Bad Husband Page 4

  In one swift movement, he turned away from the bed and back toward the door. Of course, though the motion was fast, it wasn’t in the least bit graceful and he managed to knock over both a suitcase and a small tote bag, dumping its contents across the carpet in multiple directions.

  Cursing, he reaching for a tube of lipstick that was rolling its way under the bed. He snagged it and shoved it back inside the tote, along with a pair of fuzzy socks, a package of tissues, a clear zippered bag with hand sanitizer, a mini deodorant, and wet wipes, and three paperback romances.

  This is why women were way more successful than men. They traveled prepared.

  He was just shoving the last book back into the bag when a paper slipped from between its pages.

  Clay picked it up, a huge grin breaking out on his face.

  Nine

  Heather

  * * *

  Heather was exhausted by the time she made her way off the elevator and began walking down the hall toward her room.

  Her brain throbbed and her feet ached, despite the expensive-supposedly-meant-they-were-comfortable heels. Because no matter how pricey and how well designed, stilettos were just not comfortable after ten hours on her feet.

  She was dying to toe them off and then chuck them across her suite.

  Or maybe not, since they cost enough to feed a small village, but the notion was there.

  So bare feet—with a tiny shoe toss instead of a launch—followed by a bath and room service.

  That was her plan.

  Her plan seemed obtainable for all of two minutes.

  Because when she reached her door, she realized her key wasn’t working.

  “Why?” she groaned, dropping her head to the smooth panel of wood. “Why. Won’t. You. Work?” She punctuated each word with a thunk of her forehead against the door before trying the key again.

  Nothing.

  She tilted her chin up toward the ceiling. “Universe, help me out here.”

  The door opened.

  Heather’s lips parted in surprise and any hope of words was lost the moment she saw the pair of surprised mocha eyes staring down at her.

  A pause before Clay’s shock turned into amusement. “Well, who do we have here, knocking on my door?”

  She frowned. “This is my door. What the hell are you doing in my room?”

  He tsked and pointed up at the plastic placard on the wall. “Sweetheart, you need to look again.”

  Which was the moment that Heather finally studied the numbers outside the door, finally read the numbers closely.

  And, fuck her, but Clay was right.

  Her room was . . . not this one.

  Groaning, she took a step toward the proper keypad and swiped the little plastic card.

  It didn’t work.

  Oh God, was she on the wrong floor? Had she—

  Clay plucked the key out of her hand and took a step . . . but not toward her. Nope, he went to the room on the other side of his and pressed the card above the knob. The little light on the door flashed green and the lock clicked open.

  Heather sighed. Perfect. Now she not only owed him an apology but also a thank you.

  He pushed the door open, flicking the dead bolt forward, probably so she wouldn’t have to battle with the keycard again, because apparently her brain was incapable of both reading and operating simple technology. Then he rotated to face her, an expectant look on his face.

  Ugh.

  “Thanks,” she grumbled and started for her room.

  Clay didn’t move as she brushed by him, and she couldn’t hold back her shiver, not when her body remembered every moment of their night together.

  She cleared her throat, shoving those memories down deep.

  Her body, the treacherous beast, was reminding her how good it had been.

  They were already married, so what would it hurt if she slid a little closer instead of away?

  The amount of heat in Clay’s eyes told her that was all it would take.

  “Sweetheart—”

  She snapped out of it. “I’m not your sweetheart.”

  “Heather, then,” he said, stepping closer, forcing her to either back up or let his chest brush against hers. It was second nature to stay in place, to feel the hard planes of him press close to her softer ones.

  “Heather,” he murmured again. Gently. One hand came up, cupped her cheek.

  And that was enough for her to unstick her feet, to remember the trouble it caused last time.

  The trouble Clay caused.

  For her work. For her future. For her . . . heart.

  “I’m sorry for disturbing you,” she said and retreated to the threshold of her room, pushing the door open.

  Clay didn’t follow.

  She tried to convince herself the little slice of disappointment cutting across her heart didn’t actually exist.

  “You’re not a disturbance, sweetheart.”

  Her brow rose, her eyes narrowed, but Clay’s only response was a lopsided grin.

  “So, what do you think of the Pierce deal?” he asked, propping one shoulder against the doorframe.

  Instantly, she relaxed. Business, she could do, even with a tired brain.

  “I’m only telling you this because I owe you for the”—she waved a hand between their rooms—“thing, but something’s off about Pierce.”

  He nodded. “I agree. The reports are almost too perfect.”

  Heather tilted her head to the side. “Do you think they’re doctored?”

  “Could be.” A shrug that drew her eyes to his clothes for the first time that evening. He was dressed more casually than she’d ever seen him. Well, aside from their naked time together.

  She bit her lip, her eyes glued to the sliver of exposed skin at his throat, the way his sleeves were rolled back to reveal strong forearms.

  “What just went through your mind?” he asked, jarring her from her reverie. He’d moved closer, close enough to touch.

  The thought made her shiver.

