Page 115 of The Rebel Billionaire

I'd sighed and taken the keys. I might have argued—I really didn't mind the old truck—but I knew it reminded Lucas of that miserable week we'd been broken up. Every time he saw it, heturnedaway.

I'd shoved the keys to my new truck in my pocket and said teasingly, "Okay, but if you think you can solve all of your problems by throwing moneyatthem. . ."

Lucas had growled, "Brat," and dragged me to my new truck, where he proceeded to show me how comfortable the rear bench seat was. Needless to say, we both had very good memories of the day Lucas gave me thattruck.

Sophie's car had broken down a few weeks before, and I'd very happily lent her my old truck, glad to have an excuse to get it away from Lucas and help Sophie out at thesametime.

I watched him as he made his way up the steep driveway, my eyes eating up his long stride. I never got tired of looking at Lucas Jackson. He hadn't changed in the slightest since going to work for SinclairSecurity.

He still dressed like a commando, in his worn cargoes and tight black t-shirts, unless he had work in the field that required a suit, or my secret favorite, a tux. There was still nothing in the universe as hot as Lucas in atuxedo.

My eyes fixed on the flex of his thighs as he walked. I almost missed the box he held in his arms. He climbed the steps to the front door and set the box on the stoopbesidehim.

"What's that?" Iasked.

Lucas dipped his head forakiss.

I forgot aboutthebox.

You'd think that with all the sex we had, I'd be boredbynow.

Not achance.

I'd come so close to losing him. That would never happen again, but I knew better than anyone that the good things in life were meant to be savored. And Lucas's kisses werethebest.

I fell into him, sliding my arms around his back and tugging up his shirt to press my palms to the warm, silky skin beneath. Lucas shuffled me backward, turning me until my back hit the side of thehouse.

Against my neck, he said, "I've been in fucking meetings all day, and all I could think aboutwasthis."

He tugged at the neck of my blouse, revealing the navy lace bra I'd put on that morning. I'd gone straight from real estate class to meeting the broker who would list the house, so for once, I was dressed up as opposed to wearing the beat-up jeans and shirts I sacrificed torenovationwork.

Though the matching lace bra and thong under my suit weren't for business. They were forLucas.

Deftly, he unfastened the first two buttons and slipped his hand inside my shirt to cup my breast. I vaguely recalled that we were on the front stoop of the house. With Lucas's height and broad frame, he could easily shield me from prying eyes, but not if he stripped menaked.

With obvious reluctance, he withdrew his hand and said, "Let's go inside. I want another walkthrough. What did thebrokersay?"

I followed him down the hall, into the open space that held the kitchen, great room, and dining room. We'd done an amazing job with the place, in my not-so-humble opinion. Once the foundation had been repaired, almost all of the interior detailing had to go. It had been a lot of work.Aton.

Now, it was a jewel, the ideal example of mid-century modern design, with floor-to-ceiling plate glass windows, bamboo floors, soaring ceilings, and a modern aesthetic. Buyers were going to love it and we'd make akilling.

"She was in line with our estimates on price. We should have the first open house next weekend," I said, watching as he set the mysterious box on the sleek stainless steel of the kitchenisland.

"Sounds good. Any news on theoffer?"

We'd put in an offer the week before on an arts and crafts bungalow that was part of an estate. I thought we'd end up getting it, but the broker had to talk to all of the heirs to the property, which was taking longer than we'dexpected.

"Not yet." My curiosity getting the best of me, I pulled the box toward me and opened it. Looking inside, I asked, "Is this what I thinkitis?"

A bottle of Macallan scotch sat in the box, nestled in a pile of work rags. Pulling it out, I studied the label. I knew thisbottle.

Macallan 25 Year SarObair.

Only one hundred and sixty-eight bottles had been produced. Aiden had been crowing about snagging the bottle at auction for a thousand dollars. He'd refused to let any of us taste a single drop. And now Lucashadit.

"How?" Iasked.

"We're celebrating,"hesaid.