The Sex Cure Read online

  “Yes.” He glanced at the carpet, looking contrite. And...a little lost. This wasn’t a joke. He was serious. The laughter in her throat died. Clearly, the man had a problem and was struggling to cope. The advice columnist in her made her pause. A million thoughts ran through her mind: was he not satisfying his partners? She looked at the dark-haired, devilishly handsome specimen before her. No, that couldn’t be it. Most women would be able to satisfy themselves just fine by practically looking at the man.

  What about sex addiction? That was probably far more likely, she figured. She imagined the man unable to control his baser desires, falling into bed with countless women, and suddenly the image of him naked, helpless against his own impulses made a tiny bead of sweat drip down the small of her back. Was that...turning her on? Good lord. This was the first man she’d ever met that she’d immediately imagined...naked. What was wrong with her? She knew about charisma, knew about the power of sexual pheromones, yet, she’d never truly experienced their raw power. Until right at this moment.

  “I understand how ridiculous this might seem.” He glanced up at her, appearing almost desperate. He needed help. That much was clear. He was also a man not used to asking for it, she guessed. And suddenly, she felt... God, did she feel sorry for the man? She could absolutely not allow any feelings of pity or any other feelings into her heart for this man who’d single-handedly destroyed the magazine she’d lived to work for. “I want you to take me on. As a personal client.”

  “But...you fired me.” None of this was computing.

  “You’re damn good at what you do. I’ve read your columns. I think you can help me.” He’d liked her columns?

  “If I had a good column, why did you fire—”

  “Lay off,” he corrected.

  “Kick me to the curb,” she said. She gripped her glass a little tighter, that old resentment bubbling up in her. He wasn’t going to get away with sugarcoating anything.

  “It was business. Not personal.”

  “How can I not take it personally?” Seriously. Was she about to hear the professional equivalent of the it’s-not-me-it’s-you speech?

  “You decide not to.” He eyed her. Why was he so confounding? She was just going to decide not to have a grudge against him. As if it were that easy. She drained what was left in her glass. He stood, fetched the crystal bottle from the mini bar and poured her another round. She accepted it without a word, her head starting to buzz from the first pour. And from the proximity of the man.

  “Tell me why should I even consider doing a favor for you?” This was the real question.

  He cocked his head to one side as if the answer was obvious. “Well, because I asked.”

  Now, she laughed, full-throated and bent over her knees with mirth. He was funny, damn. And cocky as hell. She kind of liked that about him. She hated that she liked it, but there it was. “Normally, I don’t take personal life-coaching clients.” Except now she’d need to take them on. Lots of them, if she wanted to not be homeless.

  “I’ve heard you do make exceptions. I’d like you to make one for me.” He had such gall. And why did that seem so damn sexy? Or was it just the perfect lines of that expensive suit? Her mother’s voice was in her head then: Hear the man out. Don’t be so stubborn you cut off your nose to spite your face.

  “I’d have to hear what you need counseling for.”

  He leaned back in his chair, the very epitome of charm and ease, except for the guarded look in his eyes. The man clearly used charm to keep people at bay. Well, Harley wasn’t just any person. She took a sledgehammer to emotional walls and usually had a pretty strong bullshit meter.

  “I need another round.” He poured himself more tequila, as well.

  Harley quirked an eyebrow. “Do you need another cocktail to talk about your sex life, Mr. Lange?”

  Wilder looked at her, eyes alight with mischief. “It’s you who might need another cocktail, Ms. Vega.”

  Harley laughed a little. Oh, how little the man knew her. “Trust me, there’s nothing you can tell me that will shock me.”

  Wilder leaned forward, dark eyes bright. “Is that a challenge?”

  She hated to admit it, but the man was already challenging her in ways she didn’t like. “No. Just a simple statement of fact.” She took a drink of the tequila, the warmth trailing down her throat to her stomach. “I’m curious about why the world’s most famous playboy wants...or needs a sexologist?”