  “Nothing,” she said quickly, trying to remember why she shouldn’t invite him into her room to continue what they had started in Vegas.

  “Mmm.” One of his hands rose and cupped her cheek. “You should sleep, baby.”

  Her lips pressed into a flat line before she stepped back. “Not your baby. Not your sweetheart.”

  “Noted.” He nudged her back, pushing the dead bolt to the side and tugging the door closed as he said, “Sweet dreams, honey.”

  “Clay—”

  It shut completely.

  His chuckle echoed through the wooden panel.

  “Lock up,” he said, and she did so, only then hearing his footsteps move over to his room, his door opening and closing.

  “Not your honey, either,” she muttered, toeing off her shoes and grabbing the Pierce file for one final review in the bath.

  Then she hesitated, her hand resting on their shared wall.

  “Goodnight, Clay,” she whispered.

  Ten

  Clay

  * * *

  Clay secured the dead bolt to his suite, a grin tugging at his lips.

  Heather.

  Knocking on his door.

  God, that was just perfect.

  He chuckled and headed back for the bed where his laptop sat open, files strewn over the comforter. Maybe two more hours until he could wrap up for the night?

  His eyes traced the stacks of papers.

  Okay, probably three.

  “Focus, Steele,” he muttered as he sat down with his back against the headboard. “And not on the woman in the next room over.” But it was virtually impossible to ignore the fact that she was probably already naked and taking either a shower or a bath, based on the noise the loud ass pipes in the shared wall of their bathrooms was pumping out.

  So what. Big deal. Heather may be all naked and wet just a few feet away. She was just another woman he’d slept with.

  Except she wasn’t.

  His stomach clench
ed at the thought, twisting and clawing in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time.

  It wasn’t fear.

  No, it was abject terror. He couldn’t care about another person. Not like—

  And in what was probably the most perfect timing in the history of all time, his lawyer took that moment to return his earlier text. They spent a few minutes exchanging messages until Clay had scheduled an appointment for some necessary “discreet services” when he returned to the States.

  She probably thought he had a mistress that needed paying off or an illegitimate baby that needed a trust fund.

  Which was just as it should be. He was a billionaire . . . or nearly so. Give him another year, and his father’s dream of that milestone would be accomplished. But the point was that he was obscenely rich, so he was certain to have his eccentricities and dalliances. Not that he’d ever needed her to take care of something along those lines before, but there was a first time for everything, and she was the best out there. He’d take care of his little issue before it became something bigger.

  Done.

  Finished.

  He and Heather would go back to being business associates—cough—adversaries, and that was it.

  It was for the best.

  “Yup,” he agreed, carefully folding and sliding the marriage license in his briefcase. It was simpler that way. Safer.

  And so what if his brain was accusing him of being a coward.

  Many people had laughed at him for refusing to buy a private jet until the company was stable enough to afford one, for not spending thousands of dollars on each of the suits in his closet, for not renting out the penthouse in every hotel he stayed in.

  Small expenditures. Controlled actions. That was how he’d made his money . . . and how he kept it.

  By being conservative with his assets and not risking more than he was willing to lose.

  So, now his wardrobe was filled with suits that were expensive, and he owned a jet, but he still didn’t waste money on the penthouse or caviar or red-soled shoes. This suite with its single bed, room service available twenty-four hours, and location near the airport was perfect for his lifestyle.

  Work hard. Eat hard. Sleep hard.

  He snorted and picked up the file.

  No wonder he got all the ladies.

  No one could resist a burger at three A.M.

  “Which is going to be the time you finish this if you keep going at the rate you’re going, Steele.”

  So he pushed away all thoughts of Heather and the marriage license . . . and the tenterhooks of his past that always crept close to the surface this time of year and got the fuck to work.

  His fingers clicked across his keyboard as he began going over the reports one more time, inputting figures himself, testing and manipulating the data. The puzzle of the Pierce deal had triggered something in his brain and he knew, knew that he wouldn’t get a good night’s sleep until it was completely unraveled.

  Papers were sorted into different piles as he worked, spreadsheets were created and reports were made, over and over with different variables at work.

  This was his strong suit. Data, reading between the lines, understanding the pieces that were left out.

  And it was nearly three hours later that he understood.

  “Holy fuck,” he whispered as he stared at the screen of his laptop. “They can’t be serious.”

  He stood, stretching his back, his neck, shaking the numbness out of his legs.

  Because this was—

  Buying into Pierce was going to be a huge mistake.

  Clay was moving before conscious thought caught up to him, grabbing his key, the files, his laptop, unlocking his door and moving a few feet down the hall to knock on Heather’s.

  He didn’t look at the time, didn’t consider that it was nearly one in the morning, that she’d had a long day and probably didn’t know what time zone she was in. He didn’t consider how exhausted she’d looked when he’d seen her three hours earlier and that he was probably waking her up.

  He didn’t consider any of that.

  And yes, deep down, he knew he was a Grade A Asshole for not doing so, but this was more important than sleep.

  This was business.

