Positively Pricked: A Billionaire Loathing-to-Love Romance

by Sabrina Stark

  Did I ever. Even now, three years later, the image was burned into my brain. I'd opened the last stall in the library's second-floor women's restroom, only to catch a good eyeful of Tiffany and Buster doing the nasty.

  I still didn't know why they picked there of all places. And in truth, I didn't want to know. With more than a little trepidation, I said, "Uh, yeah?"

  "Well, you never told anyone."

  This wasn't quite true. I'd told Charlotte. But that was like putting it in the vault, because we had a strict no-blabbing policy on shared secrets.

  "Yeah?" I said. "So?"

  "So I know that I can trust you, you know, with girl-talk stuff."

  It was actually a pretty nice thing to say. "Uh, thanks."

  "And besides," she added, "we travel in totally different circles now, so it's not like you could tell anyone important."

  I gave her a look. "Oh, that's nice."

  "I know, right?" She gave me another sunny smile. "So, how about Italian? Everyone likes that."

  My stomach gave another traitorous grumble. Damn it. I did like Italian, but it hardly mattered. I still couldn’t afford it.

  Almost as an afterthought, Tiffany added, "Oh, and I'm totally treating. I did mention that, right?"

  Chapter 19

  Yes. I was a food-slut.

  But in my own defense, Tiffany had refused to take no for an answer. And honestly, I was running shamefully low on dignity.

  "So anyway," Tiffany was saying, "I'm thinking that if he likes blondes, I'm a total shoe-in."

  I wasn't so sure. From what I'd seen on the news, not to mention an embarrassing amount of gossip blog posts, Tiffany would have some serious competition. I asked, "But what about that model?"

  Tiffany frowned. "Which one?"

  I tried to think. There was that leggy brunette, and maybe a couple of blondes. I couldn’t recall any of their names, but that was no surprise. I wasn't big into high fashion, especially with everything so far beyond my budget.

  I said, "Actually, I'm not sure. Maybe someone who goes by just one name?" Yes, I was playing the odds. I mean, they all went by one name these days, right?

  "If you're talking about Maven," Tiffany said, "I'm not even worried. She's a total diva. And besides, you know she's just using him."

  I had no idea which model was called Maven. But did it matter?

  Probably not. After all, it's not like I'd ever meet her.

  Still, I said, "Using him? You mean for his money?"

  Tiffany laughed. "No. Not that."

  "Oh," I said. "For his looks?"

  Tiffany leaned forward. "Guess again."

  "Um…" I tried to think. "His last name?"

  After all Bennington was pretty high up there in the name-recognition department. That sort of thing would matter to a diva, right?

  Tiffany gave another laugh. "No. That's not it."

  "Well, it couldn’t be his charm," I muttered.

  Tiffany lowered her voice. "It is, if you're talking about the charm in his pants." She gave something like a giggle. "I felt it, you know."

  I froze. "It?"

  Tiffany nodded. "Oh yeah. It was just through our clothes, but…" Her eyes became dreamy. "Oh. My. God."

  Instinctively, I drew back. I so didn't want the details.

  We'd already eaten, and my stomach couldn't handle another thing – especially dirty details on Zane Bennington's anatomy.

  I glanced down at the table, now littered with soiled napkins and dirty plates. I'd just devoured a full plate of pasta primavera plus that whole basket of bread sticks – well, minus the one that Tiffany had nibbled on. Plus, there'd been that cannoli for desert and a nice little mint to finish everything off.

  Damn it. I wanted to keep it all down, not send it right back up again.

  I didn't know why, but I was surprisingly disturbed at the image of Tiffany making a grab for the prick's, well, prick, actually. Just the thought made my stomach lurch in a way that was decidedly unnatural.

  It was really strange, too, because I'd just spent a full hour listening to Tiffany go on and on about how she was considering ditching the senator for Zane. None of that had made me feel sick.

  Then again, that part of the conversation had been pretty clinical. The way it sounded, Tiffany had this whole mental spreadsheet mapped out, stating the pros and cons of each guy.