  Wilder seemed frozen for a second, his expression completely unreadable, and she worried she’d offended him. Then again, why was she worrying about his feelings? Did she care about making things easier for Wilder Lange? Not at all. He was full of himself. So why did she also think he was the sexiest man she’d met in God knows when? Because she always liked men who were trouble, and Wilder Lange had trouble written all over him.

  He laughed, a deep chuckle in his belly that she almost felt as a vibration through her whole being. “So, you’ve been reading about me, too, I see.”

  “It’s hard not to.” He was everywhere—magazines, blogs, even the evening news sometimes. Clinically, she could admit she was attracted to him, but attraction had never been an issue for her before. She could compartmentalize her feelings, tuck them away in a box on a shelf and then let her clinical, scientific self examine those contents at a later date in a safer environment. But she was having problems compartmentalizing with Wilder sitting before her.

  She needed to get this meeting back on track. She cleared her throat. Enough of dipping her toe in the pool of sexual energy flowing between them. Harley knew it was there, and she also knew that as a professional, she could ignore it. People might be animals, with animal instincts, but they also had cold hard logic.

  “So, if we can discuss what you’d like from me...”

  “Just your attention, Ms. Vega.” His grin turned almost wolfish then, the innuendo subtle, yet she caught it. Maybe she was wrong about the flirting. He seemed to be laying it on thick. Too thick, maybe. He studied her, dark eyes sharp, missing nothing. “This is...well...not easy for me, Harley. Especially with the paparazzi always sniffing around.”

  “I thought you employed the paparazzi?” She knew he owned more than one tabloid.

  “Just because I’m the boss, doesn’t mean they won’t report on me. Besides, they have competitors that I don’t own. And I’ve made enemies in some places. Political ones.” She’d heard about those, as well. He’d had a public feud with a powerful New York senator over FCC regulations.

  “I guess you can’t make an omelet without breaking some eggs,” she said.

  “Isn’t it a little too early in the day to be quoting Ayn Rand?” Wilder asked her, a playful smile on his lips. So, the books on his shelf weren’t just for show. He’d read some of them. Perhaps he wasn’t the empty-headed billionaire she’d assumed he was. The more he talked, the more he seemed exactly her type—tall, dark, devilishly handsome and most likely with more issues than Sports Illustrated. She hated how much she loved complicated men, but there it was. Her Achilles’ heel.

  “Maybe.” She shrugged. “Are you going to keep changing the subject or are we going to talk about what you need from me?”

  Wilder barked a laugh. “Okay. But, before I tell you, I’ll need reassurances that what we talk about here today will be confidential.”

  She slid one knee over the other, her fitted skirt sliding up her leg. “Absolutely. I won’t tell a soul.” Wrong. She’d tell every single person she knew and then people she didn’t. She had zero loyalty to Wilder Lange.

  Harley was finding it hard to meet Wilder’s gaze. He was looking at her as if she were an intruder in his territory, as if he were a wolf defending his pack’s hunting grounds. She tried to figure out why she thought he was so predatory. He was just a man, sitting in a chair, but there was something about the set of his shoulders, the barely restrained
power there. Also, beneath that lazy smile, the bright, intelligent eyes, there was a hardness to Wilder Lange. She thought he must be a man used to using honey to lure bees, of that Harley was certain, but she also sensed a rigidity in him, which would account for the fact that he’d more than doubled his father’s empire. One couldn’t be a fantastically successful businessman on charm alone. Charm, she suspected, was just one of his weapons.

  “Just to be certain, I’ll need you to sign this NDA before we get started.” Wilder rose, and moved over to his oversized antique desk, where he slipped open a drawer and pulled out a document of about five pages.

  Harley blinked fast. She didn’t want to sign her soul away in some document. She was no lawyer. “Do we need that?”

