Playing the Billionaire (International Temptation)

by MK Meredith

  Oh, she was sure he did. “I certainly can’t hog all your time if you have business to take care of.” She swallowed down another yawn.

  “No, no. Something for my parents while I was in town.”

  She rolled her eyes at his easy lie, and the warmth of his hand seeped through the thin material of her blouse as he guided her through the hotel. The fresh scent of his cologne teased her nose, making her want to lean in to him for a deeper breath. Resisting him was much more difficult when she was sleepy. She bet he spooned like a god.

  Biting the inside of her lip in hopes of waking up a bit, she said. “Last night, you said that chocolate was in your DNA. I’m not Spanish, but I totally understand the sentiment.”

  “Well, then that’s another thing we have in common.”

  She threw him a quick glance. “Another thing?”

  The doors opened with a swoosh. He guided her in, but he didn’t choose the top floor where most of the high-end restaurants were located, instead he chose her floor number.

  “What are you up to?” she asked, not bothering to hide her distrust.

  “I’m taking you to your room. I’m nothing if not a gentleman.”

  Every time he opened his mouth he lied, and she hated herself for it, but it made her sad. He wasn’t attracted to her, he just wanted her open to his charms. His interest had nothing to do with London Montgomery, but what L.M. Cipriano could do for him.

  Pushing her door open, she turned toward him. His eyes flitted over her shoulder to the bed for the briefest second. “Sweet dreams. I’ll pick you up to go to the Erotic museum in an hour and a half.”

  Confusion set in once more, because there was no mistaking the heat in his eyes. Was he really that good of an actor? She was attracted to him, but his plan to manipulate her for his own gain made his every move suspect. Even the look in his eyes. The reminder validated both what her mother had been through as well as London’s expectations of love—she hadn’t any.

  And she needed to keep it that way.

  Her nap flew by in toss-and-turn dreams of a sexy Spaniard with caramel eyes. To say she was tired was an understatement, but a viewing of the world’s oldest kink should keep one foot in front of the other.

  A knock sounded at the door. Speak of the sexy devil. “Are you ready to head to the museum?” Mateu asked with a mischievous grin.

  In no time, they made their way toward the lobby, and since once a reviewer always a reviewer, she noted the cleanliness of the hallways, including tables, chairs, and design choices as she went. She wasn’t able to white-glove test any of it, but she’d remember to take a swipe later.

  Nothing like a sex-themed collection seen with a very sexy companion to wake a person up. Nodding, she fell in step with him. “My friend Susan and I promised we’d go to the museum on this trip.”

  “Well, lucky for me, she isn’t here.”

  She scoffed. “Oh yeah, I’m sure going to the Erotic Museum with a woman you just met is right up there on your priority list.”

  He flashed a grin. “As a matter of fact, it’s listed first.” Directing her toward a long, sleek town car, he continued, “I happen to enjoy the idea of going to the Erotic Museum and watching you squirm.”

  She snorted. “Since when do I come across as the squirming type?” That happened only…every time she couldn’t figure him out. She frowned.

  “We’ll see.”

  The town car rolled to a stop and London studied the four floors of the old eclectic building that housed the Erotic Museum. The first floor was filled with restaurants and shops, the second was the museum, and the third and fourth looked to be apartments. She couldn’t help the giggle that escaped her lips; there was something perfect about hip millennials living right above a museum dedicated to all that was sensual. And hopefully the tenants had no shortage of inspiration.

  “What are you grinning at?”

  She took in the robin’s egg blue paint with the gold filigree details among what looked to be gold shutters, but in fact were large accordion doors. It made her want to rent one of the apartments. How amazing to open a whole wall of your home to the sights and delights of Barcelona.

  “The decadence,” she admitted. The museum’s windows were dressed in the huge 69 posters she’d noticed the day before. They looked like well-matched apostrophes, and London would never look at punctuation the same way again.

