Untouchable: A Billionaire on the Run Romance Read online

  She opens the bottle, taking a sip.

  “Thanks,” she mutters again as she closes the bottle, then lets out another cough.

  “You’re welcome,” I tell her. “And I’m sorry about your mother.”

  Lauren rests her head on the wall. “She was always smiling, even when there was a tornado.”

  “She sounds like an amazing woman.”

  “She was.” Lauren looks at me with a smile, the yellow light from the lantern making her amber eyes glow beneath her long lashes.

  It’s the first time I’ve seen the corners of her full lips turn up into a smile, dimples forming on her cheeks. It lends her an almost ethereal radiance and I can’t help but stare, captivated.

  It is fleeting, though, the smile replaced by a frown as her gaze shifts from me to the lantern.

  “I miss her,” she says sadly.

  “I know.”

  I glance at Isaac, finding his eyes closed, so I move closer to Lauren. Smoke, however, still has his eyes open, watching me on behalf of his master.

  “Do you miss your wife?” Lauren asks.

  “Yes.”

  “If it’s not too much to ask, how did she die?”

  “Illness.” I say the first thing that comes to my mind.

  Lauren nods. “And how long were you married before she passed away?”

  “Just a few months, but we knew each other for years,” I lie.

  “I’m sorry.”

  I shake my head. “Sometimes, the people you care about just don’t stay around as long as you want them to.”

  She opens her mouth as if to ask something but decides against it, falling silent.

  Just then, the wind gives a loud howl and I hear a clatter somewhere above us. Lauren straightens, eyes darting toward the hatch. Smoke whimpers, snuggling against Isaac, who snores softly, oblivious.

  “It’s okay,” I tell Lauren. “We should be safe here.”

  Lauren nods, relaxing. Isaac gives another snore.

  Lauren chuckles. “Count on him to sleep through a tornado. I don’t think there’s anything he can’t sleep through.”

  I grin. “Lucky him.”

  She covers her mouth as she yawns.

  “You should sleep, too,” I tell her. “Who knows how long this tornado will last?”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll be fine. I’ll wake you up if we’re not in Montana anymore.”

  “Very funny.”

  She falls silent and a few minutes later, I hear her soft breathing. I look at her to see her eyes closed, some of her ebony hair forming a veil over the side of her face.

  I take the chance to stare at her. Asleep, she’s far from the feisty woman I met in the tool shed, but she’s just as beautiful, her skin smooth, her cheekbones high, her nose like a button, her upper lip shaped like a bow. Just as the first time I met her, she’s a mess, hair in all directions, her pajamas wrinkled and smelling slightly of sweat. Strangely, that only makes her more attractive to me. My groin stirs in response.

  Her grip on her blanket loosens, causing it to slip off her shoulders. I steal a glance down her pajamas, taking in her firm breasts. Unfortunately, she’s wearing a bra, the black lace showing through a gap between two of her pajama buttons but that doesn’t stop me from imagining how perfectly round her breasts are, how soft they feel. It doesn’t stop me from wanting to touch them, to feel those curves in the palms of my hands.

  I don’t, though, and I settle for skating a finger over her thigh and leaving a soft trail over the cotton.

  Lauren shudders, shifting her legs and snuggling closer against the wall as her lips part to let out a murmur. I draw a deep breath, suddenly seized with the urge to see her trembling beneath me, to hear her moan.

  To make her moan.

  The desire is so strong it knocks the breath from my lungs, rivaling the tornado sweeping outside. My cock stirs to life and strains against my pants.

  Fuck.

  I must be crazy, getting an erection in the middle of a storm in a tiny storm cellar where I’m locked up with the father of the object of my desire and his dog, who is now staring at me curiously.

  Conscious of my audience, I shift my legs and wrap my blanket tighter around them in an effort to conceal my situation, trying to think of less exciting things to quell it.

  It’s no use. I haven’t had a woman in a while and my male body is well aware of the female one next to me. My senses are caught up in their own storm, my skin burning in spite of the cold.

