If Love Had a Price

Although she wasn’t sure Adonis qualified as a pretty boy. He was beautiful, but he exuded a raw, intense masculinity that eluded most of the plastic-perfect Ken dolls living in L.A.

Kris grimaced the second the thought crossed her mind.

She’d clearly been in the so-called City of Angels for too long, because her inner dialogue was starting to resemble that of a bad rom-com character.

“I’m flattered.” The sarcasm returned. A breeze swept by, ruffling Adonis’s floppy hair. “But it’s still a no.”

Kris sputtered in disbelief. “Are you kidding? It’s $10,000. You don’t even have to kiss her. Just make it look like you’re fucking her. You’re an actor, aren’t you?”

Adonis’s brows snapped together. “How did you know that?”

“Please. This is L.A. If you’re a good-looking waiter, there’s an eighty-five percent chance you’re an aspiring actor.”

“Fair enough.” He rubbed his jaw. “Why me? There are plenty of actors in L.A. who’d jump at the opportunity.”

“I told you, you’re the Stepmonster’s type.” Although Kris would never admit it, Adonis also intrigued her. She’d been a regular customer at Alchemy since she landed in L.A. three weeks ago, and he was the only male staff member who’d never spared her a glance except to ask if she’d like a refill. That, plus the fact he just turned down $10,000—money he needed, if the beat-up old car he’d been about to get into before she stopped him was anything to go by—made him a smidge more interesting than his Y-chromosome compatriots.

Kris averted her eyes from the beat-up car in question. Just looking at its scratched paint and dented driver’s door made her skin itch with discomfort; the sad old thing was like the visual equivalent of polyester.

“And I told you, I’m no whore,” Adonis said softly.

The air between them crackled with tension, and the hairs on the back of Kris’s neck prickled with unease. Her senses had never been more alert, picking up everything from the way Adonis’s muscled chest rose and fell to the faint, not-at-all-unpleasant scent of coffee and leather that wafted from his clothing.

“We’re going around in circles.” Kris struggled to maintain her cool demeanor. “Like I said, you don’t actually have to sleep with her. This is an acting job. You’ll be acting as her lover. Seduce her, get her into a compromising position where my P.I. can snap a few quick pics, and you’ll be $10,000 richer. It’s the easiest job you could ask for.”

Adonis leaned against his car and crossed his arms over his chest. With his hard glare and insouciant slouch, he resembled a modern-day James Dean, with a dash of Liam Hemsworth thrown in.

“Make it $15,000, and I’ll think about it.”

Disbelief swirled in Kris’s veins. “You’re fucking kidding. You’re negotiating with me?” Who the hell did he think he was? “Ten grand was already a lot for a minimum amount of work. I could hire any wannabe actor in this town for that price.”

“Then hire them.” A mocking smile flirted at the edges of Adonis’s mouth at her subsequent silence. “If it was that easy, you wouldn’t be arguing with a waiter in a parking lot.” Somehow, he made the word “waiter” sound like an insult toward Kris, even though he was the server. “What’ll it be, princess?”

She ground her teeth. “$15K and you’ll do it?”

“I’ll think about doing it.”

Kris was this close to punching him in his perfect face. She should’ve worn her Dior cocktail ring today—then her punch would’ve really hurt.

“Fine.” Her agreement surprised herself. “Give me your phone.”

Adonis did so without a word—another surprise. Kris had expected him to deny her request, given how hellbent he seemed on making things difficult for her.

She added her number to his contacts and texted herself from his phone. “What’s your name?”

“Nate.”

Nate. It suited him, somehow.

“I’m Kris, with a K.” She returned his phone, her tone crisp and efficient. “You have forty-eight hours to decide. If I don’t hear from you by Monday at five p.m., the offer goes to someone else—someone who wouldn’t be foolish enough to let the deal of a lifetime slip through their fingers.”

“Princess, you’d have to offer me a lot more than $15K for this to be the best deal of my life.” Nate’s gaze dipped to her lips, the tiny movement charging his words with a sexual innuendo that sent an unexpected blast of heat through Kris’s body. His mocking smile reappeared. “Talk to you in forty-eight hours. Or not.”

He climbed into his car and drove away, leaving a fuming, strangely turned-on Kris in the parking lot.

