The Millionaire Affair (Love in the Balance 3)

“It doesn’t matter how ‘hot’ she is,” Landon stated more harshly than he’d intended. “I hired her to take care of Lyon.”

“Sure. Whatever you say, Master of Your Domain. Look, I have to get back to my immersion class,” Evan said.

“What’s up next? Trust falls?” It was a jab. And Evan knew it.

“Not funny,” Evan said, followed by a creative curse word.

Ah, being the oldest had its perks. Landon had gotten every one of his siblings with that trick. He’d held out his arms, promised to catch them, then step back and let them hit the dirt. He chuckled.

“None of us will take care of you when you’re old,” Evan growled.

“I am old.” Thirty-seven and single. He’d crafted a plan to avoid this situation. Lissa had dismantled it.

“I gotta go,” Evan said abruptly. “Good luck reining it in when you see her, dude.” He let out a low whistle. “Gooooood luck.”

The line went silent and Landon shook his head.

He’d been hung up on again.

* * *

Since he’d given the security desk Kimber’s full name and let them know it was okay to bring her up to the penthouse floor when she arrived, the knock on his door the next morning didn’t take him by surprise. She was a few minutes early, which surprised and impressed him. He prided himself on being punctual. Her prompt arrival almost made up for the hanging-up-on-him part.

Almost.

Landon smoothed his tie and opened the door to greet—

He froze, blinking at the redhead gracing his doorway, the blood rushing from his head and straight to his groin.

Hot.

It was the only coherent word pounding in his skull. A sexual awareness he hadn’t felt in years hit him mercilessly… and kept hitting. For a moment, all he could do was stare at Kimber Reynolds, his jaw slack.

Soft-looking, cream-colored skin was draped in a delicate vintage dress in a pale hue of pink with tiny black polka dots. Black lace sleeves rested over slight, feminine shoulders, revealing more of her flesh through the peek-a-boo holes in the material.

Lord in heaven. She looks like a 1940s wet dream.

And he was still staring.

He snapped his mouth shut and stepped aside, recalibrating his thoughts onto something less distracting than the way the dress floated over her frame. “Kim—ah, Ms. Reynolds, good to see you again.”

She slid her hair behind her ear, a delicate gold charm bracelet slinking along her wrist and the barely visible freckles on her arm. “Been a while,” she said, her mouth tipping into a shy smile.

His gaze slid from her arm, to the curve of her hips, and down her legs. Before he became wrapped up in a fantasy involving the pair of high-heeled saddle shoes she wore, he averted his eyes to her luggage. “May I?”

“Oh. Sure.” She winced but it looked to be a reaction to herself rather than him.

When he reached for the suitcase, she pulled her hand away frenetically. He took the handle from her, as careful not to touch her as she was him. Her soft scent captured his attention briefly before he stood and distanced himself. Evan was right. She did not resemble the sixteen-year-old in his memories.

No longer a mushroom cloud atop her head, her hair fell in coppery, shoulder-length waves beautifully offset by porcelain skin and a full cherry-red mouth. A simple gold chain with a tiny key pendant dipped into the hollow of her throat when she inhaled as her bright green eyes swept the room with interest.

“Nice place,” she muttered in that sensual voice of hers.

He blinked a few times in succession to test if the woman in his living room was really as beautiful as he’d first thought. But closing his eyes didn’t make her any less attractive. The smattering of freckles dotting her nose begged to be touched.

He squeezed the handle on her luggage to keep from the ill-advised impulse. “Thank you.”

She sent him a tight smile. It, and the death grip she had on her purse straps, hinted that she was uncomfortable.

Of course she’s uncomfortable. You’re staring at her like a serial killer.

He gave her a tour of his place while she made comments about the curtains or the furniture, guessing at brand or style or the year it was made. He had no idea about any of it. When Lissa left, he’d had the furniture she’d decorated the place with donated and had hired a team of designers to redecorate for him. He didn’t know if the new furnishings reflected his taste, but it didn’t reflect hers, and that was good enough for him.

He shouldn’t compare Kimber to Lissa as he showed her down the hall, but found himself doing just that. There was something about Kimber’s style—a uniqueness, as if each item she wore had a sentiment attached. Lissa’s wardrobe had been more generic, trendy, and brand-name laden. His eyes moved to Kimber’s breasts, a tad smaller than his ex’s—but natural, he’d guess—to her shoes with a low heel. She was taller than Lissa by a few inches. Kimber’s hips were lush and round, the epitome of gentle, feminine beauty; whereas Lissa—with her spray tan, pointy hip bones, and silicone C-cups—more represented the industry that had perverted it.