Playboy's Ruthless Payback: Playboy's Ruthless Payback

He grinned. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“We made sparks.”

His words and the casual way he offered them made her laugh. “I won’t argue with that. You’re one helluva kisser, Valentine, but…” And on that note, she sobered. “You’re also using me.” She put a hand up as she saw him open his mouth to speak. “I know you think I’m using you, too, but I’m not. And last night, I didn’t.”

His grin evaporated. “Then why…”

She stared at him, wondered what he would say if she told him she was starting to like him—that even with the information she had about him and why he’d hired her to begin with, she believed he was good man. A damaged man—but, under that hard-ass exterior, a good one.

“Ms. Winston?”

Dennis Thompson had returned from his car and was standing in the doorway with his toolkit and another painting. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but before we can hang the rest of the pieces, we need you to tell us where you want them.”

“I’ll be right there,” she told him before facing Mac again. “Now, we have guests arriving tomorrow afternoon, and I have to finish up here, then go home and plan a menu.”

He nodded. “Have you decided to stay here?”

“Not yet.”

“If you do, I won’t bother you.”

“I’m not worried about you starting anything.” It was all she had to say. The flush on his neck and the stiffness in his jaw were obvious clues that he’d heard the slight emphasis on the word you and understood her meaning all too clearly.

She got up and was about to leave the room when Mac called her back. “Olivia?”

“Yes?”

“As far as the menu, I’ve invited another couple to join us tomorrow night, so there will be six instead of four.”

“Okay. Anyone I know?”

He shook his head. “I don’t think so. It’s the DeBolds’ attorney and her husband.”

“Got it.” She tossed him a casual, professional smile, then left the room.

Nine

If someone called Mac Valentine an arrogant jerk to his face, he usually agreed with them before kicking them out of his office. He was arrogant. But in his defense he believed he was the best at what he did and that unshakable confidence was the only way to stay at the top of his game. Today, at around three o’clock in the afternoon, he’d had that theory tested and proven correct by one of the clients who, just a few weeks ago, had been running scared after Owen Winston’s foolish attempt to discredit him. After waiting for twenty minutes in the lobby, the client had sat before Mac and had practically begged him to take him back. Whether the man still believed that Mac had given preferential treatment and tips to his other clients or not, being at a competing firm had not proved lucrative and he wanted back in.

Mac pulled into his garage feeling on top of the world. When one client returned, he mused, the others would surely follow—they’d leave Owen Winston and other financial firms and come back to where they belonged.

He cut the engine and grabbed his briefcase and laptop. Today’s success would by no means deter him from getting revenge on Winston. And in fact, he actually felt a stronger desire to follow through on his plans with Olivia. By the end of the weekend, he thought darkly as he stepped out of the car and headed into the house, he would have it all: Owen’s little girl and a powerhouse of a new client to add to his roster.

The heavenly scent of meat and spices, onions and something sweet accosted his senses when he walked through the door. Home sweet home, he thought sarcastically, walking into the kitchen. But once there, he promptly forgot everything he’d just been thinking, plotting and reveling in. In fact, as he took in the sight before him, he realized he had little or no brain left. “You look…”

Olivia stood before the stove, stirring something with a wooden spoon. “Like a wife?”

He saw the lightness, the humor in her eyes, but couldn’t find a laugh to save his soul. He cleared his throat, his gaze moving over her hungrily. “I was going to say, breath-stealing—but I suppose you could look wifely, as well.”

She wore pink. He hated pink. He’d always hated pink. It was for flowers or cotton candy. But Olivia Winston in pink was a whole different matter. The dress she wore was cut at the knee and cinched at the waist, and pushed her perfectly round breasts upward, just slightly—just enough so that she looked elegant, yet would also drive a man to drool. Her long dark hair was pulled up to the top of her head, causing her neck to look long and edible, and her dark eyes, still filled with humor, reminded him of warm clay beneath long, black lashes.

