The Billionaire’s Forbidden Little Sister Page 6

  But I don’t even finish before he gives a smooth shake of his head and murmurs, “Don’t worry about it.”

  He turns his attention back to the windshield, but I don’t take mine off him. With a strong jaw, smooth skin, and the perfect amount of stubble, Theo is certainly easy on the eyes.

  “La-la-la-Lena!” Pippa breaks my Theo-induced trance, and I turn my eyes to meet hers.

  She’s a bold combination of smeared mascara, messy hair, and a lazy gaze.

  “Yeah, Pip?”

  “I liked that club. It was so fun. Everything but the dodgy DJ.”

  I laugh out loud. “Dodgy DJ, Pip! You almost got into a fistfight with him, for shit’s sake.”

  She laughs like it’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever said. “I did not get into a fistfight with the DJ.”

  “I said almost, Pip. You almost got into one.”

  “Eh, I didn’t do bugger all. I just wanted to see his mic.”

  “Yeah. DJs generally get mad about shit like that.”

  “I wonder if he’s still mad about it,” she mutters to herself, and before I can look away from her slouched form beside me, she pulls something out of her purse. “You think he’s still mad?”

  I squint my eyes to see what she has and gasp.

  “Pippa!” I exclaim, yanking it from her hands. “Did you steal the DJ’s mic?”

  She shrugs.

  “Christ.” I stare down at the mic that’s now in my hands. “I can’t believe you stole the fucking microphone from the club!”

  Was she a pickpocket in a past life?

  She rummages through her purse some more, and before I know it, she’s pulling out a whole loot of illegally procured goods—a shot glass, a pint glass, a bottle of hand soap, and a fedora.

  “Holy hell, Pip! What is wrong with you?”

  Theo’s eyes move over Pippa’s haul, and a slow smirk spreads across his perfect mouth. “It’s like Mary Poppins’s bag of theft back there.”

  Oh God, he’s hot and funny. I’m in trouble.

  Pippa, apparently, notices him for the first time and drops her voice to a comically loud whisper. “Lena, who is the bloody fuckable gentleman in the front seat?”

  A laugh that I can’t hold back escapes my lips.

  “I don’t know, Pip,” I say with a sly smile aimed right at the man in question. “I’m really starting to wonder that too.”

  Theo

  “Pippa, for the love of God, hold still,” Lena mutters as she wrestles her friend’s Frankenstein arms that are swinging wildly in front of her. She’s been forced to perform athletic skills worthy of the contestants on American Ninja Warrior just to unbuckle her friend’s seat belt, and frankly, it’s remarkable to watch.

  One long, tanned leg draped up and over a tangled rope made of their arms, Lena breaks her friend’s hold on the seat in front of her and huffs a breath. I bite my lip to withhold a smirk and do my part by holding the car door open and out of the way.

  “I can’t,” the drunken thief by the name of Pippa says, eyes closed, her arms doing some kind of rhythmic movement to whatever beat is playing inside her head. “I’m doing an interpretive dance. I’m calling it…coitus prepa-redness. It loosens the body and clears the mind for a very complicated sex-you-all position called the Flying Eagle.”

  I grin and Lena growls.

  “You should try it, Leenie Bean,” Pippa snorts through a laugh. “Don’t you Americans love eagles?”

  I have to cover my mouth with a hand as Lena passes her small black handbag to me over her shoulder and manhandles her friend’s arms. “Goddammit, Pip. You’re still in the car.”

  “I am?”

  “Yes,” Lena almost shouts. “I’m trying to get you out of the car, but for the love of God, you have to stop moving your fucking arms.”

  “I can’t help it, Lena! It’s the dance of your people!” she shouts and then proceeds to dive straight into a rendition of “Wind Beneath My Wings.” “I can fly high-errrr than an eeee-gulll, Lee-naaaa!”

  “You need a little help?” I ask finally when Lena puts her hands to her hips and heaves a deep breath.

  I didn’t want to intrude or, worse yet, offend Lena by insinuating she couldn’t handle the situation on her own, but it’s becoming alarmingly clear that even Hulk Hogan wouldn’t be able to move this woman before she’s ready.

