Meddling with a Millionaire (6 page)

On the fourth floor, Nathan found Emma's unit and rang her doorbell. When no one answered, he tried again. While he considered that she might refuse to let him in, he doubted that she would be hiding inside, pretending she wasn't home. He tried the doorknob and, to his surprise, found the door unlocked. Entering the unit, he called Emma's name.

The only noise that reached his ears sounded like someone being violently sick.

He crossed the living room, absently inventorying the size of the place and the abundance of renovation projects left incomplete, and headed down a narrow hallway, following a hunch. At the end of the hall he hit pay dirt. What he found dismayed him.

Someone had taken a sledgehammer to the master bathroom and completely gutted the space. The walls and ceiling had been stripped down to the studs, exposing the wiring and plumbing. Where the shower should have been, he noticed rotten wood, mottled with black stains. The only fixtures in the entire room still intact were the sink and the toilet. And that's where he found Emma, hunched over the bowl, her eyes wide and incredulous in a face the color of chalk. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Nathan?” She closed her eyes, and her face twisted into an expression of agony. “What are you doing here?”

Before he could answer she had leaned over the toilet and heaved. Concern for her overrode his earlier irritation. He knelt beside her and soothed his hand over her shoulder, buffeted by an all-too-familiar feeling of helplessness. How many times had he sat by his mom after her chemo treatments and struggled with the frustration of not being able to help her?

“I came to see why you stood me up again.”

“And now that you've seen why I couldn't make it, you can be on your merry way.”

Her rejection didn't faze him at all. “And leave you like this? Not likely.” He cast around the dismantled space looking for a towel. “I'll be right back.”

He retraced his steps down the hall and entered her tiny kitchen. The ancient cabinets and outdated appliances indicated that her renovation project hadn't gone far. That was probably for the best if her bathroom was any indication of how badly the remodeling was going. He found a kitchen towel and ran it under the cold water. He squeezed out the excess and returned to the bathroom. Emma sat where he'd left her.

“Here, this should make you feel a little better.” He applied the wet towel to her cheeks and forehead, peering at her in concern. “What were you celebrating?”

She had enough strength to glare at him, but not enough to fight his ministrations. “This is not a hangover. It's food poisoning. Go away.”

He sat down on the floor beside her, not caring that the torn-up flooring would ruin his expensive suit. It bothered him to see her in these sorts of surroundings. No wonder her father wanted her married off. She obviously needed someone to take care of her.

Something reached through his concern and stunned him with its possibility.

“Is there something else?” she demanded. “Because I'm not really feeling up to entertaining you.”

He pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “Are you sure this is food poisoning?”

“What else could it be?” Her brows came together.

“Well, it's been almost a month since we were together.” His voice trailed off as he scrutinized her expression.

Emma eyed him through her long bangs. “And?”

“Are you pregnant?”

P
regnant? Emma's queasiness now originated from a whole new source. Foreboding surfaced like a rash. Her focus narrowed to the irritation of a persistent itch that wouldn't go away, no matter how long or hard she scratched.

She had food poisoning. Nothing more.

“We used protection,” she reminded him, her voice a noon shadow.

“It's not one hundred percent effective.”

Oh, and wouldn't he love that. He'd have even more leverage to get her to marry him if she turned out to be pregnant. Closing the door on her doubts, she glared at him. “Go away.”

“I'm not leaving you like this,” he said. “I'm going to get you some water.”

“No, please.” While she acknowledged that her body could use some fluids right now, she didn't want Nathan around while she felt so weak and helpless. It was just too easy to lean on him, let him handle things. And before she knew it,
he would have her agreeing to marry him. “Just leave me in peace.”

“You can't afford to get dehydrated.”

She hid her face in her arms. “I really don't think I could keep anything down.”

Although exhausted by her rough morning, Emma suspected that Nathan wouldn't leave until she proved that she could take care of herself. Hoping her stomach could take it, she began pushing to her feet. Before she could stand upright, Nathan bent down and swept her into his arms. Too shocked and too weak to protest, Emma gripped his shoulders for stability. The short walk to her bedroom reminded her how many times in the last three weeks she wished she'd stayed at his condo that night. Would he have carried her to bed like this?

He set her on her feet and kept one arm around her waist as he swept the covers aside. “For the last month I've been looking forward to getting you into bed,” he said, the grim, unyielding businessman morphing into a handsome snake charmer. “But this isn't exactly what I had in mind.”

She quashed the amusement his comment produced. Gorgeous, cheeky and way too sexy for his own good, she resented that he seemed to know exactly what to say to make her forget that she'd been up and sitting within arms' reach of the toilet since just before five o'clock when she had been overcome by nausea.

“I'm in no condition to flirt with you,” she told him as a wave of dizziness hit her.

His wry grin faded as he pulled the covers over her. “Can I get you anything?”

