The Millionaire Makeover (Bachelor Auction) (8 page)

“Khloe, can I borrow your date for a quick second?” Morgan linked an arm through Niall’s, grinning. “We’ll be right behind you.”

“If it’s fine with Khloe, I’ll escort her over while you two talk.” Bennett addressed his offer to Niall, but his smile and eyes were all for Khloe.

She nodded, and Bennett turned and led them toward a table near the edge of the emptying dance floor. Niall ground his teeth together, suppressing the urge to follow and yank the other man’s hand off her lower back.

“Well, you do know how to make an entrance.” Morgan chuckled, tipping her head to the side. “First, let me apologize for all the assholes, bastards, and sons of bitches I’ve called you in the last few days.”

He snorted. “Forgiven.”

Morgan snickered, then shook her head, murmuring, “She’s gorgeous tonight.”

“She’s gorgeous, period. Always has been,” Niall argued.

“Agreed. It’s just nice for everyone else—including Khloe—to finally realize the truth.” She stared after her friend. “She deserves this night…and many more like it. And since you’ve already started the ball rolling, I think you should keep it going.”

Niall frowned. “I agreed to come tonight. It’s what you paid twenty-thousand dollars for.” The lie tasted like ashes on his tongue. He could’ve easily paid the Rhodonite Society the money he’d intended to spend to cover his date. But it hadn’t been an obligation to her that had brought him across the Pond.

“Yes, I’m sure that’s the only reason you’re here,” she drawled, arching an eyebrow. “But what about tomorrow? And the next day? Next week? She needs this transformation to be for more than just one night.” Before he could interrupt, she plowed ahead with her explanation. “I’ve set up an appointment with one of the best hairstylists in Boston and convinced an exclusive boutique to close for a couple of hours and cater to Khloe, fitting her for a whole new wardrobe.” Pause. “For tomorrow.”

“Morgan, I have a business to run…” Niall scowled.

“God rested on Sunday; surely you can call in on a Saturday.” She pursed her lips, tapping a manicured fingertip against her mouth. “I would, but I have a thing. And I mean, you are the boss. The head honcho. The baller, shot caller.”

Niall barked out a crack of sharp laughter. “Did you really just quote Lil’ Troy to me?”

She beamed, patting his arm as if congratulating him. “Yes! Look at you, catching those lyrics! I knew you had some thug in you.” She snickered. “But back to the plan. If you’ll take her tomorrow, I’ll pay for everything. And also, I’ve done my homework, so I know your company sponsors an art foundation for underprivileged kids in Boston, Dublin, and Cork City. I have a donation ready to send if you’ll just stay and do this for me. For Khloe. A donation with enough zeroes to make you blush…and considering what I’ve read about you, I have a pretty good idea how difficult that would be.”

“Bribery, Morgan?” Niall growled, offended.

“Me? Bribery” She gasped dramatically before heaving a loud sigh. “That’s such an ugly word. I like to call it incentive. Besides, if you’d stop balking at staying and helping her, I wouldn’t have to allegedly bribe anyone. From what Khloe told me, you were best friends with her brother and even close with her at one time. If that’s true, you owe her for then and for the hit-it-and-quit-it from years ago.”

He set his jaw, locking the words in his throat. What could he tell her? That the longer he remained in Boston, the closer he came to jeopardizing the same vow that had kept him away? But…he glanced toward the table where she sat, talking and laughing with Bennett. Lovely. Sweet. Confident. By staying, he could give her more. He could cultivate and tend that confidence by making sure when he left, she didn’t revert to the woman who hid herself in drab clothes and timidity. He could help her get the happily-ever-after she deserved.

He’d just have to keep his hands off her to do it.

“I’ll take her tomorrow,” he said. “And I’ll pay for everything.”

“Aaw.” Morgan sighed, the sound as exaggerated as the batting of her lashes. “And they say chivalry is dead.”