  Lena looks over her shoulder to meet my eyes, her cheeks brushed delicately with a crimson smudge as a result of all her effort. Her eyes sparkle with both determination and desperation, and all of it combined makes her look alive.

  It’s so uncharacteristically caveman of me, but I can’t help but wonder how impressive a showing her features make when she comes. I don’t know if it’s her eyes or her smile or the perfectly curved lines of her body, but she is, hands down, the most erotically beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

  She blows an errant strand of blond hair out of her face and smiles sardonically. “I’m not sure there’s any amount of help that could get her out of this damn car.”

  I laugh. She’s probably right, but I have a lot of things I’d rather be doing than standing here. Namely, finding out if my fantasy of Lena is even close to the real thing. “Mind if I give it a go?”

  Lena shrugs and backs away, leaving me room to step up to the opened door, so I don’t hesitate. I lean down into the open space, close enough to the dancing queen to be heard but out of range of her arms. “Pippa, is it?”

  She jerks the motion of her arms to a stop and stares up into my face. She’s looking me directly in the eyes, but with the way she’s squinting, I’d say she’s having a hard time focusing.

  “Who’s asking?”

  “Theo,” I say simply, letting a friendly smile curl the edges of my mouth. “How about I carry you upstairs so you can get some rest?”

  A lazy smile consumes her lips, and her eyes fall closed. “Rest? I don’t need bloody rest,” she counters, the irony thickened by her eyes’ failure to open again.

  “I know,” I assure her. “You’re fine. But your friend Lena really needs it.”

  “Ohhh. S’tired, huh?”

  Lena scoffs behind me, but I don’t turn around. I’m too close to getting Pippa out of the damn car to lose focus now. “Yes. I’ll bring you upstairs, and you can see that she gets to bed okay. Does that sound like a plan?”

  “You betcha,” she says with a smack of her lips as she melts into the leather seat.

  I reach in to unbuckle her seat belt, and she laughs, grabbing my hand before I can pull it away. “Feel free to unbutton my pants too.”

  Lena lets out a strangled squeak behind me, and I have to bite my lip to fight my laughter. “Let’s keep the pants on until we get upstairs,” I suggest.

  “A bloody gentleman,” Pippa remarks and then purses her lips dramatically. “Pity.”

  I pull her out of the car and swing her to her feet gently. She looks a little like a newborn foal trying to get her legs underneath herself, but I make quick work of shuffling her away from the car and into the lobby.

  “Oh, thank fuck,” Lena whispers as we scoot by her, leaning back into the car to grab Pippa’s shoes, purse, and stolen goods from the back seat before shutting the door.

  Once I have Pippa’s arm over my shoulder and with her eyes half closed, the two of us wait for Lena to join us against one of the hotel’s carved marble pillars—an attribute of the original architecture from the 1930s when this building was a single-family villa.

  When Positano became one of the most exclusively sought-after vacation destinations in the world—a home away from home for the who’s who of the elite—in the 1950s, my grandfather Merl bought the villa from the family who owned it and started transforming it into a Cruz Resorts’ staple.

  It’s been through several renovations and many updates since, but the original character of the building remains in place today.

  Lena joins us and slides Pippa’s other arm over her shoulder, but before we start
moving, my phone rings loudly from its spot in my pocket.

  As much as I don’t want to answer it, I know I have to.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper to Lena over her friend’s head, propping my side of her body weight against the pillar and stepping away so I can put the phone to my ear.

  Lena nods her okay and then does her best to arrange her friend’s weight in a way that won’t drag her to the ground.

  I’m tempted to keep watching her, but I know that if I do, I won’t hear a damn thing whoever’s on the other end of the phone has to say. And since the number shown belongs to the club, I know it’s best to concentrate.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Cruz?”

  “Yes,” I repeat, this time as an answer.

  “This is Marco.” The manager at Club Indigo. Fuck. “I’m sorry to bother you, but we have a problem. La polizia are here. They are threatening to shut us down. Saying we’re over our maximum count.”

