Billionaire Bachelors: Garrett

by Anne Marie Winston

  He decided to do a little fishing, so he cut up some bait and took the canoe to the far southern end of the lake where he knew there was a good small-mouth bass hole. After an hour and a half, he’d caught three fish—more than enough for dinner the next evening—and dark was falling. It was peaceful and pretty on the lake as the light dimmed and the sky moved through pinks and lavenders to indigo and finally black. The loons hooted insanely as they prepared to settle in for the night.

  As he paddled leisurely back toward the cottage, he realized there was a light on in the living room. He’d turned it off, he was sure, because the only light he’d intentionally left on, the one by the door, was still shining, a beacon beckoning to him.

  Ana must be home. His pulse sped up and there was a surprising sense of anticipation churning in his belly. He hauled the canoe out of the water and stowed the paddles and life vests, then lifted his string of fish and strode up the steep trail through the pines and the birches to the light.

  The moment he stepped through the door he smelled popcorn. He inhaled deeply, reflexively, as he took the fish to the kitchen.

  “Hello,” Ana called as he flipped on the light above the sink.

  “Hi.” Then he remembered she’d had dinner with someone, somewhere. “Have a nice evening?”

  “Marvelous,” she said in a cheery, breezy tone, and he wondered who she’d been with to put that note of happiness into her voice. He couldn’t think of any way to ask her without risking another angry exchange. And though he’d started the hostilities, he found he didn’t really want to fight with her anymore. It took too much energy, all negative.

  The sound of the television show she was watching penetrated his consciousness as he was washing his hands after finishing cleaning the fish. “Hey,” he said, moving into the living room. “I didn’t think about the television. We’re going to have to set up a viewing schedule, I guess.”

  Ana glanced at him, and he saw her shake her head in resignation, smiling wryly. “All right,” she said. “I get tonight. And Monday. Anything else is negotiable.”

  “But tonight’s Thursday.” He shook his head. “I like the Thursday night lineup on NBC. And there are a couple of shows I enjoy on Monday night, too.”

  “So do I.” Her eyebrows rose and there was a challenging look in her eyes. “And I was here first.”

  He thought for a moment. “We could flip for it.”

  “Not a chance.” She dismissed him and turned back to the television. “But I’m willing to share with you. Think we could spend time in the same room without coming to blows?”

  He snorted, well aware that he’d been the unreasonable one right from the start. “I guess we could try it and see.” He dropped down on the sofa at an angle to the easy chair in which she sat. “I’ll even let you sit in my chair.”

  “Gee, thanks,” she said dryly. “You’re too kind.” Then she uncurled her legs from where she’d tucked them up beneath her. “I’m going to make some more popcorn. Want some?”

  He looked up at her. She’d lit the fire and at the moment, she was standing directly between him and it. Her thin, gauzy dress was sheer enough that with the light behind her, he could see the soft curves of her body. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “I want some.”

  Ana blinked. Two vertical lines appeared between her brows as she processed the response, as if she thought he might have meant something more than simply popcorn. Then she shrugged. “Okay. I’ll be right back.” She turned and whirled out of the room, the dress flowing around her, and he was reminded suddenly of a fairy, or a sprite. Not a typical thought for him, but then again, there was little typical about the way Ana had affected his life.

  She was as good as her word and in a minute she returned, bearing not just a bowl of freshly buttered popcorn, but a drink for him. “I assume the beer in the refrigerator is yours,” she said, smiling as she handed him the can, “since it isn’t mine.”

  “You assume correctly. Thank you.” He popped the top on the beer and took a long, cold drink, then stretched out his hand in her direction. “May I have the remote, please?”

  Ana made no move to hand it over. “This remote?” She held it up. “You mean the one that controls the channels?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “How do I know you aren’t planning a devious channel-changing operation the minute I hand it over?”

  He had to chuckle. “A devious channel-changing operation? Nothing so impressive. It’s just a guy thing—I feel incomplete without that remote in my possession.”

