THE BRAVO BILLIONAIRE Read online

  There was also a walk-in closet, a dressing room the size of her bedroom at home and a bathroom tiled in vivid fuchsia, with touches of black, white and gold and a wall of mirrors over the twin sinks. The tub stood on a platform and was big enough for two – or three or four, if it came down to it.

  Emma couldn't help wondering who'd been in that tub before. But then she reminded herself that there were several other bedroom suites at Angel's Crest. They probably all had tubs the size of this one, lots of room for rich folks to do things regular people only imagined in their wildest dreams.

  "Is it acceptable?"

  Emma turned. Jonas stood in the doorway to the dressing room.

  "It's beautiful. Thank you."

  "You're sure? There are other options – and you can have it all redone if you'd prefer."

  That made her smile. "Blythe," she said, knowing that he would understand.

  And he did. Something happened in his eyes. Something warm and a little bit sad. "My mother," he said. "She wanted to make the world a better place and she constantly wanted it redecorated."

  Emma nodded. "I think she redid her own bedroom suite about – what? – at least six times in the past five years."

  "Six would be about right. She never lasted more than a year before she wanted everything changed – in her rooms, anyway."

  "It was part of her charm."

  "Yes," he said softly. "I suppose that it was." He looked at her for a long moment. "You'll be all right here, then?"

  "Yes, I will."

  "Palmer will have your things sent up soon."

  "I know."

  "Dinner at eight?"

  "I would like that." They would share a meal. That sounded very nice. They should do that often. It would give her a chance to get to know him better, to figure out ways to help him to open up.

  "In the small dining room?"

  "I think I can find my way there."

  "There's an intercom box right next to the hall door."

  "I saw it."

  "Just push the button if you have a problem. Palmer will see you get whatever you need."

  "Okay."

  "Until eight, then?"

  "Yes. Until eight."

  He turned and disappeared through the dressing room. She waited until he had time to get out into the hall and then she wandered back into to the main room, where she kicked off her high-heeled sandals and fell across the black-skirted white bed.

  She was staring at the dangling crystals on the chandelier when she heard the discreet tap on the door. It was Palmer, with her things. He vanished into the walk-in closet carrying her suitcase and her garment bag. When he reappeared, he was empty-handed.

  "Is there anything else right now, ma'am?"

  "Nope. Thanks a bunch."

  The butler made himself scarce.

  Emma glanced at the bedside clock. Twenty after seven. She should probably give Deirdre a buzz, just to see how the workday had gone and to check on the Yorkies and Festus.

  But she hesitated. If she called Deirdre, she'd get a lot of questions. Her friend would want details about the trip and the wedding itself, about how it had gone. Telling it all would take time, which Emma did not have right then. She wanted to shower and put on fresh makeup. And she had brought a very nice dinner dress. It was purple. Of silk shantung. A sleeveless curve-hugging sheath with a wide square neckline in her favorite length – short. She'd brought high-heeled dress sandals to match.

  No. No time to call Deirdre. She'd do it later, after dinner. Emma rose from the bed and headed for the bathroom, peeling off her clothes as she went.

  * * *

  When she came downstairs, Jonas was waiting for her. He'd dressed for dinner in another of those beautiful suits of his.

  "Drink?" he asked.

  "Well, why not?"

  He ushered her into the living room off the grand foyer. She sat on one of the pretty sofas covered in blue-and-gray striped silk. Emma smiled to herself, thinking that the room had looked just the same five years ago, the first time she'd visited Blythe at the mansion. So many of the rooms had changed over the years, since Blythe was always redoing them. But this one, for some reason, she had left alone. Emma was glad. The room had gauzy white window coverings and walls that were a soothing shade between green and gray. There were beautiful rugs on the inlaid floors, all with intricate patterns woven in to them.

