Free Roaring Hot! (Contemporary Romance): A Billionaire Biker Romance by Rachelle Ayala Page B

one.”
    “Did they show you any of the videos? It would be interesting to critique them.” Peter kicked open her door and dragged the cases in.
    “Obviously not. Who knows what will survive the cutting room?” Amy stopped at the threshold of her bedroom. “What happened here? Don’t tell me you cleaned.”
    “Not me. Your mother did.” Peter swept his hand to show her the pristine room, devoid of personality. Motivational posters with mottos on success, leadership, and teamwork were pasted on the walls, and the bed was made with a severe pinstriped bedspread with Spartan tucked corners.
    “What happened to all my etchings, pinups and the folk art I collected?” Amy yanked the dresser drawer. “All my silk and lace underwear are gone.”
    She opened the closet. Rows of sensible business suits replaced the party dresses and gowns she owned. Sterile pumps in wooden shoe stretchers hung in her shoe organizer.
    “What the heck did she do with my clothes? I hope she didn’t give them away.” Amy’s voice shrieked to ear piercing levels.
    “Ow, ow.” Peter covered his ears. “I dug them out of the bin. They’re in my room.”
    “Why did you let her in?”
    “I didn’t. I walked in as your brother was lugging out a garbage bag. She must have convinced the supervisor to open the door for her.”
    What the hell was wrong with her parents? Her dad was all bark and no bite, but her mom? Sneak attack territory. Passive aggressive.
    Her breath fuming, Amy tore past Peter to his room. “Where’s my stuff? Did you save everything?”
    “Of course I did, but it’s going to cost you for storage.”
    “Grrr … Don’t you do anything because you like me?” Amy dug through his mess and found her garbage bags. “Did you tell the supervisor to change the locks?”
    Peter shrugged. “Your mother has enough money to get past him. I suggest you put everything in storage. Take what you need for the race trips and—”
    “How much you want for storage?” Amy rummaged in her purse for her checkbook. “I’ll add it to your tab.”
    “A hundred a month would do. I come cheaply.”
    “Ugh, don’t let any woman hear you say that.” She poked him with a pen. “How’s your love life?”
    “How’s yours?” His eyes narrowed into a squint. “Do I detect a chink in your armor?”
    “None at all. Purely business. Everything’s business. When you see the videos, you’ll see what a great actress I am.”
    “Wonderful. I’m glad,” Peter said. He picked up a tablet and swiped to the entertainment news. “Then this picture of Teo romping with the German fräuleins at a beer garden shouldn’t bother you at all.”
    * * *
    Teo’s exploits didn’t bother Amy as much as a dearth of acting roles, or so she’d convinced herself. Two weeks of readings, auditions, and tryouts brought nothing. What kind of agent was Peter anyway?
    Amy reclined her seat on Teo’s private jet. She pulled a black eye mask over her face, stuffed foam earplugs in her ears, and tried to sleep despite the turbulence. She wasn’t in the mood to party with the camera crew and entertainment bloggers on this last leg of the flight to Teo’s race in Germany.
    Not that she cared if he painted the town red. After all, that was the entire premise of the show. An ordinary girl tames an incorrigible player. Whatever spark she might have felt that last night in Amsterdam was simply a hormonal imbalance, or indigestion from the Dutch diet rich in beer, cheese, and chocolate—all of which she’d paid for by exercising triple time.
    She’d already replaced her Facebook relationship status with “It’s Complicated,” and removed Ronaldo’s name. As long as Silver Studios kept the checks rolling and gave her a recommendation at the end, she was satisfied.
    Her sleep was too soon disturbed by the customs officials and immigration agents who boarded as soon as the plane landed. Amy suffered their intrusions in silence, then allowed the limo driver to