The Billionaire Bad Boys Club(26)
Author: Emma Holly

“Bec,” he said, the super-shortening of her name a signal that something was up. “Glad I caught you. I need a favor for Charlie. Can you bring his anti-anxiety meds to the Common?”

“Boston Common? What are you doing there? And why does Charlie want his meds? I thought he decided not to take them anymore, on account of the side effects.”

“He did, which is why he left the last of his supply in the medicine cabinet in our old bathroom.”

Her knees now a little shaky, Rebecca sat on the old vinyl barstool beside the phone. Leaving the pills here was pure Charlie. For him, preserving one final shred of his security blanket made it easier to let go.

“He probably won’t need them,” Pete assured her. “If you just bring them out, he’ll feel better.”

“But what’s wrong?”

There was a pause while Pete covered his cell phone. When he came back, his voice was hushed. “It’s that girl he likes. She came to watch the photo shoot.”

This answer was pure Pete. “What photo shoot?”

“We told you,” Pete said, which he so had not. “Charlie and I and a couple others got picked to be this year’s Hot Men of Harvard. You know, for Bad Boys Magazine. They’re paying us real money. We’re putting it toward the income suite. The thing is, we have to strip down to Speedos, and Charlie doesn’t want to get too nervous and look like a dork in front of Caroline.”

Rebecca squeezed her temples, her brain trying to process too much information simultaneously. “Bad Boys Magazine?” she repeated, experiencing a neck-tickling prickle at the coincidence.

“It’s that magazine with the fancy cars and the watches. It’s national, not skeevy. The guys who own it are these cool self-made billionaires.”

This Rebecca was aware of. “Right,” she said aloud.

“You’ll come, won’t you?” Pete continued. “I don’t want Charlie to be embarrassed. This girl is really cool.”

“I’ll come,” Rebecca promised. “And I’ll bring Charlie’s pills. I’m just not sure they’re supposed to be used like this.”

“Thank you!” Pete exclaimed. “Like I said, once he knows you’ve brought them, he’ll probably feel better.”

“Fine. Just give me time to change. All I’ve got on is jeans and an old T-shirt.”

“Uh,” Pete said. “Your jeans look good. I mean, they’re fine. Most of the people here are wearing them. Maybe it’s better you don’t make Charlie wait.”

His tone was weird, but he hung up before she could question him. She shook her head at the receiver. She felt more comfortable in work clothes, but if Charlie were having a crisis, she’d go as she was. In a way, she found Pete’s call reassuring. She guessed her little brothers weren’t independent yet.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Common Ground

WELL, hello, Zane thought, his inner skirt-chaser perking up. A little blonde was hurrying toward him on the Public Garden’s pedestrian bridge. The temperature was near ninety, for which he was grateful. The pint-sized bit of booty wore a strappy Harvard T-shirt with a shelf bra built in. She had great arms, slim but muscled, and truly mouthwatering tits. Jiggling on her ribs with the energy of her strides, they were no bigger than oranges but beautifully shaped and high. Her lack of stature aside, her legs and h*ps were great—precisely the sort of limbs faded blue jeans were meant to drape. Her hair was a Peter Pan pixie cut. Cute, he thought, and ideal for showing off her cheekbones.

Observing that she seemed to be looking for something, Zane stepped politely into her path.

“Need help?” he offered when she jolted to a stop.

She had big gray eyes, startled at the moment and unexpectedly piercing. Without warning, his throat tightened. For a second, he had the odd sensation that he knew her.

“Oh,” she said, lashes blinking fast as she took him in. As usually happened with women, her gaze took a detour over his chest. Shaking that off sooner than some did, she clutched her canvas shoulder bag closer to her side. “I’m looking for a photo shoot. My brother is one of the models. He told me they were posing in Boston Common, but no one’s there.”

“We were there,” Zane said pleasantly. “Now we’re setting up near the swan boats.”

“Oh. You’re with them. That’s great. I really need to find Charlie or Pete Eilert.”

“Of course,” he said, realizing why she seemed familiar. “You must be Rebecca. I see the family resemblance. I’m Zane Alexander, by the way. It’s very nice to meet you.”

This appeared to fluster her. Her cheeks flushed up an adorable pink, a color that went well with her luscious mouth. Her upper lip was shorter than her lower, creating an effect that was both succulent and girlish. Added to the big eyes and the gamine hair, she looked impossibly innocent.

Zane sent up a silent prayer that this was misleading.

She accepted the hand he held out dazedly. “I— I’m sorry,” she said. “I should have recognized you. You’re the Zane Alexander who owns the magazine.”

“I am.” He was pleased she didn’t seem star-struck. Skirts that belonged to groupies weren’t his favorite to chase. Rebecca’s little hand was cold. He experienced a need to chafe it he truly couldn’t resist. “Why don’t I take you to where they’re setting up?”

She was gaping at him, but at this she shut her mouth. “Yes,” she said, retrieving her hand from his. “That would be nice of you.”

He’d waylaid her on the stretch of bridge that crossed the narrowest point of the park’s lagoon. Having lost her hand, he took her elbow to lead her down the small jog of stairs to the bank. If she’d taken ten steps farther, she’d have seen the set-up herself. The crowd of boys in Speedos had gathered near the swan boats, which the magazine had taken over for the time being. The photographer and his assistants were there as well, adjusting reflectors and blotting sweat as required.

“Group photo,” he explained as the dozen underdressed college boys clambered joking onto the wooden seats. The pontoons sploshed at their shifting weight. “It’s kitschy, but I expect readers will like it.”

On the bank now, Rebecca searched the faces for ones she knew. Zane’s hold remained on her arm. He felt her stiffen as she spied who she sought.

“The little bastard,” she murmured. “He’s perfectly all right.”