The Mistaken Billionaire (the Muse series)

by Lexxie Couper

  The lights of a white sedan flashed, accompanied by the double-beep of the alarm deactivating.

  He narrowed his eyes. How could he continue to impress her if they were driving to his dinner in a Hyundai?

  “Ready?”

  He turned back to her. “You’re testing me, aren’t you?”

  An unreadable expression flickered over her face, there and gone just as quickly. “Maybe.”

  “In that case”—he began walking towards her car—“let’s go.”

  She arched him a look when he opened the passenger door open for her. “Serious?”

  “Oh, come on. You told me I needed a learning experience. I promise I won’t break it. And if I do, I’ll buy you a new one.”

  She shook her head. “I really don’t know what to make of you. Are you always this…this insouciant?”

  “Hell no. Sometimes I’m flippant, glib, and frivolous.”

  That perplexing expression crossed her face again, a tiny crease dipping between her eyebrows. The urge to press his lips to it, to kiss it away, rushed through him. And more surprisingly, the urge to let down his guard. Playing the cavalier joker had been his style, his public persona for a long time, ever since M.E. Elderkin’s derisive exposé. What was it about Mila that made him question that? His gut? His gut didn’t always have his best interests at heart.

  “Don’t crash.”

  A flood of delighted warmth washed over him as she handed him her car keys.

  “You do know how to drive a stick, right?”

  He plucked the keys from her hand. “It’s been a while, but hey, what’s the worst that could happen?”

  She rolled her eyes and deposited herself into the passenger seat, leaving him with the delicate scent of her perfume and the serious crease of her frown teasing his sanity.

  Climbing behind the wheel, he fastened the seatbelt across his body. “Buckle up.”

  “Are you that bad a driver?”

  He laughed at her blunt question. “I told you, it’s been a while since I drove a stick.”

  Before she could respond, he started the car, revved the engine, and bunny-hopped away from the curb.

  “As a driver, you make an amazing author,” she said, one hand rammed to the ceiling, the other flattened to the dashboard.

  “Tell me about yourself.” Downshifting, he pressed his foot to the accelerator. His old school wasn’t that far. Barely ten miles. He wanted to learn as much as he could about her before they arrived at the dinner. After that, he’d learn some more. “Where do you come from?”

  Silence filled the Hyundai.

  He glanced at her.

  “No.” She shook her head. “I’m here for dinner, not to audition for a relationship. Besides, this night is all about you, remember. You’re the one being honored for being so successful.”

  A hot band tightened around his chest at her refusal. He wasn’t used to not getting his way. His PA and his agent made sure he got whatever he wanted. As long as he was left alone to write, they delivered.

  She pointed toward the windshield. “Watch the road, St. Clair.”

  Chapter Three

  Ten miles of constant questions she stubbornly refused to answer later, he brought her car to a halt outside one of New York’s most prestigious private schools.

  On the sidewalk, photographers, paparazzi, and fans gathered.

  Mila took them in, her heart thumping. She’d been too aware of him in the car, too aware of the subtle scent of his cologne, too aware of the perfect way he filled the driver’s seat, all too aware of the confident way he handled her car. Clearly, the jerky beginning had been all for show. The drive had been a form of torture. She’d tried to think of all the ways she could eviscerate him in an upcoming article. Tried to. It had proven tricky, because her brain kept suggesting she smooth her hand over his thigh every time he put his foot to the clutch and changed gears.

  Swallowing at the urge to run her hand over his leg now, to experience its firmness beneath her fingers, she shook her head and frowned at him. “Is this really your life?”

  He leaned his elbow on the steering wheel, sweeping a gaze over the crowd. For a second, his expression grew serious. She swallowed again. He was as sexy as sin when grinning, but holy crap, when he frowned like he was now…could he be any hotter? “When I let it, I guess. Most writers are fairly solitary, introverted people. There are a few who crave fame and celebrity status, fewer who actually earn it. I prefer to stay in with Reaper and binge on Netflix.”

