Read Online Groomzilla by Tere Michaels - Free Book Online Page B

of other things, which made him better than Victor. More professional.
    All that suddenly went out the window.
    Because Daniel Green looked so unbelievably good—and so unbearably sad when Owen dropped the makeover thing in his lap.
    His lap.
    Oh God.
    Remembering Victor’s past escapades made Owen sick to his stomach. Sleeping with the wedding planner? Romancing people he had no intention of doing anything with past the final shoot of the show? That wasn’t Owen.
    “Owen?”
    He blinked until Daniel swam back into view; shrewd brown eyes regarded him, and Owen let his gaze wander to avoid their glare.
    A makeover felt like too strong a word. Owen wanted to get at that head of fine brown hair and neat beard with products and scissors. He wanted to put Daniel’s strong, compact body in a tailored suit and then shove him onto the set and watch the viewing audience fall in love.
    Or lust.
    Owen would understand each and every crush that developed, because he had one too.
    “Listen, I want you to know something,” Owen murmured, moving closer. “I don’t usually do this.”
    “Makeovers? Boys? Dirty footsie in classy restaurants?” The quips were lighthearted, but Owen could read the darting of Daniel’s eyes, the way he bit at his lower lip.
    “Get involved with people on the show,” he answered honestly, because he hadn’t. Not ever. His love life was a joke, his sex life casually infrequent. For years his life had been about the production company and making it a success. The days of hedonistic pleasure were long, long gone.
    Daniel nodded, angling his body back toward the window. “Good to know,” he said, almost dismissive. He didn’t say another word, his gaze directed toward the city flying by as they raced across town.
    Owen led Daniel to the doorman-guarded door of Victor’s building. The excess of the place, the sheer waste involved in every centimeter of the penthouse playground, created an ache in Owen’s stomach and his bank account every time he visited.
    White marble gargoyles peered down at them as they walked into the darkened lobby, Owen resting his hand at the small of Daniel’s back. The young man stiffened, then relaxed, leaning in Owen’s direction as the concierge approached them, key in hand.
    “Mr. Grainger,” the man said smoothly. “How are you today?”
    “Fine, thank you.” With his free hand, Owen gestured toward Daniel. “Everyone else is here, yes?”
    “Yes, sir. They arrived about a half an hour ago.” He regarded Daniel with polite curiosity, then walked to a small door near the ornate front desk.
    The concierge unlocked the outer door to reveal an old-fashioned elevator door, which he pushed open for them to enter.
    “After the crew leaves, I’d appreciate no one be sent up,” Owen said right before the door closed.
    “Of course, sir.”
    Then they were alone in the tiny paneled elevator car.
    “Do you live here too?” Daniel asked. Owen hadn’t moved his hand and Daniel hadn’t shrugged it off.
    “No, I live in Midtown. A long-term residence hotel.”
    Daniel wrinkled his nose. “And Victor lives in Wayne Manor?”
    Owen laughed. “No, in the penthouse of Wayne Manor.”
    He braced himself for Daniel’s reaction when they exited after a bumpy lurch and grind to the top. Owen slid open the little door to reveal the penthouse—no easing you into it, just a step from claustrophobia into a wild industrial warehouse space renovated into Batman’s bachelor pad.
    Owen saw Daniel’s jaw drop.
    “So this is the main space,” Owen said breezily, as if they weren’t wandering into a showplace. “Kitchen’s through there.” He led Daniel past the pool table, around the twenty-foot-high bookcases and tableau of heavy leather sofas. “Living room over there”—because it was hard to miss a ten-by-ten brick fireplace. The open staircase—leading up to the roof or down to the bedrooms—seemed to catch Daniel’s open-mouthed gaze.
    “It’s,