“Not completely,” he stated. “No more emotional blackmail after tomorrow. I’ll take her to the appointments, and you keep your planning and schemes to yourself.”

“Emotional blackmail?” Outrage flashed across her face before a winsome smile and wink replaced it. “Meh. I’ve been accused of worse.”

“So have I.” Covering her hand over his arm, he started heading for their table. “Oh, I’ll still take your generous donation to my foundation, though.”

“Of course you will,” she said, dryly.

“And I’ll match it. So try really hard to make me blush.”

“Right, boy-o,” she teased, laughing.

For the next hour, Niall sat next to Khloe, ate the dinner of prime rib, asparagus tips, and baked potato placed before him, joined in the conversation that flowed around the table, and played the part of besotted lover. He casually toyed with one of the diamond pins holding her hair in place. Trailed his fingers across her shoulder and base of her neck. Whispered inane comments in her ear about the food or another person at the table, knowing the interaction appeared intimate, seductive.

And the object of Khloe’s affections missed none of it. Bennett watched every light touch, every murmured conversation as if they were actors on a brightly lit stage, and he was the enraptured audience. And wasn’t that just damn apropos? Because this whole act was for his benefit.

The thought, the reminder of his
employment
simmered inside him like a banked fire, steadily glowing brighter and hotter with every sound of Khloe’s soft laughter at one of Bennett’s comments. With each slash of pink that stained her skin when the other man paid her a compliment. By the time they all rose from the table, the simmer had flared into a crackling blaze, licking at his skin, kindling the need to claim, dominate…to fucking take.

Bennett rounded the table, glanced at the dance floor that was thick with dancing couples. “Khloe, I—”

“If you’ll excuse us for a moment.” Niall wrapped his fingers around her upper arm. “We’ll be right back.”

Leaving her boss with surprise etched across his face, he pivoted sharply, his implacable hold granting Khloe no choice but to follow.

“What the hell are you doing?” she snapped. He didn’t reply, cutting a path through people with determined strides, and not slowing until he cleared the open glass doors at the end of the ballroom. “Damn it, Niall,” she demanded, whirling on him as he ushered her into a shadowed corner.

“Lesson number two,” he growled, curling his hand around her nape and grasping her silk-covered hip. “What a man thinks he can’t have, he wants even more.” And crushed his mouth to hers.

The sweetness of the chocolate soufflé served for dessert. The tartness of the white wine she’d drunk with dinner. And
her
. The undefinable flavor that called forth memories of her lips clinging to his as he plunged deep and hard into her body, dragging out whimpers not unlike the one she released now.

He swallowed the vulnerable sound, already hungry for another. The kiss wasn’t gentle, considerate, or innocent. He fucked her mouth. Took it in an erotic parody of the more carnal connection his cock throbbed for. With a groan, he tilted his head, tangled his tongue around hers, remembering what she liked: open, wet, a little rough…a lot wild. And was rewarded with another of those needy moans. Each one like a damn blue-ribbon he’d worked hard for and won.

Her breasts pressed into his chest, her fingers clutched his waist. God, the taste of her…the feel of those luscious curves. He rumbled a curse, jerked his head up. Then returned for a hard nip at her bottom lip, followed by a long, slow lick to ease the sting.

Staring at her flushed cheeks, glistening lips, and passion-glazed eyes, he retreated a step. Then another. The desperate need to claim her hadn’t dissipated. Not by a single degree. But underneath the hunger crept a wariness. A guarded caution. He hadn’t come to Boston for this.

In the years he’d been away, he’d convinced himself that night with her had been an aberration. That the gut-tearing, consuming lust had been blown out of proportion by his memory and alcohol. But one evening with her—one kiss where he fought not to drag her deeper into the corner, yank her dress up around her waist, and bury himself balls deep inside her fist-tight flesh detonated that notion to hell and back.

She threatened his resolve, his personal beliefs, his promise.

