Bad Boy's Baby Part 44

Thirty-five thousand square feet.

What in the h.e.l.l was my father going to do with thirty-five thousand square feet of s.p.a.ce in his house?

Two wings from the main house. Nine bedrooms.

Eleven freaking bathrooms.

I couldn't begin to process how ridiculous it was to have eleven bathrooms. He had each room finished with a different imported Italian tile, showcasing bathtubs large enough for Olympic training. I half expected a synchronized swimming team to pop out of the Jacuzzi bubbles and start scrubbing the vanities.

This mansion was nothing like where we lived growing up. When company came over to Momma's two bedroom apartment, we could only set out the good soap. The kind that smelled like mint-raspberry and was carved into ocean animals even though Momma never saw a starfish in her life.

Sure it was humble, but it was our life. While Momma was proud to provide premium toilet paper-triple ply with decals-for our visiting friends, my father painted the walls of his guest bathroom with flecks of real gold.

Even the camel trying to fit through the needle in Jerusalem would have taken a detour through the sauna attached to the master bath.

I toured through the house on tippy-toes, as if the real owner would follow me to the conservatory and knock me out for trespa.s.sing. They'd find me dead in the library, a candelabra to the head Professor Plum style. But no one murdered me while I explored the dining room behind the second sitting parlor. At least, it looked like a dining room-the kind from fancy story books and European castles and movies with Anne Hathaway.

This wasn't a home. It was a maze. My father stuffed it full of relics and statues and overstuffed, Victorian furniture. It wasn't me. Then again, college was more bean bags and body pillows, not wingbacks and pedestals.

What was he planning on doing with all of this?

I snuck into the grand foyer, his museum of marble staircases and crystal chandeliers. The house had a hundred places to sit in every material and comfort level imaginable-including a chair that looked too much like real zebra. I plunked down on the stairs instead.

This was ridiculous.

The house. The funeral. The almost-wedding. The secret marriage.

Zach.

I was used to being abandoned, but I was never used before. Did he have s.e.x with me to get lucky, or had he deliberately indulged in something perverted to steal his inheritance?

Whatever his game, it wasn't s.e.xy. It was sad. Disturbing.

And it had felt so real.

Our night was pa.s.sionate. It forged a solid, absolute connection that made the other two lovers I experienced seem like little more than a flick of my fingers. I never came like that. I never acted like that. I never thought I'd meet someone who made me feel so...desired.

What an a.s.s, both of us. It served me right. I went looking for a quick and easy pleasure to m.u.f.fle the guilt for not feeling miserable enough. What did I think would happen when I slept with a man who called himself Hard?

A clang echoed in the halls.

I jumped up. It wasn't the air-conditioning or a bag of money thunking against the floor.

I pawed through my pockets for my cellphone and readied to dial.

Another thud. My heart stopped then tried to crack out of my ribs.

Who was in my house? How would someone even get in? We dismissed the serving staff while the estate settled, the community was gated, and I thought the alarm system was set.

Or maybe it wasn't? The d.a.m.n system went off the instant I walked inside, and the security company calling my cellphone was not happy that I didn't know my paternal grandmother's maiden name. Apparently My Dad ran out on me turn this freaking siren off haven't I suffered enough! was not in their set of pa.s.swords.

I needed something to defend myself. Fortunately, whoever Dad hired to decorate the mansion loved tucking vases in arbitrary places. I snagged a crystal centerpiece on the way to the kitchen, raised it over my head, and braced for an attack.

I peeled the corner.

The vase ripped from my hands.

And Zach laughed.

Especially as the chrysanthemums exploded in a plume of white petals and showered me with blossoms and water.

I shrieked, mainly from terror but also because I couldn't think of a profanity strong enough for my outrage.

"Easy there, sis." Zach pushed the vase onto the counter. "Death by peonies is not a good obituary for a SEAL."

I stared.

Didn't mean to.

Couldn't help it.

How the h.e.l.l did Zach get into my house?

And where were his clothes?

Zach strutted in my kitchen wearing nothing but dripping-wet swim trunks. They clung to his trim and deliciously toned waist by virtue of his self-declared best feature. His body rippled hard, muscle over muscle. The scars shone over his skin, but whatever was once injured had been st.i.tched back together. Something terrible happened to him. I knew better than to ask. h.e.l.l, I wasn't even going to look.

No matter how badly I wanted to peek.

I turned, spinning from the magnificently sculpted form flexing his way to the fridge. He removed a Gatorade and chugged the bottle, crushing the plastic in his hand.

Why was he drinking from my fridge?

Wait...who even stocked the d.a.m.n thing?

"What the h.e.l.l are you doing?" I probably shouted too loudly.

"I'm thirsty."

