Page 209 of The Billionaires

Miss Miller fights the urge to slap the scoundrel’s high-cheekboned face.

“That’s such a helpful lesson in husbandry, thanks.” I step out of the mud. My knees are wobbly at first, but with each step, I’m feeling more and more like myself—just a much, much filthier version.

“Wait,” he calls after me. “Let me at least help you.”

I don’t wait, but he catches up with me and grabs my elbow—like we’re about to go for a stroll before teatime.

Once again, my treacherous body reacts to his touch with the most inappropriate intensity.

Sheesh. If by some miracle I get this job, I’ll have to move Project Grand Deflowering to the top of my to-do list. Not getting any for so long has clearly turned me into a hormonal powder keg, ready to blow the first stranger I meet.

Miss Miller finds that last thought unseemly.

“Would they let you reschedule?” Adrian asks, still keeping a hold of my elbow.

“I doubt it,” I say. “I wouldn’t.”

“It’s just that I live right across the street,” he says. “We could get your clothes laundered in an hour.”

I blush like the maiden I am. “Are you trying to get me out of my clothes?”

His smile is cocky. “Do. Or do not. There is no try.”

I free my arm from his. “Keep Yoda in your pants.”

A total rake. I should’ve figured.

Speeding up, I leave him behind—for a second, anyway.

“Hold on.” He catches up with me, Leo panting at his heels. “I meant the laundry offer.”

“And I mean this: even if I weren’t in a rush, the answer would be ‘hell no.’”

He sighs. “Can I at least?—”

“This is my destination,” I say breathlessly as I halt next to the library. “It was not a pleasure meeting you.”

He smiles wickedly. “The lack of pleasure was all mine.”

When I enter the library, the smell of books cools my burning cheeks and calms me a bit, at least until people start looking at me pityingly.

“I’m here for the interview,” I blurt to the guy at the counter.

“Mrs. Corsica is through there.” He gestures at the door behind him. Wincing visibly, he adds, “She won’t be pleased that you’re late.”

So on top of being inappropriately aroused and covered in dirt, I’m also late? What’s next? Bird poop on my head, so I smell like how I look?

I sprint for the office door like I’m being chased by wild horses. As I knock, I try to get my frantic panting under control.

“Come in,” a woman’s voice says in a displeased tone that doesn’t bode well.

I enter.

To say that Mrs. Corsica looks stern would be to greatly understate the case. With her formal attire, straight posture, and cold gray eyes, she reminds me of a wicked dowager duchess who’s just met a heroine she considers to be far, far below the hero’s station.

God. Even if I’d come on time and looking presentable, I’d be worried about my chances with an interviewer like this. As is, I might as well forget about the job.

“When did you think this interview was supposed to start?” Mrs. Corsica demands.

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