Bad Billionaire (Bad Billionaires 1)

“He offered. He’s a mechanic. He said he didn’t want any money.” I glanced out the window at the closed, dark door of his apartment across the way. “I should thank him.”

“You so should,” Gwen said, a mischievous look in her eyes.

I rolled my eyes. “Jeez, Gwen.”

“Why not? Does he have a girlfriend?”

That made me blush, remembering his words: I have old-fashioned, one-handed sex. Alone. “No, he doesn’t.”

“Then what’s the problem?” She was grinning now, in her element. “Liv, you should get laid. It’s easy. Just drop your panties and get on. I promise he’ll feel properly thanked.”

She was doing this on purpose, I knew. I was the older sister, the less wild one, and she liked to watch me squirm. I also knew it was a bit of an act. As sexy as she was, Gwen didn’t sleep around. She was choosy. A guy had to jump through hoops to get anywhere with Gwen.

“I’ll think about it,” I said, shocking her back.

Her eyes went wide again. “Okay, now I have to see this guy.”

“You’re about to,” I said, glancing at the window again. “His car just pulled up. He’s coming home from work.”

She loved that, of course. We turned my lights off and she positioned herself next to the window, angled so she could see out but no one looking in could see her. I positioned myself on the other side. It was lame, and dorky, but it was funny too. Gwen and I had been apart for a few years while I’d been in art school and she’d been in acting school, but now we lived in the same city, and we saw each other often, and I had come to appreciate it. It didn’t seem to matter how different we were, how different our lives currently were. She was my sister, and in a crazy way, she totally got me.

“Holy shit,” she said when Devon came around the corner from the parking lot. “That?”

“Yep,” I said. Then I forgot about Gwen and watched him. Jeans, work boots, black zip-up jacket that hugged his body. Tousled hair. Those big hands that had felt rough and warm against mine. I remembered that he’d promised to tell me what his tattoo meant if I let him fix my car.

He headed for the stairs to the second level and climbed them. We got a beautiful three-quarter view, his body angled, his legs taking the steps, his ass in his jeans. He climbed stairs as easy as taking a breath, then strolled down the corridor toward his door, flipping his keys loosely around his finger, his mind somewhere else. I could have watched him all day. I had grown up in LA, a place full of beautiful people, and I had never seen a man like Devon. I didn’t even know his last name.

Gwen let out a breath as he closed his apartment door behind him. “Okay,” she said seriously. “If you don’t ride him, I will.”

She didn’t mean it, but it was still alarming. I didn’t think I was a bag lady by any means, but it was hard to compete with a blonde in a skimpy cowgirl outfit. “Touch him and die,” I said, deadpan.

That made her laugh. “Okay, fine. I have to get to work. Some lucky guy is getting a strip-o-gram at his retirement party.” She grabbed her keys and purse from my counter. “Seriously, Liv. That”—she gestured to the window—“is a gift. I think you should take it.”

“I don’t think he’s a nice guy,” I said, remembering what he’d said about driving and drugs and dead bodies. Like an Uber, but a fuck of a lot more shady. “He’s sort of dangerous.”

“Danger is sexy,” she said. “You’re not marrying him, or becoming his old lady, so who cares? Or, you know, you could just sit here and pine while some other smart girl gets on.”

“Right,” I said.

“Right. See you, sis.” She left, leaving the smell of her perfume behind as I sat in the dark, staring at the window. But this was Gwen, and she couldn’t leave it alone. Fifteen minutes later, I got a text.

Save a car, ride a mechanic.

I laughed, tossed my phone on the sofa, and went to the kitchen to make dinner.

Five

Devon

I thought maybe I’d see sexy-as-fuck Olivia after I fixed her car, but I didn’t. She didn’t come to my door, or bump into me strategically in the corridor. I shouldn’t have been disappointed—a woman like that should have nothing to do with me. But I was.

I wasn’t even sure what it was about her. True, Olivia was a knockout—flawless white skin, intelligent dark brown eyes, dark curls that made you think of sex, a hot body under her dowdy office clothes—but it isn’t that hard to find a good-looking woman. My boss works from a strip club, for fuck’s sake. I’m not the kind of guy who has to put his dick into every woman he sees, but if the need gets bad enough, I can usually find a woman who wants what I’m giving out. Or at least, I used to.

When I’m not subjecting myself to one-handed sex, I prefer women who like it a little bit rough. Olivia did not seem like that kind of woman.

Or maybe she was. The fact was, from the first time I saw her, I wanted to find out.

An artist. A graphic designer. Living by herself, in a place like Shady Oaks. She wasn’t a kid, either—she looked the same age as me, and I was twenty-six. So what was she doing here? Why wasn’t she married to some nice guy and having kids somewhere? Why was she in a dump like Shady Oaks, a sweet plum little target for a dirty guy like me?