The Billionaire's Hotline (Men of the Capital Series Book 1) by Cara Nelson Read Free Book Online Page B

can work a French press dressed like this.”
    “I’m sure I have something you could put on.”
    “I won’t fit into anything left behind by a six foot blonde.”
    “I meant something of mine. I wouldn’t mind seeing you in my robe. Or my sheets.” She bit her lip, mainly to keep from biting his.
    In the dark of the car, his hands found her hair and tugged the pins out, letting it spill over his hands as he stroked her scalp, easing the tension there. She leaned over to kiss him and he pulled her across his lap, his fingers splayed warm against the triangular cutout above her stomach. The heat of his touch made her shudder. She knew as she stepped into the elevator with him that it was a terrible idea, possibly the best terrible idea she’d ever had.
    His apartment was clinically neat and expansive, with high ceilings and pale wooden floors. She followed him to the kitchen and assembled the French press while he washed his hands at the sink.
    “Do you have a thing about germs?” she asked.
    “Excuse me? I thought washing one’s hands prior to food or beverage preparation was customary,” he said coldly.
    “You’ve used hand sanitizer about twenty times tonight. Anytime you touched me, or a doorknob, or the car. It’s just an observation.”
    “There’s nothing wrong with me.”
    “Oh, there’s plenty wrong with you. You’re misanthropic and controlling and almost criminally obnoxious. Somehow it’s an endearing combination to me, which makes me question my sanity, not yours.” She put down the assembly and put her hands on his shoulders. “Your blood pressure cannot be good with the level of stress you’re putting on yourself. I have never met anyone as tightly wound as you, and I work with actors and musicians, who don’t have a reputation for being Zen. You have GOT to calm the fuck down.”
    He turned away.
    “I’ve upset you. I’m sorry,” she said, laying a hand on his arm.
    “Hardly. Here. Percolate away.”
    She brought him coffee, setting a white mug before him. “Sugar?” she offered.
    He shook his head, wanting her to leave. “No thanks,” he managed.
    “Your place is really big,” she remarked. “Clean and angular.”
    “Are you going to analyze my apartment size and tell me it reflects insecurity?”
              “I thought it had more to do with you having a lot of money,” she said simply, sipping her coffee and smiling. “This is really good. I’m going to have to get a French press.”
    “Have that one. I don’t need it,” he said, more dismissive than generous.
    “I liked the symphony,” she said, waiting for him to reply. When he remained quiet, she continued. “You said with a French press I was yours. So what will you do with me?” She looked up almost coquettishly, and the dark timbre of her voice nearly undid him with desire.
    “Besides disinfecting you with hand sanitizer?” Jasper said wryly. He managed a half-smile.
    “I’m sorry. I don’t think sometimes when I say something. I spend most of my time alone, working. I guess I have the social skills of a bridge troll sometimes, Jasper. I’m sorry.” Her gentleness rubbed him raw more than her scrutiny. The intimacy made him start to sweat.
    “It’s fine.”
    “So talk to me. I’ve missed you the last few minutes, since I pissed you off.”
    “I’m going to Dubai tomorrow afternoon for a week.”
    “That’s interesting. Have you been there before? I’ve seen it in the movies, the colorful markets and stuff.”
    “I’ve been there for business, yes.”
    “I don’t guess you’d bring me a scarf. I don’t wear scarves. I’d just hang it over a mirror and look at it and wish I had the kind of attitude that could pull off a scarf with regular clothes.”
    “What color?”
    “Purple,” she said instantly. “Or should I text it to Miss Hollingford?”
    “I think you’ve alienated her for life.”
    “I told her I was sorry. I thought you were stalking me and being