CHAPTER TWO

Nate Reynolds’s good mood evaporated the second he stepped inside his house. The booze-drenched air clogged his nostrils, and the familiar sight of his father passed out on the living room couch with a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels clutched in his hand chased away any lingering amusement Nate felt after his conversation with the beautiful brunette from the parking lot earlier.

Kris.

She’d been a favorite of Alchemy’s male staff since she first showed up at the cafe a few weeks ago. She was a regular now, but her perfect hair and designer clothes screamed “spoiled princess,” which was why Nate had steered clear of anything resembling flirting. His coworkers could drool over her sultry looks and aloof haughtiness all they wanted, but uppity rich girls weren’t his type.

However, she’d turned out to be more intriguing than he’d expected—fiery and sharp-tongued, instead of dull and vapid like the few heiresses he’d hooked up with in the past. Kris’s extravagant five-figure offer didn’t hurt, either. Nate may not like spoiled rich girls, but he had no problem taking their money, and God knew his family needed the green. However, the idea of selling his body for cash—even if he was only pretending to do so—caused his stomach to churn with nausea.

Nate had forty-eight hours to decide whether his values were worth the roof over his head.

I’ll deal with it later.

He had more pressing issues at hand—namely, getting his father up to his room and airing out the sickly smell of whiskey before Skylar returned home.

Michael Reynolds grunted and shifted in his sleep. He’d been a handsome man once, with the same sharp bone structure and olive complexion as his son, but age, grief, and alcohol had transformed him into a shell of the person he used to be.

A familiar cocktail of resentment, resignation, and weariness bubbled in Nate’s veins as he opened all the windows and spritzed the air with a lemony-smelling spray Skylar had bought on their last Walmart run. He tidied up the things Michael had knocked over—the umbrella stand in the tiny entry hall, the framed picture of a ten-year-old Nate and four-year-old Skylar on the side table—before attempting to pry good ol’ Jack from his father’s hands.

Michael stirred. Nothing kicked his ass into gear like the threat of being separated from his precious alcohol.

“Nate?” His bleary, bloodshot eyes blinked up at his son. “Whaddaya doing here?”

“I live here,” Nate said, voice clipped. “Is this what you’ve been doing all day?”

Michael was supposed to be job hunting. He’d gotten laid off from his construction gig for showing up to work late and drunk, and he’d said he would find another job soon.

That had been two months ago.

“I sent out a few resumes,” Michael mumbled. “Don’t know what happened after that. Must’ve fallen asleep.”

Nate exhaled a controlled breath. His patience with his father had run out a long time ago. He understood Michael’s heartbreak—he and Skylar battled the same grief. No matter how many years passed, the sadness lingered in their household like a dark fog that wouldn’t go away.

But life didn’t stop moving because you were sad, and Michael had two children to take care of. Since he’d traded in his responsibilities for the oblivion only found in a bottle, Nate had taken over as de facto head of the household.

He was twenty-three, but he acted more like a father to Michael than Michael did to him.

“Shower and get dressed. Skylar will be home soon,” Nate ordered.

He knew when to pick his battles. There was no use pushing Michael on the job hunt when he was like this—he’d just stare at Nate with that empty look in his eyes, like he’d lost the will to live.

He basically had five years ago, when Joanna Reynolds got on a plane home from visiting her best friend in Chicago. She’d never arrived. Her plane had suffered a mechanical failure and crashed in the Rockies, leaving behind no survivors and dozens of devastated families, including Nate’s own.

Michael struggled to sit up. “Didya get any new roles this week?” he asked.

It was both his and Nate’s dream for Nate to become a successful actor, only they had wildly different motivations. Nate had dreamed of taking over the big screen since he was a child; Michael just wanted Nate to earn enough money to keep him flush with alcohol.

Yeah, no.

Once Nate had the cash, he would ship his father off to the best rehab he could find. Maybe then, he could glue the pieces of his family back together.

“I had a modeling gig,” Nate said, sidestepping the question as he looped an arm under Michael’s and pulled the older man to his feet.

Nate took the occasional odd job to supplement his salary from the cafe—modeling, catering, bartending. It didn’t matter as long as they paid him. Every dollar counted.

