The Billionaire and the Virgin Page 7

  Jimmy stood up, all five foot three of him, and sneered at Rob. “The lady can do what she wants, friend. She ain’t married to you.”

  “You want to make this a fight?” Rob asked, getting in the smaller man’s face. Oh, he was just itching for a fight. Brawling was something that he excelled at.

  A low “urp” made both men pause. Rob turned back to look at Marjorie, who had her hands clenched firmly on the wood lip of the bar. Her face had gone pale and sweaty, and she blinked at Rob. “I . . . don’t feel so good.”

  Then she turned and vomited at his feet.

  Chapter Nine

  It was a long fucking boat ride back.

  Marjorie puked all the way from the restaurant back to the boat. She spent the entire ride back to Seaturtle Cay with her head over the railing, violently ill. When they made it back to the island, she was so exhausted from puking that she did little more than curl up in the backseat of the taxi and dry heave, her head in his lap. And even Rob, who wasn’t the most sympathetic of people even on a good day, felt sorry for her. He stroked her hair while she wept and heaved and generally made a mess wherever she went.

  By the time they got back to the lobby of the Seaturtle Cay Resort, they were both exhausted. Marjorie had fallen asleep and so Rob carried her inside. Her body was long but her form was light, and it was no trouble to haul her up the steps. First stop: the front desk, to get a key for Marjorie’s room. He knew the room number, but his date was asleep. If he woke her up to get the card, he suspected the vomiting would start again, and neither of them wanted that. Right now, she was mostly at peace, her nose pressed against his neck, her breathing soft and exhausted.

  So, front desk.

  Of course, as soon as they got into the hotel, fate stepped in and shat on his plans. Chitchatting at the front with the desk attendant was the obnoxious redhead she’d been partying with a few nights ago. No doubt she was part of the bridal party, and would run straight to Logan if she saw Rob hauling around an unconscious and thoroughly drunk Marjorie.

  All right, change of plans. They’d go to his room. Rob maneuvered down the opposite hall, away from the front desk, and headed for the elevators. He held his breath until the damn thing opened, and then hammered the buttons as soon as he stepped inside. Close, close, damn it.

  For once, luck was on his side. The doors closed without incident and the elevator chugged up to his floor. He juggled the sleeping Marjorie while he swiped his key card across the pad, and then headed into his suite.

  Someone had come in and cleaned while he was gone. That was good; if she woke up surrounded in candy bar wrappers and empty beer bottles, she’d probably panic. Instead, the suite was perfection once more. The bed was freshly made, his dirty clothes no longer littering the floor. All the food wrappers that had covered his desk were gone, and his laptop was closed.

  He headed over to the bed and gently laid her on top of the blankets on one side, then tugged them out from under her dead weight and covered her with them. Her dress collar was off to one side, and he was pretty sure her entire boob was exposed, but she was sleeping and sloppy drunk and it wasn’t a turn-on in the slightest. He covered her with the blankets, tucking them tight around her, and when she mumbled and turned on her side, he went and grabbed the ice bucket and put it next to the bed just in case.

  Then, pulling an extra blanket out of the closet, he headed over to the sofa in the main room of his suite and stripped out of his now-vomited-on clothing.

  What a fucking disaster tonight had been. Nights like this were a good reminder of why he didn’t date.

  ***

  Marjorie was dying.

  That was the only possible explanation for how awful she felt. Death. Possibly hers, though her mouth tasted like something had crawled in there and died as well. She licked her dry lips, and immediately her stomach protested.

  Oh. Oh, no.

  She bolted up from the bed and ran for the closest door, barely making it before her stomach heaved up its contents. She puked for what felt like forever, crouching against the side of the toilet bowl, and whimpered when nothing else came up. God, this was awful. So awful. Her head felt like it had split open, and her entire body ached. Everything was vague and fuzzy. Was she sick? What was wrong with her?

  The toilet felt nice against her cheek, though. She rested her face against the side of it for a moment longer, and then peered at the black lumps of clothing tossed on the floor that she’d just now noticed.