  Wilder crooked his head and handed her the papers and a pen. “Indulge me.” His sensual lips bent into a friendly smile, one intending to disarm her. Clearly, he was a man not used to trusting anyone. Harley took the document and scanned it. From what she could tell, it was a typical nondisclosure agreement, except that while most NDAs lasted two to five years, this one lasted for the entirety of Harley’s life. And she was not allowed to ever even admit to knowing, let alone treating, Wilder Lange.

  “I can’t admit I know you?” she asked, puzzled, as she glanced at him. There goes spreading this little tidbit of gossip all over social media.

  “If these terms aren’t reasonable to you, then...”

  Harley glanced at Wilder. She could get up right now and leave. Why was she doing him any favors? She hated him. Hated what he’d done to her beloved magazine. Yet, she knew deep in her bones she couldn’t walk away. Not yet. Harley loved nothing more than a challenge, and she suspected Wilder would be that and more. The set of his chin, those mysterious dark eyes, the protective rigidity of his shoulders.... Oh, yes, he would be a delicious challenge. And what did she have waiting for her back at home? An eviction notice and hours to scroll LinkedIn for want ads? Besides, curiosity was eating her up inside. She needed to know what problem was so dire that he’d called her to his home and asked for her help.

  She took the pen and signed her name on the contract and handed it back to him. He took it, tucked the papers back inside his desk drawer and then took his place opposite her in the leather-bound chair.

  “Now, what can I help you with?” she asked. The curiosity was literally about to kill her.

  “I can’t seem to...” He took in a sharp breath. “Well, I can’t seem to have sex.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  HARLEY LOOKED AS if he’d just told her he was an alien born in a different galaxy. Well, he guessed she hadn’t been expecting that. Wilder, himself, was the last man who would’ve thought it could happen to him, either. But there was the sad ugly truth: he was thirty-nine and having trouble getting it up. No matter how beautiful the woman, no matter how amazing or tantalizing she might be, he was having difficulty even mustering up a baseline interest in sex. He was supposed to be in the prime of his life and yet he couldn’t enjoy it. He’d tried the pills, and he’d had all the examinations, and every doctor or specialist told him there was absolutely nothing physically wrong with him. He was in the best shape of his life. His problem, they said, was all in his head.

  “I’m sorry...you can’t...?” she said, and then quickly tried to mask her surprise. She was so shocked she put her glass on the nearby glass end table. He, however, took another swig of his.

  “I can’t maintain an erection,” he clarified. No use beating around the bush.

  “Oh.”

  He gave her points for the professionalism and for not laughing in his face. He knew she was angry with him, had every right to be angry with him, and that’s why she’d be the perfect woman to treat him. Because she wouldn’t let him have a pity party like the last therapist he’d tried, who’d gotten him absolutely nowhere. Harley Vega wouldn’t let him manipulate her, either. Of that, he was absolutely certain.

  Wilder was more than certain she was the woman to cure him. He hadn’t been this intrigued by a woman in...he couldn’t remember when. Before their meeting, he’d watched dozens of her interviews, read a substantial amount of her advice columns, and he had wanted to meet her in person. She was a rare combination of a beautiful mind who wasn’t afraid to say what needed to be said and a strikingly beautiful woman with curves that simply didn’t quit. The tight pencil skirt clung to her athletic legs, and while the pink ruffled top hid her curves, the sheer fabric showed just a hint of flesh-colored lace beneath, a tantalizing clue of the lingerie she’d worn to this meeting. He was certain she probably didn’t even know the lace showed. Her normally dark shoulder-length curls were confined in a tight French twist, revealing a smooth angular jawline that he had the sudden urge to stroke with his finger. Her light brown eyes were both warm and yet also...reserved. This was a woman used to keeping herself on a short leash, and that made him wonder why she felt she needed to grip it so tightly.

  “I see.” She was stalling for time. Trying to get her thoughts in order, he guessed. It’s probably not every day the man who laid her off admitted to such a crippling problem. He would pause to feel humiliated, except that he didn’t have time for that. He needed to get help, and he needed to get it now. “So, I guess you’re not a sex addict, then?”

