The Playboy Bachelor

by Rachel Van Dyken

  Bentley hadn’t ever been the type to just give up, but then again he hadn’t been lazy and unkind back then. How many times had he confided in her that he wanted to change the world? Beneath his gorgeous exterior had been a consistent need to prove himself to everyone—especially his grandfather.

  What changed?

  And why did she suddenly feel guilty when it was Bentley who’d left her? Not the other way around?

  Guilt had no business in her life, especially guilt over him. Besides he was literally being paid to be here with her.

  She frowned. Well, technically, he wasn’t getting paid.

  He was doing this for charity.

  Yet somehow this whole thing made her feel like the charity.

  Just great.

  How the hell did a grown man get conned into such a thing? That was the question, because Bentley had never been the type of man you could force into anything.

  Clearly, she had hit a new low in her life if her grandmother was paying good-looking men to shack up with her and actually hinting toward sexual escapades and unplanned pregnancies.

  Shivering, she took a step out in the hall, and her feet immediately touched something that lay right outside her door.

  Blinking against the darkness, she managed to squat down and pick up the offending object. A bouquet of flowers?

  She inhaled the light, sweet fragrance, and a smile tugged at her lips before she forced it away.

  Did he really think she was that starved for attention that a pitiful bouquet of wildflowers would get her into his bed?

  Not that flowers meant an invitation into Bentley Wellington’s bed.

  Her skin heated.

  The curse of being a romance author meant that you read meanings into everything, overanalyzed all things, and when a man brought you flowers you immediately started imagining all the reasons behind it—because it was her job to know those reasons, to portray them on a page, to make them believable.

  But this? This wasn’t a novel. This was reality.

  She dropped the flowers like they were burning her, only to pick them back up again—but not because she was keeping them, because she was going to at least throw them in the trash. After all, she hated a mess.

  Yup, that was why she was clenching them so tightly in her right hand and why she kept glancing at the pretty blue petals.

  If he knew her at all anymore, he’d know that flowers only reminded her of funerals.

  And abandonment.

  Flowers had filled her hospital room until she thought she was going to choke to death on their scent.

  To Bentley flowers were a gesture.

  To Margot? A pretty reminder of everything that went wrong in her life, and all of her reasons for shutting people out.

  Her toes slid over the threshold of her door into the hallway. The floor let out a low creak under the weight of her body. Clenching her eyes shut, she waited for Bentley to pop out of one of the rooms or suddenly appear, but nothing happened.

  Margot exhaled in relief, and then very slowly and quietly made her way to the stairs, careful to avoid the creaky ones.

  The lights had been turned off—at least he did that much, not that she really cared about the electricity bill—but it gave her the impression he wasn’t completely mindless and stupid.

  With hurried steps, she limped into the kitchen and dropped the flowers into the trash can with a flourish before kicking the can and making a beeline for the fridge, thankful she didn’t have to look at the jackass’s face. Because she was sure that would wreak havoc on her dreams.

  The last thing she needed was a vision of his cruel smile and penetrating eyes before she slept. The nightmares from the accident were bad enough without him making an appearance. And now she had him to thank for the fact that she was thinking about flowers again, about funerals.

  “Margot dear, what color?” Grandma whispered.

  Through her tears all Margot could think of was: This shouldn’t be happening. I shouldn’t be picking out flowers to place on my parents’ grave. And why? Why the hell did it matter what color they were?

  Her mother had loved flowers. Thus the garden that wrapped around the east side of the house. And now her mother’s favorite flowers would be covering her grave.

  Margot shoved the memory away and opened the fridge door. As light seeped into the room, she quickly located the orange juice, pushed the carton open, and took a few giant swigs.

  An eerie sense of awareness trickled down her spine as she swallowed the last gulp and set the orange juice back on the shelf then closed the door.

  “Can’t sleep?” a sexy-as-hell voice said to her immediate left.

  “Shit!” She stumbled away from the fridge and braced herself against the granite countertop with both hands, but not before banging her hip into the blunt edge. Yeah, that was totally going to be a bruise by morning. “You scared me.”

  Bentley lazily leaned against the opposite wall, muscled arms crossed, arrogant mocking grin firmly in place. Why did he have to look like that? Why?

  He pushed away, taking one step toward her then two. He stopped once he was a foot in front of her. “You don’t like me.”

  “No.”

  “You used to.”

  She stiffened. “Used to is the key word there, Bent.”

  It slipped.

  His nickname.

  His full lips curved into a smug grin. “I haven’t changed that much…” He glanced down at his rock-hard body then back up at her.

  Understatement of the century.

  Everything had changed.

  Everything.

  From his perfectly sculpted face to the muscles that bulged all over his body. Oh, he’d changed, all right. From a boy to a man. But the change that affected her the most was the fact that every time he opened his mouth, she was taken back to a time when she would have done anything just to listen to him talk. She’d hung on his every word. But Bentley had taught her a very hard lesson when she’d needed it the most.

