The Truth About Numbnuts and Chubbs (5 page)

"I've never had a problem admitting when a woman is right. When she has the sense to agree with me."

Her temper was up now. She knew she shouldn't have had that margarita on an empty stomach, but what the hell? Who better to aim her fury at than Bene
dick
know-it-all Petruska, who must have used some charlatan's trick on her the minute he put his hand on her waist. She could still feel it there. "Just pat her on the head and be all noble about not bearing a grudge. Laugh at the fact that she can't let it go—because she's
right
!"

He feigned surprise at her anger. "No need to start foaming at the mouth. It was just an observation."

"Of course it was," she muttered, grabbing her purse from the bar. "Forgive me for being too dumb to agree with you."

"How can you help it?" He smirked. "You're a woman."

Groaning, she spun around and pushed her way through the bar crush, looking for Helena. No point staying any longer if the happy couple were about to make up again. She could get home, put on her furry slippers and vegetate by the TV. It was pouring with rain out—the perfect night to curl up in a blanket and watch an old movie.

Maybe she could just slip out. Helena probably wouldn't even know she'd left early. She could hail a cab and be home in thirty minutes.

Bathroom first. She headed down the corridor to the ladies room, but the door was locked. After waiting there a few minutes she heard the unmistakable sounds of passion-induced moaning. Placing one hand on the door she also felt the vibrations of a Sonny Corleone knee trembler.

"Hello?" She tapped lightly on the door.

The noises stopped abruptly. Then came frantic whispers and the sound of a belt buckle scraping tile.

"I'll be out in a minute," Helena shouted through the door, her voice high-pitched and breathless. Bryony swallowed a chuckle and hastily backed away. Apparently a peace treaty had been brokered.

"You need a ride?"

She'd backed right into Numbnuts. "Er...no. Thanks."

But he followed her back down the passage to the entrance of the gallery and when she handed in the ticket for her coat he did the same for his.

"You're leaving already?" she demanded. "What about Carl?"

"It seems I won't be needed after all. Neither will you."

The attendant was taking a long time looking for her coat. His was found first, just to compound her annoyance with the evening in general, but instead of leave, he waited for her.

"I've got my car and driver outside," he said.

"So have I," she replied, chin up.

He paused and then laughed. "He's driving a yellow car around the city, giving other people rides, while he waits for you, right?"

"Oh, shut up. Just leave."

Finally, her coat arrived over the counter. Before she could reach for it, he'd swept it up and held it out for her like some evil prince charming. With a sigh she stuck her arms into the sleeves and tried not to notice his hands when they momentarily rested on her shoulders. As if she was a child, he pulled her collar up and tied her belt. She didn't even have time to protest.

"I'm giving you a ride home, Mulligan. It's pouring out there."

"I don't need one."

"Yes, you do."

"No, I don't."

"You do and you're getting one."

"Who do you think you are? My father?"

"If I were, you wouldn't be arguing would you? I know your father, remember. He would have spanked the sauce out of you, Mulligan."

She felt the argument escaping her clutches. Waiting on the pavement and trying to hail a cab in this weather certainly wasn't a cheering thought.

"I promise it'll be painless," he added. "We'll just pretend we don't know one another."

Gritting her teeth she eventually agreed. "Fine. Thanks."

Damn Helena and her drama. This was all her fault.

Chapter Four

It was an uneventful ride until they turned the corner onto her block and met the flashing lights of a cop car. A fire truck was parked across the street, in front of her building. Ben's driver came to a halt and lowered his window.

"Looks like a problem, sir," he called into the back seat.

Rain made the road glisten as if someone had overturned a truck load of sequins, but the danger was something they couldn't see. Tape was being used to cordon off a section of brownstone, including the steps to Bryony's building.

A cop trotted up to the car and told them to turn around. "Gas leak." The entire street was being evacuated and he had no estimated time of when it might be safe to return. "Crews are working on it, buddy," he assured them mechanically before splashing off into the rain, hand raised to halt another car.

"Shit," she exclaimed, hunched in her corner of the seat, arms folded.

There was no hesitation from her companion. "You can come back to my place."

She felt her scowl deepen. "I could just check into a hotel."

"Don't be ridiculous." Sliding back into the seat, fingers spread over his knees, he looked at her. "You're coming home with me."

Bryony sucked on her lips and turned her face to stare out of the window. It had gotten colder just in the short time they were in the car and the rain began hitting the glass harder as it transformed to pellets of ice. If it was that cold outside, why was she hot?

The city would be a mess in a few hours. It was winter and she should be prepared for massive inconveniences, but still the first storm of the season always seemed to take her by surprise.

"I'm not dumping you at a hotel," he added. "Wouldn't be chivalrous. My grandmother would never forgive me."

Hopefully it would only be a few hours, she thought. It was nine thirty now. She gave him a quick glance over her shoulder. He was humming a tune, fingers tapping his knees. Of course an ice storm wouldn't bother him much. He never had to rely on public transportation to get anywhere. If he didn't feel like going in to work tomorrow he didn't have to. The beauty of being his own boss.

She said nothing and he didn't wait for any agreement, just told his driver to take them home to his apartment. And as she stared at the window again, catching her reflected expression, she knew what the night held in store. It was readable there in her eyes, large print.

Where he'd held her waist earlier she still felt the warmth of his hand, the strange possessiveness she'd never expected from him, never experienced from anyone. The night was passing like a weird dream where things were only normal on the surface. Underneath it all, nothing was really quite the same. She ought to pinch herself, she thought, quirking a little smile at her reflection.