  When it came to wealth, fame, influence, and looks, Zane was the clear winner. But the senator did have one huge thing going for him – he'd already popped the question. He was the proverbial bird-in-the-hand, while Zane was still firmly in the bush.

  Across from me, Tiffany picked up her nearly empty wine glass and drained the rest of her zinfandel. She returned the glass to the table and said, "Did I mention I'm seeing him tonight?"

  My stomach gave another lurch.

  Damn it.

  Still, I tried to shrug it off. "Oh, really? You mean like on a date?"

  "I wouldn’t call it a date-date." She grinned. "But I am meeting him at the hotel later on."

  "Oh." In my stomach, that sick feeling grew and twisted. Why? I had no idea. Breadstick overload? That had to be it. Hoping to steer the conversation away from Zane's privates, I made myself ask, "Which hotel?"

  She gave me a look. "His. Of course."

  "Oh." Yeah, that was probably a stupid question. After all, the guy owned the most luxurious hotel and conference center in the whole city. Why on Earth would he slum it anywhere else?

  Across from me, Tiffany pulled out her cell phone and frowned. "Oh, shoot. I've got a manicure at two." She reached into her purse and pulled out a few bills. She tossed them onto the table and said, "Sorry to run, but can you settle up here?"

  Before I could even think to answer, she was already on her feet, blowing me an air kiss and scampering off to wherever. I looked down at the bills and did a quick calculation. If nothing else, she'd made good on her deal.

  The cash was enough to cover both of our lunches, plus a nice tip for the waitress. Still, looking at the bills, scattered among the dirty dishes, I couldn’t help but feel at least a little weird about it. After all, I'd just let someone I didn't particularly like treat me to lunch, just because I was hungry.

  There was only one cure for that, I decided – to find a job of my own, like now. With that in mind, I spent the next couple of hours, going from business to business in hopes that somebody was hiring.

  Finally, thanks to a chance meeting with a former neighbor, I had my first solid lead. There was only one problem.

  I hated the thought of pursuing it – and all because of you-know-who.

  Chapter 20

  I stared at my former neighbor. "Wait, did you say the Bennington Hotel?"

  Standing with me in the library, Lydia nodded. "Yeah, my uncle's a manager in the main kitchen."

  My shoulders slumped. "Oh."

  Lydia and I used to live in the same apartment building. We'd lost touch after I'd moved, but meeting her by chance seemed like the best luck ever, until like thirty seconds ago.

  "Why?" she asked. "Is that a problem?" She hesitated. "You did say you'd take anything, right?"

  It was true. I had said that.

  We'd been chatting for maybe ten or fifteen minutes when I'd asked her if she happened to know of anyone who was hiring. In what felt like amazing luck, she told me that she knew of a big hotel that was ramping up its catering staff.

  Best of all, they were looking to fill those positions right away. The timing was perfect, and the way it sounded, the pay wasn't half-bad, at least by food-service standards.

  There was only one problem. The job happened to be at the one hotel I was determined to avoid.

  Lydia gave me a sympathetic smile. "If it makes you feel any better, I'm working as a barista."

  That made me pause. "But wait. What about your art degree?"

  "What about it?" she said. "I paint on the side, but…" With a shrug, she let her words trail off. "Well, you know how it i
s."

  I did know. Still, I was curious. "But the job you just mentioned… Don't take this the wrong way, but if it's so great, why aren't you interested?"

  "Oh, that's an easy one," she said. "You know how I’m working at that coffee shop? Well, the owner's really great. She lets me hang my paintings on the walls, with a price tag."

  "Oh, so you sell them?"

  Lydia frowned. "In theory." She glanced away. "I mean, I haven't sold any yet, but you never know, right?"

  I nodded. "Right. Definitely."

  "But how about you?" Lydia said. "Why don't you want this job?"

  "It's not that I don't want it," I explained. "It's just kind of complicated."

  I glanced toward the nearby copy machine, the one I'd been using to print off more copies of my resume. I wasn't even sure why I bothered. After all, you didn't need a resume for low-level service jobs.