  Family photos graced the tables, each in a beautiful, distinctive frame, pictures of Jonas and Blythe and Mandy. And older pictures, too. Of Jonas as a child, with his father Harry and a twenty-something Blythe. There was even one of Harry as a very young man, with his parents and with his younger brother, Blake. Emma shivered every time she looked at that one. Blake Bravo had the strangest, scariest pale eyes. Blythe had told her he had died years and years ago. And from some of the things Blythe had said he had done, well, maybe the world was a better place without Blake Bravo in it.

  Jonas went to the liquor cart. "What can I get you?"

  Emma turned from the picture of the man with the crazy eyes. "Hmm?"

  "What will you have to drink?"

  She confessed, "I like those kinds of drinks they always put umbrellas in. You know, the sweet, frozen kind."

  He picked up a pitcher that was right there on the cart "Strawberry daiquiri?"

  "Well that would be just fine." She wondered how he could have known to mix up her favorite kind of drink. And then she remembered. It was probably in her file.

  He poured the drink into a tall glass and carried it to her.

  "Thank you." She sipped. Oh, it was heaven. Thick as Italian ice and just a little bit tart.

  He had the kind of drink she would have expected him to choose – three fingers of something from a crystal decanter. Maybe whiskey, maybe Scotch.

  They sat for a while, sipping. Talking a little. It was pleasant and relaxing and when he offered her a second daiquiri, she took it.

  Why not?

  After a time, he led her through the foyer and into the small dining room, where the beautiful walnut table could seat up to twelve. The room had murals of tropical scenes adorning the walls and arches supported by marbleized columns. Jonas sat at the head of the table and Emma sat to his immediate right.

  He offered wine.

  She shook her head. Two daiquiris were more than enough. She felt warm and easy and very relaxed.

  They ate. There was a creamy asparagus soup, then a wonderful salad with a dressing that tasted like oranges. The main course was lamb chops with dill and tiny red potatoes bathed in butter and herbs.

  They had coffee after the meal – coffee sweetened with amaretto, which Emma couldn't bring herself to refuse. Palmer offered dessert, but Emma shook her head again and Jonas waved the butler away.

  On the sideboard sat a clock made of some kind of green stone, with a gold face and black Roman numerals marking the hours. That clock said it was ten-thirty. Imagine that. The time had flown by. And tomorrow would be a workday, for both of them. Hadn't he mentioned an important meeting? He'd want to be rested for that.

  Emma needed rest, too. She'd hardly slept a wink last night, she'd been such a bundle of nerves about today, about the whole unbelievable idea of getting married, about the passionate kisses she and Jonas had shared that were not going to go any farther than that.

  Emma slid her linen napkin in at the side of her saucer. "It was a wonderful dinner, Jonas. Thank you."

  He lowered his head in a slow nod of acknowledgement. "Tired?"

  "A little. I think I'll just—" But he was already up, pulling out her chair for her. "Oh. Thanks."

  He took her hand, wrapped her fingers around his sleeve. "Let's go upstairs."

  He would walk her to her room. How thoughtful of him. He really could be a charmer when he put his mind to it.

  They went together, as they had earlier that evening, up the stairs, down the two hallways, to the door of her bedroom suite. She turned to him. "Well, I … I hope that meeting
of yours goes well tomorrow."

  He deftly reached behind her and opened the door. "It's a simple acquisition we're discussing. Nothing too tricky."

  "Oh. Well. Good." She backed into the beautiful pale gray room and Jonas came right along with her.

  "Did I tell you I like that dress?" He turned a dial near the door. Wall sconces shaped like golden boughs on either side of the bed glowed to life. The chandelier came on too, but very low. She looked up and the teardrop crystals seemed to wink at her.

  "Emma?"

  "What? Oh. My dress? Thank you."

  "Do you own a dress that isn't tight and short?"

  "Not if I can help it." Somehow, he had backed her all the way across the big room, right through the sitting area, to the end of the bed. Her calves came up against the soft white duvet. "I like sexy clothes."

  "I noticed."

  "I think I look good in them."

  "You do."

  "Plenty of time to tone things down when I'm a little older."

  "Do you see me arguing?"

