The Millionaire's Deception

By: Wendy Byrne

“Aha, the inner sanction of the gastronomic genius.” He looked around the space and found it to be woefully inadequate. She needed a new stove and more space if the stacking of utensils was any indication. Yep, she was nearly ripe to sell. She only needed the proper motivation from someone she could trust. And he intended to be that person.

She plopped an apron in his hand. “To protect those fancy clothes of yours.”

He glanced at the red and pink flowery fabric and rolled his eyes. “I think I’ll take my chances.”

“Can’t say I didn’t warn you.” As if to drive home her point, she threw a couple of saucepots into the sink and turned on the water. A squirt of detergent, a click of a stereo, and she was cutting up veggies on the butcher-block island while music drifted in the air.

He put in some more detergent as the water filled. “Where did you get the nickname Frankie? Francesca is such a beautiful name.” He turned and leaned his back against the counter and watched her. It was all about reconnaissance. And maybe a bit of self-indulgence in that he enjoyed looking at her.

“Rumor has it, when I was little I couldn’t say my own name, which is perfectly understandable. It’s quite a mouthful. So I named myself Frankie, and it stuck.”

“There’s something exotic about the name Francesca, and it suits you perfectly.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were trying to get into my pants or something.” Her eyes suddenly widened. “Whoa there boy, what are you doing?” She ran to his side and shut off the water.

When he turned, bubbles overflowed the sink onto the counter and spilled onto the floor. “Holy hell. I guess I was supposed to monitor this thing.” There were bubbles in her hair, trailing along her nose and down her cheek, on her shirt, highlighting areas of interest for him like at the base of her neck, near where her nipple might be, and right at the vee of her crotch. He couldn’t help but burst out laughing. How in the hell had that happened?

She glanced down. “Figures the guilty party gets off scot-free.” Then she scooped a handful and tossed it in his direction.

Normally, he would have ducked out of the way but instead took her assault full blast before arming himself with an arm laden with suds. “You have met your match, sweetheart.”

Squealing, she ran around to the other side of the center island and out of his reach. Pink rose to her cheeks as she taunted him. He faked right while she faked left. “Never going to catch me,” she taunted.

“We’ll see about that, won’t we?” He faked left then went right while she did the same and they ended up switching sides. “You have a competitive streak in you.”

He spotted her eyeing the soapsuds behind him. She did an end run around to his side. When she got close to the sink, she slipped on the soap water mix on the floor. He grabbed for her elbow to prevent her fall.

Accidentally cupping her breast was an unexpected consequence. And it fit perfectly in his hand. Just the right size and shape to make his fingers tingle in awareness. They glanced at each other as his hand, like the remainder of him, didn’t want to leave contact with her body. She didn’t seem in any hurry to remove her body part from the warmth of his hand, either, as her nipple poked into his palm.

Every detail of what her breast might look like underneath that T-shirt ran through his brain. The size and shape of her areola—more than likely dark, rimmed with a slightly reddish edge, and about the size of a half dollar, with a tight pink point in the center perfect for sucking. His imagination was vivid enough that he could taste her skin in his mouth, the roll of her nipple on his tongue. The blood rushed to his cock as the vivid picture shimmered through his mind. And based on the expression on her face, she could read his thoughts.

He knew. She knew. His dick knew. And, more importantly, she knew that his dick knew.

Damn it. This wasn’t going to be anywhere as easy as it looked. He needed to get the hell out of this kitchen and regain some of his killer instinct and get back in charge of the situation.

“I’m sorry, but I need to get going.”

Chapter Three

Frankie would be the first person to admit she was disappointed. At least she got the perk of watching his gorgeous butt in his three-hundred-dollar 7 for All Mankind jeans when Rafe hustled out the door. Call her naive, but she expected at least a wave in her direction after their close encounter in the kitchen. Instead, he’d left a substantial tip and was gone like a puff of smoke.

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