  But in my own defense, I'd been applying for plenty of professional jobs, too. The only difference was, for those jobs, I usually applied on-line, because that's what most hiring agencies insisted on.

  In front of me, Lydia asked, "Complicated how?"

  I sighed. "Well, the truth is, I've met the hotel's owner, and let's just say we kind of hate each other."

  Her eyes widened in obvious surprise. "You don't mean Zane Bennington?"

  And there it was, that dreaded name again. "Uh, yeah. Actually, I do."

  "Wow." Lydia was grinning now. "You lucky dog."

  "Hardly." I tried to laugh. "You did hear the part where we hate each other?"

  "But you actually met him?" She leaned forward. "What was that like?"

  "Awful."

  "Awful how?"

  "Oh come on," I said. "Everybody knows he's a giant prick."

  Lydia's lips curved into a mischievous smile. "Well, what I heard was that he has a —"

  I held up a hand. "Don’t say it."

  Lydia laughed. "Oh come on. That's just gossip, anyway. And besides, it doesn't matter. You'd probably never see him."

  "With my luck? I'm not so sure."

  "Oh, come on," she said. "What, you think he spends his time in the kitchen? Like, take my uncle. He's only seen Zane Bennington once, and that was only because he happened to be outside when Zane's limo pulled up."

  "You mean outside the hotel?"

  Lydia nodded. "He has an office on the top floor. I hear it's pretty amazing."

  My shoulders sagged. "That's too bad."

  "Why?"

  "Because I'd rather see him working in the basement." I smiled. "A nice, damp one. With rats. No. Not just rats. Giant man-eating rats."

  "Boy, you really do hate him, don't you?" She hesitated. "And you said the feeling's mutual?"

  Now, it was my turn to laugh. "Actually, I'm pretty sure he has no feelings."

  "Then you should apply for the job. Honestly, I doubt you'd ever see him."

  There was a certain comfort in that, and I did need the money. So when Lydia plucked a resume off my stack, and promised to pass it along to her uncle, I did what I should've done in the first place. I thanked her for the help and said a silent prayer that I'd actually get the job.

  In what felt like terrific luck, I received a call the very next day from a nice lady in the Bennington's Human Resources Department. And just like that, I had an interview scheduled for the very next afternoon.

  I didn't ask with whom, because I just assumed that it would be with Lydia's uncle, or maybe with a generic H.R. person.

  Big mistake.

  I arrived at the Bennington Hotel fifteen minutes early, and was ushered straight into the nearest elevator, where my escort, a thin, dark-haired woman, hit the button for the very top floor.

  Watching this, my stomach sank. He was on the top floor, well, assuming that he was in the office today.

  Damn it. I so didn't want to run into him, especially here, where he'd surely torpedo my job interview – or worse, kick me straight to the curb.

  And I so needed this job.

  In a desperate bid for reassurance, I turned to my escort and said, "I know this is a funny question, but by any chance, do you know if Zane Bennington is here today?"

  She gave me a perplexed look. "Excuse me?"

  Quickly, I added, "It's just that I met him a few weeks ago, and I was wondering if I might run into him again."

  I held my breath and waited for the answer. Please say no. Please say no…

  She eyed me up and down, frowning at my plain brown dress and no-nonsense shoes. Looking more perplexed than ever, she asked, "Was that a joke?"

  I shook my head. "No, why?"

  "Because he hates jokes. So if I were you, I'd stick to the basics."

  And with that, she turned straight ahead, sending me the clear signal that our conversation was over. That was fine by me. Suddenly, I wasn't feeling so chatty.

  I was getting a terrible feeling about this – a feeling which proved totally justified less than two minutes later, when I was ushered into the most luxurious office I'd ever seen. And who did I spot, sitting behind a massive desk in front of the giant floor-to-ceiling windows?

  Zane "the Prick" Bennington.

  Of course.

  Chapter 21

  My steps faltered, and I almost fell flat on my face. I looked down and spotted something on the floor. It was a red high-heeled shoe, lying on its side.

  What the heck?

  Zane's cool voice broke through my confusion. "If you want it, you can have it."

  I looked up. "I can have what?"

  "The shoe."

