Escape for Valentine's: Beauty and the Billionaire / Her One and Only Valentine / The Girl Next Door

He took in her straggled hair, squeaky clean face and oversized robe. If he had his way, he’d keep her exactly as she was. But this wasn’t about him.

“I don’t think you want to arm me with a mascara wand.”

“But you’ve done such a good job so far.” She blinked her thick lashes ingenuously.

“We could call one of the Bergdorf ladies.”

She waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll be fine.”

“You sure?”

She hit him with an impatient stare. “It’s not that I can’t put on a lot of makeup. It’s that I don’t put on a lot of makeup.”

“Oh.”

She chewed on her slice of pizza, and he followed suit. After a while, she slipped her bare feet off the stool’s crossbar and swung them in the air while they ate in companionable silence.

“What about clothes?” he asked.

“I’ll call Kristy and get some suggestions.”

He nodded his agreement. Having a sister in the fashion design business had to help. “Sounds like you’ve got everything handled,” he observed.

She shifted on the stool, flexing her neck back and forth, wincing. “It’s not going to be that big of a deal. I’m a pretty efficient project manager. The only difference is, this time the project is me.”

Hunter wasn’t convinced project management was the right approach. There was something in the art and spirit of beauty she seemed to be missing. But he was happy to have got her this far, and he wasn’t about to mess with his success.

She lifted her wineglass and the small motion caused her to flinch in obvious pain.

He motioned for her to turn around.

She glanced behind her. “What?”

“Go ahead. Turn.” He motioned again, and this time she complied.

“You painted too long,” he told her as he loosened her robe on her neck and pressed his thumbs into the stiff muscles on her shoulders.

“I wanted to finish.”

“You’re going to be sore in the morning.” He found a knot and began to work it.

“I’ll live. Mmmmm.”

“That’s the spot?”

“Oh, yeah.”

He’d promised himself he’d stick to business, and he would. But his body had reacted the instant he’d touched her. Her skin was warm from the bath, slick from the bath oil, and fragrant from the water and the candles. But he scooted his stool closer, persisting in the massage, determined to keep this all about her.

To distract himself, he glanced around at the freshly painted room. It was small, but the windows were large, and he could see that it had potential to be cozy and inviting. In fact, he preferred it to the big, Osland family house on Long Island.

He stayed there whenever he was in town, but with just him and a couple of staff members, it always seemed to echo with emptiness. Right now, he wished he could invite Sinclair over to fill it up with laughter. “Have you always lived in New York?” he asked her instead.

She nodded. “Kristy and I went to school in Brooklyn. You?”

“Mostly in California.”

“Private school, I bet.”

“You’re right.”

“Uniforms and everything?”

“Yes.”

She tipped her head to glance up at him. “You must have looked cute in your little short pants and tie.”

“I’m sure I was adorable.” He dug his thumb into a stubborn knot in her shoulder.

“Ouch. Was that for calling you cute?”

“That was to make you feel better in the morning.”

She flexed her shoulder under his hands. “Did you by any chance play football in high school?”

“Soccer and basketball. You?”

“I edited the school newspaper.”

“Nerdy.”

“Exciting. I once covered a murder.”

He paused. “There was a murder at your high school?”

She gave a long, sad sigh of remembrance. “Mrs. Mitchell’s goldfish. Its poor, lifeless body was found on the science table. Someone had cruelly removed it from its tank after hours. We suspected the janitor.”

Hunter could picture an earnest, young Sinclair hot on the trail of a murder suspect, all serious and no-nonsense, methodically reviewing the evidence.

“Did he do it?” Hunter asked.

“We couldn’t prove it. But it was the best headline we ever had. Broke the record for copy sales.” She sounded extremely proud of the accomplishment.

“You were definitely a nerd,” he said.

“I prefer the term intellectual.”

“I bet you ran in the school election.”