Personal Disaster (Billionaire Secrets Book 3)

by Ainsley Booth

She taps her fingers on her knee, then sighs and lifts her hand to her mouth. Her lips part, pink and shiny, and she sinks her perfect white teeth into the fleshy pad of her thumb.

  This was a mistake. I can’t drag her around the park with me. Another few hours of this antagonism and who the hell knows what will happen?

  Maybe you can chase her through the forest and convince her to let you peek up her skirt.

  Not happening.

  I slam on the brakes and jerk the truck off the path. She scrambles to hang on to her recorder, her skirt, her plan of seduction.

  I don’t care. I point to her door. “Get out.”

  “Excuse me?” She spins around, looking back up the road.

  Yeah, we’re a few miles from where she left her car.

  Not my problem.

  “Get. Out.”

  “You get out,” she says hotly.

  Fine.

  I leap out the driver’s side and stalk around to her door.

  More thigh greets me as she holds up her hand—clearly, she’s figured out I’m serious, and she doesn’t want me to touch her.

  Fine by me. I don’t want to touch her either. Not much, anyway. Definitely not in anger.

  I actually want to touch her way too much for a stranger who’s poking around my life.

  I step back and cross my arms over my chest. “What are you playing at?”

  She slithers to the ground and straightens her dress. “Nothing.”

  “With your little display in the truck.”

  “What display?”

  “Letting your skirt ride up. Biting your thumb. Turning off the recorder.”

  Her eyes go wide as I list what she did. She stares at me, stock-still, then gasps again and shoves her hands hard against my chest. “You… you… you…”

  I step back, and she shoves me again.

  “You… beast!” She laughs, and shakes her head, but when her gaze collides with mine, there’s no humor there. Just angry, pissed-off woman. “Okay, let’s start at the top. I’m wearing a skirt. Yes. I have legs, that’s a fun fact, too. And you saw part of them. Whoop-di-fucking-doo, Ranger Boy. Second, if I was biting my thumb, it was to keep from criticizing your reckless fucking driving. And finally, I turned off my recorder because this interview is a waste of my fucking time. And if you think for a hot second that I might use my feminine wiles to get a story out of you, you’re a fucking asshole who deserves to be hunted down by paparazzi. I’ll make sure that happens just as soon as I get off this fucking godforsaken mountain.”

  “You’re going to give up, just like that?” I move forward again, crowding into her personal space. “Lose your story?”

  “There’s no story here,” she spits, her jaw set and her eyes glittering. “Not one worth writing.”

  “Because I barked at you?”

  “Because you leered at me.”

  I had done that. Twice. Maybe three times. And I’d done it mostly to scare her away, but also a little bit because she itched at me. That itch now flares up, hot and red and annoyingly principled. “I was trying to scare you off.”

  She laughs again without humor. “It worked, you pervert. How the fuck am I supposed to get back to my car now? Because I’m sure as hell not getting back in your truck.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  POPPY

  “GET BACK IN MY TRUCK? I just told you to get out of it.” His nostrils flare as he glares at me.

  Makes sense. I did call him a pervert. It was never explicitly covered in my journalism classes, but calling an interview subject a pervert is definitely a bad idea.

  But he read something filthy into me biting my thumb. Into how I wear a skirt. And that was before I called him names. “For some made-up reasons that hide the fact you’re really uncomfortable about me sniffing around.” I fumble for my recorder and turn it back on. “Change of plans, buster. Your story is once again super fascinating.”

  He growls under his breath, something I don’t catch, and he plants his hands on his lean, tight hips. He needs to stop doing that. It’s distracting.

  He stares at the sky. Finally, he shakes his head and looks right at me. “It’s a gorgeous day, ma’am. Enjoy your hike back to where you parked your car.”

  And then he gets in his truck and drives away.

  I watch the cloud of dust he leaves behind fade, then turn around.