Niall had broken it when he’d taken her like he’d done so many times with other women, though the reasons had been vastly different. He’d never run from the others, just simply walked away unencumbered by guilt, shame, and fear. Now, he had the opportunity to set things right and honor his friend’s last request of him. And here he was fucking it up.

“Why did you do that?” she demanded in a low, soft voice. Eyes narrowed, she clenched her hands at her sides and seemed to vibrate with fury.

“I already told you why,” he said, slipping his hands in his pockets. Either that or put them back where he really wanted them…back on her. “Right now, Bennett is out there imagining what I’m doing to you—what you’re allowing me to do to you with a ballroom full of people only feet away. When you walk back in there, he’s going to take one look at your flushed face, your lips damp and swollen from my mouth, and figure out what we’ve been doing. Then he’s going to wonder if he could make you this hot. What you would look like for him. And he’s going to want to find out.”

Surprise flashed in her gaze—surprise and a whisper of pain. He frowned, shifting forward, the command for an explanation on his tongue. But before he could ask, she shoved past him and stalked back into the gala. Back to Bennett.

After several moments, Niall followed, instinct informing him of what he’d find. His intuition had guided him in signing new acts, warned him when a new business venture had failure written all over it, or gauged the timing and market for an album’s release. The one time he’d failed to heed his instinct, he’d married a gold-digger. So, no, he wasn’t shocked to find Bennett talking to Khloe, his blond head bent over her darker one, her face lit with a lovely smile.

This was it. Mission accomplished. Morgan had asked him to accompany Khloe to this party so the man she was in love with would notice her. And Bennett had. The future of marriage, family, and the so-called American Dream were within her grasp.

Now he could return to Dublin, comforted that he hadn’t failed Michael or Khloe.

The relief that should’ve cascaded through him like a refreshing rain was absent.

Instead, the realization left him as dry and barren as a desert.

Clenching his jaw, he approached the couple.

“…would love if you could come.” Bennett glanced up from Khloe as Niall pressed a hand to her hip. His gaze flickered down to the possessive gesture, his mouth tightening at the corners before he gave Niall a congenial smile. “Niall. I was just inviting Khloe to a dinner party I’m hosting next week. Of course, the invite extends to you as well.” Like hell it did.

Morgan clapped her hands once, her eyes glinting with delight and a shite load of mischief. “Oh how fortuitous that Niall mentioned to me earlier that he planned to stay stateside a few days longer.” She grinned. “Isn’t that a happy coincidence?”

Son of a bitch. The woman was trouble. And crazy.

“Yes,” Khloe murmured. “Happy.” She turned to him, and he would’ve had to been Helen Keller not to see the hope in her eyes or hear the question in her voice. Tonight had been a victory for her. This invitation like the proverbial Golden Ticket. And she needed him to seal the deal.

Well played, Morgan. Well feckin’ played
.

“Sure, sweetheart. Whatever you like.”

Chapter Seven

“For the love of God, please stop,” Khloe snarled, slapping at the alarm clock on her bedside table. But after three whacks, the damn thing still chimed. Groaning, she jackknifed out of the blankets, glaring at the combination clock/radio. Three things became clear.

One. It was 6:45 in the morning. On a Saturday.

Two. Her phone was the stubbornly ringing culprit, not the alarm.

Three. The person calling her at this hour had a death wish. Like, a Charles Bronson-sized death wish.

She snatched the phone off the dresser and glanced down at the screen. “Are you kidding me?” she growled, swiping her thumb across the answer bar. “
Are you kidding me?”
she repeated, this time for benefit of the caller on the other end.

“Come open the door, babe.” That Irish brogue first thing in the ungodly AM should not have been sexy. Especially when it was issuing commands. Too bad her heart hadn’t received the memo. The damn thing pounded as if she’d just finished a marathon, not woken up from a sound sleep. But relentless, hot dreams about the irritating Irishman on the other end of the phone could have something to do with that, too. Shit. She couldn’t escape Niall even in sleep.