The Reynoldses weren’t destitute. There were families in far worse straits than theirs, but between Michael’s unemployment and alcohol addiction, Skylar’s expenses as an incoming high school senior, and Nate’s acting aspirations, they were stretched paper-thin. Thin enough that rent day sent spirals of anxiety tunneling through Nate’s body every month.

If Nate were selfless, he’d cut back ruthlessly on their spending and give up his dreams of Hollywood stardom. The pursuit of an onscreen career wasn’t cheap—headshots, acting classes, an inordinate amount of gas spent driving all over L.A. for auditions and networking events. It added up. He’d dropped the acting classes when Michael lost his job, but it wasn’t enough.

However, Nate wasn’t a financial genius or a saint. He was a twenty-three-year-old with a dream. Call him selfish, but he’d be damned if he was going to let his hopes slip through his fingers as easily as his youth.

He’d shouldered the responsibilities of an adult twice his age since he was eighteen. Now all he needed was a big break in his career.

Just one. That’s all I need.

A car door slammed outside.

Nate stiffened and quickened his pace until he reached his father’s room and laid Michael awkwardly on the bed. By the time he yanked the elder Reynolds’ shoes off, tucked him beneath the comforter, and drew the curtains closed, Michael had passed out again.

“Dad? You home?” Skylar’s voice floated up the stairs.

Nate shut the door to his father’s room behind him and met his sister in the living room. She wore a blue and white jersey and matching shorts with a soccer ball tucked beneath her arm. Her grinning face was flushed, and her hair was slicked back into a ponytail. She’d inherited their mom’s hazel eyes and golden locks, and sometimes, Nate’s heart splintered at the resemblance.

Skylar’s face lit up when she saw him.

“Nate! You’re home early.” She tackled him with a sweaty hug and laughed when he faux grimaced.

She was a big hugger, no matter the time or situation.

“Get away from me. You stink.” His teasing lilt tempered his words.

“Duh. I just came from soccer.” Skylar rolled her eyes, then wrinkled her nose. “Actually, this entire room stinks. Ew.”

“Blame your BO.”

“Shut up. I do not have BO.” She gnawed on her lip. “Dad’s been drinking again, hasn’t he?”

“No, he hasn’t,” he lied.

“Bullshit. It reeks of whiskey.” Skylar’s eyes landed on something behind Nate. He followed her gaze and cursed silently when he saw the bottle of Jack Daniels on the coffee table. He’d forgotten to stash it away before dragging their father upstairs.

Skylar knew about their father’s drinking, but Nate tried to shield her from the worst of it as much as he could. She still held onto the romantic notion that Michael would snap out of his stupor and transform into a doting father again, even though it’d been five years, and Nate didn’t have the heart to shatter her fantasy.

“Language,” he warned, zeroing in on her use of “bullshit” instead of the half-empty whiskey five feet away.

Skylar rolled her eyes again. “Whatever. I’ve heard you say worse things.”

“How was camp?” Nate switched topics. He and Skylar could bicker for hours, but he was exhausted after a busy day at the cafe. He also needed time to mull over Kris’s offer.

“It was great!” Skylar’s ponytail swished with excitement. Nothing animated her more than soccer, except maybe a new issue of Scientific American. Nate didn’t know where she got her love of science from—their mother had been an English teacher, and their father wasn’t exactly Bill Nye, either. “I scored two goals, and Coach said if I keep up my performance, she’ll write me a recommendation for Stanford at the end of the summer.”

“That’s awesome.” A genuine grin stretched across Nate’s face. He’d dropped out of college to work after their mom died and their dad spiraled; while his school grades had been average at best, he missed the college experiences—of crazy roommates and new friendships, of parties and girls and all-night adventures, of being young and wild and free.

He hadn’t had the pleasure of living life the way an eighteen-year-old should’ve lived it, but he’d do everything in his power to ensure the same opportunity didn’t slip by Skylar. She was smart and spirited, a straight-A student with dreams of studying biology at Stanford. It was an expensive dream—even more so than Nate’s—and getting a full-ride scholarship was their only hope of affording it if she got in.

To get a scholarship, Skylar needed an edge over the other applicants. Luckily, she was as talented at soccer as she was at academics, which was why Nate hadn’t given a second thought to forking over an ungodly sum of money for a prestigious summer soccer camp that boasted Olympians and World Cup athletes as alumni.