And she had wanted him to forget about the other night? Get serious. All Mac wanted was to pull her against him, ease the top of her dress down, fill his hands with her, play with one perfect pink nipple while he suckled the other. His groin tightened almost to the point of pain. He wondered, would she moan as he nuzzled her? Or would she cry out again, allow herself to climax this time?

“Well, thank you for the compliment,” she said, gathering up several bottles of wine. “Would you mind setting those things down and giving me a hand?”

“Sure. What do you need?”

She nodded in the direction of the island. “Wineglasses. Can you grab them and follow me?”

He picked up the spotless glasses that were laid out on a towel on the island and followed her into the dining room.

“Well, what do you think?” she asked, setting the bottle down on an impressive black hutch.

This woman wasn’t fooling around. She was damn good at what she did, and it showed in every detail. She’d set the table with unusually modern-looking china, gleaming stemware and silver silk napkins. But the most impressive part was the centerpiece, which sat in the middle of a round walnut table. It looked as though she’d brought the outdoors inside with cut branches from his yard, white candles and small silver bells.

He set down the wineglasses and released a breath. “It’s perfect.”

“Good.” She checked her watch. “Your guests will be here in thirty minutes. You’d better wash up and change your clothes.”

“I have time.”

She gave him an impatient look. “It would be rude, not to mention awkward, if you weren’t here when the doorbell rings.”

“Careful, or someone might think you’re the woman of the house,” Mac said with amusement, wondering how long it would take to kiss that pink gloss off her mouth.

Reaching for the dimmer switch on the wall, Olivia lowered the lights a touch. “For all intents and purposes this weekend, I am.”

His gaze swept over her. “Did I tell you how much I like the color pink?”

“No, you didn’t,” she said primly, putting her arm through his and walking him toward the stairs. “But we really don’t have time for that now. I have a dinner to get on the table, and I won’t allow anything to burn.”

He grinned. “Of course, can’t have things getting too hot now, can we?”

She glared at him, raising one perfectly shaped eyebrow. “I think a shower would be good for you.”

He nodded and said with sardonic amusement, “Yes, dear,” then took the stairs two at a time. She was right. He needed a shower, a really cold shower. Hell, he thought, chuckling to himself, he might do better diving into one of those piles of snow burying his lawn.

Harold DeBold was one of those guys people just liked the minute they met him. Hovering somewhere around forty, he was very tall and thin, and had pale blond hair and wintery blue eyes. He reminded Olivia of a surfer, relaxed and free-spirited. His wife Louise, on the other hand, was dark-skinned, dark-eyed, completely city-sexy in her gorgeousness and totally high-strung. But she also seemed sincere, and when she was told that Olivia was going to be their chef for the weekend, instead of thinking it odd that the person Mac had hired to help him was not going to stay in the kitchen and/or serve, but was going to eat and socialize with them, she’d acted as though it were the most normal thing in the world—even adding that she was thrilled that Olivia was going to cook some down-home Minnesota fare for them.

“Honestly,” the woman said to Olivia, curling her diamond-encrusted hand around her wineglass. “I feel like all I’ve eaten for days is foie gras, caviar and squid ink. I’m over it.”

Chuckling, Harold told Mac, “We’ve been in New York for the past week.”

They were waiting for the DeBolds’attorney and her husband to arrive as they sat in Mac’s den, which had been completely transformed into a contemporary, masculine, but family-friendly retreat with his two existing leather chairs and several other pieces of dark blue chenille furniture curled around the fire. Cozy rugs dressed the hardwood floor, and lights had been installed outside to showcase the wintery-forest view from the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Mac reached over and topped off Louise’s wine. “You two were in Manhattan for a week and you didn’t get around to pasta?”

Louise snorted. “Unfortunately, no.”

“Next time you go, let me know,” Mac said seriously. “There’s this tiny hole-in-the-wall in Little Italy that you’ve got to check out. The spiciest pasta puttanesca—not to mention the best-tasting parmesan cheese I’ve ever had.”

“Cheese.” Chuckling, Harold said with dramatic flair, “City folk think that all us backcountry Wisconsinites get to eat is cheese, so they refuse to take us anywhere that might serve it. Instead, they figure they’ve got to impress us with all those fancy, unpronounceable, unrecognizable foods.” As he said the last word he mimed air quotes.