“Niall, do you have any idea what time it is?” she snapped, tossing the covers back and rose from the bed. She tugged on her robe and wrenched the sash tight imagining his neck beneath her fingers.

“I’m guessing this is a rhetorical question, but yes, I do know the time. Now come let me in. It’s cold as a witch’s tit…and I have coffee.”

Coffee. The bastard. He knew how to manipulate her like that fiddle he used to play.

Her feet hurried along the floor, carried her down the stairs and to the front door in record time. She unlocked the door and opened it, hand outstretched.

It was so unfair
, she groused as Niall pressed a cardboard cup into her hand and entered her apartment looking refreshed and as gorgeous as always in black V-neck sweater, pants, and jacket in some rich material that cost more than her entire wardrobe. While she, in her old robe, pajamas, and sporting a spectacular case of bed-head, looked like who-did-it-and-why. Damn him.

And damn her gaze for zeroing in on his mouth as he sipped from his own cup. The same mouth that had kissed her senseless the night before, leaving her confused, angry, and with wet panties. The same mouth that had inspired dreams of tangled limbs, sweaty bodies, twisted sheets, and hungry moans. The same mouth that she could still feel the phantom press of against her lips.

Jerking her attention away from the positively indecent way he drank coffee, she stared down at the plastic lid. “So what brings you by at the ass crack of dawn? Besides coffee delivery, I mean.”

He studied her over the rim of his cup. “Not a morning person, are we? Hmm, I never knew that.”

Right, because you ushered me out of your house so fast the morning after
. But she didn’t voice the scathing reply. To do so would only serve to let him believe she still cared about how he’d rejected her after what she’d once considered the most exciting, beautiful night of her life. Especially since she’d been one more booty call on a long list of booty.

And she didn’t care.

Much.

Denial, thy name is Khloe Susannah Richardson.

Niall arched a dark eyebrow at her silence. “I need you to go get dressed. Courtesy of Morgan, we have an appointment at 7:30.”

She froze, her cup halfway to her mouth. “What are you talking about? Appointment for what?”

“Hair and make-up.”

“Hair and ma—” she sputtered, then calmly set her coffee on the mantel behind her. Punching him would require both fists. “I repeat, what are you talking about?”

He crossed his arms, his gaze never wavering. “You have an appointment to get your hair cut and styled and your make-up done.”

Heat bubbled up from a well inside her, streaming up her chest and pouring into her face. Mortification and hurt pulsed like a fresh wound. She closed her eyes, refusing to allow him to see the pain his words had inflicted. Rationally, she acknowledged he didn’t mean to imply she wasn’t pretty enough, skinny enough…worthy enough. And from his mention of Morgan, her best friend was again behind his unexpected appearance. But the awkward little girl and plain teenager curled in on herself, attempting to disappear.

“What are you thinking?” Niall slowly lowered his arms, stepped—no, stalked—forward until the knuckles of the hand wrapped around the coffee cup grazed her chest. “And don’t tell me nothing. That’s bullshit.” When she didn’t answer but scrutinized the fine, black thread along his V-neck as if it contained the answers to the Holy Trinity, he lightly but firmly grasped her chin and lifted her face. “Answer me.”

“I appreciate what you did for me last night with the dress and the makeover. It was…amazing,” she began haltingly. “But I’m not that woman. She was—”

“You,” he ground out. His grip on her tightened, and he tilted her head higher so she couldn’t avoid his narrowed stare. “She was—
is
—you. Confident. Elegant. Sexy as hell. I wouldn’t give a fuck if you wanted to wear damn couch covers…if they made you happy. But you’re not happy; you’re not satisfied or content. I saw your face last night, love. You glowed.” His hooded gaze swept over her, caressing her forehead, lingering on her lips before returning to her eyes. “You’re hiding. Behind the hair, the clothes, the mousiness. It’s almost as if you don’t want people to look at you. To
see
you.” He shook his head. “It’s too late for that. And I refuse to let you retreat back into that quiet, lonely, so-called safe corner.”