She clutched the edge of her comforter and stared up at him. Her stomach flipped in a way that had nothing to do with food poisoning.

“No. I'll be fine.” She probably should thank him for taking care of her, but he'd entered her home uninvited and had
stumbled upon her in the most humiliating of moments. No, she didn't have to feel one bit grateful. If only he'd go. “I'm going to sleep for a while.”

She shut her eyes, to block out the concern tangling with humor in his dark gray eyes, and hoped he'd take the hint. Retreating footsteps told her that he'd left her room, but she couldn't relax while sounds of him moving around the loft reached her ears. He returned to the bedroom and placed something on the nightstand beside her. She spied a glass of water within easy reach just as she heard the front door to the apartment open and shut. Although every muscle protested, she slipped out of bed and slowly crossed the living room to slide the dead bolt home.

Her legs shook with the effort of retracing her steps across the expansive space. She caught at the door frame leading to her bedroom as her vision darkened. Gulping air, she shuffled five steps and dropped into bed, pulling the covers over her. As her body went limp, sleep claimed her at last.

 

When she woke late that afternoon, the food poisoning seemed to have run its course. Feeling weak and shaky from low blood sugar and lack of water, Emma swung her legs out of bed and sat up. While her head swam, her stomach barely reacted at all. With a faint, relieved smile, she headed for the kitchen. A piece of toast and a cup of herbal tea sounded like heaven. The smell of cooking brought her up short.

Emma pushed her sleep-tossed hair out of her eyes and gaped at the man standing in her kitchen. Nathan had replaced his expensive business suit with thigh-hugging jeans and a long-sleeved blue sweater that emphasized the capable strength of his torso.

His gaze swept over her. She'd caught a glimpse of herself as she'd passed her dresser mirror. It wasn't pretty. She waited for his expression to reflect disappointment. But as he perused her ancient but comfortable cotton pajama bottoms and
lingered over the fact that she wasn't wearing a bra beneath her equally worn T-shirt, only appreciation altered the curve of his lips.

Her nipples tightened, driving a spike of longing straight to her core. She crossed her arms over her chest a fraction too late. His smug grin confirmed that her body's involuntary response hadn't gone unnoticed. Why couldn't he disapprove of her appearance just this once? It would give her a firm base to build resentment on. Instead, she felt all mushy and weak-kneed.

“I see you're up.” He stirred something in a pot on the stove, something that smelled heavenly. “Feeling better?”

“You left.”

“I went out and bought some supplies. I figured you'd be hungry when you woke up.”

“I locked the door.”

“I anticipated that and took your keys with me.”

Damn the man for having all the answers. She retreated to her room to put on a robe and comb her hair. Using the water he'd left beside her bed, she brushed her teeth. A quick rinse with mouthwash, and she returned to sit on a stool at her breakfast bar and scowl at him.

“You certainly have made yourself at home,” she groused. “I don't recall issuing you an invitation to dinner.”

“You were in no shape to issue any sort of invitation.” His slow smile increased the room's temperature. “But I've always had a knack for anticipating a woman's needs.” He nudged a teacup toward her. “It's peppermint. Good for nausea.”

Wondering how he'd know something like that, Emma sipped the tea. “Are you sure it was my needs you were anticipating and not yours?”

“I assure you, I thought only of you.”

Skepticism rumbled in her throat. Emma nodded toward the stove. “What are you cooking?”

“Chicken soup. My mother's recipe.”

Now this was too much. “From scratch?”

“That's the only way. Would you like to try some?”

“How could I resist?”

Nathan dished up two bowls and pushed a plate of crackers toward her. Emma inhaled the soup's aroma and her stomach growled impatiently. The first spoonful of smooth chicken broth slid across her tongue, stimulating her taste buds with cilantro, lime and a hint of onion.

“This is delicious.”

“It's not bothering your stomach?”

“Not at all. What a relief.”

Nathan finished his soup and set his bowl in her sink.

“Are you feeling strong enough to tell me what happened to your bathroom?”

“I had a leak in the shower.”

“Looks like overkill for a leak.”

“The plumber I hired found mold. I had him rip everything out so we could see how bad it was.”

Her explanation made him hiss in exasperation. “How long has it been like this?”

“A couple weeks.”

“You need to get this taken care of.”

She resented his assumption that she needed him to point that out to her. “It's the holidays and everyone I called is busy until the end of January.”

“Mold is dangerous. You can't stay here.”

“I've been living here for a year. I can survive another month.” Besides, she had no place to go.

“It's dangerous,” he repeated. “Why didn't you check into a hotel?”

“I can't afford to.”

“Why not?”

It was time to explain what was really going on. “Last February, Daddy cut me off from my trust fund and gave me a hundred thousand to live on for the year.”

“Why a hundred thousand?”