  Ana’s gaze met his, and then she laughed aloud. “Now that explanation I believe. You know,” she said and he noticed she still didn’t hand over the little box, “I truly can’t believe that a man with as much money as you have—or Robin, for that matter—wouldn’t have more than one television in this place.”

  “It’s called a cottage for a reason.” He tossed a piece of popcorn into the air and caught it neatly in his mouth.

  “I suppose you’re right.” Her eyes lit up, a glowing sea-green in the flickering light of the fire. She smiled warmly at him.

  He felt his own lips pulling into a smile as he gazed into her eyes. There was a pleasant stirring of arousal lightly flirting with his senses. He forced himself to look away from the lure of her smooth skin. “May I please have that?” He gestured for the television remote control she was holding.

  She was still laughing at him. “Going into withdrawal?”

  “Yeah. Am I looking peaked?”

  “Good try.” But she handed it to him. “Here. I just hope you’re not one of those frantic button-pushers who has to check ten other channels on every commercial break.”

  He held his tongue.

  She groaned. “Oh, no. You are.”

  He had to chuckle again. “Relax. I’ll be a perfect remote handler, I promise. So what other shows do you watch in the evening?”

  Comparing their tastes, they found that they both watched a few select shows on Monday, Wednesday and Thursday. The rest of the week, neither really cared whether or not they even turned it on.

  “Except for the financial news,” he amended. “I like to keep track of the stock market.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Be my guest. I check out the headlines and the weather channel and that’s it.”

  He finished his beer and emptied the popcorn bowl after she said she was full. Her cat wandered in a short time later and licked the butter off the bowl, then hopped up into Ana’s lap. It gave him one beady-eyed glare, apparently forgetting that he’d been the bearer of food just that morning, then completely ignored him.

  “She’s getting a lot friendlier,” Ana commented. “When I first brought her home I couldn’t even touch her. She hid under the bed all day and came out at night to eat.”

  “So how did you get her to come to you?”

  She grinned, and the mischievous expression tightened his gut in a manner that had nothing to do with amusement. “I withheld her food until she came out after it. After about two weeks of that, she let me touch her.”

  “And you’ve had her how long?”

  “Four months.”

  He was impressed with himself. He’d touched the cat practically the first time he’d made any effort. Then again, Ana had already done the hardest work of socializing the animal.

  They shared laughter during two particularly funny sitcoms. The one-hour drama from ten to eleven was as intense as it ever had been, and he caught her wiping tears when a young boy died. She had a tender heart, he thought, watching the way the cat had curled up against her, its paws over her forearm as it purred loud enough for him to hear.

  He’d probably purr, too, if she touched him like that, he thought, watching as her hand stroked steadily from the cat’s head to its rump. The small action mesmerized him, and it wasn’t until Ana said, “Would you like to hold her?” that he realized she had stopped watching the television and was watching him. The news had come on but he’d have been hard-pres
sed to tell anyone what the hot story of the day was.

  “Uh, no.” He could feel a dull flush sliding up his cheeks and he stood abruptly, grabbing the popcorn bowl and his beer and taking them out to the kitchen.

  What the hell was wrong with him? He was not interested in Ana Birch. Well, okay, he wasn’t going to lie to himself. The woman had a killer body, hair that made a man want to plunge his fingers into it and rub it against his skin, and the sweetest smile he’d seen in a long time. And she was nice. Really nice, unless she was a far better actress than he was giving her credit for. It was all too easy to see why Robin had fallen for her. And he must have, to have included her in his will.

  The thought of Robin sobered him quickly. He couldn’t reconcile the woman he was growing to know as warm, funny, and sunny-tempered when he wasn’t provoking her, with the cold-blooded seductress that she would have to be to have seduced Robin for his money.

  The two images simply wouldn’t fit together and as she came into the kitchen with the cat weaving around her ankles to put her glass in the dishwasher, he muttered a good-night and escaped to his room.

