Page 22 of How Not to Mess with a Millionaire

He stopped partway down the hall when he heard Zoe’s soft, soothing voice through the partially open door of the room next to his.

“Who’s a good boy? You’re a good boy. You like that, don’t you? Yes, you do.”

His cock twitched in his shorts. Why did everything sound sexual coming from her full, sensuous lips? He adjusted his crotch and tried to focus on dry, dull business matters like margins and mark-ups—anything to make sure she didn’t see him pitching a tent—before pushing the door the rest of the way open.

“What are you doing in here?” he asked, taking in the scene before him. Zoe sat cross-legged on the floor next to the enormous canopy bed, the pig nestled in the crook between her legs, lying splayed out on his back with his head lolling over one shapely thigh, his tiny hooves waving in the air as she rubbed his tummy. He looked like he was in heaven, and Dante couldn’t blame him. If Zoe rubbed his tummy—or other, more southerly, parts of his anatomy—he’d be in heaven, too.

Margins. Mark-ups. Net profit. Amortization.

He subtly shifted his weight to hide his growing erection and continued. “I thought your room was at the end of the hall.”

“It is.” She looked up from scratching the pig’s stomach. “Or was. I’m thinking of moving, if that’s all right with you. It’ll be easier to take care of Houdini if he’s closer to the kitchen.”

No, it wasn’t all right with him. The last thing he wanted was her sleeping less than five feet from him, with only a thin wall between them. But he couldn’t tell her that, and he was having trouble coming up with another, plausible excuse.

“Why not move him downstairs, then? Or, better yet, outside?”

“Outside? Are you crazy? It gets cold at night. And he’ll be lonely. Won’t you, boy?” She tickled Houdini under his chin. The pig responded with a grunt, his curled tail whipping back and forth furiously. “That’s why he’s going to sleep with me.”

“With you?”

“Unless you want to have that honor.”

Of sleeping with her? Dante’s dirty mind immediately went to sweat-slicked, naked bodies, tangled limbs, and rumpled sheets.

Zoe rolled her eyes at him, throwing cold water on his dirty dreams. “Get your mind out of the gutter. I’m talking about you bunking with the pig.”

What was she, psychic? Or was he that fucking transparent? The pig must be psychic, too—or maybe he understood English—because he righted himself, hopped down from the bed, and trotted over to Dante, plopping his plump little body on Dante’s cross-trainers.

“See?” Zoe said. “He likes you.”

Unfortunately—or fortunately—the feeling wasn’t mutual. Dante picked up the pig and handed him back to Zoe. The animal immediately returned to his earlier position on his back between her legs. Smart little bugger. “I’ll pass, thanks.”

“Then it’s you and me, pal.” She gave Houdini a pat on his rounded belly, reached for her phone on the bed behind her, and swiped the screen to open her browser. “I’ve been reading up on caring for a pig. Is there somewhere we can get pig pellets? And we’ll need fresh, non-starchy vegetables, alfalfa hay or bran, children’s chewable multi-vitamins, some kind of bed for him to sleep in—”

He raised a brow at her. “We?”

She at least had the decency to blush. “I was kind of hoping you’d help. I’m a little out of my element here.”

And he wasn’t? What did he know about pigs, besides the fact that they were the source of bacon, sausage, and ham, the trifecta of breakfast meats?

“Haven’t I done enough?” He crossed his arms over his chest, not sure whether to continue lurking like a vampire afraid of the sun or sit down. This conversation was taking a lot longer than he’d intended. “I got rid of Mr. Abruzzi.”

“How did you do it? Did you have to rough him up?”

She looked positively gleeful at the thought. What was it with women and righteous bloodshed?

“No.” Not that he didn’t deserve it. “Nothing that dramatic. I paid him off.”

“Paid him off?” she echoed, her bright eyes suddenly dark and guarded.

Dante shrugged. “Seemed like the simplest solution.”

“How much did he want?”

“Does it matter?”

“It does to my bank account.”