  Words are just words—empty promises—unless there’s action behind them. And Bentley? He wasn’t a man of action. He never had been.

  “You’re arrogant.” She finally found her voice.

  His T-shirt bulged over muscled forearms and swollen biceps. Eyes heated, he opened his mouth and drew a breath.

  Whatever he was going to say, she beat him to the punch. “You’re spoiled.” She kept talking, refusing to give him any opening to defend himself as she held up a finger. “You think you’re God’s gift to women. You screw anything that allows you between their legs, and you have no respect for yourself or me or anyone for that matter, and you’re—”

  He clapped a hand over her mouth. “I didn’t ask for a damn list.”

  She shoved his hand away and glared. “We’d be here all night if you did.”

  His eyebrows shot up like he was surprised she had fight in her, and then his gaze slowly wandered down her body, lower and lower, until she felt herself start to break out in a cold sweat. Oh God, could he see her leg in the dark? Could he tell? She wasn’t wearing shoes. All he had to do was look down, though the pajama pants she wore might just save her.

  She muttered a prayer of thanks when his head snapped up, but his dangerous smile had her swallowing in nervousness. Bentley leaned in, and whispered, “Nice legs, Red.”

  She glared up at his sculpted lips and fought to keep the tears from falling at his compliment.

  Either the bastard really had no idea about her injury or he was just playing a cruel joke on her—but she’d never known him to be cruel.

  “So you hate flowers?” he said, changing the subject, and gave her a sliver of space between their bodies.

  “Yup.” She clenched her teeth together. God, her throat felt like it had a basketball lodged in it.

  “Hmm.” He ran a finger down her neck. She flinched and jumped back. “Doesn’t like to be touched, prefers the dark, and hates living things.” His smirk was like a weapon, dea
dly to a mortal female. “Vampire? Zombie? Ghost?”

  “Or,” she countered as she sidestepped him, “you’re just not as good-looking as you think you are.”

  “Or you’re just playing hard to get like always.”

  She shook her head; the thought was hilariously stupid. Hard to get? When had she ever been hard to get? When they were in high school she’d practically drooled all over his lap whenever they hung out. “I’m not your type.”

  “Female”—he said the word with a sensual edge—“is my type.”

  “With that hair I would have thought you swung both ways.” She lifted a shoulder carelessly. “My bad.”

  The walls between them were once again erected.

  His eyes bulged, and then he cursed and walked off. “Good night, Red.”

  She didn’t answer.

  The minute he rounded the corner, she slumped against the counter.

  Humiliation built up inside her chest until all she wanted to do was cry. But Margot had shed enough tears for a lifetime already. He’d said legs.

  Plural.

  Well, the joke was on him.

  Since she really only had one.

  Or one and a half.

  She wasn’t sure what was worse: the fact that he really had no idea about her injuries—meaning he’d never even checked up on her all those years ago—or the fact that years ago she would have killed for him to give her a compliment like that. To look at her with that smoldering gaze he often reserved for girls with bright blond hair and chirpy voices.

  Even his compliment missed its mark, because the arrogant bastard had no idea the reason she limped was because her prosthetic fit poorly, and she was too embarrassed to go to the doctor and get one that was easier to walk in, because that meant leaving the house.

  It meant asking for help.

  Besides, she didn’t walk much.

  She sat.

  And she swam.

  Margot exhaled a rough sigh and glared at the dark hall where Bentley had just disappeared. She needed to focus on all the bad, not the way he looked at her, and not the easy way he handed out compliments as if she were something special.

  Because any compliment wouldn’t make up for the fact that he could be a complete prick when he wanted to be.

  Margot drummed her fingertips against the countertop and waited to hear the click of his door shutting behind him.

  It didn’t.

  Did the man seriously not shut his door at night?

  And why did it bother her so much?

  Rolling her eyes at herself, she slowly walked around the stairwell and peeked down the hall at the wide-open door and the half-naked man standing almost fully in front of it.

  His black T-shirt went flying.

  Tight, skinny jeans that should have gotten caught on his legs were next as he jerked them to the floor, giving her an amazing view of his firm ass.

  His fingers paused at the waistband of his boxer briefs.

  Her breath hitched, lips parted, as he very slowly pulled them down and turned slightly to the side.

  She was painfully aware of her own heartbeat drumming against her chest as her eyes strained to take in every masculine, beautiful part of him.

  No wonder.

  That was her only thought.

  No wonder women fall all over themselves.

  No wonder he’s always had it easy.

  No wonder.

  Heart in her throat, she took one last look at him and then limped back to the stairs, her uneven gait a painful reminder of how different their worlds were.

  And how important it was to keep them separate.

  Chapter Seven

  A smile curved his lips as Bentley put his hands behind his head and stared up at the boring white ceiling.

  She’d watched him.

  And not by accident.

  He’d seen her reflection in the window, had been tempted to turn around, but instead he’d decided to give Red a little striptease—test her to see if she was completely immune to him.

  Instead, she’d placed a hand to her chest, her mouth had dropped open, and her eyes had bulged damn near out of her head.

