months.”

She nodded, taking another sip of courage as she glanced at the door. “I do. And it
is
exciting for the most part, though not all of my research is that interesting, and it’s rarely as glamorous as your career. Rodeo clown for example? Not my finest hour. And my roller derby debut was over before it started. I still can’t believe I fell and broke my arm before completing my first lap. When I have time I’ll try out again. I hate leaving a project unfinished.”

“Roller derby? You’re killing me, babe, I hope you know that. And I thought it would be hard to top dominatrix trainee and stripper on my erotic list of Holly’s hobbies.” He was enjoying this conversation a bit too much.

“Burlesque performer, Henry. Not stripper. Big difference.”

He nodded. “You have no idea how long I’ll kick myself for never getting to see you perform. With that Betty Page hair and those Betty Grable legs? I bet you were a hit. And now I’m going to start calling you Betty. Please tell me Betty Boom-Boom will be your next roller derby name so I can die a happy man.”

She laughed, shaking her head as he tapped her glass with his. “What about the other? Did you enjoy bossing the weaker sex around for a change? Were all the power-suited men falling to their knees and begging you to crack your whip?”

“It was great therapy,” she admitted with a shrug. “But it’s not something I’d seek out for personal enjoyment. I was simply slipping into someone else’s stilettos for a story.”

Her personal cravings were something entirely different, in large part because of her experiences with Henry and Peter. She didn’t want to be the one in control, not when it came to sex. She wanted to be overwhelmed and swept away. To be taken and ravished, which made her sound more like a romance heroine with a bodice in need of ripping and less like an independent woman, but there it was.

She’d checked off a few things on her sexual wish list over the years, though she’d never had any desire to be with two men at the same time again. That fantasy had very specific casting.

Since Henry and Peter, there’d been three or four steady boyfriends she genuinely cared about, despite the fact that the relationships had only lasted until they proposed or things got serious enough that she thought they might. It wasn’t a character trait she was proud of. To avoid the guilt, she’d started confining her relationships to friends with benefits and short-term affairs.

In between those, she’d participated in a night of role-play with a married couple from one of her jobs when they were looking to spice up their relationship, and taken kinky photographs of her neighbors and closest friends—Bill and Chaz—that had turned into a voyeuristic night to remember. One of those pictures now hung over their bed, even though the image clearly revealed her reflection in the mirror zooming in on their intimate embrace.

She supposed she could give the Billionaire Bachelors a run for their money in the sexual experimentation department. Or at least make a decent showing. Luckily, no one was interested in recounting
her
exploits or exploring her fear of commitment for posterity. Unluckily, those exploits had a short shelf life in the satisfaction department. Soon enough, as regular as clockwork, she wound herself up thinking about Peter again. About Henry.

For years she’d tried to analyze it away and move beyond what had happened between them. She knew she’d romanticized it, put it on a pedestal in her memory. She knew that nothing was ever as good as it had seemed to be when you were looking back. A Christmas ménage with two men she thought she was in love with might sound perfect now, but she also had a vague recollection of being heartbroken and terrified of making the wrong decision in the harsh light of day. Of being as fickle as her mother.

So she’d made the choice
not
to make a choice, and that had its own set of consequences. The worst being that she knew exactly what it could be like.
Should
be like. Nothing else had ever come close, and nothing less was ever enough.

The knock at the door made her jump to her feet, adrenaline shaking her hand so hard her drink splashed onto her fingers. “Shit.”

“Relax.” Henry stood up with her, taking the glass away and distracting her by gripping her wrist and sucking her wet fingers into his mouth. Oh God. He watched her shiver as he let her go. “You should get that. We both know who it is, and that knock sounds serious.”

It did?

Why had she agreed to this? Both men in her living room, in her life again after all these years, was a masochistic decision and a recipe for trouble. She should have remained a distant spectator, forcing herself to be thankful she hadn’t stayed with them—especially when Bill and Chaz came over to gossip with her about the city’s notorious homegrown billionaires. The orgies, and sex in public fountains, and hotel lobbies being overrun by young screaming female fans willing to do whatever it took to sleep with a member of the band.

Chaz was the only other person who knew about her youthful affair. The threesome,
not
the participants. He’d still thankfully kept it from Bill, who was the hairstylist city dwellers with money went to for salacious rumors as well as exquisite dye jobs. She couldn’t let either of them know about her visitors. What if they were looking out their window right now? God, she should have thought this through.

Why did you write Henry back at all? Why did you berate him for not telling Peter about you, practically demanding that he send that text? Why are you dying to open the door and let him in?

All good questions she refused to answer on the grounds that they might incriminate her.

But the truth refused to be ignored. It hit her in the chest and stole her breath the instant she opened the door and looked into the beautiful, glowering face of Peter Faraday.

She still wanted them. More in this moment than she ever had. She’d gone to see Henry yesterday, invited him over and asked about Peter today
because
she wanted them. It wasn’t to talk, or catch up, or even apologize and explain why she’d disappeared, changing schools rather than facing them again. It should have been, but it wasn’t.

Her real reasons were simple and shameless. She wanted the chance to experience what they’d shared back then as a grown woman with no romantic illusions. Sex with Henry and Peter. They were here and she knew enough about herself to know she’d always regret it if she didn’t get a chance to compare her memory with the real thing one more time.

He was staring at her and she realized she’d been ogling him for a good two minutes without saying a word. “Peter.”

“Holly.” Peter looked down at her, his piercing blue eyes like a physical caress as they slid down her body, taking all of her in. Holly suddenly wished she hadn’t thrown her hair into a simple ponytail. That she’d worn heels and a dress for her afternoon meeting instead of the casual striped jersey that fell off one shoulder and her black mini-skort. Skorts didn’t exactly scream sexy and irresistible.

She sighed, trying to curb her reaction to him long enough to say something other than his name.

“Are you going to let me in?” He stepped forward, towering over her and causing Holly to instinctively walk backwards until he’d closed the door behind them without releasing her from his mesmerizing stare.

“Of course. I’m sorry I…” Her words trailed off and she was fairly certain they weren’t coming back any time soon. Peter packed a pheromone punch that would knock a nun to her knees.

If Henry was sex, Peter was sin disguised as an angel. Long lashes. Sensual lips. Eyes that impossible shade of blue she’d only seen in the waters off the Belize Barrier Reef, where she’d worked for a summer as a scuba instructor. Blond hair that would curl around her fingers if she touched it. He still had a heart-stopping face and a body that made her want things too dirty to even think about in public. The only thing saving him from Photoshopped perfection was the sexy scratch of stubble on his face, the smudge of grease on his white linen shirt and the flash of anger in his eyes.

The hardness in his expression was new. His social persona was that of a laid-back playboy and her memories of him were too soft around the edges to be entirely reliable, but the man she was looking at now was more dangerous than her Peter Faraday. Exciting…which was a thought that only reinforced her masochism theory.

Shit, she was still staring at him like a lovesick teenager. She needed to think of something witty to say. Something normal so he wouldn’t know what he was doing to her.

She took a grateful breath when Henry spoke into the lengthening silence.

“So…this is awkward and uncomfortable. Aren’t you going to say hello, Peter? Greet our old friend with a warm smile instead of that icy stare?”

She saw Peter’s lips tighten at the sound of Henry’s voice. He smiled, but it wasn’t warm or relaxed. He leaned down until his lips were a breath away from hers.

“Hello, Peter,” he mimicked obediently. “Has he kissed you yet?”

He used to ask her the same question every time he came back from class to find her at the house with Henry.