He’d worked his ass off for weeks to make up for the drain in their bank account, but it was worth it. Hopefully.

“By the way.” Skylar tugged on her ponytail, her tone so casual it immediately raised Nate’s suspicions. “Can you drive me to the movies tomorrow night? I’m going with a new friend from camp.”

His shoulders relaxed at the mundane request. Thank God she wasn’t going on a date or anything like that. Nate had enough to worry about without having to beat hormone-driven teenage boys away from his sister. “Sure.”

“Thanks!” Skylar gave him another hug before bounding up the stairs. “I’m going to take a shower while you order pizza.”

“Who says I’m ordering pizza?” Nate yelled after her.

She answered with a knowing laugh.

Takeout was a luxury these days, but Saturday night pizza had been a family tradition since they were children. Sometimes they missed it if there was an event or something else going on, but they stuck to it as much as possible. It was the one non-essential item Nate made sure he budgeted for every month.

Silence descended in Skylar’s wake.

Nate leaned against the wall and took out his phone, scrolling aimlessly until he stopped on Kris’s name.

Memories of her huge dark eyes and lush curves sent twin thrills of arousal and challenge through his veins. She was bad news. The princess types always were.

But $15,000…that was enough money to pay several months’ rent. Nate would have peace of mind and time to focus on auditions. Who knows? Maybe one of the auditions would lead to his big break.

Plus, he wouldn’t mind seeing Kris again.

For payment purposes, of course.

Nate’s jaw clenched as the logical side of his brain battled with his resistance to selling his body for money. There was also the moral dilemma of seducing someone to break up a relationship.

Perhaps he was being hypocritical, because modeling and acting were, in their own ways, selling bodies, and Nate was no saint. But he had his values, and the idea of faking interest in a woman for cold, hard cash sat like greasy pizza in the pit of his stomach.

After another ten minutes of waffling back and forth, he shoved his phone back into his pocket and walked upstairs, where he scrubbed away the day’s headaches with a long, hot shower.

He didn’t need to decide now.

Kris had given him forty-eight hours.

He had forty-five left.

CHAPTER THREE

Kris’s irritation and inexplicable arousal from her encounter with Nate lingered throughout her retail therapy session on Rodeo Drive. By the time she arrived home, the sun had dipped beneath the horizon, but she still trembled with uncharacteristic agitation.

Forty-eight hours. She’d never waited that long for anything in her life, and the fact she’d offered Nate that much leeway when she could get any empty-headed pretty boy to take his place baffled her.

It was a job. She was an employer hiring an employee—a temporary one, at that. Why did Kris care who it was as long as they got the job done?

Her foul mood ratcheted up another notch when she saw the Stepmonster’s red Ferrari Spider parked in the ten-car garage. The Ferrari, along with Kris’s silver Mercedes convertible, was one of three cars Roger kept in L.A. for when he was in town.

The Carreras’ mansion in Beverly Hills was, like all their other properties, huge, and Kris had avoided the Stepmonster nine times out of ten so far. Even so, knowing the redhead roamed the estate at the same time as her put Kris’s teeth on edge.

She slammed her car door shut and entered the main building, bypassing the dome-ceilinged foyer, massive sunken living room, and gourmet kitchen on her way to her suite. Shopping bags from dozens of designer boutiques hung from her arms, but Kris was too consumed with thoughts of emerald eyes and whiskey drawls to take comfort in the weight of thousands of dollars’ worth of clothing and accessories.

She tried to shake the image of Nate out of her mind, but it clung to her consciousness like Saran Wrap.

Dammit.

Kris made it to the bottom of the staircase right as Gloria’s sickeningly sweet voice seeped into the air.

“How was work, darlin’?”

The exaggerated Southern accent caused the hairs on the back of Kris’s neck to prickle.

She straightened her shoulders, turned, and leveled the Stepmonster with a disinterested gaze.

Gloria wasn’t her stepmother yet, thank God, but Stepmonster-to-be didn’t roll off the tongue quite as smoothly.

Her father’s twenty-seven-year-old fiancée wore a green floral bikini top that showcased the best double-Ds money could buy and a sheer sarong that stopped mid-thigh. With her flame-colored hair, hourglass figure, and fluttering lashes, she resembled Jessica Rabbit, only she was even faker than the cartoon.