  Which one was the real Ana?

  She was not going to fall for Garrett Holden.

  She was not going to fall for Garrett Holden. A week later, Ana scrubbed the plate glass of the large living-room window that overlooked the lake with far more force than necessary. He was a bully and a brute and a mean, hateful person…but that hadn’t been true for the five days since what she’d come to think of as The Television Truce. And if he smiled at her one more time and spoke to her in that deep, dark, honey-over-whiskey voice, she might just grab him by the hair and kiss him until this ridiculous fascination was slaked.

  He wasn’t playing fair, suddenly turning into an approachable, charming man.

  She was not going to fall for him. At twenty-three, she’d had a number of relationships, though she couldn’t say any of them had matured into love. The last one had been the longest: nine months. But she’d ended it a year ago when he’d made it clear he considered her millinery aspirations a little hobby that she probably wouldn’t have time for once marriage and children came along. She sniffed, recalling the stupefaction on Bradley’s face when she’d given him his walking papers. He truly hadn’t understood.

  But she had. Her mother had loved only one man in her whole life: Robin Underwood. And though Janette had been the one to leave and had never gone back, Ana had grown up knowing that such an all-consuming love was both powerful and possible. Maybe that was why she’d never had her heart broken. She was, perhaps subconsciously, looking for that kind of feeling.

  But she’d never imagined that one person could feel such a love without the other reciprocating. She didn’t love Garrett that way. Yet. Instinctively she sensed that he could break her heart without even trying. He—

  “Good morning.”

  She jumped at least a foot in the air and the hand holding the wet rag sloshed a long, dripping streak across the newly cleaned window. Turning, she saw the object of her thoughts standing in the door to the kitchen.

  His chest was heaving and he wore nothing but brief jogging shorts and footwear. His big body was as hard and sculpted as anything she’d imagined, and he glistened with sweat.

  It took every ounce of willpower she had not to go to him and trace her hands over all that bare, tanned flesh. “Good morning,” she said, hoping her voice didn’t betray her state of nerves. “You scared me.”

  “Sorry. I was out running.” He paused. “What are you doing?”

  “Washing the windows.” Wasn’t it obvious? “I took down the drapes and threw them in the washer. When they’re done I’ll hang them out back and we’ll have a nice, fresh-smelling room tonight.”

  Garrett was frowning. Good. She was used to his frowns. “We can hire someone to do more heavy-duty cleaning, if you like. You shouldn’t be doing that.”

  She stood and stretched her back. “Why not?” Then she realized that the position she’d taken, with her palms behind her massaging the base of her spine, thrust her breasts forward in a way that probably seemed like an invitation. Garrett had noticed; his gaze had strayed from her face to her body and she saw him swallow. The betraying motion sent a shiver of sensual heat through her and she had to catch her breath. She was not falling for him, she reminded herself as she quickly lowered her hands and crossed her arms.

  She could almost see him forcing himself back to the conversation. He spread his hands, clearly searching for an answer. “I, uh, I don’t know. If you think the place isn’t clean I can have a word with the Davenports—”

  “Don’t you dare!” She let her exasperation show. “They’ve done a wonderful job with routine maintenance and housekeeping. But every so often a house needs a thorough top-to-bottom cleaning. Like these windows, for instance. And the refrigerator and freezer should be defrosted and cleaned. The cushion covers on the furniture should be washed or dry-cleaned and the traps in the sinks should be—”

  “Okay. I get it,” he said. “We can hire someone younger and more energetic to do something like that.”

  She shook her head, smiling at him to soften her refusal. “No, ‘we’ can’t. I can’t begin to afford half of what that would cost. Don’t worry, I don’t expect you to do half the work. This is entirely voluntary.”

  “I thought you came up here to work on your hats and your book.” He didn’t sound angry; he was merely stating a fact.

  “I can’t work every minute,” she told him. “Creativity just doesn’t work like that. This kind of mindless work gives me a chance to recharge my battery.”