  "No." Since there was nowhere else to go, she dropped to the edge of the bed and then had to tip her head back to look up at him. "But I think, maybe, you disapprove of my clothes. Just a little."

  One corner of his mouth tipped up. "I've found I'm becoming … accustomed to them." He turned and sat down beside her.

  She looked over at him, and wondered if she should tell him that he had to leave now. She hadn't planned to let him in. But now he was here. And they were talking. And, well, certainly he'd be leaving in a minute or two.

  She frowned at him. "You're not going to try to get me to be more conservative in the way that I dress, are you?"

  "Never."

  "Well, good."

  He lifted his hand and ran the back of his index finger down her bare arm, then slowly back up again. It felt … really good. Tender. And teasing and naughty in a distinctly delicious way.

  "I do wonder, though," he said idly, as he kept on rubbing his finger up and down her arm. "Do you find you have trouble being taken seriously?"

  "Nope. No trouble at all."

  "What about men?"

  "What about them?"

  "Don't you wonder if they ever … get the wrong idea about you?"

  "The wrong idea?"

  "That's what I said."

  "That's not real specific."

  He shrugged, and he ran that finger up even higher, right over the curve of her shoulder. His hand reached her nape and lingered, fingers rubbing in a gentle massage.

  Emma cleared her throat. "Uh. No. If men get any wrong ideas about me, I make sure they don't keep them for long. I never have troubles with men. Men are sweet – well, most men are, anyway."

  He made a low sound. It might have been one of amusement. And he kept on massaging the back of her neck.

  She sucked in a breath and ordered her spine to hold her up straighter. "It's all in how a woman carries herself. My aunt Cass taught me that."

  "Your aunt Cass, I take it, was a very wise woman."

  "Yes. She was. Very wise…"

  He moved in closer, his hand sliding around to cup her other shoulder and bring her snug against his side. She should have pulled away. And she knew it. But it just felt so good to be sitting there, bucked up tight against him.

  He touched her chin with his other hand, guiding it around so that she had to look at him.

  Emma stared into those midnight eyes of his. "My aunt Cass … uh … she had a real good head on her shoulders."

  "The way I heard it, she lost a ranch and a small business before you were even ten years old."

  "Boy, those detectives of yours are pretty good."

  "That's what I pay them for."

  "The small business was a beauty shop. We had that after we lost the ranch. And it wasn't much of a ranch, anyway. You need a lot of land to run cattle in dry country. We barely had a thousand acres. And then we had a drought and beef prices dropped. So we lost the ranch and Aunt Cass scraped enough together to try the beauty shop. But that didn't work out either."

  They were still sitting too close, still staring into each other's eyes. It probably should have become uncomfortable. But it hadn't.

  He said, "Your aunt ended up a waitress, didn't she?"

  Emma granted him a quick, firm nod. "Aunt Cass was a fine waitress. She always had the knack for taking care of folks. And she had a memory. You have to have a memory, to wait tables and be good at it. If she served you breakfast once, she'd always remember what you liked and how you liked it. You'd slide onto a stool at her counter and she'd glance over at you and ask if you wanted the same as you had last time. If you said yes, you would get it. Because she really did remember. That's important to folks. That their preferences are remembered."

  He was watching her lips. It occurred to Emma that he was probably going to kiss her.

  What would Aunt Cass think of that? Emma blinked. "'If passion drives, let reason hold the reins.' Aunt Cass used to say that."

  "I think Benjamin Franklin may have said it first," Jonas suggested softly. Yes, a kiss was definitely coming. His mouth was close, much closer than it ought to be.

  "Benjamin Franklin?"

  "That's right."

  Emma felt a little hurt. "Aunt Cass never told me."

  He shrugged again, an itty-bitty shrug, hardly lifting those fine shoulders at all. "Just an oversight, I'm sure."

  She tried to put some starch in her tone. "Well, whoever said it, it is something to think about, don't you agree?"

  "Absolutely." He laid his big, warm hand against her throat.

  A hot shiver went through her. "Jonas…"

  "Um?"