  Frowning, I move away from Lauren, scurrying to the opposite corner. I press my cheek against the cold cement, squeezing my eyes shut as I try to sleep against the wall.

  It’s going to be a long, hard night.

  Chapter Three

  Lauren

  God, I’m hungry. The tornado blew away and left the farm mostly upright. Now, a few nights later, I hunt through the refrigerator some time around midnight, wearing nothing but a thinning gray nightshirt and white panties. You can kind of see my nipples through this thing, but it’s okay because everyone should be asleep.

  I open the refrigerator door, its light spilling into the dark kitchen. I bend over, rubbing the back of my leg with my foot as I look at what ingredients I can work with.

  Milk. Butter. A jar of sun-dried tomatoes. Cottage cheese. Berries.

  I’ll make crepes.

  I reach for the gallon of milk, but just as I’ve wrapped my fingers around the handle, the light in the kitchen turns on and I jump back, closing the door so quickly I hear the bottles inside the door rattle.

  Chase stops a few feet away from me, azure eyes wide and thin eyebrows raised.

  I let out a sigh of relief, placing a hand over my chest to still my chaotic heart. “Oh, it’s just you.”

  “Yup, just me.”

  He tucks his hands into the waistband of his jeans, the gesture making his chest and abdominal muscles push against the cotton of his black shirt.

  Of course, he looks like he’s stepped out of the pages of GQ, while I’m a complete mess with my wrinkled shirt and uncombed hair. Not to mention I’m… underdressed. Suddenly self-conscious, I tug at the hem of my nightshirt, pulling it down my thighs as far as it can go so that he doesn’t catch a glimpse of my panties. Unless he already did when I was looking inside the refrigerator.

  Shit.

  He grins. “Nice shirt.”

  I cross my arms over my shirt. I don’t know what’s worse – the fact that I’m not wearing pants, or that I’ve already taken off my bra and he can probably see the tips of my nipples poking the cotton of my shirt. My only consolation is that my nightshirt is gray and a little thick so it isn’t see-through, at least not compared to the white one I own. Even so, that does little to ease my mind or body. My heart is still doing jumping jacks.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask Chase.

  He steps forward, grabbing the door of the fridge. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to tell anyone you’re ruining your unnecessary diet by snacking on leftovers.”

  “I’m not–” I roll my eyes as I step aside. “Never mind.”

  “I’m just here to get a beer,” he says, pulling a bottle of ice-cold Bud Light out of the fridge. “Your dad said I could get one whenever I felt like it, as long as it wasn’t more than twice a week.”

  I chuckle.

  He holds the door open. “Sure you don’t want to get anything?”

  I purse my lips and tap my arm.

  “Going once…”

  I take the door from him, opening it wider and grabbing the gallon of milk, the bar of butter, the carton of eggs and the bowl of berries from inside the fridge. This time, I bend my knees so that I don’t reveal too much of what I am and what I’m not wearing. Even still, I can see him trying to take a peek from the corner of my eye.

  I steadily balance all the ingredients in my arms as I transport them to the table.

  “Whoa.” He closes the door and then grabs the bottle opener hangi
ng from one of the cupboard doors to open his bottle. “That’s more than leftovers. I may have to file a report to the diet police.”

  “Shut up.” I set the ingredients down. “I’m going to make crepes.”

  “Oh.”

  I look at him. “You know what crepes are, don’t you?”

  Chase takes a sip of her beer, shrugging. “Of course. I’ve eaten a few.”

  “Know how to make them?”

  “No.” He walks toward me, setting the bottle down on the table. “Want to teach me? I do believe you owe me a cooking lesson.”

  Now? I lift my eyebrows at him.

  Yes, I did say I’d give him a cooking lesson. But, now? In the middle of the night, with me in just this nightshirt?

  I sigh. Oh, well. I might as well teach him since he’s already here in the kitchen. Besides, he’s always busy during the day.

  “Fine.”