  The answer—self-effacing and far from gloating—unsettled her. Where was the self-absorbed Thomas St. Clair she’d written about all those years ago? If it wasn’t for the fact he thought her a…a…paid date, she’d think his answer was for show. “And yet, you have earned the celebrity status. Not just because of your books, but because of the movies made from them. And the endless stream of supermodels and actresses you date.”

  He studied her, a muscle bunching in his jaw. “You know who I date?”

  “I…I…” Crap. Crap. “I read a lot of those celebrity magazines. Y’know, Us Weekly and the like? There’s always a lot of them left around the staff room.”

  “Staff room?” Confusion filtered through his voice.

  Mila shifted on her seat. Now was the perfect time to tell him she wasn’t the date his agent had arranged.

  She opened her mouth. And closed it again. After dinner. She’d clear up the confusion after dinner. She couldn’t very well leave him high and dry. Of course, that’s exactly what he’d done to her years ago, but still, she wasn’t a jerk like him.

  And pretending to be someone else to get inside information on him isn’t jerkish behavior?

  Grinding her teeth, she reached for the door handle and arched an eyebrow at him. “Should we go?”

  For a moment, he didn’t move, his gaze intent. And then he nodded. “Hell yes, we should. Don’t move.”

  He threw open his door and climbed out before she could respond.

  By the time she pushed her own door open, he was at her side of the car. “I told you not to move,” he admonished, lips curling as he extended his hand.

  His fingers hung there, waiting for her to wrap with her own. Flashes of cameras peppered the dusk. His name sounded on the humid summer air. He’d been spotted: the famous author arriving in a Hyundai with a woman who could double as a Jessica Rabbit stripogram.

  Perhaps karma had a sense of humor?

  “I’m not going to bite, Mila.”

  Her pulse quickened at his low statement. Or maybe it was at the way he said her name. Gone was the boyish charm and glib tone, replaced with a low caress that sent a shiver through her body.

  Throat thick, stomach fluttering, she reached up and took his hand.

  A liquid jolt sank into the pit of her stomach. Hot and delicious and potent.

  “Fuck me, Mila,” he said, voice barely a breath, his stare locked on her face. “I wish you hadn’t done that.”

  “Done what?” Hell, was that really her voice? That shaky whispery moan?

  “Take my hand. Now I’m never going to be able to let you go.”

  She wanted to tell him to stop being ridiculous. She wanted to tell him who she was, what he’d done to her life, what she’d done to his. Instead, she slowly straightened to her feet, unable to look away from him.

  His heat seeped into her body. His scent—subtle spice and sandalwood—threaded through her breath.

  “I’m going to kiss you now.” He lowered his head closer, his fingers still holding hers. “Sorry, but that’s just the way it—”

  She rose up on tiptoe and brushed her lips against his.

  A low growl rumbled in his chest and, snaking his arm around her waist, yanked her to his body.

  Oh yeah. Oh yeah.

  He swept his tongue against hers, confident and assumptive. And why not? She’d initiated the kiss. Started it. She leaned into him, her head swimming as a wave of something hot and wicked and hungry crashed t
hrough her. He tasted of toothpaste and warmth and desire, and she whimpered.

  Oh yeah…

  Camera flashes detonated all around them. People cheered. Clapped.

  She didn’t care. His lips, so masterful…

  He lifted his head, his breath short and choppy.

  She gazed into his eyes, her knees, no her whole body trembling, and sucked in a shaky breath.

  “Dinner,” she croaked. She had to stop this. This wasn’t what she’d intended. Not at all. Making the most of his mistake was one thing, letting him think she was his pre-arranged date, but letting him seduce her? Letting him think they would…they could…

  She stepped out of his arms. It wasn’t safe, being there. Not at all.

  He studied her, eyes unreadable, jaw bunched. Dragging a hand through his hair, he took his place at her side and offered her his elbow. “Christ, I’ve never been less hungry for food.”

  She didn’t need to ask what he meant. The way he looked at her, the way he sucked in a ragged breath…

  “Dinner,” she repeated. She had to shut down any notion he had they would have sex later. That wasn’t going to happen. Not at all.

