“Yeah, but I got the place for a song because of the stink.” Rob stretched and turned toward the hall. “Come on, I’ll show you around.”
Her gaze fixed on his tight ass in his jeans, and the two dimples at the base of his spine. There was a smear of paint there now, and she longed to put her fingers there and wipe it clean . . . actually, she just wanted to put her fingers there.
This was just . . . weird. She’d come to Rob’s in the middle of the night expecting to make a passionate declaration, and instead they were being friendly and . . . painting.
Marjorie tiptoed across the paint-splattered plastic and followed his more confident steps down the hall. She peeked through doors as she passed them, seeing a study with ugly wallpaper and wooden built-in shelves, a posh, tiled bathroom, and an empty room that might have been a bedroom. “So you bought a fixer-upper?” she asked politely.
“Yep.” He gestured at the ceiling. “The old owner lived here for thirty years or something. That’s why everything’s so outdated. I figured I could put a little elbow grease and a few dollars into the place and make it nice.”
“I see,” she said carefully as he walked down the hall into a room with double doors. This had to be the bedroom. It was enormous, with a lifted step where the bed would go. There in the center was an air mattress with a blanket and pillow tossed on it, and his laptop propped open on one corner. Cords trailed over to a plug in the wall. It looked so incredibly college-dorm-era and so out of place for a billionaire that she just stared at it for a long moment before glancing around again.
On the far end of the room, there was a door to the master bathroom, and off to one side were the painting supplies. A wall of windows looked out on the Manhattan skyline, and the windows were currently open to let the air ventilate. Faint sounds of traffic murmured below.
Despite the outdated look, the place was still huge. And for Manhattan, that couldn’t be cheap. She wondered just how broke he was after donating his money, and an uncomfortable twinge of guilt hit her. “Um, exactly how much was the ‘song’ you paid for this, Rob?”
He moved over to the paint supplies and unwrapped a new roller. “Ten? No, wait, I think it was eight and a half after the haggling. Only three bedrooms, though.”
She felt weak. “Ten . . . million?”
“Eight and a half,” he corrected. “I’m trying to slim down my lifestyle in accordance with my new budget.” Rob said it all so happily.
Marjorie’s stomach gave another queasy lurch. “Rob, I don’t mean to pry, but . . . how broke are you if you’re buying an eight-million-dollar apartment?” He was full of mixed signals. He’d bought a penthouse . . . but was painting it himself. He was a rich man . . . sleeping on an air mattress. She was so confused.
“Hm?” He dipped the roller in the paint and she stared at his tight ass as he did so. Why was he being so casual and friendly? Didn’t he want to tear her clothes off? She was itching to divest him of those jeans.
But she needed to know. “Rob . . . are you almost broke? Because of me?”
He looked over at her, surprised. “Marjorie, sweetheart, I’m still a billionaire. Well, for now. I might give away more money. It felt pretty good to give away the last chunk. Did you know, some of those women cried like babies when I signed over the check? Never saw anything like it in my life.”
“I’ll bet.” She walked over to the wall slowly, feeling wooden.
Rob slapped the roller on the wall, and paint splatted. “So. You never said what you’re doing out so late. It’s not safe, you know.” He glanced over at her. “You should be more careful.”
It struck her as a funny thing to say. Was there an appropriate time frame to come to a man’s house to proposition him? Had she missed the window? The idea struck her as funny and she began to laugh again, the hysteria creeping back into her throat. Why wasn’t this going the way she wanted? Why were they being so weird about things?
“Marjorie?” He put down his paint roller and walked the few steps separating them over to where she stood, stiff-limbed and awkward, holding a drippy paint roller. He quietly took the roller from her and laid it on the plastic. His hands went to her shoulders and his gaze sought hers. “Sweetheart, why are you here?”
She swallowed hard. “I’m leaping.”
He tilted his head. “You’re wha—”
She threw her arms around his neck and hauled him against her. Her mouth sought his, and then she was pressing her lips to his in a quick, passionate kiss.
Chapter Twenty-six
Marjorie felt Rob stiffen against her for a split second, and the next thing she knew, she had her back pressed to the wall of his bedroom and Rob was kissing her, his mouth hungry and passionate on her own.
And oh, sweet Mary, she’d missed him. She’d missed him so much. Hot tears began to trail down her cheeks even as she continued to kiss him, giving him every bit of pent-up passion she’d stored up in the last miserable month. His mouth licked at her own, his hands cupping her face even as his knee worked between hers. And it was frantic, and glorious and—
And her back was wet and sticky and when she turned her head, it made a squelching sound against the wall.
“Wet paint,” she murmured against his hot, insistent mouth, and then dove her tongue back between his lips.
Rob groaned against her, his cock grinding against her hips as he pressed her back against the wall. “Sorry. Actually, not sorry.” And he continued kissing her. “Does this mean you love me again?”