I had no response. I sputtered over too many questions and unreasonable demands. Zach didn't care. I choked on my words and stewed in silence.

He tossed the empty bottle in the recycling. I glanced over him again. Scars upon scars. Just...everywhere. Not only that, he favored his left arm, even if he didn't outwardly show it. Something nearly crippled and broke him.

He said he was on leave. I guessed I believed him, but why would a Navy SEAL want to live in a Versailles inspired mansion north of Atlanta when he could be out saving the world from extremists, dictators, and the computer nerds who hosted websites that pirated movies?

"How did you get in here?" I demanded.

Zach caught me looking at him. He grinned. "Through the patio."

He did it on purpose. "Not into the kitchen, smart-a.s.s. Into the house!"

"The underground garage."

I'd pitch the nearest mixing bowl at his head. I spun to face him, wishing he'd put on a shirt and regretting once licking every taut muscle on his chest.

"That isn't what I mean..." My rage blitzed into a sharp huff. "There's an underground parking garage?"

"Two levels. Only one's underground. But the elevator takes you to the roof where the tennis courts are."

I stared at him. He arched an eyebrow. Tennis courts?

For as much as I wanted to squeal in delight for my newfound palace, Zach Harden was still half-naked and dripping in my brand new kitchen.

Well, one of my kitchens. But I liked this one. I'd probably use it the most. Which meant I preferred it puddleless.

"Why are you here?" I tossed a tea-towel at him. It hardly covered his palm let alone the rest of his six-foot-four, monstrous bulk. "How'd you get in?"

"I have a key."

"Impossible."

He brushed the towel over his muscles. His tempting, sea-foam eyes studied me, made greener only by the stacks of cash that insulated the walls of my new house. "My name is on the deed too. I live here."

"You do not."

"Just moved in."

I heard a fizzle. I hoped it was the last shred of my patience burning up and not a snap of an aneurysm.

"You can't move in here," I said. "I told you. You are not welcome in my house."

He shrugged and foraged in my fridge. "You don't have to invite me in if I have a key code. I'm not a vampire."

Not a vampire? He'd bit me enough during our night together. A couple discreet hickeys proved otherwise. I slammed the refrigerator shut and leaned against the steel doors. Zach only smiled. I began to loathe those dimples.

"This is ridiculous," I said. "You didn't even know my father. You can't live in his house."

He shrugged. "Actually, I did know him."

"You...did?"

"I met him a couple times. Nice guy. We had a bit in common. He was in the service. Marines."

I didn't know that. It didn't matter.

"One conversation doesn't ent.i.tle you to half of his life. This isn't your house. You're inheriting money that...that..."

"Belongs to you?"

Oh, Christ, he made me sound like a money-hungry gold-digger. It wasn't like that at all. Dad took care of me in material ways, and Momma taught me resilience and strength. I didn't need billions to make me happy.

I didn't even know what I needed.

Why the h.e.l.l didn't Dad ever tell me he was in the service?

Why didn't he tell me he had a secret family with a lady he married a month before he died? Then again, would I have even listened to a word he said?

"Look," I sighed. "You know this is wrong. My dad updated his will, but he didn't think he'd die so soon. This is a mistake."

"He signed it, witnessed it by his attorney, and had it notarized. It's hard to argue it."

Well, I was trying, wasn't I? "Why are you wet?"

He liked that I studied his muscles, glistening with water droplets. "Swimming. There's a great pool out back."

A pool. Fantastic. And he had been in it. Exercising in the clear pool. Letting the sun warm his lightly bronzing skin. I imagined him diving through the water as it caressed a body so powerful and fierce he'd cut through the ripples like a sword through silk.

Momma was too terrified of water to let me swim. Now all I could imagine was slipping beneath the surface with a skilled military man who probably worked better under the waves than above them.

But those thoughts were wrong. A well of anger rushed over me, drowning me in unspoken words that thickened over a tongue which could still taste every inch of his body. I ground my teeth.

Step-brother.

He was my step-brother.

And he didn't tell me before seducing me. He didn't warn me before he took half of my inheritance. And now he ate a cold pepperoni pizza from the fridge. Where the h.e.l.l did he even get a pizza?

"This is ridiculous." I crossed my arms. "You have ten seconds to get out of my house."

"Our house."

"Ten. Nine. Eight."

"Shay, I have every right to be here."

"Seven. Six. Five."

"G.o.d d.a.m.n, you're cute when you're angry."

Ignition. "Fourthreetwoone."

"Easy." Zach sucked a bit of pizza sauce from his finger. I stared only at his lips. "I'm just messing with you. You're wound pretty tight, you know?"

"I get that way when strangers trespa.s.s in my house."

"I'm not really a stranger anymore, am I?"

I didn't let him get to me. "What happened, happened. It was a mistake, and you should be ashamed of yourself."