  Shit.

  “I’ve spoken to them, and they’ve agreed to hold off, but only temporarily. They won’t leave until they speak to you.”

  I glance down at my watch quickly. It’s an hour and a half from closing, but even a small amount of time lost in this first week would have catastrophic consequences. I have to go back to the club.

  I close my eyes and take a breath, and when I open them again, I’m ready to do what I need to do.

  “All right, Marco. Thank you. I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”

  “Yes, sir,” he agrees as I pull my phone away from my ear and end the call.

  When I look up, the front desk manager is behind the counter, so I snap my fingers to get his attention.

  He jumps into action and meets me halfway.

  “I have to run back to the club, but I need you to do a personal favor for me, Lorenzo.”

  He nods immediately. “Yes, sir. Prego.”

  “I need you to help my friends over here up to their room.”

  “Yes, sir,” he agrees.

  “I want you to do it personally, Lorenzo. Their safety is very important, and I trust you to see to it.”

  He nods warmly. “Prego, sir.”

  “Thank you.” He turns to head toward Lena and Pippa, but I grab his elbow gently and pull him back. “Please…will you call me when you get them settled and are assured they have everything they need.”

  “Yes, sir,” Lorenzo agrees.

  “Good.”

  I turn back to the girls first this time, leading the way so I have a chance to speak with Lena before Lorenzo approaches her unexpectedly. I don’t want her to feel startled.

  “Lena,” I say just loudly enough to get her attention. When she looks up, I continue, “I’m so sorry to do this to you, but I have to go. Lorenzo is going to help you get Pippa up to your room and get you settled.”

  She looks skeptically behind me to the man she doesn’t know, and I take the opportunity to lean forward and put my lips to her perfect, heated cheek.

  “You don’t have to worry. I’ve been here many times and know Lorenzo very well,” I say on a small lie of omission. “You can trust him. I would not leave if I didn’t.”

  I wait for her to nod, and then I step away to let Lorenzo drape one of Pippa’s arms over his shoulder. When they go to stand her up, she withers under the weight of her own sleepy body, so Lorenzo scoops her up and into his arms.

  My whole body rages against the action, but with careful control—and one last smile at Lena—I turn back to the front door and walk out of it, straight to my car.

  I’m a man of many obligations, and as much as I’d like it to, the possibility of one night with a magnificent woman doesn’t make them quit calling.

  Lena

  In a completely disappointing turn of events, Theo kissed me on the cheek, made sure I had someone to help me get Pippa to our room, and said goodbye at the door of the resort last night.

  I think it stung the most because I didn’t expect it.

  After all our heat at the club, his commanding presence as we rescued Pip from a stay in an Italian prison, and his company on the twenty-minute drive all the way to the resort, I never imagined he’d get back into the car and leave.

  But he did, and maybe that’s why I’m awake now—only three short hours after going to sleep courtesy of the drunk and puking rapper Twenty-Five Cent—thinking about the way his subtle stubble felt rough against my skin.

  I glance down at my chest, still dewy from my quick shower, and follow the trail of tiny red blotches from my collarbone to my shoulder. I put my fingers to the skin and press in, trying to recreate the feel of his lips.

  God.

  I shake my head. I’ve got to snap out of my Theo-induced fog and get back to reality. For all I know, I’m never even going to see him again.

  Determined, I make a cup of coffee with the fancy resort Keurig, sit down on the sofa, and flip on the television. An Italian news channel is the first option I come to, and since I don’t understand a word they’re saying anyway, I grab my phone from the coffee table to text my big brother about the most important item on my to-do list this morning: Pippa’s post-inebriation care.

  Lord knows, once she wakes up, she’s going to need it.

  Me: What is Vicky’s hangover cure? I know it’s a Bloody Mary, OJ, ibuprofen, pancakes, and bacon, but I’m pretty sure I’m forgetting something. What is it?