  Of course he’s not wrong. It is a beautiful day. And it only takes me an hour to get back to my car, in which time I come up with a fabulous new angle for my story.

  I dig into my suitcase for a pair of jeans, which I wiggle into right there in front of Ranger Boy’s cabin, hiking them up under my skirt.

  Screw him and his pervy looks at my legs.

  Then I haul out my computer and sit on the porch.

  It takes him three hours to return.

  In that time, I write a first draft of a piece that’s pretty damn good, if I do say so myself.

  He takes his time opening the truck door. It creaks, slowly, then his boots land on the ground with a heavy thud.

  “I thought you were leaving.” He says it like a statement. A dry observation, not letting on if he’s surprised or not.

  Well, tough titties for him, it’s a free country. “I have a day pass for the park,” I say without looking up. “It’s been quite inspirational for my writing.”

  “Writing about me?”

  I take a deep breath. “If I say yes, will you comment on the record?”

  He sighs. “Sure.”

  “Will they be helpful comments?”

  “Now you’re asking a lot.” He laughs, which surprises me, and I jerk my head up. He’s half-smiling at me. The other half of his face is still tense and frown-y. It’s not the worst look for him. “But as you just reminded me, it’s still a free country, so they’ll be whatever they’ll be. The truth, I can promise you that.”

  I turn on my recorder and hold it out, my hand steady and sure. “You’re a strong believer in the truth, aren’t you, Mr. Dane?”

  “Only way to live.”

  “How does that balance with someone’s right to privacy?”

  He scowls. “My privacy?”

  “Anyone’s. A secret service agent who doesn’t agree politically with the politician he’s tasked with protecting. A Justice Department attorney who needs to write a brief at the request of a racist or a hypocrite. How far should we dig to understand the context around their disagreement?”

  “You don’t have to dig at all. That’s the wrong context in which to frame questions of morality or constitutionality.”

  “What’s the proper context?”

  “We have a guiding set of principles in this country. They’re not carved in stone. We’ve amended them many times. But as they stand, those are our guiding principles and it is against those that we need to measure…whatever you want to question. Policy, law, matters of common practice.”

  “You’re a constitutionalist.” I’m surprised, although I don’t know why. It makes sense given the rest of the profile I’ve assembled on him. I was just so focused on him being a part of the resistance that it didn’t occur to me that he might also be a conservative.

  He gives me an inscrutable look. “No, Ms. Lisowski. I’m a park ranger.”

  “And do you believe, as a park ranger, you’re being asked to do anything unconstitutional right now?”

  “Right now? In this moment? If anything, it’s quite the opposite.” He grins again. “As a representative of the government, I wouldn’t want to do anything to abridge the freedom of the press.”

  That wasn’t what I’d just asked him, and he knows it. I’m also not impressed by his easy recital of a few words from the Constitution.

  I am not.

  Definitely not aroused by the grin and the beard and the sharp-minded mountain man aesthetic.

  “That’s a lot of fancy talk to obscure the fact you haven’t really answered the question.”

  He nods, acknowledging my point. Then
he points to the cabin. “I’m hungry. Are you hungry?”

  No, I’m hot on a story. I’ll eat when it’s done. But then I remember his change of heart with regard to answering questions. We can meet in the middle. “Sure.”

  He leads me inside, and I tuck my computer away, but I keep my recorder out this time.

  “I’ve got some sandwiches. Do you have any weird food things?”

  I roll my eyes at the way he phrased it, but don’t allow him to goad me into reframing that. Big picture, Poppy. He’s talking to you again. “I’ll eat whatever.”

  He pulls an insulated lunch bag from under his desk, and a big thermos. He has a mug out for himself already and he stalks to a cupboard on the wall, where he finds another one for me.