  “Does cooking serve the same function?”

  “I guess so.” She hadn’t really thought about it before. “Yes. I sort of put my mind on automatic pilot when I’m cooking, too.”

  “Maybe we can make a deal,” he said, and his eyes took on a crafty gleam. She could see his mind leaping ahead and she suddenly realized just how he’d parlayed an initial stock market windfall into a billion-dollar empire. “I’ll pay for someone to do the housecleaning you want if you’ll spend your creative downtime in the kitchen…and if you’ll agree to let me share some of the product of your labor.”

  She stared at him, wanting to howl with laughter and knowing she’d better not. If Garrett thought she was pulling a fast one on him, they’d be back to armed warfare again. But still…men were so easy when it came to their stomachs. She’d hoped her cooking would get to him. Apparently she’d succeeded. “I suppose that would be okay,” she said, drawing it out so that she sounded appropriately reluctant. Then she held up her hands, red and wrinkled from the morning’s work. “My fingers will thank you.”

  Garrett smiled at her. Not a polite you-made-a-funny smile, but a warm, easy flash of teeth that scrambled every brain cell she had. Before she could regroup, he crossed the room, clasped her hands in his and drew her to her feet. “And my stomach will thank you.” He didn’t move away, simply held her hands between them in a loose clasp, looking down into her face.

  His hands were hard and warm and she felt breathless, as if his proximity had stolen all the oxygen from the atmosphere around them. She was so close to his chest she could see the individual hairs that formed the curly mat across his breastbone, and he seemed to radiate an irresistible heat that enveloped her.

  She felt tongue-tied, and abruptly flustered. Pulling her fingers free, she turned back to pick up the bucket and rags she’d been using. “I, uh, I guess I’ll put these away and get to work now.” She didn’t glance at him as she carefully moved around him toward the kitchen door, but she was aware of the suspended quality of his stillness.

  She emptied the bucket into the sink and rinsed it, then took the rags outside and draped them over the deck railing to dry. When she came back into the kitchen, Garrett stood beside the kitchen table, where she’d set a pile of old magazines she’d gathered up and set aside to throw out.

  “Where did you find this?” His voice was sharp e
nough to make her jump. She turned in time to see him thump a finger on the top-most cover. It was a woman’s issue, featuring exclusive makeup and hair-styles, thousand-dollar handbags and advice on how to make your mark at a society function.

  “It was in the bathroom in that basket, I think. Who did this one belong to? It doesn’t seem quite your style.” She’d meant the comment to make him smile again, to be humorous since the other magazines all dealt with sports, finance or world news, but the moment he’d seen the magazine, the light had drained from his eyes, leaving a cool, expressionless mask that didn’t reveal his thoughts.

  “Toss it.”

  There was an awkward silence.

  After a moment, she picked up the stack of magazines and started for the door. “All right.”

  “It belonged to my old girlfriend.” His tone was almost grudging and with a flash of intuition she realized this was an uncomfortable topic for him.

  She stopped in her tracks, turning slowly around though she didn’t speak. His gaze met hers, and she was shocked to see raw pain in his face.

  “She only came up here one time. It wasn’t her thing,” he said in a low voice.

  He’d been hurt. Odd. She’d never thought of him as being vulnerable. Sympathy welled within her. “I’m sorry,” she said, though he hadn’t indicated there was anything wrong.

  He shrugged. “Life happens. We move on.”

  They stared at each other across the space of the kitchen as his words echoed between them.

  They did, indeed, move on. Guilt struck her. She needed to tell him who she was and why Robin had mentioned her in his will. Now she regretted that she hadn’t done so sooner, regardless of his attitude.

  But before she could speak, he said, “Would you eat dinner with me tonight? I hate eating alone.” His voice was plaintive and she smiled.

  “I thought you wanted it that way.”

  His answering smile was wry. “So did I. But it’s lonely. Robin wanted us to share this place and I haven’t done a very good job of honoring his wishes.”