Emma grimaced. “It's what I spent on shoes the year before.” Seeing the grin tugging at Nathan's lips, she rushed on. “New Year's Eve, Daddy and I made a deal. If I replace the hundred thousand in my account by Valentine's Day, he's promised to sign over my money and I don't have to marry you.” She loaded the last bit with enough satisfaction to wipe the amusement off his face, but her smug words had no effect.

“Let me guess how much you have to replace.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Fifty thousand?”

“Thirty-five.”

His smirk made her blood boil. Why had she told him about the deal with her father? Over the years, Cody had probably regaled Nathan with assorted tales of her spending sprees. But she wasn't the same frivolous girl she'd been ten months ago. She'd learned to budget. She'd spent long hours designing and making her jewelry. And she'd figured out the best way to market it.

“The earrings you took. I need them back.”

“Are you planning on selling them?”

“As a matter of fact, I am. I've started a business. I design fine jewelry. Expensive, original, one-of-a-kind pieces.”

Except her father didn't take what she did seriously. And from the look on Nathan's face, he didn't, either. The harder she worked, the more she wanted her father to recognize her talent. How could you claim to love someone and not get them? Replacing the hundred thousand had become as much about proving to her father that she was great at something as it was about getting her trust fund back.

“I'm going to put the money back in my account,” she said.

Instead of appearing concerned that she might succeed, he shrugged. “You don't seriously think you can do that in five weeks.”

He sounded just like her father. When he looked at her, he saw only failure. Wouldn't he be surprised when she demonstrated just how capable she was? “I have a big art and design show coming up. I'll make more than enough money.”

Naturally, she left out the part about lacking inventory to sell and how buying the supplies she needed would mean dipping back into the account she was trying desperately to replenish.

“I'm sure you make very nice jewelry,” he told her in a patronizing manner that made her grind her teeth. “But you don't seriously expect to make enough money at some craft fair.”

“I can do it,” she declared, annoyed with him for echoing her own doubts about her plan. “You'll see.”

“In the meantime, you can move into my condo while your bathroom is fixed.”

“Move…” In with him? Emma stared at Nathan. “Absolutely not.”

“Well, I'm not going to let you stay here,” Nathan retorted, brisk with impatience. “I'll find someone to come in and take care of the mold and get your bathroom working again. It shouldn't take more than a couple weeks. In the meantime, you can stay with me.”

“I'd appreciate your help with a contractor, but I'm not staying with you.”

A sly smile softened his sculpted lips. “Afraid you might like it too much to leave?”

His question aroused memories of New Year's Eve, reminding her how close she had come to succumbing to his charms. She began to tingle beneath the molten steel in his eyes. As he watched her struggle for an answer, his eyebrows lifted.

“I'm not afraid,” she retorted, crossing her arms over her chest. Oh, but she was.

She craved his hands on her, his mouth claiming hers, and it robbed her of sanity, just as his knowing grin stole her breath. What would it be like to fall asleep sheltered by his arms each night? To be awakened every morning by the sensual slide of his naked muscles against her skin? Just thinking about it nudged her into the realm of an addict. If she let herself fall into his trap of seduction, she'd never be able to escape.

He shook his head. “I think you are.” His eyebrows dropped back into their customary position, his lips curved ironically and he peered at her askance. “What are you fighting so hard to prove? You and I both know you aren't the independent sort. You'll be happier once you're married and have someone to take care of you. Your father knows it, too. That's why he's so determined to see you settled.”

Growing up, whenever Emma had played with her dolls, she imagined they were falling in love and living happily ever after. By eighteen, she had her life all planned out, something her college friends had teased her about incessantly. She would get married shortly after college, to a man who adored her. She would be pregnant with her first child three years later. Between socializing with her friends, dinner parties with her husband's business associates and charity events, she would be blissfully happy. But her ex-fiancé, Jackson, had spoiled her innocent dreams.

Having to guard herself so vigilantly against making another mistake in love while longing to let go and take the plunge was a tug-of-war that took its toll. And the longer she fought, the more resistant she became to the trust she needed in order to let herself fall in love. Surrendering to her emotions became a thing of her past. Until Nathan Case had reentered her life.

“I thought you understood that I'm not going to marry you because of some business deal.” Finishing the last of the tea, she leaned over the breakfast bar and put the cup in the sink.
She fixed a steady gaze on Nathan as he moved out of the kitchen in her direction. “Someday I will marry, but on my terms—not my father's.”

He stepped between her thighs and caught her face in his hands. The instant he entered her space, her senses filled with the scent and power of him and her bones melted.

“Marry me,” he coaxed. “You won't regret it.”

Her heart jolted as he regarded her somberly. With his proposal ringing in her ears, she gripped his sweater, and then hesitated, uncertain as to whether to push him away or pull him close.

“Nathan.” His name left her lips in a low plea for him to stop, to continue. He swooped into her moment of indecision and took charge. Dipping his head, he grazed her lips with his. The action froze them both.