  I snatch my frilly red apron off its hook and slip it over my head, tying it around my waist. It isn’t a pair of pants, but at least it’s an inch longer than my nightshirt and can cover my breasts so that I don’t have to.

  “Nice apron,” Chase says, nodding in approval as he looks at it from top to hem.

  I try not to blush as I meet his gaze. “I’d lend you one, but my dad doesn’t have any. So unless you want something with hearts or flowers…”

  The image of him wearing an apron with pink hearts – just an apron like one of those calendar guys – pops into my mind and my breath catches, my heart going still as heat explodes in my chest and between my legs.

  “I think I’ll do without the apron,” Chase says.

  I look away, taking a deep breath. “Good.”

  He lifts his bottle to take another sip. “How do we start?”

  How? I’d like to start by clutching the front of his black shirt and pulling him close so I can inhale the smell of him and then rip that shirt off so that I can run my fingers over those…

  I shake my head. We’re making crepes, not anything else. And I may be a virgin, but I’m also a grown woman. I’m not supposed to be having these delusions.

  Focus, Lauren.

  “We’ll start by making the crepe mixture,” I answer, getting a mixing bowl from a cupboard. “We have to whisk together the flour and the eggs then add some milk, some water, and some of the butter that I have to melt first.”

  I grab a pan above me and put it on the stove, lighting it up.

  “Can you pass the butter?”

  “Sure.” He places the bar on my palm.

  I peel it open and cut some off, tossing it into the hot pan. After a split second, the butter begins to sizzle and melt.

  “Melts fast,” Chase says, looking over my shoulder.

  “That’s because the pan’s hot,” I tell him, swirling the shrinking piece of butter around the pan.

  And it’s not just the pan. It may be a cool night and my fever is long gone, but the kitchen feels warm, especially with Chase standing next to me. He’s so close I can hear him breathing, my sex sizzling and melting in response just like the piece of butter.

  I take a deep breath.

  “There,” I say as the butter has melted completely, turning off the heat. “Now we can add this to the mixture.”

  I pour the frothy, golden liquid into the bowl and grab the whisk.

  Chase’s fingers close around my wrist. “Let me do the mixing.”

  I nod, stepping aside.

  He puts his bottle down and starts whisking but he must be too strong so he ends up whisking too fast. I take the whisk back.

  “Slowly. Gently.”

  I carefully move the whisk around the pan, the ingredients swirling.

  “You have to make sure the ingredients mingle together, that they become one,” I tell him as I keep whisking, my other hand holding the bowl steady. “If you’re too rough, the mixture will split.”

  Chase nods. “I can do slow and gentle.”

  He places his hands over mine as he stands behind me, stroking my fingers before putting his between them, both of us holding the bowl and the whisk, mixing together.

  I draw another deep breath then pull away.

  “You take over.”

  “Gladly,” he says, continuing to combine the mixture.

  I watch him from a few feet away, wiping the beads of sweat that have suddenly formed on my brow. I loosen my apron, which suddenly feels as tight as a corset.

  Whew. It sure is getting hot in here.

  “What do we do next?” Chase asks, still mixing.

  I rattle my muddled brain to remember the recipe.

  “Do you want sweet or savory?” I ask him.

  Chase stops mixing, holding my gaze. “I like sweet, but I think I’m more of a savory person.”

  And I’d love nothing more than to savor him right now. My mouth is watering.

  I swallow, tucking some hair behind my ear. “Okay. We’ll do a bit of both.”

  “Perfect.”

  I transfer some of the mixture into another bowl. “You do the sweet mixture and I’ll do the savory.”

  “What do I do?”

  “Just add some sugar, a bit of vanilla, and some brandy into that mixture and keep mixing,” I answer, fetching the ingredients from the cupboard. “I’ll add some salt and herbs to mine.”

  “What herbs?” Chase asks, adding sugar into his mixture.

  “Chives. Parsley. Thyme.” I grab the bunches of fresh leaves.

  “Sure those are edible?”

  I cast a frown at him. “What? Do you think I’d poison you? You were the one trying to do that.”