  Along the balcony, a Marilyn Monroe impersonator appeared with her iconic white dress and coaxed them in with a sultry voice. “Come, you know you want to.”

  Mateu took London’s hand with a grin. “When Marilyn speaks, we listen.”

  London tried not to focus on the thrilling sensation of his palm against hers or how the heat of it made its way up her arm. Or the disappointment she felt when he released her to purchase their tickets. He never rushed, appearing to savor every moment like he had all the time in the world. It kept her tethered when she might let the shortness of her vacation spur her on at speeds that would cause her to miss the best of Barcelona.

  Mateu raised a brow and handed her a small book about the museum. “So, which collection do you want to study first?”

  The clerk gave them the total price for the tour, and she turned away to look through the collections, automatically calculating where she’d use the money saved. Anything that wasn’t going toward her mother’s actual medicine at this point would need to go into a savings for her care when London traveled.

  Mateu paused for the briefest moment, which she found intriguing considering his mission, then pulled out his wallet.

  She flipped through the pages with a giddy rush. It might seem silly, but there was something altogether hilarious and wonderful about a whole museum dedicated to passion. Especially in a world where most people didn’t have the opportunity for it very often.

  There were so many collections: Kama Sutra, phallic tradition—she snorted, unable to hold back her inner twelve-year-old—and fetishism. Could she get through this with Mateu by her side?

  “Oh,” she squealed under her breath. “They have erotic Picasso.”

  “Barcelona is the perfect place for lovers of all things Picasso.” The way the word “lovers” rolled off his tongue made her forget the rest of the sentence.

  She slipped her arm through the one he offered. “I’d say let’s go there first, because everyone knows I really am the biggest fan of his work—womanizing notwithstanding. But I really can’t pass the chance to check out the fetishism collection.”

  He slapped a hand to his silk-covered chest. “A woman after my own heart.”

  “Ha! I can only imagine what you’re into.”

  “Can you now?” He leaned forward to catch her eye as they walked. “Tell me, Miss Montgomery. What do you think I love most about women?”

  She pretended to study him, remembering the interest in his eyes the night they’d met for drinks. But that had everything to do with his game, right? It stung, even if it shouldn’t. How long could he actually keep this up?

  Cocking her head, she pushed. “What do you really do for a living? I don’t buy this whole working on an orchard story, although I can’t wait to see it.”

  He slowed. “I’ve worked the orchard since I was young. But I also negotiate contracts.”

  So many things about him didn’t add up, she wanted to see something real. Truth be told, the romantic notion of a family orchard still enamored her.

  He shook his head. “You know, I don’t usually take people to my parents’ home.”

  “People, or women?”

  He swept his hand for her to move into the next room. She huffed and walked ahead into a gallery room swathed in a deep sex-for-sex red.

  She’d let it drop for now, but she wanted to know the truth about the man he really was. If the orchard did exist, she wanted to see it. Putting her worries aside, she opened her mind to the room before her.

  More than her imagination had ever dared to explore hung from the walls—everything
from iron-boned bustiers to metal penis shackles. In the middle of the floor, what looked like a massage table was highlighted by a cream-to-brown ombré rug. The table had an upper level, an angled pad, then a lower level split in two. And positioned to help demonstrate exactly how the table was to be used was a pair of very willing skeletons.

  London studied the installation, intrigued. “This actually is not a bad idea at all. Especially after a long day.”

  Mateu’s chuckle was low and gravelly as he tested the thickness of the padding where the bottom skeleton’s knees were positioned. “I think she’s quite comfortable.”

  With a raised brow and a smirk, London pulled him along. “Who says that’s a woman?”

  He glanced at her as if in surprise, then grabbed her hand. “Barcelona has a unique erotic history, thanks to our sexual diversity and tolerance, so you might just be right. It’s one of the things I’m very proud of, actually.” The softly spoken comment dashed her with a sprinkle of guilt. He was always knocking her a bit off-kilter. Making her question him and herself.