  Ceramic coated metal, straight out of a lumberjack fantasy. “Can I take some pictures?”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  I mostly take pictures of the lunch he spreads out for us, but I also make sure I get shots of his smart phone sitting on the edge of the desk, next to a wide ceramic bowl filled with National Park Service keychains. In the background, there’s a bulletin board covered in memos. They’re probably totally innocuous, but just in case…snapped.

  “These two are roast beef, and those are tomato and cheese.” He points to a brown paper bag. “Chocolate chip cookies in there.”

  “No red shiny apple?”

  He grins. “Already had it for my snack this morning.”

  I take a tomato sandwich and sit back, watching him as he digs in. “Do you usually eat lunch so late in the afternoon?”

  “Sure. Sometimes.”

  “How much longer is your work day?”

  “A few more hours.”

  “That’s vague.”

  “You deserve the truth. Nobody said it had to be precise.” He says it straight, but then the corners of his mouth twitch up.

  “Ooh, Ranger Boy made a funny.”

  He lifts one shoulder. “Maybe. I…” He glances at a piece of paper on his desk. “One of the permits is until six, so I’ll want to check that site to make sure they’ve cleared out. I’ll be done after that.” He lifts his gaze to meet mine. “Why? Want to take me out for dinner?”

  That’s an excellent idea. “Yes. But I should warn you, I’m on a tight budget, so it might be sandwiches again.”

  “Your fancy newspapers don’t have a budget for wining and dining reluctant subjects?”

  It’s none of his business that I’m doing this freelance. “I doubt our readers would appreciate if they did.”

  “Fair point.” He pops the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth, then reaches for the cookies. “Would you like one?”

  “Did you bake them yourself?”

  He shakes his head. “Made by pros at a bakery in town.”

  I consider the offer carefully, and then lean forward—but he pulls the bag back. “Hey.”

  “Tell me your story first.” He gives me a no-nonsense look that works.

  I sigh. “Fine. I think you’ve seen the inside workings of capitalist, tech-worshiping America, and you don’t like it. You left that behind for something…purer. National service. And for the last eight years, you’ve done your part here. Working with those constructs of freedom and access for everyone. But now society has broken down to the point of chaos, so you’re going to use whatever platform you can to shine a light on the darkness that’s threatening…” I wave my hands. “This.”

  “There’s just one problem with your theory.”

  “What’s that?”

  “When have I ever shown any interest in shining a spotlight on anything?”

  There was that. “Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

  “Are we in desperate times, Poppy?” Now he’s playing with me again, but I don’t miss the edge in his voice.

  I square my shoulders and nod. “Yes. Do you know what I did last week? I took a self-defense for front-line journalists workshop. Not just any old self-defense workshop—one specifically for front-line journalists. And it was sold out. They’re running the same workshop three times a week in Washington right now.”

  His eyes glitter. “And still you come here in pursuit of a story.”

  “Yes.”

  He swears under his breath and picks up his phone. He looks at it long and hard, then swings his gaze back to me. “We can talk more over dinner.”

  The dismissal is clear. I nod. “Thank you.”

  I stand up and tell him the name of the hotel where I’m staying in nearby Rifle.

  His eyes are still hard as he nods. “I’ll meet you up there at seven.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  MARCUS

  I’M STILL NOT sure how I ended up standing outside Poppy’s hotel room wearing a buttoned-down shirt. She called me a pervert. I kicked her out of my truck.

  But then she waited me out, put on jeans—yes, I noticed—and chowed down on my tomato and cheddar sandwiches while she revealed that she can see right to my soul.

  She might be magic.

  She definitely deserves an interview.

  And I’m not done with her in all the other ways she occupies my brain, too.

  Add in the disturbing but not surprising fact she needs to take self-defense workshops just to do her damn job, and I’m definitely in a weird state. The thought of anyone hurting her for asking questions makes me see red.

  I knock again, since she didn’t answer the first time, and the door swings open on the third rap.

  She’s breathless, and her hair swings loose around her shoulders. “Hi,” she says, waving me in. “I’m running a little late. Was writing. Just getting changed now.”