  "I am … I am getting the feeling that reason is not holding the reins at this moment."

  "Certainly it is."

  "Uh. No. No, I don't think—"

  "What we have to remember, is to let passion drive."

  "No. I don't think so. I think you should go now. I think—"

  And he did it. Right then. He bent that tiny bit closer, and his mouth met hers.

  Oh, why did he have to go and do that?

  She froze. She stayed utterly, completely still. But he only went on kissing her, lightly, gently, tormentingly.

  Until she could bear it no longer.

  With a hungry cry, Emma wrapped her arms around those wonderful big shoulders and pulled him down with her across the bed.

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  «^»

  Getting her naked was a top priority. Jonas sensed that as long as she had that little purple dress on, she could continue to tell herself that kissing was all that was happening here.

  He kept his mouth locked on hers as he repositioned them a little, pulling her along with him, until they both lay on their sides. He located the zipper at the back of the dress and he took it down in one quick stroke.

  She jerked away and stared at him, eyes wide, cheeks charmingly flushed. "Oh, Jonas. No."

  He gave her a puzzled frown, though he wasn't puzzled in the least. He knew exactly what that "No" had meant.

  She let out a little groan. "I am sorry. I shouldn't have…" The words trailed off in midsentence.

  He prompted, with great patience, he thought, "You shouldn't have what?"

  "Kissed you back, when you kissed me. Pulled you down here, across the bed. I was wrong. And, well, I think this is a bad idea."

  Tenderly, he began slipping purple silk over the curve of her shoulder and down her arm.

  "Jonas," she murmured reproachfully.

  Her skin was wonderfully soft, smooth as a baby's. She was wearing a little purple nothing of a bra. He wanted that off her, too – though he had to admit, it looked pretty damn good on.

  He thought about control – about how much he'd like to just let it go. Rip everything off her and bury himself in her. He wouldn't do that.

  But the temptation was there. He was hard for her, achingly so, and he wanted her. Now.

&nbs
p; Very gently, he pressed his mouth to the curve of her shoulder, breathing in the scent of her, "What's a bad idea?" he asked as if he didn't know.

  "As if you didn't know," she said, in exactly the tone he had thought it. She slid the dress back in place on her shoulder. "You and me. Having sex. I think it's a bad idea."

  Her back was bare, now he'd taken the zipper down. So he ran his hand down the center of it. She shivered. "Oh!" She moaned. "Don't…"

  He guided her onto her back again and leaned over her. She had her eyes closed. "Emma."

  "No. If I look at you, I'll only want to kiss you."

  "Emma…"

  Those long lashes fluttered open. "See? I was right." She hooked her arm around his neck and pulled him down again.

  Yes. He did like the taste of her mouth. Moist and ripe and sweet as a peach. He ran his tongue along the inside of her upper lip. Wet silk.

  She pushed him away again and narrowed her mostly-green eyes at him. "Jonas. I was not going to do this."

  "But Emma. You are doing this."

  "It's real weak and irresponsible of me. It sets a bad example."

  "A bad example for whom?"

  "Well, for you, of course. You're the one I'm supposed to be helping."

  He took her meaning. After all, he knew his own mother. He did understand the nature of Blythe's scheme. In the year to come, the dog groomer from Texas was supposed to make of him a warmer, kinder, gentler man.

  It wasn't going to happen. Jonas was who he was.

  "Emma," he said gently. "I am thirty-six years old. Long past the age when I required an example."

  "Still, it seems to me that—"

  He put a finger against her soft mouth. "Listen." She pressed her lips together and nodded to show she was doing just that. He explained, "If you keep saying no, I'll start to think you mean it."

  "But I do mean it."

  He decided it was time to call her hand. "All right." He levered himself away from her and swung his feet to the floor.

  She sat up, the purple dress sliding fetchingly down one shoulder, a platinum curl falling over her eye. "You're goin'?"

  "Yes." He turned and started walking, sure of himself and of her for the first five or six steps, then not so sure, then absolutely certain he had blown it royally.