Jesus. How did he detect so much? He’d been back in her life for one week, and had peeled back the layers, peered beneath, and uncovered what she hadn’t consciously admitted even to herself. She
was
scared of being noticed; in fact, she’d been born with a hatred of being the center of attention. Or worse. Being ignored.

He understood this about her. And yet, he’d delivered the worst rejection of anyone in her life. He’d been her friend, her confidante, the first man she’d loved, and he’d made her feel unwanted, unworthy. Then he’d abandoned her without a word for three years. So far, he hadn’t offered an explanation or an apology.

Which meant he considered their night together a mistake, and one he didn’t intend on sticking around long enough to rectify, nor did he intend to perform damage control on the remnants of the friendship they could have.

Fine.

Because Niall was right about another thing as well.

She was tired of retreating, of hiding. Of being afraid.

Jerking her chin free from his hold, she shifted backward, placing much-needed space between them. Space where every inhale didn’t carry the scent of fresh, Irish rain and wind. Space where his delicious heat didn’t reach out to her in seductive promise.

“I’ll go get dressed,” she murmured.

She turned and marched up the staircase without a backward glance at the silent, devastatingly handsome man in her foyer.

“Are you ready to see yourself?”

Khloe grinned at her hairstylist, the surprisingly ordinary Scott. After the, uh, experience of Laurence and crew the night before, she’d been expecting someone a little more, well, outrageous when she’d arrived at the Back Bay upscale beauty salon. But while Scott, with his gelled brown spikes, black turtleneck, and slacks, was less of a shock factor, he’d been just as attentive from the moment she and Niall had walked into the sleek, empty shop. Empty because Niall had commandeered the salon for the morning. Scott and his team had pampered her—hair, manicure, make-up…mimosas. But the drinks and catering-to couldn’t prevent the tripping and clenching in her belly or the twisting of her fingers underneath the black stylist cape.

“Okay,” he drawled, reaching behind her to snap the covering free. “Here you are.” She lowered her lashes as he spun her chair around and settled his hands on the balls of her shoulders. “Take a look,” he whispered.

Slowly, she opened her eyes…

The woman staring back at her from the mirror was the same from last night, but softer. Dreamier. Thick, flowing chocolate waves framed her face and fell over her shoulders, grazing the swells of her breasts. The many layers lightened the heaviness but still added volume and a carefree sexiness that seemed to fit the beautiful—yes, beautiful—woman in the reflection. The make-up artist had altered ordinary green eyes into kohl-lined, full-lashed, mysterious emerald pools. High cheekbones, glowing skin, highly-glossed mouth completed the transformation from plain to pretty damn stunning.

A shaft of fear pierced the awe.

This confident, sexy woman wasn’t her. And as soon as she opened her mouth, everyone would nod knowingly and utter that underneath the silk purse trappings still existed the sow’s ear. She was a fraud, an imposter…still forgettable.

Stop it!
No more hiding, no more disappearing. No. More. Fear.

Inhaling, she met Scott’s expectant gaze in the mirror.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I do believe what you’ve just accomplished with me falls somewhere between resurrection and water-into-wine.”

He laughed, tunneling his fingers through her hair, drawing the strands forward before combing them back away from her face. Miraculously, the waves tumbled right back into place. Her hair had never “tumbled” before.

“Beautiful. The extra-long length didn’t do anything for you. It literally dragged you down and pulled out the natural curl in your hair. This is fun, flirty, and fabulous.”

Fun, flirty, and fabulous. Three adjectives that had never been applied to her hair—or her. If she were truthful, she didn’t feel like the F trifecta yet, but damn it, she could try. She could embody it.

“Are you ready to show your man your new look?”