  He winces. “Ouch.”

  “Of course, I could poison you if I wanted. Some herbs are poisonous, after all, but don’t worry, I’d never do that. Not to you.”

  “Glad to know.”

  “I’m just adding these for flavor.” I chop the leaves. “And then I’ll add some spices, too.”

  “I like spicy,” Chase says, the heat of his gaze piercing through me.

  I grab the bottle of paprika, trying to focus on what we’re making.

  Crepes, Lauren. That’s what you’re making.

  “But too much is never good. You want the flavor to be there but not so intense that it’s overpowering.”

  Speaking of intense and overpowering, I can feel him staring at me right now, his gaze making my skin tingle and causing even more beads of sweat to form on it. I wipe them off.

  “You’re not mixing,” I tell him.

  “I was waiting for you,” he says. “I want to match your pace.”

  I ignore the remark, folding the additional ingredients into my mixture with a spatula. He continues whisking his, doing so slowly, gradually.

  “You can go a little faster,” I tell him.

  “Sure. Whatever you say.”

  He whisks faster.

  I mix the ingredients in my bowl in silence, avoiding his gaze even as I’m constantly and utterly aware of his presence. Then I go to the stove to reheat the pan where I melted the butter, adding a little more.

  “What next?” Chase asks behind me.

  “Watch me first,” I answer, fetching his mixing bowl.

  “Gladly.”

  When the pan is hot enough, I scoop a small amount of the mixture and pour it into the middle of the pan then I hold the handle and swirl the mixture around, spreading it evenly.

  “You have to make sure the batter coats the surface of the pan evenly.”

  “Right.”

  He’s watching me all right. Closely. Too closely.

  I focus on my pan, watching the mixture and then flipping it over with a spatula once it turns golden brown.

  “Wow,” Chase praises. “It’s like pizza.”

  “It is a bit,” I agree. “Now, we just have to make sure this other side cooks for about half a minute and then it’s done.”

  After a few more seconds, I take the crepe out of the pan, placing it on a plate.

  “Your turn.”
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  Chase takes over and this time, I watch him like a hawk as he swirls the mixture around the pan.

  So far, so good.

  “Remind me why you don’t know how to cook again,” I say. “Didn’t your mother teach you?”

  “She left the cooking to the chefs.”

  I blink. “Chefs?”

  “I mean to the chef.” He sets the pan down. “My dad was a chef.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “He was?”

  “But he never bothered to teach me to cook,” Chase adds.

  “Oh.”

  His first crepe is a failure. He flips it too early so it collapses. I help him scoop it out and scrape it off the pan.

  “Don’t worry.” I pat him on the shoulder. “The first time is usually a disaster.”

  “In my experience, it’s usually perfect,” he says.

  I step back, ignoring him. “Just try again.”

  The second one ends up a bit burned. The third, however, is perfect.

  “Third time’s the charm,” I say as he transfers the crepe on a plate. “Now we just have to keep going until there isn’t any mixture left.”

  That’s what we do. We take turns, and after half an hour, we have a pile of crepes on a plate.

  Now, that’s more than what I originally wanted to make. Thankfully, there’s two of us to eat it.

  “What about the filling?” Chase asks, getting a berry from the bowl and rolling it in his fingers before popping it into his mouth.

  “For the sweet, we can put berries with some cottage cheese, fold it and coat it with some cream and syrup.”

  I do exactly that, spreading the filling over a crepe on a separate plate.

  “Aren’t you going to put more?” Chase asks, his eyes narrowed in disapproval.

  “If I put too much, it will spill out,” I say.

  “Right.” He nods, taking a piece of crepe and spreading the filling on it. “If there’s too much, it could burst and go all over the place. You can’t put it all in your mouth, after all.”

  I pause, a shiver going up my spine. I may be a virgin, but I know what he’s talking about, having read about it in my mom’s old romance books.

  I swallow.

  “What about the savory?” he asks.

  “We can just put some tomatoes, chives, and cottage cheese,” I say, my voice still shaking slightly.