Page 10 of The Billionaire in Her Bed

She held a hand up to the older man, who had opened his mouth to speak. “And before you suggest it, Mr. Feingold, we are not growing medical marijuana, no matter how much it helps your glaucoma.”

“Cucumbers. I love cucumbers.”

“Bibb lettuce. And zucchini.”

“Cucumbers and zucchini take up too much room. We should start with something small, like carrots. Or bell peppers.”

“Peppers give me gas.”

“I think we should grow something pretty, like nasturtiums.”

“How about an herb garden?”

The suggestions came fast and furious. Brooke ignored the intermittent squabbling and colorful asides—TMI on the gas, Mr. Feingold—and scribbled each one down.

“I’m partial to peas myself,” a new but oddly familiar voice added to the list. The rough, sexy growl that had haunted her every waking moment—and most of her unconscious ones, too—sent pinpricks of awareness flickering down her spine. “Or hibiscus, if you’d rather go the floral route.”

Brooke’s pen slowed, and she lifted her head. Eli stood in the open door, as scrumptious as she remembered him, his chestnut hair dusted with snow that the forecasters had been predicting all week and his face as unreadable as the sphinx.

“So.” His lips curled into a half-smile, and he ruffled his hair, sending flurries fluttering to the floor. “We meet again.”

…

Fate was a fickle bitch.

Why else would the woman who’d spent the last few days running naked through Eli’s mind be standing in front of him fully clothed now, presiding over a tenants’ meeting in the very building he planned to grab up and gut?

Said woman lowered her clipboard and pen. Her emerald eyes spat darts of green fire at him. “How did you get in here? And what do you want?”

“Door was open.” He held up a canary yellow flyer. “I found this by the mailboxes. Something about an association meeting.”

“I made that.” An older woman piped up from the sofa. “On the computer. My son-in-law taught me how to use Photostop.”

“I think you mean Photoshop.” A well-dressed man holding a plate of cheese and crackers corrected her.

“Read it again.” Brooke ignored them both, her eyes, still full of flames, never leaving Eli. “It says tenants’ association. As in people who live here.”

“Meet the new resident of 3-C.” He jingled a ring of keys. “Howdy, neighbor.”

“You know this place is for sale, right?” a stunning young African-American woman asked. “We could get booted out of here with barely any notice.”

Eli flashed what he hoped was a charm-their-pants-off smile. Brooke was clearly none too happy to see him. He couldn’t afford to have the rest of the tenants ganging up on him before he had a chance to get the lay of the land. “I like to live dangerously.”

And he couldn’t think of anything more dangerous than sharing a residence with the star of all his new favorite fantasies.

“What’s the matter?” Brooke set her clipboard and pen on an antique wooden drafting table. Was she an architect as well as a bartender? Or maybe an artist? With her boho chic vibe he could totally picture her standing before an easel, deep in concentration, a brush in her mouth and streaks of paint in her hair and on her cheeks. He imagined coming up behind her and turning her in his arms, removing the paintbrush from her between her ripe, rosy lips so he could…

“Things not dangerous enough for you in Manhattan?” she asked, jolting him out of his erotic daydream.

“Manhattan?”

His stomach lurched, and he tightened his grip on the strap of the duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Did she know who he was? Or why he was there? Was that why she was less than thrilled to see him? “What makes you think I’m a city boy?”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Have you looked in the mirror lately? You’re like a walking advertisement for Fifth Avenue.”

Shit.He did a mental tally of the contents of his duffel. Designer shirts. Custom-tailored pants. Cashmere sweaters. Hell, even his underwear had a designer label. He’d have to send Ginny on a shopping spree if he didn’t want to blow his cover. Where did regular guys buy clothes, anyway? Target? Wal-Mart? Paige and her postdoc pals swore by Goodwill. Not that his sister wanted for money. He made sure of that, had ever since their parents were killed in a car accident when he was finishing up at Wharton and she was still in high school. She said it was all about the thrill of the hunt, finding an elusive diamond among the cubic zirconia.

Struck by sudden inspiration, he flashed his charming smile again, this time directing its full wattage at Brooke. “You’d be surprised what you can find at Goodwill if you’re persistent enough.”