  They stepped up to the next installation, and the temperature seemed to rise with each passing second. Two walls met with a collection of contraptions and some of the most delicious photography London had seen in a long time. Front and center was a seat titled Pleasure Chair. She absolutely wanted to squirm. But refused.

  If Susan had been with her, they’d laugh and joke and pretend to list the chair as their next sexual adventure even though neither of them would step one foot toward it, but with Mateu, every item had her picturing him naked.

  She let out a breath in one big whoosh. “Wow, this is quite the collection.” Peering close at the wrought iron contraption that looked like a hard-ass chair but somehow promised hours of ecstasy, she continued. “How in the world is this supposed to bring me pleasure?”

  Mateu’s accent skittered over her skin. “Allow me.”

  A large wooden penis popped up from the middle of the seat, then continued in a rhythmic motion. She snapped up straight. “Well, that’s one way, I guess.” Her cheeks heated, and not from embarrassment but from the visuals the chair inspired of Mateu. There was something about being with the damned sexy man in a museum dedicated to sex. She’d already imagined him in more than one position on every contraption. It was a wonder her legs still held her upright.

  “I imagine most women would desire something with a little more finesse.”

  Oh, she bet he knew something about finesse. “There you go again assuming this is for women,” she teased, hoping to diffuse a little heat.

  Something lit in his eyes and made her want to know what he was thinking, but she was too smart to ask.

  “Something tells me you might be the one with the fetish.” He narrowed his gaze as if trying to see something naughty behind her average American mask.

  “If you call having a thing for big, beefy men a fetish, then I’m your girl.”

  “The more time I spend with you, the more I think you might be right.” He said it so quietly, she wasn’t sure he’d meant for her to hear it. But she had, and now she couldn’t get the idea of just how right out of her head.

  She looked for subterfuge, but all she found was a mixture of confusion and sincerity, as if he was surprised by the words himself.

  Clearing his throat, he snatched the booklet from her fingers and flipped through the pages. “What’s next?”

  He stopped on one page and compared it to the map on the last page. “Ahhhhh, here we go. Come.” As if he’d been doing it for years, he extended his hand. “I’m pretty sure you’re going to like this.”

  They wound their way through different areas, leaving London rubbernecking as they went.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll visit them all before we leave.”

  She followed him up a few flights of stairs, immediately taken by the fresh earthy scents between layers of floral. What in the world?

  He ducked through a towering doorway and onto a rooftop terrace. “Here we are.”

  “Ohhhhh…” It was as if she’d stepped into the secret garden of some famous madam’s private collection, with lush ivy dripping from the walls and ferns exploding from stone pots. The contrast of soft and aggressive made it all even more erotic. Sculptures of the most sensual nature were featured throughout the space. “This is beautiful. How did you know I’d want to see this?”

  “You said your mother liked to work in her garden. I thought perhaps you enjoyed her love of nature.”

  “Good guess.” He remembered everything she’d said, but then, he was heavily motivated.

  The space was partially open to the blue skies above and partially covered by a wavy tin roof with tables and chairs spaced throughout. It was quieter up here, calmer. A feeling of soft sensuality compared to the shock and awe of the main floor. She lowered to a bench that ran along a colorful mosaic half wall and pulled in a deep breath, savoring the bold rose, plumeria, and jasmine. “I love it up here. Thank you.”

  Mateu settled in next to her. “You’re welcome.” His eyes lit over her face in a way that seemed to dance on her skin. She wanted to lean in to him. To give in to the slow roll in her stomach and the pressure that had been building between her legs since they’d started their tour.

  His fingers found the sensitive skin along the inside of her wrist. With one small tug, she lay against the heavily muscled wall of his chest. The surprise of his heat and the hard lines of his body shot a tight sensation straight to her center. Anticipation and lust swirled low and slow as warning bells told her to keep her distance.

  Warm fingertips lifted her chin.

