Tempted by the Billionaire (Forbidden Confessions 9)

I try not to smile, but she’s proving to be more interesting than at first glance. “What if I said yes?”

“I’d tell you I’ll figure it out myself. Shall I see to it?”

“By all means.” I gesture her to the door. “If you can find the little black bastard of a puffball, you’re welcome to tangle with him. Something of note, Ms. Blythe, if I may?”

“I’m listening.”

“He still has all his claws.”

“So do I. If I manage this in the next fifteen minutes, you’ll give me a fair interview?”

I admire her for negotiating so forthrightly on her behalf. “Absolutely. I’m starting your timer…now.”

Savannah

I rush out of the man’s bedroom and down the stairs, trying to shove aside how much he rattles me and how strangely enjoyable it is to spar with him.

Verbal foreplay.

That thought is particularly unhelpful since I feel a dangerous tingle brewing between my legs as I jog to the first floor. I find the kitchen and start flinging open doors. After a few missteps, I locate a walk-in pantry, which seems like the most logical place to find Hades’s things. I hope. If the cat has a special room all to himself in this huge-ass mansion, I’ll never locate it in time.

Luckily, I spot canned cat food and a box of heartworm pills beside it on a shelf, along with a few treats. It’s hard not to gape at the fact that even the damn pantry is opulent, complete with a chandelier, but now isn’t the time. I’m putting the five years I volunteered at the local animal shelter back home to good use. The lady who managed the adoption center called me the cat whisperer, and I’ve always had an affinity with felines. It better not fail me now.

First, I need to see what motivates Hades. For most cats, it’s food, affection, or play.

Since I’ve administered this medicine before, though admittedly not in a while, I know most cats don’t like the smell or taste of it, so my best bet is to disguise it in food. On the pristine marble counters of the masculine kitchen, I spot a butcher block of very expensive knives and frantically search for a cutting board until I find a polished wooden slab inside one of the walnut cabinets, then make quick work of dicing a pill into the finest powder I can.

After a glance around, I spot Hades’s bowl in a corner of the room on a placemat, wash it out, and dump the ground-up medicine inside. Then I grab a can of food, stand at the base of the stairs, and pop open the lid.

The ball of black fur comes charging toward me and runs full force into the kitchen.

Hades is definitely motivated by food.

I mix some of the wet stuff with the powdered medicine and set it on his placemat. He looks at it, then looks at me expectantly. What the devil is he waiting for?

A moment later I realize he’s testing me—just like his wily owner.

“No wonder you two don’t get along. You’re too much alike.”

But how do I get him to eat? I’ve only got a few minutes left. Worse, I maybe have seconds before Hades loses interest.

Cats also like affection and play, so I’ll start there.

Quickly, I snag a spoon from a drawer in the kitchen and race back to Hades, who’s still staring at me like he’s getting impatient. I crouch down until I’m level with his wary amber-eyed stare. He backs up a step, so I slowly extend my hand between us. He shuffles closer, sniffs me, then butts my hand with his head and starts to purr.

Hades loves to be loved.

I smile as I dip my spoon in the food and offer it to him. He looks at me skeptically…but eases closer, sniffs, then starts eating his laced chow with gusto.

He finishes that spoonful, followed by another, and another, then the last one. I reward him with more head rubs before he gives me his most dramatic meow, clearly indicating that he wants more food.

Happily, I give him the rest of the can and set it in front of him with another pet, then I dart back upstairs and look at the clock on Mr. Force’s nightstand with a smile. “I’m done with two minutes to spare.”

“How do I know that for sure?”

“Because I’m not a liar, and you’ll find there’s one less can of cat food in your pantry.”

“What makes you think I count them?”

The bastard is patronizing me. “Because I don’t think anything escapes your notice.”

“Smart, resourceful, and efficient. All right, pull up a chair, and we’ll begin the interview.”

I glance around. The one chair in the room is too big for me to lug. The sofa faces the fireplace. If I sat there, I’d have my back to him. His smug expression tells me that he not only knows this, but he wants to see how I’ll react.