  Men’s shoes. A belt. Slacks. A jacket.

  Oh . . .

  Oh dear.

  Eyes wide with horror, Marjorie looked around at the bathroom. This . . . wasn’t hers. Her room was really nice, but this bathroom was bigger than hers, and someone had used the deluxe waterfall shower in the past few hours, and had discarded towels on the tile, something she never did.

  Where was she?

  Stumbling to her feet, Marjorie gazed at the bathroom counter. Shaving implements. Shaving?! She caught a look at herself in the mirror and moaned in horror. Her eye makeup was now under her eyes instead of above them, her hair was a disaster, and her face was a sickly shade. Her neckline had shifted, and one of her breasts was falling out of her dress, the other about to join it. Quickly, she fixed things. There were dried streaks around the corners of her mouth, and she hurriedly washed her face and smoothed her hair.

  Then she threw up again, because her stomach hated all that moving.

  As she clung to the toilet once more, she tried to recall exactly what had happened last night. It was a blur. She remembered going out with Rob. Sort of. And she remembered drinking a lot of wine to try to seem worldly to him. And she vaguely remembered a dance floor.

  And puking. Lots and lots of puking.

  Okay. Okay. She breathed deep to settle her stomach and tried to calm her racing mind. She’d clearly gotten drunk. And now she was back at his place. There had to be a logical reason for that. Did she sleep with him, then? Was she no longer a virgin? Good lord, had she had sex and couldn’t even remember it?

  Her hand went under her skirt. Her panties were still there, in place. The crotch wasn’t even damp. Even her shoes were still on. All right. Probably no sex, then. She’d probably been too sick. The panic in her chest lessened and she spent a few more minutes with the toilet before her stomach felt comfortable enough for her to stand again.

  She had to get back to her room. Pronto.

  Marjorie tiptoed out of the bathroom and rubbed her eyes, looking around at the suite. It was luxurious, the size of the room probably bigger than her apartment at home. Thick carpet muffled her footsteps and she made the bed as best as she could, grabbed the ice bucket in case she got sick again, and then headed into the main living area of the suite.

  As she opened the door, she spotted a big male body sprawled on the couch, a blanket on his hips—and little else. Rob slept, his hair tousled, his chest bare.

  Oh, sweet mercy, he was pretty.

  Unable to help herself, Marjorie drew closer to him. She couldn’t help staring. Any woman would. Rob had a gorgeous chest, all hard muscle. His pectorals were fuzzed with darker hair that trailed down to his belly button and continued below the blanket. His face was relaxed in sleep, a hint of beard shadow on his jaw. And his mouth, gosh. His mouth was a soft bow that seemed perfect for kissing his date.

  She wondered if he’d kissed her last night. Her breath seemed to indicate no, but maybe he had before things went . . . south. She wondered how it went.

  And she kept staring at the happy trail that went under that blanket.

  He continued to sleep soundly, one arm across his chest, the other thrown back over his head. He wasn’t holding down the blanket. Not at all. And a terribly naughty thought occurred to her.

  Biting her lip, Marjorie clutched the ice bucket in one hand. Her other reached out for the blanket itself. He wasn’t wearing a shirt while he slept, and the feet that poked out of the other end of the blanket were bare, too. Was he compl
etely bare under the blanket?

  Curiosity got the better of her and she leaned over him, watching to see if he stirred. But he was still fast asleep, so she lifted the blanket.

  Rob was totally naked.

  Oh . . . gosh. Just wow. So that was the first penis she’d ever seen outside of what was on television or the Internet. And it was kind of impressive. The length of him lay along one thigh, hard, the head a darker shade than the rest of his skin. She could see a few veins tracing the length, and followed them with her eyes down to the curls of his sex and his balls.

  Huh.

  She stared for a good, long minute more, mentally measuring him. Weren’t guys supposed to be a certain length? She forgot what the average was, but Rob was longer than her hand, unless she missed her guess. She thought about putting her hand next to his penis to compare the two, but she didn’t want to wake him. Reluctantly, she eased the blanket back down and then tiptoed away from his bed and out the door.

