Bad Billionaire (Bad Billionaires 1)

I winced. “I’d forgotten about that in an act of willful amnesia.”

“I don’t blame you. I can’t remember the last time I had a non-fake orgasm with an actual man.” She looked around, taking in the men in the crowd. “I don’t hold out much hope.”

I laughed and lifted my glass. “This drink cost twenty bucks,” I said. “Surely one of the men in here is up to your standards.”

“Money doesn’t always do it, honey,” Gwen said, still taking a jaded look around. “You know that, with your hot ex-con. Even if he does suddenly have a house in Diablo.”

“You once made a guy take you on six different dates before you’d sleep with him. You made him impress you, like a test.”

She turned back to me and lifted a shoulder. “I wanted to know how he’d hold up under pressure.”

“You dumped him after date number four.”

“He failed.” She sipped her drink and licked her lips. “If a man wants to see me naked, he has two options. He can do what I say, when I say. Or he can call Candy Cane and pay three hundred bucks. Plus tip.”

“You’re cruel and heartless,” I told her. “Someday you’re going to go gaga over some guy. And he’ll be homeless, or fat and bald, or he’ll have ten kids, or something. Then you’re going to eat your words.”

“Not going to happen.” She smiled at me. “So, when do you see Hot Dark and Handsome again?”

I smiled back. I liked that she’d used Devon’s nickname. “Soon, I think. He’s been busy, and I’ve been working long hours this week.”

“You work long hours every week. Does he call you at least?”

“Yes.” He called, and texted. Just small things. Like he couldn’t quite stay away. “He’s pretty nice, even though most people would probably think he’s intimidating.”

“Okay, then. That’s a good sign. Just don’t tell Mom there’s a man in the picture, or she’s going to drive me nuts with questions.”

I blinked at her. “What?”

Gwen rolled her eyes. “Like you don’t know Mom worries about you.”

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; “No more than normal.”

“No,” my sister said. “She worries about you a lot. Especially since the art school thing. Do you think she’s okay? Like, really okay? It’s funny, I dropped out of acting school and I take my clothes off for a living, but she never worries about me like that.”

Shit. I’d had no idea Gwen felt like this. “She just knows you’re tougher than me.”

“Maybe.” She gave me half a smile over her glass. “But if you’re going to take on Tall Dark and Stinking Rich, Liv, I think you’re tougher than you think you are.”

Eighteen

Devon

The white-haired old guy, my neighbor, came marching up my driveway at one in the afternoon, while I had the garage door open. I was working on the Mercedes, seeing if I could get that beautiful engine running again. My life was so fucking strange right now that it felt good to work with my hands.

White Hair had his warmup suit on—I guess if you were rich and retired, you wore whatever the hell you felt like—and had his dog on a leash. “Young man,” he said imperiously to me, power-walking straight up my drive. “We’ve had a misunderstanding. I have it on good information that you’ve moved into the neighborhood.”

I stood, wiping my hands on a rag. Good information was one way of putting it. “I guess you’re the one who called the cops on me?” I said.

His face was red, but his eyes blazed like those of a man thirty years younger. I’d had a howdy-old-friend visit from the cops last night, dropping by to check my ID and make sure I was supposed to be living here. They hadn’t hassled me, just said hello and drove off again. I should have been pissed, but I could barely believe I lived here either.

“We’re a community here,” White Hair said. “No one told us anything. For all I know, you could have Graham Wilder’s dead body stuffed in the basement while you live in his house. It’s happened, you know. I read the news.”

“I get it,” I said, which threw him for a loop. He’d been expecting a fight. “I didn’t kill my grandfather, though. And he’s not in the basement. He’s ashes in a vault somewhere in LA.”

“His grandson, huh?” White Hair said. “Graham never mentioned a grandson. But he wasn’t here much.” He stuck his hand out, while his little dog turned idiotically in a circle. “Kenneth Isherwood. I ran Isherwood Manufacturing until the manufacturing sector went to hell in a handbasket. Then I sold out and moved here.”