It made her look naughty. Wicked.

Bryony Mulligan, are you going to get laid tonight?

Yes, sir. If I have my way.

What the hell was she thinking?

She quickly shook her head, straightened her lips. It was not going to happen. She couldn't let it.

Numbnuts? She must be crazy. So she'd had a crush on him years ago. Maybe—just maybe— she could admit that now. Because she was over it, right? Her tastes had matured since then. And as Helena said, she knew what he was. The Casanova of Manhattan and various international locations.

He could have any woman in New York and frequently did if the rumors were true. Just because he'd looked at her in a heated way and touched her waist, she'd let her mind wander off into absurd porno territory. Maybe it had simply been too long for her since her last boyfriend.

She stole a quick glance sideways and saw his fingers still tapping idly on his thigh.

Damn it, Mulligan, don't look at his dangerous hands.

Too late. There was nothing she could do, was there? In her head she worked out an excuse to give Helena. The peckerhead had practically kidnapped her. She couldn't open the door and leap out could she?

Tap, tap, tap went his long fingers.

Sex. It flashed and buzzed in her mind like the neon letters luring tired motorists to a seedy motel. Right above the "vacancy" sign.

Twenty minutes later they were walking out of the private elevator into his penthouse apartment. It was everything she expected—sleek, modern, masculine. Luxurious. The press of a remote achieved instant life. Five blue and gold flames shot out of large pebbles in a center fire pit, and muted, recessed lighting glimmered into action, stroking the lush curves of large, spotless white couches. On the exposed brick wall, an enormous flat screen TV blipped awake, while a coffee maker in the kitchen purred in unison. All this from one micro-chip command. Like his women, she mused darkly, his appliances came in coordinated colors and worked obediently on the push of a button.

"Espresso?"

"At this time of night?" Bry kicked off her shoes, afraid to mark his wide plank floors and expensive-looking area rugs.

"Vodka? Brandy?"

"No. Thanks." Anyone else would offer tea next, or water. He went straight to the liquor. But Bryony was too fidgety, too interested in his apartment to sit still just then. Didn't want to risk spilling anything else. Not here in this pristine show room.

Tonight she had a rare opportunity to pry into his life and find what the real Ben Petruska did when no one watched. How did he relax? Maybe he didn't. It wasn't the sort of home she could imagine anyone flopping around in. Those white couches wouldn't withstand five minutes with her and a bag of Doritos. Her tatty bunny slippers would be distinctly out of place, for sure.

No personal photos, she realized. In fact, the decor was quite sparse, certainly not cozy or lived-in. Probably had a professional designer pick everything out for him. A vodka bar had more cozy warmth.

While he poured his coffee, she found the guest bathroom and slipped inside. Her heart was racing quite a bit, just because she was there with him. Well, not just because of him, for heaven's sake! She was in a penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park, standing in a glitzy bathroom that probably cost more to decorate than her entire apartment. It was about the same size too. The hand towels were neatly aligned and no gunk jammed the soap dispenser.

This was the last place she'd expected to end up when she set out that evening. Then he went and put his hands on her—on her waist, her shoulders, her arm. 

You're coming home with me.

Bossy. Gave her goosebumps. Made her panties moist.

But it wasn't as if she was a clueless, slack-jawed, virginal co-ed who had never seen a pecker before and had no idea why she was there. This was real life and the only shades of grey were in his dull, fucking decor. So why was she perspiring under her dress and standing in his bathroom trying to catch her breath? Sheer lunacy.

Stop it, Bryony Mulligan. Get a hold of yourself. You are a new woman now. At least have the presence of mind to act as if this apartment isn't on another planet, or you just rode there with the Beverly Hillbillies in their jalopy.

Having cooled off for a moment and completed what she went there to do, Bry checked her face in the big mirror over the sink. Chanel Rouge Allure lipstick was still in place. Good. Mascara not yet melting. Looking good, Mulligan. It must be a special, flattering mirror. How much did one like that cost, she wondered.

Ready. Fully charged.

He wouldn't know what hit him.

As she closed her purse, her gaze drifted downward to the marble counter space beside the sink. A straightening iron perched there in a professional holder. Her heart skipped a beat.

Petruska certainly didn't use that.

She took it out of the holder and found one long blonde hair stuck to the cold heating plate.

Maybe he kept that in his guest bathroom for the use of any random woman who stayed the night? It was an amusing thought for ten seconds, but she knew even he wasn't that much of a ladies man. If he was he would have slipped into a smoking jacket by now and lit up a pipe, while pressing a button that turned his couches into a big circular bed under a mirrored ceiling.

So there was a regular female in his life. Somewhere.

A blonde.

That certainly calmed things down, didn't it? For a moment anyway.

The slow, steady thump of expectation still passed up and down her body on a determined march toward misbehavior. There didn't seem to be anything she could do about it, but since there was a woman in the picture she was safe from forming any deeper feelings, right? She knew what she was getting into. Nothing more could come of this. Nothing.

This
what
exactly?

One night stand. Overdue.

And a really, really stupid idea.

But if she didn't take this chance now, she may never have another. It was part of the cleansing, she assured herself, all part of making the new Bryony. Seizing life by the balls. By the...numbnuts.

She washed her hands, dried them on his neat towels, and opened the door.

"What were you doing in there?"

He was right in front of her, shoulder propped against the door frame, espresso cup in one hand.