  She’d told herself to keep him at arm’s length, to not give in to her attraction. Her whole plan was to play him at his own game, and play it better. But with the museum and his charm, and not to mention the wide breadth of his shoulders, she was tired of fighting what she wanted.

  He slid his knuckles across her cheek, then into her hair to cradle the back of her head. The strength in his grip made her breath catch, but she didn’t care. His eyes wandered to every inch of her face, but then he stilled.

  There was a struggle going on in that head of his. It showed in the furrow between his brows as his eyes dipped to her lips.

  His need was bare and raw, and he wanted this as much as she did. “Mateu,” she whispered. “Kiss me.” One kiss couldn’t hurt. Just this one small gift to herself.

  Something flared in his eyes. Tipping her chin higher, he lowered his lips until they were close to hers. His breath slipped across her lips in a sweet promise as he slid a hand down her arm to her hip and thigh, until it came to rest on her calf. He lifted her leg so she straddled him, bringing her chest even more fully flush to his.

  Then he brushed his lips along hers, and every truth she owned flew out the window. Holding the back of her head with one hand and the underside of her jaw with the other, he traced the shape of her lips, just barely, with the tip of his tongue. And she shoved the guilt aside as she pressed home, testing his mouth with different pressures, a glide, then a tug to his lower lip with her teeth.

  Whatever control he’d been playing with snapped, and the hand that had so tenderly held her chin slid to her waist and yanked her against him as tight as possible. His chest was relentlessly hard and hot against her breasts. With very little material between them, the friction from his dress shirt against her sensitive nipples drove every nerve ending to high alert.

  He angled his head, sweeping his tongue against hers, tangling, then retreating only to repeat the action again and again. All her good intentions to make him pay and keeping him at arm’s length disappeared as each touch of his tongue poured into a deep, burning need.

  Now this was a kiss. She could cross kissing a sexy Spaniard off her agenda.

  The giddy hum continued to swirl tightly in her stomach, distracting her into letting a quiet moan escape from between her lips.

  As if her sound had been an invitation, he released his own low growl and pressed
his large, solid frame in to her until she leaned back, his fingers digging in at her hips. She loved the weight of him against her and wished it would be completely appropriate to just lie back to see how all of him would feel on top of her. It would be divine. No doubt about it.

  Breaking their heated connection with small presses of his mouth against hers, Mateu held her gaze with his own. “Wow.” His whisper melted into the evening breeze washing through the leaves of the potted plants.

  She blinked and tried to quietly clear her throat.

  The kiss shouldn’t have happened, and anything more could not. Sitting up, she carefully arranged her hair, then shook her head. “We can’t do this again.” As if saying the words might help her intentions stick. “I shouldn’t have put kissing a Spaniard on my list.”

  His eyes flared, and his fingers gave a slight squeeze to her hips. “I agree.”

  He pressed his lips to hers in another hot, hard kiss. “Because I’m not a Spaniard. I told you before, I’m Catalan.”

  Chapter Eight

  Mateu checked his watch, then cursed. The damn beating in his chest had everything to do with his need to be punctual and not anticipation of seeing London.

  But that kiss.

  He pulled at the collar of his shirt. It shouldn’t have happened, but when she’d whispered “kiss me,” every ounce of self-control and good intentions were replaced with the need to finally taste her.

  Only proving his potential for being a complete ass.

  He’d already broken a huge rule, and feeling anything for her was a huge mistake.

  One of many if he didn’t get his shit together.

  As it was, the push and pull of finding a way to get some much-needed one-on-one time with her inside the hotel was making him lose sleep, but the sight of dark circles under her eyes yesterday had been too much. So he’d bided his time, let her sleep, then fulfilled another item on her vacation agenda. So, he wasn’t all bad…

  He’d just have to find another way for her to taste the genius of the chocolatier. He patted his pocket with a smile. His small gift would be an unexpected and delicious addition to the evening. Perfect for a night of vermouth barhopping.