  Now, if only her body would get the memo.

  They walked through the crowd. Thomas waved and acknowledged those around them, talking to some, joking with others. When the photographers asked for photos, he pulled faces. When the paparazzi complained, he pulled more. When he was asked who she was, he answered with, “My nanny. What do you think?”

  “Got a new muse, St. Clair?” one photographer called, snapping shot after shot.

  Thomas gave her an askew glance. “She tells me she’s not open to the idea.”

  The photographer laughed. “Sure didn’t look that way.”

  Mila’s stomach churned. Crap. Stiffening her spine, she slid her hand free of Thomas’s elbow and smoothed the front of her dress. Insane. She was insane. This was insane.

  “Ah, look what you’ve done, Robbie.” Dissatisfaction danced through his voice. “You’ve killed the mood.”

  “Sorry, Mr. St. Clair,” the photographer, Robbie, called as she and Thomas walked past him.

  Thomas laughed, snagging her fingers with his and returning her hand to his elbow. “I’m blaming the New York Times for that, Robbie.”

  She stopped trying to retrieve her hand. New York Times.

  Her pulse pounded in her throat. She shot the photographer a quick look over her shoulder, her stomach knotting more at the friendly smile and wave he gave her.

  If not for the man beside her, the man she’d just willingly kissed, she could be where that photographer was, on the staff of the Times.

  But she wasn’t. Because of Thomas St freaking Clair.

  Whatever it was she was doing tonight, she had to remember that. Thomas St. Clair was not a sexual fantasy come to life. He was not a one-night stand with a fancy suit and fancier car. He was not a no-strings-attached romp. He was a bastard billionaire who’d cared so little about her career, about professional commitments, he’d brushed her off and brought out the worst in her. Not the best. The worst. The Mila Elderkin who hated to lose, who hated to fail. And then, when she’d done her job with what she had—information she’d been forced to glean through research rather than actual interview dialogue due to his continual absence and less than stellar behavior—he’d had the audacity to threaten to sue the paper if they didn’t fire the journalist responsible.

  Poor prima donna Thomas St. Clair. He was a self-absorbed egotist. A man who wanted everything to go his way.

  She couldn’t forget that.

  No matter how freaking amazing his kiss was.

  …

  He really hadn’t expected this. To be enjoying himself so much. When he’d asked Shelby to secure him a plus one, he’d expected some eye-candy, maybe some flirting and—if he was lucky—some gentle prodding of his creativity.

  Meeting new people, especially those from non-typical walks of life, always kicked his temperamental muse into gear.

  Asking Shelby for a no-strings, no-expectations date had been an attempt, albeit a hasty, unplanned one, for an outcome. Being crippled by writer’s block wasn’t fun in any way. Being crippled by it when fighting a deadline? Yeah, it had brought out a sense of near desperation.

  Which, in turn, had delivered him Mila.

  He cast a quick look at her currently listening to his old guidance counselor wax poetically about being the compass that steered him into writing.

  Words and sentences tickled at him, snatches of paragraphs, hints of scenes and sequences.

  Was it the no-nonsense expression on her gorgeous face that stimulated his creativity now? The light in her eyes as she listened to Mr. Bishop that screamed loud and clear she was buying none of the pretentious old coot’s bullshit?

  Or was it simply how goddamn sexy she was?

  Regardless, he was enjoying himself. A lot.

  “Wouldn’t you say, Thomas?”

  He blinked. Why was Bishop smiling at him?

  “I’m sorry? What?”

  Mila’s lips twitched.

  Bishop cleared his throat. “I said, who would have thought your habit of spieling tales to avoid detention would transform into such a successful career? Your companion, Ms.—” Bishop raised his eyebrows at Mila.

  “Just Mila,” she supplied, not a hint of frivolity in her voice.

  “Mila,” Bishop went on, turning back to Thomas, “was curious what type of student you were.”

  “And you told her?”

  Bishop chuckled, as if he alone were privileged to a monumental secret. “A perfect one, apart from your disdain for the school uniform rules.”