  She answered his knock in a pair of silky blue pajama pants and a cream-colored tank top with no bra.

  Yes, despite the information rattling around in his brain, he noticed.

  Grade A Asshole, remember?

  The material was thin and did more to enhance than contain. His fingers actually ached with the need to touch. His mouth watered.

  Heather snapped her fingers in his face. “Eyes up here, Steele.”

  He blinked, physically shook himself and forced his gaze up to meet hers. “I need to show you something.”

  If he hadn’t been staring at Heather’s face at that exact moment, he would have missed her eyes flick down toward his waist.

  His lips tugged up, and he snapped his fingers.

  “Not that.” A beat. “Though I could be convinced if you’re extra nice to me.”

  “Shut up, Steele,” she retorted. “I was staring at your laptop.”

  “That’s what all the girls say.” He waggled his brows.

  She huffed and turned away. “Come in or don’t. I’m tired.”

  Clay followed her, closing and locking the door, and found himself wondering when in the hell blue pajama pants had become his favorite type of lingerie.

  Because Heather’s ass was just—

  Not the point.

  He trailed her down the hall and into the bedroom, ignoring the twinge in his gut when he saw her bed was a mirror of his, down to the stacks of papers, the files, the laptop. She’d been working, too.

  Of course she had.

  She scooped up some of the files, stacking them carefully before perching on the edge of the mattress. “So, what are you doing here?”

  Clay snagged the desk chair and plunked it in front of her, not daring to sit on the bed next to her. Not when—

  Focus.

  “I was going over the Pierce files—”

  “Me, too,” she said, gesturing to the piles next to her. “I’m guessing the reason I’m graced with the presence of Clay Steele, porn-star-in-training, is because you’ve found something?”

  He pretended to wince. “You’re mean at one A.M.”

  “I’m mean all the time.”

  “Maybe,” he said, turning the laptop so she could see the screen. “But sometimes, I think you’re more bark than actual bite.”

  Her lips twitched. “You’ll ruin my image.”

  “Don’t worry. You’re still the smartest woman I’ve ever met.” He was glancing down at the spreadsheet as he said it but looked back up when her anticipated comeback didn’t materialize. “What is it?” he asked. Her face was unreadable, but there was something in her eyes . . . vulnerability? Fear?

  But Heather O’Keith wasn’t vulnerable, and she definitely wasn’t scared of anything.

  Case in point, she erased that trace of emotion between one heartbeat and the next. “Never mind,” she said, her tone brisk. “What did you find?”

  Clay hesitated but decided there was nothing gained in pushing her. “This.”

  Anyone who tried to force Heather over to their side, who tried to out-stubborn or outmaneuver her, rather than dealing with the facts, with information that was black or white, found themselves looking at her backside as she strode away into future successful endeavors.

  But all things considered, Clay supposed her backside wasn’t a bad view.

  Of course, he’d rather view her from the front.

  Which wasn’t the point, so he pulled up the spreadsheet and began showing her the information he’d found.

  “Oh,” she said, snatching up her laptop and pulling up the file she’d been working on. “And if you compare it with this . . .”

  “I know,” he said, opening the profit loss statement they’d been supplied. “It means this couldn�
��t possibly be accurate.”

  “They’re operating at a loss,” she murmured, “but don’t want us to know it. Why? Plenty of start-ups looking for investors aren’t profitable in the first year but are still good investments.”

  “Right.” He nodded. “I think that’s what pinged my mind first. Numbers that are too good to be true are usually too good to be true.”

  “Exactly.” Her pointer finger touched the screen, all red and sparkly.

  Clay blinked away the memory of those nails tracing down his chest, the feel of them digging into his back. They had leaned closer to one another as they’d talked, and he could smell the mint of her toothpaste, the floral scent of her shampoo.

  She tilted her head to get a better view of his screen, reached over and highlighted a square on the open spreadsheet. “This is the biggest issue. Because Pierce should be profitable, but this number showing as it is means that someone is skimming off the top.”

  Her left hand had landed between his legs and somehow she didn’t seem to notice.

  She. Didn’t. Seem. To. Notice.

  How could she not fucking notice that her hand was half an inch from his cock?

  His dick had sprung to hopeful attention and was getting harder by the second, but Heather was completely oblivious as she selected another cell on the spreadsheet and then another, filling them with alternate colors.

  “What do you think?” she asked, eyes glued on the computer.

  Clay managed a nod . . . and nothing else.

  “And then”—she leaned closer, almost sprawling herself across his lap—“because the numbers—”

  She froze.

  Probably because he hadn’t been able to control himself, and he’d shifted just the tiniest bit closer to her fingers.

  He was a pig.

  But fuck if he didn’t want her hands on him.

  “I—” Her breath hitched, her eyes finally left the computer’s screen, connecting with his.

  But she didn’t move her hand.

  Slowly, carefully, he lifted his palm and rested it on her hip, waiting for her to back up, waiting for her to tell him to get the fuck away.

  Instead, she surprised him by taking the laptop and tossing it onto the mattress.