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Bobby continued his lazy perusal of her assets one last time. "Ms. Spencer, I must say, you certainly paint a persuasive picture."
She smiled. Though such shallow tactics disgusted her, she was too smart not to use them when necessary.
"There's only one problem that I can see." Bobby bared his teeth at her in an approximation of a smile. "I just don't see how any one person--especially a woman, no offense meant, darlin'--is going to be able to control our wild boy. Not without an airtight plan."
Her professional reputation was at stake here, along with paying her new mortgage for the next several months.
A sudden calm washed over her, and she clasped her hands together on her lap.
"Ty will be moving in with me this morning. For the next two weeks I won't let him out of my sight. Not for a workout, a meal, a charitable event. Nothing."
She couldn't worry about Ty's reaction now, she'd deal with him later. Possibly with a sharp stick.
Bobby looked skeptical. "You on board with this, Superstar?" he asked Ty.
Slouched in his chair, Ty reached his arms back behind his head, stretched, then yawned.
"I didn't get much sleep last night," he finally said. "I'm looking forward to a big breakfast, and a soft bed." He raised an eyebrow in Julie's direction. "I figure your bed is as good as mine."
In that moment, Julie was thankful for everything she had ever learned from her parents about faking it. Otherwise, she would have launched herself across the room and strangled Ty.
"I have a lovely guest room all set up for you," she lied, then reached out to shake Bobby's hand. "I'm glad this is all settled. It was a pleasure to meet you."
How the hell was she going to keep her legs shut around Ty 24-7 for two whole weeks?
CHAPTER TEN
Ty left Bobby's office a very happy man. And not just because Julie's skirt served her ass up on a platter. If he'd known that a pack of strippers could get him into Julie's bed--who was she kidding with that guest bedroom crap?--this fast, he would have sent her a stripper-gram years ago.
Still, he wasn't a complete asshole, no matter what she thought. "They were just pictures," he said when they stepped outside.
She didn't even bother turning around to face him, just kept walking through the Outlaws' parking lot. "I really don't care."
Which meant she did, of course. It was too bad he had to act like an oversexed jerk to make sure they were together for the next two weeks, but that was the only way for them to get to know each other better. The only chance they had at a relationship.
He stopped, blinking in the bright sunlight off the Bay. What the hell was he doing, thinking in terms of a relationship? He'd never thought any further than one night. What was it about Julie that had him thinking crazy and acting even crazier?
"Get in," she said, pointing to a Prius sedan.
He strolled around the tiny hybrid car.
"I doubt I'm going to fit," he said suggestively.
Her face set into a grim mask. Shit. Too late, he remembered that she'd said nearly those exact words about him ten years ago, right before he took her virginity.
Okay, time for apologies. And he'd start by leaving his Maserati in the parking lot and squeezing into her itsy-bitsy environmentally correct car.
"Julie, I didn't just mean what you thought I meant," he said as she drove out toward Bay Street.
She glared at him. "I'm going to say this one more time, so try to get it through your thick skull. I don't care what you meant. Or what you thought you meant. Or what you did last night with a stack of over-endowed strippers. Or how you did everything in your power to humiliate me in front of Bobby. I just don't care, Ty."
In the blink of an eye, she pulled herself back together. "I. Don't. Care." To the naked eye she seemed composed and calm.
But he was more attuned to her than that, and he could feel her simmering beneath the surface.
"The only thing I care about," she continued, "is you making a good impression. My only concern is to transform the way the public sees you. Bye-bye, wild child."
Because he owed her one, he chose not to say something that would annoy her again. Yet. "You handled Bobby well."
It wasn't an empty compliment; he really did think she'd played his smarmy boss well. Playing up her looks had been a brillant tactic.
"Jocks," she sniffed. "I swear to God, if you want them to remember something you need to write it on the back of their hand. So here it is again; I am not interested in your opinion."
Too bad. She was getting the compliment whether she wanted it or not.
"Guys like Bobby aren't easy men to negotiate with. But you had him wrapped around your little finger." He looked down at her legs, her sexy shoes. God, she was hot.
"Sure I did. That's why I ended up having to live with you for the next two weeks." Sarcasm dripped from every word.
"You're living the dream," he said, only partly mocking himself.
"Don't kid yourself," she said, laughing. "The women you hang out with want to spend your money and be seen with you and be serviced by you in bed. Living with you is a price they have to pay."
He grinned, even though she probably was right. "If the rewards are big enough ..." he said. By the way she dropped the conversation, he figured he'd won.
They pulled into his driveway. "Pack your bags and be quick about it. On second thought," she said, studying his clothes like he was a bug smashed flat under a microscope, "I don't think you can be trusted with this task. I'll pack your bags."
What the hell? She had to be the only person on earth who had a problem with the way he dressed. Ty knew he looked great in his Cavalli shirt and Diesel jeans.
She walked in his open front door and asked one of his buddies, who'd just come from the hot tub, "Which way to his bedroom?" She jerked a thumb in Ty's direction.
Jack looked at Ty, then looked at Julie, and quickly figured out who the boss was. "Last door down the hall to the left.
"Thanks." Julie headed through his house as if she owned it.
"Dude, you have all the luck," his friend said.
"Don't I know it," Ty said, grinning. And he was going to get even luckier.
"You should really charge a fee," she said when he caught up to her in the hallway, then stopped at the threshold of his bedroom so suddenly, he nearly plowed into her.
The decorating was a little over the top, but what did he care? The master suite was for shut-eye and sex. Besides, the women he brought back seemed to expect every stop to be pulled out: 8oo-thread-count sheets, a roaring fireplace, views, a deck, a bathtub big enough for half his team, a shower with ten jets.
The best part of all was that he'd bought the house with cash.
Which meant no one could take it away from him.
Julie was holding on to the door frame so tightly, her knuckles had gone white. Somehow he had a feeling she wasn't bowled over by the opulence. She'd grown up in a fancy house.
She must be freaking out over the bed, probably having dirty thoughts about what she wanted to do to him between the sheets.
If he wanted to move into her good graces, and thus her bed, he needed to stop messing with her. But he'd been acting like a smart-ass for way too long to stop himself now.
Putting his hand on the small of her back, he gently pushed her into the room. He walked over to the bed, which his housekeeper hadn't made yet. Tucking a pillow back up against the antique wroughtiron headboard, he looked up at her.
"I could use a little help here."
She blinked, her eyes faintly wild. "With what?"
"The bed."
She took a step back and he gave her a knowing look.
"Has anyone ever told you that you have a dirty mind?"
In an instant she became the prim Little Miss Perfect he remembered from high school. "Of course not," she snapped.
"All I'm asking you to do is help me make the bed."
He watched her war with herself and realize that s
he couldn't refuse his request. It would only make her seem like she really did have a dirty mind.
She walked over to the other side of the bed and shoved his sheets into place with ill grace. She threw the duvet cover onto her half of the bed, then spun around and made a beeline for his walk-in closet.
"No, no, no, and most definitely no," she said as she shoved hangers around, taking her anger out on his clothes. "Do you even own anything appropriate?"
"If you mean boring, then no."
She waved dismissively at all of his clothes. "You can't wear any of this. Not if we ever expect you to be taken seriously."
He was surprised that she was turning her nose up at his designer clothes; she knew quality when she saw it. So what was her problem?
"Don't worry about what Bobby said," he teased. "You'll still look better than me, no matter what I'm wearing."
She looked up toward the ceiling as if praying for guidance. "It's my job to make sure that you don't look like you should have a pop starlet hanging off your arm who's been buying your clothes off a runway."