  He barked a laugh. She was exactly the no-nonsense, pull-no-punches Harley Vega that lived in those advice columns.

  “Is that what you thought?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Can you blame me? You have a new girlfriend every week. And they usually write songs about your...” she cleared her throat “...abilities. While, also, I should say, talking about how you can’t commit.”

  “I choose not to commit, there’s a difference.”

  “Said like a true commitment-phobe.”

  He laughed. He couldn’t help himself. Damn, the woman was blunt. Bold. Unafraid of him. She was just what he needed. “Surely, you don’t believe everything you’ve read about me. I’m sure you know that public lives can be different than private ones.”

  She nodded, once. “Yes,” she admitted.

  “So, do you think you can help me?” he asked.

  She kept her face a perfect mask. “It’s a common problem,” she said, which he thought was kind, even as she uncrossed her legs and recrossed them. He watched the hem of her skirt rise, revealing her perfectly smooth olive skin above her knee. He felt his breath catch a little and wondered what that was about. He was a man who surrounded himself with beautiful women on a regular basis, so why would a hint of skin even register with him? Yet, it did. She bit her full lip, concentrating on her next response and he found it unbelievably sexy. The tiniest of lines appeared between her otherwise perfectly manicured eyebrows. Harley was beautiful, but not perfect, he noted, her smile slightly lopsided, her light brown eyes almost too big for her face. Almost. He’d call them doe-like, if he had to use a cliché, but really they were just big and warm and cautious. It was the cautiousness that intrigued him, the guardedness in her otherwise warm and open expression. She wore little makeup, which Wilder respected. He preferred the natural look, no matter what the tabloids might say about him.

  But before he could fully appreciate the view before him, his phone rang. It was his younger brother Seth. He was the oldest of Wilder’s half siblings.

  “I need to take this,” he said, even as Harley rose to her feet to protest. He stood and moved to the other side of the study. “Hello?”

  “You sitting down?”

  “No. Should I be?” He glanced at Harley long enough to see a flash of annoyance cross her face. She didn’t like being put on hold. But he’d not send his brother to voice mail. For him, family always came first.

  “Maybe. I heard Mom is talking to Stuart. She’s trying to get him to sell his shares in Lange Communications.” In the background, Wilder heard a seagull cry. Seth was supposed to be somewhere in the Mediterranean, wh
ich was why Wilder was always going to take his brother’s call. He never knew when it could be an emergency. “Stuart said no, but just wanted you to know she’s trying to up her shares.”

  “Of course, she is. That’s her full-time obsession for the last two years. Ever since the company became profitable.” Wilder felt the tightness in his chest loosen a bit. He was always a little worried about any of his brothers and was glad to hear this was just a routine call about Lucinda and not something serious like a car accident or, worse, a sinking yacht.

  “Not that she’d ever admit you saved Dad’s legacy. She was livid when you got the lion’s share of the stocks. But he knew you were the best man to run it. We all know that.”

  “I did what any of you would do.”

  “Dad’s company would be bankrupt by now if any of us had tried to run it. You did something extraordinary. Give yourself credit.”

  Wilder felt a swell of pride in his chest. He’d spent most of his life looking after his younger brothers. He’d had to: Lucinda drank too much and while his father was fantastic—when he was home—the business kept him traveling around the world most of the time when he’d been alive. Sure, they’d had a parade of nannies through the house. The nannies had made sure they were fed and wore clean clothes, but none of them dealt with school bullies or helped with homework assignments or, at least for one brother, aided him in talking through his difficult decision to come out. Wilder had been the one who’d been there through it all, making sure the boys knew they had someone in their lives who wasn’t going anywhere. They’d all naturally handed over the job of running their father’s business to him, no questions asked. If pushed, he knew, all of them were relieved not to have had to deal with the burden. No matter what their mother told them about how Wilder wasn’t fit to do it. They all knew he was the only one who could.

  And Wilder took the responsibility because that’s what Wilder did. He always did what needed to be done.