  "What, why?"

  "Because she's not coming back."

  Well, that wasn't disturbing or anything.

  I gave Zane a look. The bastard looked utterly at ease. And why shouldn't he be? He owned this hotel. Hell, he owned the whole block. And that was only here, in this city.

  Worldwide, he probably owned hundreds of places just like this.

  Plus one red shoe.

  I just had to ask, "Whose is it?"

  "Does it matter?"

  Again, I looked to the shoe. It wasn't quite a stiletto, but it was pretty darn close. If it could talk, I knew exactly what it would say, and it wasn't "Hey, let's have a nice conversation at the library."

  No. That was a "fuck-me" shoe if I ever saw one.

  I tried to look on the upside. At least it wasn't a bra and panties.

  My gaze narrowed. "What happened to the rest of her?"

  Zane gave something like a shrug. "Don't know. Don't care."

  Well, that was nice.

  He motioned me to the single chair facing his desk. "Sit."

  I didn't want to sit. I wanted to storm out. And yet, for some reason, my feet weren't cooperating.

  He added, "Please."

  The small courtesy surprised me, and just when I was ready to consider the slight – very slight – possibility that he wasn't a total prick all of the time, he continued, "Or leave. Your choice."

  I stiffened. "Do you have to be so rude?"

  If the question fazed him, he didn't show it. "Yes."

  Funny, I hadn't expected an answer. I heard myself ask, "Why?"

  "Because I’m an asshole."

  I blinked. "What?"

  For the briefest instant, he looked almost ready to smile. But of course, he didn't. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and said, "It's what I hear."

  I wasn't going to argue. Still, I felt compelled to point out the obvious. "But you don't have to be."

  "Wrong." He glanced at the visitor's chair. "So are you staying or going?"

  I gave the chair a good, long look. It was a nice one, made of rich brown leather, with armrests and everything. But sitting anywhere near Zane Bennington seemed like a very dangerous idea – and not only because he was such a jerk.

  Already, something was glaringly obvious. I might've been surprised to see him, but he wasn't surprised to see me.

  No matter how I sliced it, that couldn't be good.

  I
turned and looked at the door behind me. At the sight of it, my brow wrinkled in confusion. The door was shut. Funny, I didn't remember shutting it. Maybe my escort had discreetly closed it after showing me in?

  Or maybe Zane had one of those super-secret buttons under his desktop.

  Reluctantly, I turned back to Zane. He was wearing a suit and tie. He should've looked civilized. And yet, he didn't.

  Oh sure, his suit was obviously expensive, and it fit him perfectly. His hair was unruffled, and his face was clean-shaven.

  And yet, there was something in his eyes, or maybe in the set of his jaw, that told me he wasn't your average C.E.O.

  But then again, I'd known that already, hadn't I?

  I had no clue what was going on, but I did know that someone like Zane Bennington wouldn't be conducting interviews for a lowly kitchen job. So why was I here?

  His last question hung in the air. Was I staying or going?

  I still didn't have an answer. It was true that I desperately needed a job, but it was also true that I hated this guy, and not only because he was a total prick. It was because, in some weird, twisted way, he intrigued me in ways that were decidedly unnatural.

  Talk about messed up.

  And I still didn't have an answer. I tossed his own favorite phrase right back at him. "Does it matter?"

  "To me?" He glanced away. "No."

  At this, I felt an embarrassing surge of disappointment, but for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why. I really did loathe him. Still, I summoned up a thin smile and said, "Good." And with that, I turned and began marching toward the door.

  Behind me, he added, "But it will matter to you."

  My steps faltered, and I turned to ask, "Why?"

  "Because," he said, "I'm about to offer you a job."

  Chapter 22

  I was so shocked, I could hardly speak. Okay, maybe I shouldn't have been terribly surprised. This was, after all, supposedly a job interview.

  But we hated each other. And I couldn’t help but notice that no actual interview had taken place.

  I felt my gaze narrow. "What kind of job?"

  As an answer, he made a point of looking at the empty chair. His message was loud and clear. If I wanted to learn more, I knew exactly where my butt belonged.