  I try to tell my dick not to take that the wrong way, but it’s too late.

  She’s decent—she’s wearing another dress, this one longer than the one that drove me to distraction, and it’s zipped up and everything.

  Still drives me to distraction. And it’s only almost zipped up.

  As she spins around in a slow circle, looking for…something…I notice that the top inch of her zipper—the part that would be hard for her to reach on her own—is gaping open.

  My fingers itch to fix that for her.

  Maybe she’ll ask.

  And maybe you’ll be appointed the next Secretary of the Interior.

  That thought does a good job of killing my boner. Fuck.

  “Can we walk somewhere from here?” Poppy asks, interrupting my internal rant. She’s holding up two different shoes, one with a heel, the other without.

  She came to Colorado with at least three pairs of shoes, none of them really appropriate for the mountains.

  And I don’t care, not even a little bit. “Yeah, we can walk, if you’d like. But I can drive us somewhere if you want to wear the other ones.”

  She gives me a sly smile. “That was a trick question, Ranger Boy. I’m not risking being stranded somewhere I might need to hike back from again. Flats it is.”

  I wince. “Right. I apologize for that. And I promise it won’t happen again.”

  She laughs. “I’m going to hold you to that promise, but honestly, the walk was good. Churned my story around in my head, didn’t it?”

  She grabs her bag and slings it across her body.

  “Your…um…” I move closer, my fingers reaching out. “Zipper.”

  She turns again in a slow circle, and stops with her back to me. “Is it down a little?”

  “Yeah. I could—” I cut myself off as she reachers behind her and fixes it. “You’re good.”

  “Thanks.”

  Here’s the thing. I’m a man of a decent amount of experience with women. So there’s no reason why it should surprise me that she’s blushing as she turns around. That I’m feeling weird in my chest, like that blush is a gift she’s giving me.

  Furthermore, I’m a grown up who knows that sometimes, often, jobs come before lust. And I haven’t forgotten she’s here to do a job. That I was doing my job, earlier, when I shut her dow
n—or when I relented and gave her access again.

  She’s working here, in Colorado.

  But she’s not working here, in this room. I suddenly know this as an absolute truth. I know this as a man, and I realize…this is one of those rare times when lust comes before the job, when it’s worth risking everything for a taste.

  This woman wants to expose me as something I’m not, and in the process might expose things that I am, of which she—and the rest of the world—are currently unaware. I shouldn’t be attracted to her.

  And yet I am.

  I should be wary. I should misdirect her.

  But if I want a taste…

  Fuck. My noble sensibilities will be the death of me. “We probably should talk,” I finally say. That’s the truth.

  “Can we do that after dinner?” She gives me an earnest look, and I choose to read it as, don’t do this. Don’t say that we can’t…eat, flirt, look, want, yearn. And since that’s all I’m choosing to read it as—no mention of touching, kissing, tasting, taking—then we’re fine.

  “Yeah.”

  Her earnest expression lights up with another sly smile. Curious, confident, and committed—to both getting her story, and God willing, getting her man. Or at least I can dream. And she stokes that fantasy, too, maybe unwittingly. Her eyes soften. “We’ll get there, Marcus.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  POPPY

  I’M NOT sure when the day shifted, but at some point, I went from warily thinking that Marcus was definitely a creepy pervert, to cautiously hoping he might be a delightful pervert—a thought which shocks the heck out of me.

  There’s no room in this trip for delightful anything, so I really need to shut down the flirting.

  Do I shut it down, though? Nope. I promise we can resume it later. What the eff, Poppy?

  I can’t help it. After five years of being hit on by lobbyists, Hill staffers, and military men temporarily stationed in the Washington area—all of them looking for a sloppy blow job, only some eager to reciprocate, and none promising a call the next day—it’s kind of nice to do this weird tug-of-war thing with Marcus.

  There still wouldn’t be a call tomorrow.