  “I was far from a perfect student, Mr. Bishop.” He’d anticipated a certain amount of fawning tonight, but the obsequious behavior from the older man put his teeth on edge. “If I recall correctly, your assessment of me when I was a sophomore was ‘unlikely to reach his full potential. Aspires to greatness but must accept he will never achieve such lofty heights by coasting by on natural talent.’”

  Bishop’s mouth fell open.

  Thomas slid his palm over the small of Mila’s back. The agitation simmering deep inside him at Bishop’s conduct—both in his school days and now—dissipated. Another reason to never let her go.

  She stirred him, moved and calmed him.

  “I see for all your fame and money”—Bishop scowled—“you haven’t learned to respect your elders, St. Clair.”

  “My guidance counselor told me I would never amount to anything,” Mila said, “And yet, here I am on the arm of the most successful horror writer of his time.” She gave Thomas a contemplative look. “I think we can truthfully say my guidance counselor was wrong as well.”

  Before Bishop could respond, she threaded her fingers through Thomas’s. “Oh look, honey. I see the mayor is trying to get your attention.”

  She strode away, tugging him with her.

  He grinned at Bishop as he followed her. “Natural talent.”

  The mayor did want his attention. As did his old principal, vice principal, and school nurse. Those conversations he partook in with relaxed ease. No fawning, no ass-kissing due to his fame and success. Mila stood at his side, the heat from her body messing with his head in ways he really couldn’t fathom, her sharp mind on display with every word she spoke.

  When his gym teacher asked her how long she’d known Thomas, she directed an unreadable smile at him. “It seems like he’s been in my life forever.”

  The words detonated that same hunger he’d experienced on the sidewalk when she’d kissed him. His blood ran hot. If it weren’t for the fact she now held a glass of wine with both hands, trailing her fingers up and down the long stem with an absentminded languor, he would have taken her fingers in his, drawn her closer to his body, and kissed her.

  Fuck it. Why not do it anyway?

  Without a word, he plucked the glass from her hand and passed it to his old teacher. “Hold that for a second
, Mr. Bartowski.”

  Bartowski did, taking the glass as Mila frowned. “What are you doing, St. Clair?”

  “This,” he answered, combing his fingers through the cool curtain of her hair at the back of her neck and lowering his head to hers.

  Her soft gasp played over his lips a heartbeat before he kissed her. Gentle. Tender. A declaration of intent and purpose. A promise of what was to come.

  And then she parted her lips and her tongue touched his, hesitant and shy.

  He balled his fist in her hair. Growled into her mouth. Took possession of her lips, her tongue.

  A soft hitching noise escaped her, just as she fluttered her fingertips against his cheeks, his jaw. He growled again, swiping his tongue over hers, and then pulled away.

  She stared up at him, eyes wide, lips parted and glistening. “Wh-what…”

  Releasing her hair, he stepped backward. Fuck, how did he not press her to the closest wall and make love to—

  “So no problems with public displays of affection then, Mr. St. Clair?”

  Thomas sucked in a sharp breath at Bartowski’s chuckled question. He jerked his stare from Mila to his old teacher, heart hammering in his chest. “Y’know me, sir. I’ve always been a live-in-the-moment guy.”

  Hell, he needed to get her out of here. He needed to get her back to his place, or the backseat of her Hyundai, anywhere as long as it was just the two of them. Alone.

  “I remember that.” Bartowski clapped him on the shoulder. “Also remember you streaking across the touch-down line during a homecoming game because of that live-in-the-moment attitude.”

  Thomas grinned, even as the craving to kiss Mila again made him burn. He turned to her, risking his sanity and control, and widened his smile. “Don’t believe a word of it. It’s all lies.”

  She studied him, the only sign he’d kissed her the shine of moisture on her full lower lip. “I’m confident it’s not.”

  Bartowski clapped him on the shoulder again. “She’s got your number, Thomas. Watch her.”

  Watch her? Surrender to her, more like it.

  The sound of someone tapping on a microphone reverberated through the auditorium.