“I feel so bad for you, havin’ to work all day.” Gloria’s glossy lips pushed out into a pout. “Must be so…tedious. But you know what your father said. You need to learn the value of money and hard work, darlin’. Can’t go fritterin’ away the family fortune on designer handbags and shoes.” She raised an eyebrow at Kris’s proliferation of shopping bags.

Fury simmered in Kris’s veins. Gloria was one to talk, given her addiction to Hermès and Louis Vuitton. She’d been a cocktail waitress scraping by on tips from lecherous men at a high-end bar before she’d landed her big fish: Roger Carrera, AKA Kris’s dad. In the eighteen months since she and Roger met, she’d transformed from an unsophisticated nobody who considered Target high-end to a designer snob who racked up monthly bills equivalent to the average American’s annual salary.

Still, Kris maintained her composure. She and Gloria were locked in a cold war, not a hot one. They fought their battles in the shadows, through subtle poisonous barbs and behind-the-scenes machinations. Whoever lost their cool first put themselves at a serious disadvantage.

“Thank you for your concern. I’m sure you’ve had enough experience with…hard work for both of us. But there’s no need to worry about me ‘fritterin’ away the family fortune. I plan to protect the Carerras’ money from anyone and anything that may threaten it.”

The real meaning behind her words hung in the air, clear as day.

Gloria was the threat, and Kris would annihilate her before the Stepmonster ever stepped foot on the wedding aisle.

Part of it was pure vindictiveness on Kris’s part. Her father had insisted she get a “real” job this summer and learn the value of money because Gloria had planted the idea in his head. Roger had been happy to provide Kris with as much money and freedom as she wanted—until the Stepmonster entered the picture.

Instead of arguing, Kris had agreed and convinced her father to land her a job as a summer assistant for Bobbi Rayden. She knew when to pick her battles, and if she was going to work like a plebeian, she might as well work at a glamorous job in L.A., where she could take advantage of the beaches and boutiques in her spare time, instead of pushing papers at her father’s company’s Seattle headquarters.

To her surprise and dismay, Gloria had offered to join her in California, framing it as an opportunity to bond with her future stepdaughter before the November nuptials. Roger, who was blind to Gloria and Kris’s mutual loathing and eager for them to get along, had jumped at the idea. Never mind the fact that Kris and Gloria wanted to bond as much as Kris wanted to drown in a sea of itchy polyester sweaters.

No, the Stepmonster had merely seized the opportunity to spend a summer in sunny SoCal instead of gloomy Seattle while Roger closed a major business deal in Manila. The deal had sucked up all of his attention the past few months, and he’d decided to stay in the Philippines until it was done instead of flying back and forth between Washington and Asia every few weeks.

“Oh, sweet darlin’. How naïve you are,” Gloria said softly. “To think you could protect anything from anyone. You grew up with a silver spoon in your mouth. You have no idea what it’s like, havin’ to fight for survival.”

Kris bared her teeth in a semblance of a smile. “Care to wager on that?”

“Oh, I don’t do wagers. Silly little things.” Gloria waved a dismissive hand in the air. Her massive ten-carat Cartier engagement ring flashed in the light, and a cold gleam of satisfaction entered her eyes when she saw Kris’s eye twitch with anger at the sight. “Besides,” she drawled. “You won’t have enough to wager with.”

The Stepmonster spun on her heels and strutted toward the pool, her hips swaying like a pendulum.

You won’t have enough to wager with.

What the hell was that supposed to mean? Gloria had convinced her father to cut her off after Kris spent an extravagant sum of money on her friend Courtney Taylor’s birthday weekend during study abroad, but a guilt-ridden Roger had reinstated Kris’s credit card privileges soon after. She doubted Gloria would try that trick again.

Besides, Kris’s checking and savings accounts were flush with cash, and once she turned twenty-three, she’d come into a trust fund large enough to ensure she’d never have to work a day in her life.

She decided Gloria was merely fucking with her and ascended the rest of the stairs to her room. Once Nate accepted Kris’s offer—and he would accept—Gloria would be out of her life forever. Kris had faith in his ability to seduce the Stepmonster.