Olivia held out a tray of hors d’oeuvres. “Well, everything you’re going to eat tonight is as easy to pronounce as it is to eat.”

Louise sipped her wine and said, “Thank God.”

Harold took one of Olivia’s famous blue cheese jalapeño poppers wrapped in bacon and practically sighed when he ate it. “Oh, my,” he said to Olivia, his blue eyes so warm she couldn’t help but wonder if he was flirting with her just a little bit. “If these are any indication of your culinary skill, then you might never get me to leave.”

Louise agreed. “These tomato basil tarts are over the top.”

Olivia smiled, pleased that her fun and flavorful finger food was such a hit. “Thank you.”

“Are you self-taught, Olivia?” Louise asked.

“I actually went to culinary school, then I worked for several chefs in town before starting my business.”

Harold’s brows drew together. “And what kind of business is that exactly? Catering? Or are you a personal chef?”

Olivia looked over at Mac, who was sitting in a dark blue wing-back chair by the fire. He didn’t appear concerned by the question, and even winked at her, so she was as honest as she needed to be. “Myself and two other women provide catering, decorating, party planning …those kinds of services to clients.”

“And are your clients mostly clueless men or women?” Louise asked, her eyes dancing with humor until she realized she was including her host in that question. She offered him an apologetic smile. “Of course, I didn’t mean you, Mac.”

Mac laughed. “No apology necessary—I know where my skills lie and they’re not in the kitchen.”

“Mine, either, sadly,” Louise said on a sigh.

“All it takes is a little practice,” Olivia told Louise sympathetically.

Harold shook his head wistfully. “She has tried, Olivia.”

“Hey, there.” Louise gave him a playful swat on the arm.

The doorbell chimed over the laughter in the room, and Mac stood. “I’ll get that. Must be Avery.”

When Mac was gone, Harold turned to Olivia. “My lawyer and her husband are great people, and are usually very punctual.”

Olivia smiled warmly. “We’re in no rush tonight.”

“I like that attitude,” Louise said, snatching up another tomato tart. Male laughter erupted from the front hall, and Louise rolled her eyes. “Boys. We just found out that Mac went to college with Tim, fraternity buddies or something.”

It was as if time slowed after Louise had said the name Tim, and Olivia couldn’t seem to find her breath. Even the room spun slightly. “Tim?” she managed to say. “That’s your attorney’s husband?”

Louise may have answered her, but Olivia’s ears were buzzing. It wasn’t him. It couldn’t be him.

“Sorry we’re late,” came a voice that Olivia recognized at once. She swallowed. What was in her throat? It felt like a rock. She wouldn’t turn around—couldn’t turn around. He was coming and she felt frozen to the couch.

“Avery couldn’t decide on which shoes to wear,” he said dryly.

“Don’t you blame me, Tim Keavy, you know it was your fault.” The woman sniffed and added, “The Vikings game was on.”

“Typical.” Mac chuckled. “Avery, Tim, I’d like to introduce our amazing chef for the evening.”

No.… She didn’t want to.

“Olivia?” Mac said.

She wasn’t ready.…

“Olivia?” Mac said louder, sounding puzzled now.

Her heart slamming against her ribs in a noxious rhythm of fear and dread, Olivia turned around to see the one person in the world who knew her secret—the boy who, nine years ago, had walked in on an affair between a teacher and a student. A boy who had made a young Olivia Winston feel like trash from that day forward.

Ten

For a moment, Mac wondered if Olivia was having an anxiety attack. Her face was as pale as the snow outside the window, and her eyes looked watery, as though she desperately wanted to cry, but wouldn’t allow herself to go there in front of guests.

What the hell was wrong with her? Had the DeBolds said something to upset her while he was gone? The quick, almost fierce anger that rose up inside of him surprised him, as did the protective impulse jumping in his blood.

Protecting Owen Winston’s daughter was hardly the plan.