  Victoria Hawkins, if nothing else, taught me the basics of both alcohol abuse and the best ways to cover it up. It’s just been so long since I’ve lived under the same roof—hell, I haven’t even spoken to her since before I left for Italy—that some of the details have grown hazy.

  Cap: Jesus. You do realize it’s like one in the morning in New York, right? And where in the hell are you right now? Did you get fucked up last night?

  Me: Don’t worry, I’m in a foreign country as I’m supposed to be. And no, I did not get fucked up last night. My friend Pippa did, and any minute, she’s going to wake up feeling like ass.

  Cap: WHAT foreign country are you in?

  Me: I don’t remember.

  Cap: Lena, for fuck’s sake. You better still be in Italy. In fact, you better still be in Milan.

  Me: I’m not in Milan, but I think I’m still in Italy. Is Baghdad in Italy?

  Cap: LENA!

  Me: Jesus, I’m kidding. Relax. I’m in Italy.

  Cap: YOU BETTER NOT HAVE GONE OFF ON A SEX HOLIDAY WITH SOME FUCKING ITALIAN IDIOT. I SWEAR TO GOD, I WILL COME TO ITALY MYSELF AND FIND YOU.

  God, he is really getting way too easy to rile in his old age.

  It makes me grin.

  And I didn’t go off with an Italian idiot, so that’s good.

  Still, I’m not crazy, so rather than divulging the details of the sexy make-out session I had with an American, I gloss over it all with a little bit of sisterly manipulation.

  Me: Chill, bro. I’m fine. I’m safe. And I guess I’m lucky to have a protective big brother like you.

  Cap: You’re damn right, you are.

  I roll my eyes before typing out another message.

  Me: Please, if you could just remind me what I’m forgetting in Vicky’s hangover cure, you can go back to sleep next to Ruby and forget this inconvenient conversation ever happened.

  Cap: Bloody Mary, OJ, Ibuprofen, pancakes, bacon, and red ginseng.

  Me: AH! The ginseng! How the hell I could forget the torture of Vicky singing her Chinese medicine-inspired nursery rhyme is beyond me.

  Cap: That’s probably a question only your therapist can answer.

  Me: HA! Thank you. Tell Ruby I say hello and that we should totally have her bachelorette party in Italy because the men are fine as hell.

  Ruby is my brother’s fiancée and my soon-to-be sister-in-law.

  And since she just graduated law school, the wedding planning has finally commenced. Fingers crossed, she lets me plan her bachelorette party just so I can drive my brother nuts.

  Cap: I hate you.


  Me: Love you too, Cappy!

  I toss my phone down on the couch and make a quick call to room service for the supplies. It’s a job and a half trying to explain the red ginseng—both what it is and my need for it—but hey, by the time I hang up, I’m a full thirty-percent confident I’ll get it.

  Totally worth it, right?

  A groaning, moaning growl starts up in Pippa’s bedroom, and I smile to myself. The Walking Dead season premiere, Italian edition, is now in progress.

  “You okay, Pip?” I call out as the groan turns into a keening wail.

  By the time she makes it to the living room, a slow wheeze rivaling my late Grandpa Harvey who had COPD rattling with every breath, she’s on her hands and knees. “Bloody hell, I think someone crawled into my mouth and died.”

  Ah, the sweet sounds of a drunken fool waking up with a hangover.

  “Good morning, beautiful.” I grin, and she groans, falling to the fetal position on the terra-cotta-colored tile floor.

  “What happened last night?” she asks and puts her head in her hands. “And why does my mouth taste like black market cigarettes and bad decisions?”

  “Because you made quite a few of them last night.”

  “So, this is what hungover feels like.”

  “Yep,” I say, turning down the volume on the TV and tossing the remote back onto the small coffee table. “But don’t worry, friend. I’ve already ordered you the perfect hangover cure.”

  “Wow. They have phone-order brain-removal surgeons here in Italy?”

  “Nope.” I laugh. “But room service is bringing coffee, pancakes, bacon, biscuits, orange juice, and ibuprofen. And maybe red ginseng if my number comes up in the lottery.”

  “I think if I try to eat anything, I’ll literally throw up my stomach.”