  ***

  Well, well, well.

  Rob forced himself to remain still, his breathing as even as possible, as Marjorie tiptoed out of his suite. He’d been awake ever since she’d crawled out of bed, but he hadn’t wanted to startle her, so he’d feigned sleep. She hadn’t had the slightest clue that he was awake. And she’d ogled him.

  More importantly, she’d ogled his dick.

  Once the door closed, he opened his eyes, a smile curving his mouth. He glanced under the blankets himself—his dick was hard—and getting harder by the minute—which should have clued any other woman in that he was awake. Not his virgin, though. She’d stared her fill, and then retreated.

  He wondered what she thought of things.

  Whistling, Rob tucked both hands behind his head and relaxed, rather pleased with this sudden turn of events. After last night’s disaster, he’d wondered if dating her was a bad call. As much as he’d wanted her, it was hard to come back from being puked on all night.

  Still, he was feeling pretty happy about things this morning.

  He’d give Marjorie a few hours to sleep off the worst of her hangover, and then he’d call her and ask her out for date number two. Someplace, he decided, with no alcohol.

  Chapter Ten

  Rob waited until after noon, and then he texted Marjorie’s phone.

  You dead?

  Her response came a few minutes later. Feel like it.

  He laughed. Couldn’t help it. She wasn’t even pretending that she was fine, which was kind of adorable. He decided to skip the texting and called her instead.

  “Mmmello?” Marjorie’s voice was husky, blurred with sleep.

  “Glad to see you survived last night.” God damn, he sounded cheerful. Regular fucking sunshine right over here.

  “Surviving is debatable,” she said. “My head feels like it wants to abdicate from the rest of my body.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you mix wine with the hard stuff.”

  “Never again,” she moaned. “Never, ever again.”

  “Eat some crackers and drink some water,” he told her. “I’d tell you hair of the dog, but I don’t know if your stomach could handle it.”

  “Crackers. Got it.” She sighed heavily. “Now to find some crackers.”

  “I’ll have the front desk run some up to you.” Or one of his assistants. “Don’t get out of bed. Just rest.”

  “You’re an angel,” she said in a soft voice. “I’m so, so sorry about last night. I really don’t know what came over me.”

  “It’s all right. I still had a good time.” Though his best time was this morning, when she peeked at his junk. “You were entertaining,” he said, teasing her.

  “I don’t remember.”

  No? Time for some fun. “I especially liked the part when you flashed the bartender in exchange for a free drink.”

  She was utterly silent on the other end of the line.

  “Marjorie?”

  “Yes?” Her voice was small.

  “That was a joke.”

  Her moan of relief was audible, followed by a giggle . . . and then another moan. “Please don’t make me laugh. It hurts.”

  He snorted. “You still on for date number two?”

  “You sure you want to go out with me again?” she sounded surprised.

  “I do.” Which should have surprised him, too. But he kept thinking about that curious peek from this morning. That little action trumped any amount of vomit. “We’ll go someplace low-key. Wear jeans, and I promise there will be no alcohol.”

  “I think I can handle that,” she said. “If you’re sure . . .”

  “More than sure,” he told her, amused.

  “Where are we going, then?”

  “It’s a surprise.” Because he honestly had no idea.

  “Okay, then. See you in the lobby. Just let me know what time.”

  “Will do.” He hung up, thoughtful, Where could he take her? They did dinner—and it had turned out terribly. Not to the fucking beach. He still had nightmares about that shit. It had to be someplace that one of her other friends wouldn’t run into her. Just because Marjorie didn’t know who he was didn’t mean the others didn’t. He wanted to avoid that conversation for as long as possible. Long enough to show Marjorie that he was a good, wholesome guy.

  Or at least pretending to be one.

  Last night was a dud. She didn’t remember much of the evening, so he’d have to start fresh tonight.

  A movie? Too cliché.

  He was still pondering things, hours later, as his afternoon meeting with his assistants rolled around. His suite had an adjoining room with a table that functioned as an office, and they filed in with notepads and binders in hand, ready to discuss the prior evening’s ratings and their current to-do list of projects.