His gaze shifted, and he saw Tim staring at Olivia, his lip drawn up in a sneer. It was a look Tim usually reserved for people who didn’t perform to his standards, from office staff to the guy who continued to put whipped cream on his espresso at the local coffee shop. Mac didn’t get it.

He watched Tim walk toward her and stick out his hand. “Wow,” he said coolly. “Olivia Winston. Small world.”

“Microscopic.” Olivia rose stiffly and clasped his hand for about half a second. “Hello, Tim.”

“How do you two know each other?” Mac asked, though the tone of his voice sounded slightly demanding.

“We went to the same high school,” Tim stated flatly.

“How funny,” Louise remarked with a dry laugh, clearly not seeing the discomfort between the two. “You knew Olivia in high school and Mac in college?”

“That’s right,” Tim said.

Mac watched as Olivia seemed to get herself under control. With a smile affixed to her face, she walked over to Tim’s wife and held out her hand, “Hi, I’m Olivia. Welcome.”

“Avery Keavy. It’s so nice to meet you.” Avery had the good sense to leave the high school talk alone, and instead gestured to the coffee table and assorted hors d’oeuvres. “These look amazing. I’m sorry we’re late.”

Olivia picked up a tray and offered a stuffed mushroom to Avery. “It’s no problem. Dinner’s almost ready. In fact, I’m going to check on it right now. If you’ll all excuse me…” After she placed the tray on the buffet, she excused herself and headed for the door.

“Need any help?” Mac called after her.

She turned then and glared at him. “No. I’ve got everything under control, Mr. Valentine.”

Mac had never seen anyone look at him with such full-on revulsion, and he had no idea why. And her palely masked anger didn’t end there. It continued all through dinner. Not that the DeBolds or the Keavys really picked up on it, they were way too focused on the food—which was perfection. But Mac saw every little glare she tossed his way as he served himself another helping of her mouthwatering brisket and smashed red potatoes, and wondered why the hell she was so upset at him. It couldn’t be just because he was responsible for inviting Tim to the house. What was the big deal, so he knew her in high school?

Maybe he’d have to go to Tim for the information if Olivia wasn’t going to speak to him. He looked over at Tim. The guy was just going with the flow. He didn’t even look at Olivia.

“Pecan pie is one of my favorite desserts,” Harold was saying to Olivia, his plate nearly empty.

Olivia gave him a warm smile. “I’m so glad. Would you like a second piece? How about you, Louise?”

“Absolutely.” Louise held out her plate. “And I’m not even going to ask you to force me in to it.”

Avery dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “Will you force me then, Olivia?”

“Of course,” Olivia said, keeping her gaze fixed on Tim’s wife. “I demand that you hold out your plate, Avery.”

Avery gave her a small salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

Avery and Louise broke out into laughter as they passed around the fresh whipped cream to top their pie. Mac, however, was too distracted to find humor in the situation. When he should’ve been selling himself to the DeBolds, talking about how he could change their financial future, he was staring at Olivia, wondering what was wrong with her and how he could fix it. It pissed him off. Why did he care if she was angry with him?

After the brown-sugar coffee and pecan pie had been completely devoured, Avery thanked both Olivia and Mac for their hospitality and she and a very unsocial Tim took off. The DeBolds, feeling a little jet-lagged and extremely full, requested an early night, as well, and retired to their room.

The night had been a successful one—on the business front at any rate. The DeBolds seemed content and happy with Mac and with his home, and wasn’t that the first step to having them as clients? With the DeBolds in bed, Mac had to deal with Olivia, who had fled to the kitchen as soon as both couples had gone.

When Mac entered the room, Olivia was camped out over the sink, washing dishes at a frenetic pace, taking out her anger on a serving platter.

“Great dinner,” he said, walking over to her, leaning against the counter next to the sink.

“Yes,” she said stiffly. “I think you’ve impressed them.”

“I hope so.”

“Yep. One step closer to getting the big fish on the hook.”

He didn’t respond to her sarcasm. “Do you need any help?”

“No.”