  For a fraction of a second, he’d almost turned completely around, but there would be no point in making her even angrier, especially with the next fucking thirty days hanging over his head.

  Maybe he could convince his grandfather to count the fact that she’d almost smiled when he’d taken off his clothes. No way—the old man would just take his request as another instance of Bentley not living up to expectations.

  Growling, he punched and then fluffed his pillow stuffing it underneath his head, and closed his eyes.

  * * *

  “No! Stop!” The feminine shriek had Bentley falling out of bed with the sheets tangled around his ankles. Cursing, he jerked on his jeans, not even bothering to button them, and took the stairs three at a time.

  “Please!” Margot screamed. “Please! I didn’t mean it! Come back! Please!” Her screams shook the entire house.

  He knocked on her bedroom door.

  What the hell am I doing?

  “Margot!” He flung open the door and charged toward the bed and the woman screaming around and tossing in it. “Margot!” Bentley reached out and touched her shoulder only for her to scream again. “Wake up, honey. Wake up, it’s just a dream.” He shook her harder and then her swollen eyes snapped open—locking on to him like a vise.

  The temptation to run was so strong.

  Because eyes like that saw too much.

  Eyes like Margot’s made a man want to fight wars. They made a man want to confess his sins—and Bentley Wellington had too many to list, and enough common sense to realize that a woman like her would never understand.

  “Are you okay?” he finally asked.

  She shook her head and swallowed, clenching the sheets with her hands and tugging them up to her chin like she was afraid he was going to strip her.

  He rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to take advantage of you.”

  Yeah, she didn’t look convinced.

  “Look.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I have no idea what you’ve read about me, but I’m not into that…the whole ‘scream and whip me in bed’…I don’t get off that way, and I sure as hell don’t screw women who aren’t willing.”

  Her face shuttered—like she flicked off every emotion a human should possess and, in its place, put on a mask of complete indifference. “Thanks.”

  “It was nothing.”

  “You can go now.” Voice hollow, she pointed at the door.

  “But—”

  “I’m tired.” Her lower lip trembled.

  He wouldn’t have noticed had he not been obsessed with her lips and the way she sucked on her bottom one with her teeth when she was nervous, turning it cherry red.

  “Does this happen often?” he asked.

  “Please don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t ask questions you really don’t want the answers to. You didn’t care all those years ago, so please don’t pretend to care now.”

  “Margot.” Fuck, she was frustrating as hell. If she only knew how much he cared. The agonizing days alone in the dark, fighting his own anxiety about hospitals and death…trying to gain enough courage to even step foot in the right direction.

  “I’m going to the hospital.” Bentley nodded his head and stood. “I have to. She’s going to think I left her and…” His knees knocked together before he collapsed against the chair.

  Brant shook his head. “They won’t let you out.”

  “Then I’ll break out!” Bentley yelled. “Cover for me or something.”

  “We’d get caught and you’d just be stuck in here longer…I’ll figure something out, just…you need to get better.”

  “I am better!” he screamed. “It was a onetime thing, all right? I just, I heard about the accident and I snapped, but I’m fine. Look.” Bentley threw his hands in the air. “I’m not going to shank anyone or hurt myself. It’s anxiet
y, not depression. Huge difference!” He was lying. He was still terrified of what he would do once he was back in the real world.

  Once he was alone again.

  Bentley shook the memory from his head and locked eyes with a terrified Margot. “I’m just trying to help.”

  “Ohhh…” Her smile was fake. Beautiful, but fake. “Is that what you’re doing at my house? And here I thought my grandmother spent ten grand so that I’d have my best friend back.” She turned on her side and pulled the covers over her head. “You can go now, Bentley. Go save someone who needs to be saved. I’m fine. I was fine when you weren’t there for me back then—I’m pretty sure I’ll survive now.”

  He stood and stared at the red hair that peeked out from under the white sheet; the stark contrast between the two drew his eyes more than he would have liked.

  But what kept him still as a statue was the loneliness in her voice, and the way she hid herself not just from the world—but from anyone, everyone. And the horrible part? She didn’t realize it. She had no fucking clue.

  “It’s not enough,” he said in a gruff voice. “Being fine isn’t enough.”

  “It is for me,” she said in a muffled whisper.

  “Don’t lie. Not to me.”

  In a dramatic flourish, she pulled the sheet back from her face and scowled. Damn, she was pretty, even when she was trying to scare him off or yelling at him, which was basically 99 percent of every encounter they’d had since he’d stepped foot inside her home.

  “Go away.”

  “Going.” He lifted his hands in the air and slowly backed away toward the door, but not before glancing over his shoulder and adding, “For the record, they’re emerald green.”

  “What?”

  “Your eyes. Apparently my memory’s complete shit since I always thought they had specks of yellow in them. But they don’t. They’re like emeralds, angry emeralds.”

  “Are you drunk?”

  “No.” He shrugged. “Just making a completely impersonal observation about my new roommate for the next thirty days.”