  Rob wasn’t all that interested, though. Things would run themselves for another day. So when they sat down, he turned and gazed at the three of them, thinking. “If you were dating someone and you wanted to take them somewhere low-key, where would you go? Somewhere fun. Not a movie. I want to actually be able to talk to my fucking date.”

  Gortham’s mouth opened and then snapped shut again. He looked bewildered, and shot a glance at Cresson.

  “Date, sir?” Cresson asked.

  Fucking save him from incompetent assistants. Rob rubbed his forehead. “Did I fucking stutter? Date. D. A. T. E. Me and a woman. I’m taking her out, and it has to be someplace that Hawkings won’t run into us because I don’t want him mucking up the works. Now. Ideas?”

  Cresson’s brow wrinkled. He tapped his pen on his notebook. “Dinner?”

  “Not dinner. Dinner was a bad call.”

  “Dancing?” Gortham asked.

  That kid was so asking to get fired. “Not fucking dancing! Something else.”

  Smith watched him with her pale eyes. Rob nodded in her direction. “Any ideas?”

  “Bingo, sir?”

  “Bingo?”

  Smith nodded. “The resort operates a bingo session every night in one of the dining rooms. Hawkings is probably not spending the week before his wedding playing bingo, so you’re safe there. And if Ms. Ivarsson is used to spending time with the elderly, it’s probably a good guess that she enjoys bingo.”

  “Bingo,” Rob repeated.

  “My mother plays,” Smith told him. “She also knits.”

  “Bingo sounds like a winner,” he told them, and pointed at Smith. “Remind me to give you a raise when we get home.”

  Her smile was pleased. “I’ll remember, sir.”

  “Okay,” Rob said, rubbing his hands together. “Now I need to figure out what I should wear to bingo.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “So how did your date go, honey?” Agnes asked Marjorie as they lounged, poolside.

  Marjorie tucked her floppy hat even lower on her head. Even with sunglasses and a straw hat, there was still entirely too much sunlight around. “Not so good.”

  “Oh, no. What happened?” Edna soun
ded so disappointed.

  Marjorie told them what she could recall of the evening. She skipped the part where she’d woken up in his room, though. Some things just didn’t need sharing.

  Edna and Agnes gave her sympathetic looks. “Oh, sweetie. Maybe you don’t drink on first dates in the future,” Edna said with a little pat on her hand. “You want to impress him, not scare him.”

  “I know,” Marjorie said glumly. The iced tea in her hand was helping to keep her hydrated, but not doing much for the headache that wasn’t going away. “I really messed up last night. I just . . . wanted to seem sophisticated, you know? And I ruined it by puking everywhere.”

  Humiliated didn’t even begin to cover how she felt today. Hangover notwithstanding, the awful, awful realization that she’d tossed her cookies—repeatedly—in front of the sexy guy she was trying to impress? Nightmarish.

  She’d just been so very uncomfortable. Rob had looked suave and dangerous in his dark suit, so out of her league. Add in the fact that her clothing had never seemed to stay in place and she had taken whatever liquid courage that wine could offer.

  And then some, she thought with a groan. Gosh, she was never drinking ever again. Ever, ever, underlined and signed.

  “Well, that’s not how you impress a man,” Agnes said with a sniff. “I’ve caught a lot of men over the years, and I never did it by getting drunk.”

  “It’s true,” Edna said. “Agnes is a terrific flirt. You could learn a lot from her.”

  Marjorie peered over her glasses at Agnes. “Really? I’ve never been good at flirting. I never know what I should be doing. What do you do?”

  Edna tittered. “What doesn’t she do?”

  Agnes just chuckled and pretended to fan herself.

  Curious, Marjorie waved a hand at Agnes. “Go on, ’fess up! I want to know.” She really liked Rob and she wanted to be a success dating him. She wanted to be someone that he would want to know. And she had a pretty good idea that being herself wouldn’t do it for a guy as sophisticated-seeming as him. She needed to up her game.

  And if Agnes had a game, Marjorie wanted to copy it.