He exhaled heavily. “Are you going to tell me why you’re so angry with me?”

She continued to scrub the life out of a white platter, and Mac wondered if talking right now was a stupid idea. Maybe she just needed to cool off with her soap and hot water. But then she dropped the platter in the sink and turned to face him, anger and disappointment in her dark eyes.

“I knew you were out to punish my father and use me in the process,” she said. “But I had no idea how far you’d go.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Are you kidding me?”

“No.”

“Tim Keavy,” she snapped.

“What about him?”

She shook her head. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Don’t act like you’re clueless. It doesn’t suit you. You’re a shark, be proud of it.”

“You’re nuts, lady.” He gritted his teeth and pushed away from the counter. “All I know is you two went to the same high school.”

“Right.” She glared at him, her nostrils flaring. “So how does this go? You think by outing my sordid past to my dad, he’ll back down on whatever he has on you? Apologize?” She shook her head, then walked past him out of the room, saying, “It’ll never happen. My father’s even more stubborn than I am.”

He followed her. “Where are you going?”

“To my room.”

“You’re not leaving?”

“I’m going to give this job everything I have, get you the clients you want, then get the hell out. You’ll have no ammunition if you’re looking to ruin my business reputation along with my personal one.”

“You’re talking crazy,” he said, following her up the stairs and down the hall to the guest room. She had chosen the one on the opposite side of the house than the DeBolds, and Mac was thankful he didn’t have to whisper.

When she got to the door, she said, “Good night, Mac,” then went inside.

When she tried to close the door behind her, he wouldn’t let her. He held the door wide. “Listen, you can’t just throw all that garbage in my face, then walk away.”

She released her grip on the door, put her hands up in the air. “What do you want to say, Valentine? That you didn’t know your best friend from college knew me?”

“Damn right,” Mac said hotly, walking into the room and closing the door behind him.

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t care if you believe me or not, it’s true.”

Standing just inches from him, she held her chin high as she stared hard into his eyes. “It’s going to take a lot more to humiliate me and screw with my father than tossing my past mistakes, my past humiliations, back in my face.”

He grabbed her shoulders. “I’m not doing that.”

“Bull.”

“I don’t give a damn about your past.”

“I do!” she shouted, her voice cracking with emotion. She dropped her gaze, bit her lip and cursed. When she looked up at him again, she looked like a kid, so vulnerable it killed him. “I hate that part of my life.”

Tears sprang to her eyes.

“Stop that.” He gave her a gentle shake, for the first time feeling the guilt that came with his plan. “Stop it, Olivia.”

This wasn’t how it was supposed go. He was the one who was supposed to make her miserable, then send her back to her father in shame. He should be reveling in the fact that he had access to information about her past that would make her father suffer.

“Damn it.” He hauled her against him and kissed her hard on the mouth. “I don’t care what happened before, and neither should you.” He nuzzled her lips, then nipped at them, suckled them, until she gave in, gave up and sagged against him.

“There’s nothing wrong with this,” he said as his hands found her lower back and raked upward. “Or this.” He dipped his head and kissed her throat, suckling the skin that covered her rapid pulse, grinning as a hungry whimper escaped her throat. “Nothing to be ashamed of, Olivia.”

“You don’t understand,” she uttered, letting her head fall back.

He held her close, his lips brushing her temple. “Help me to, then.”

“I…can’t. I made a promise to myself.…”

He rubbed his face against her hair. “When you were a kid?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“You’re a woman now.” He nuzzled her ear, nipped at the lobe. “Everything’s different.”

On those words, she froze. “That’s the thing,” she said, her voice hoarse. She drew back, her eyes filled with regret. “Nothing’s different. Not at all. I refuse to make any more stupid mistakes with men who just want to…” She didn’t finish, just shook her head.

“Olivia.”

She disentangled herself from his grasp. “Two more days. That’s it. That’s all you’re getting from me, so do your worst because after this weekend is up you’re going to be done. Done with me and done with my father.”

“We’ll see about that,” Mac said darkly before turning and leaving the room.