Betting the Billionaire Read Online Free Page A

help in that department with Gabe nearby.
    The man had her running hotter than an engine without oil. If she didn’t watch it, pretty soon she’d combust. Standing in the kitchen doorway, holding two steaming drinks, she barely felt the heat on her palms.
    Gabe sat in front of the fire, holding his hands out to the flames. The firelight highlighted the warm brown of his hair and reflected off his glasses, blocking her from seeing the brilliant blue of his eyes. Her stomach flip-flopped. He’d almost kissed her earlier, she was sure of it. And she’d wanted him to.
    Badly.
    Anticipation and trepidation at the thought of standing next to him again went skipping through her, leaving her body confused and wanting. He was an arrogant, cocky billionaire too used to getting his way and the last person who should get her this hot and bothered. Still, her brain knowing that and her body accepting it were two very different things.
    Oh God, what if Ellen was right? Had she been spending too much time with muscle cars instead of muscled men?
    Fact was she couldn’t unsee his hard abs. Some things stuck with a girl and made her remember that battery operated boyfriends were good…but not the same.
    Get your big girl panties on, K. You can make it through an evening of chit-chat with a hot, rich dude without embarrassing yourself.
    Pep talk had, she raised her chin and straightened her shoulders. “I made you a hot toddy.” As she walked out of the kitchen into the living room, steam wafted up from the mason jar filled three-fourths full of warm, amber liquid.
    A deep V formed in the middle of his forehead. “I’m not much of a drinker.”
    She crossed over to him and sat down on the opposite side of the four-feet-wide area rug. “Don’t worry, my granny taught me to mellow out the bourbon with ginger ale and a lemon slice.”
    “How can I say no to your granny?” The grin that curled his lips managed to be both sweetly charming and panty-melting at the same time. The man was a one-thousand-horse-power, V-8, twin turbo engine of trouble.
    “You wouldn’t say no, at least not to her face.” She giggled, picturing her five-foot-nothing granny, who ruled her house with an iron grip and cooked nearly everything in bacon grease, much to the delight of the mangy mutts in the neighborhood. She wrapped the mason jar in a hand-stitched, flour-sack hand towel so he wouldn’t burn his still defrosting fingers, then handed it to him.
    Never losing eye contact with her, he took a hardy drink. Keisha waited a beat. As expected, his eyes widened enough that she could almost see the whites all around his spectacular blue irises. A flush bloomed in his tan cheeks. A series of sputtering coughs wracked his broad shoulders and had him nearly doubled over.
    “Whoa,” he croaked once he’d gotten his breath back. “That’s the mellow version?”
    “Don’t ever take one my dad made.” She winked. “He doubles the bourbon.”
    “I’ll remember that.” He sat down on the hand-tufted wool rug, the blue of its medallions almost matching the color of his eyes, and took a cautious sip of the hot toddy.
    Instead of a coughing fit, this time he sighed and relaxed against the base of her lemon yellow, overstuffed chaise lounge. The auburn streaks in his nearly dried, dark brown hair shined in the firelight, and the spare mechanic’s coveralls fit like they’d been tailored just for him. Her mouth went dry, and she shot back a gulp of her hot toddy. Even though she’d been raised on the stuff, it still burned its way down her throat. The pain helped bring her back from the edge of late-night-pay-per-view-movie fantasyland.
    “I like your place.”
    “Thanks.” She glanced around the studio apartment with the critical eye of a stranger. Aubergine colored walls. Art deco lamps and crisp, modern end tables. Stacks of books about interior decorating and architecture filled the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf. It may not be as fancy as Gabe’s