“He’s not—”

But Scott had already sailed off, and her objection trailed off. Besides, what did she say? Niall wasn’t her “man”, but what was he? How did she explain their relationship?
Oh he’s the man I crushed on for years, who took my virginity before dropping me like the clap, and is now back to help me hook the man I’m in love with?
Umm…no.

“I think you’re going to be very pleased, Mr. Hunter,” Scott gushed several moments later as he reentered the back area of the salon. She rose from the chair and turned, an unsettling feeling of déjà vu rolling over her.

Like last night she stood, frozen, as Niall jerked to a halt just inside the doorway. And like last night he drank her in, and she alternately drowned then burned in the hot blue depths. Her breath snagged in her throat as if his hand trailed over her hair, cheeks, mouth, and neck instead of his gaze. A flame flickered, danced in her gut, sank lower until she pulsed between her legs with a sweet ache she’d only ever known with him. What he could do with just one look… She fisted the hem of her bulky, knit sweater, sinking her teeth into her bottom lip.

He zeroed in on her lips, and in an instant, the sense of been-there-done-that became reality. Again, the erotic fire leached from his eyes, leaving her staring into a frigid landscape of hard ice. He could’ve been carved from stone—the harsh slash of his cheekbones, the granite edge of his jaw, the uncompromising, almost cruel slant of his mouth.

She shivered.

“I already knew you were beautiful,” he finally said, the frost in his expression coating his words. “Now maybe,” he paused, a muscle flexing along his jaw, “everyone else will know it.”

Everyone else
. Bennett. He meant Bennett. Disquiet gutted to life inside her. Yes, before the gala Bennett hadn’t paid much attention to her other than the occasional breakroom conversation. Did that bother her?
Damn right
, an insidious, tiny voice hissed in the back of her mind.
But why would he have
, a louder, more realistic voice piped up. From her appearance to her quiet, I-don’t-want-to-rock-the-boat manner, she’d been unobtrusive, unassuming, understated, and a few other un’s. As harsh as it sounded, people were judged on their appearances, assumptions about their personalities based on how they presented themselves. And in her tight buns, bare minimum of make-up, and loose-fitting suits, she might as well as have proclaimed her mousiness at the quarterly board meetings.

Still, he never bothered to look beneath and find out who you were
.

Oh shut up
.

Great. Niall had finally succeeded in cracking her. She stood in a salon arguing with herself—and losing.

“I’ll meet you out front.” With a nod and subdued
thank you
to Scott, Niall disappeared from the room.

Fifteen minutes later, bearing bags filled with hair products and make-up, she climbed into the back of the chauffeured town car Niall had picked her up in several hours earlier.

“Nu Couture,” he stated to the driver before ducking into the car behind her. She gaped at him.

“We’re headed to Nu Couture?” Excitement battled with trepidation. The exclusive Beacon Hill boutique catered to women like Morgan: gorgeous, stylish, wealthy, and
skinny
. Even if she could afford to shop there, the store probably didn’t carry anything above a size two.

“Yes.” Niall scowled. “And don’t even think about arguing with me. Fair warning, baby. I’m in the mood for a fight, and I wouldn’t play fair or nice.”

Her lips popped closed. The dark threat sent shouldn’t have sent a curl of arousal twisting in her belly. Oh but it did.

“I wasn’t going to argue—”

“Yes, you were,” he snapped. “Your mouth is open, isn’t it? Why the hell you’re so agreeable and quiet with everyone but me is a mystery. We’re going to this store, and you’re going to replace every shapeless, ill-fitting, dreary piece of clothing in your wardrobe with clothes that actually fit and have color, goddammit. Unless you’re going to say ‘thank you’ or something inconceivable along those lines, then don’t say shit,” he rumbled, the “shit” sounding like “shite.”

She blinked. Stared. Blinked again.
Wow
. Had she really been that much of a bitch? She must have if she’d brought out the heavy brogue. Audio reels rolled through her head from the night when he’d called in Laurence and this morning when he’d shown up at her house. Moments later, she sighed.