The Millionaire Makeover, #2

God was a woman, Niall Hunter decided.

Had to be.

When a man wanted payback, he just beat the sh*t out of the man who wronged him, had a beer with him afterward, and then they went on their merry way.

Women, on the other hand, let a man think everything was all hunky-dory and allowed time to pass, and all the while they stewed and plotted. Then, when a man least expected it, she kicked him in the nuts, bringing him to his knees.

Five feet in front of Niall sat Khloe Richardson, God’s blow to the balls.

Jesus H. Christ. What was she doing in a place like this? The ballroom filled with rich, more-money-than-sense eegits wasn’t exactly her crowd. The fact that he was one of those eegits didn’t escape him either.

He ground his teeth together, narrowing his eyes at the younger sister of his best friend. It didn’t matter that Michael had died three years ago, she was—and always would be—the sibling to the finest man he’d ever known. The one woman who remained beyond his reach, untouchable. Except for the one night when he’d been drowning in alcohol and grief and had spent hours in her arms and inside her body.

The night he would go to hell for.

Damn it. Familiar guilt and anger roiled in his gut as if he’d downed shot after shot of whiskey on an empty stomach. He’d known this—returning to Boston from Dublin, Ireland, after a three-year absence, participating in this meat market for vain, bored socialites—had been a bad idea.

He should’ve followed his instincts and kept his ass on the other side of the ocean.

Khloe slowly rose from her chair, her wide gaze fixed on him. Damn, she was beautiful.

Even in the ugliest dress he’d ever seen, she outshone every woman in the room.

The…thing… might have had a collar as high as a nun’s habit, and the dark material skimming her body had all the shape and appeal of a potato sack, but he remembered the body underneath in startling, vivid detail. Three years hadn’t dimmed his memories—not when he f**king thought about her naked and writhing underneath him with a regularity that bordered on obsession. Breasts large enough to fill his palms, a tiny waist that accentuated the sensual flare of her hips. Hips he’d gripped as he’d dragged her up and down on his c*ck as her toned, lightly muscled thighs quivered with the exertion her virgin’s body hadn’t been used to. Well, hadn’t been used to before that night.

Maybe that was part of his punishment for laying a hand on Michael’s much-loved baby sister. Damned to never forget the most explosive, mind-blowing sex of his life…and doomed never to repeat it because of his friend’s last request before his death.

Yeah, God was definitely a woman.

Only a female could be that fu**king diabolical.