Page 28 of The Billionaire's Princess

“I lived for that,” I say, reluctantly letting her go and backing up a step. “All day.”

She turns to face me, her color high and her eyes feverishly bright. And I’d hardly be a heterosexual man if I didn’t notice the way her breasts heave as she tries to catch her breath and the prominent dots of her nipples through her thin bra and top.

But it’s the unmistakable uncertainty behind her searching look that really catches my attention.

“What’re we playing at here, Damon?”

Good question. I can only shrug and wish I knew, because this thing between us? Scary as hell.

“I was hoping you’d tell me,” I say.

“My life is already complicated. I’m trying to figure out my life and my career. I’ve got a recent broken engagement under my belt and an overbearing father breathing down my neck.” She hesitates, that hint of vulnerability intensifying in her expression. “I’m trying to be open with you. The last thing I need is anything emotional. Or any, I don’t know, confusion. Am I making any sense?”

I feel another surge of something primitive and protective. Maybe it’s because it’s just the two of us here in her apartment and she’s giving me a glimpse of the fresh-faced young woman beneath the Titian goddess who strode into Bemelmans and slid under my skin. Maybe it’s because I know, even at this ridiculously early stage of things, that I will kill or die before I allow this woman to be hurt on my watch. And make no mistake, my watch began pretty much the second I met her.

As long as she continues to look at me like that? We’re golden.

“You’re making perfect sense,” I tell her.

“So…we’re keeping it casual?”

I frown. The C-word scrapes over my nerves, which is weird because I’m all about casual. Any other time, I’m the one raising the C-word at the beginning of any interaction with a new woman. Hell, if I could make women sign a release stating they understand the casual nature of our relationship and promising to never mention, say, holidays, meeting relatives and/or marriage, I would.

“It is what it is,” I say. “We’re figuring out what it is. Why label it?”

“Like I just said. I don’t want to get confused or…”

She trails off, leaving a ghostly imprint of the word she didn’t say.

Hurt. She doesn’t want to get hurt.

Well, neither the fuck do I.

“The only thing you need to be clear on at this stage is that you’re not marrying Percy.” I realize that I don’t want to see her reaction to this pronouncement and hastily turn away, my face burning. Normally, if a gorgeous woman wants to hop into bed with me, I don’t ask questions. As long as I’ve got a string of condoms and her husband/boyfriend/girlfriend/significant other isn’t using the butt of a pistol to pound on the bedroom door, I’ve got no problems. Her personal life is none of my business. I’m too busy empire-building to give a fuck. Too busy trying to cross that billion-dollar mark. Which is another indication of how different and scary this thing with Carly is. Matter of fact, this entire conversation is threatening to give me hives, so I grab the pot and head to the sink to fill it. “That, and make sure you don’t cut yourself while you’re working on the salad. I’m not planning on making a run to the emergency room tonight.”

I brace myself for stinging comeback, but there’s a welcome interruption in the form of my vibrating phone.

“Sorry,” I tell her as I pull it out of my pocket, my ears still hot. “This is Griffin. We’re working on a huge deal. I need to talk to him before he heads into a conference call with Tokyo.”

“Of course,” she says, looking flustered. “I’m running to the loo anyway. I’ll leave you to it.”

I wonder what the hell I’m getting myself into here as I watch her hurry off—I’m betting she feels as grateful for the reprieve as I do—then hit the button.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Trouble in paradise,” my brother says. “I’m hearing rumors that their funding will be an issue.”

“Shit.”

“I’ll keep you posted. I’ll have a chance to call again during the break.”

“So what are our chances of this thing going through?” I say, experiencing a tension spike through my shoulders. Without Tokyo, my billion-dollar dreams are shot, for this year at least. Not the end of civilized society as we know it, but maybe my ambitions wouldn’t burn so bright and I could turn down the volume on the fucking loser soundtrack always playing in the back of my mind. “Fifty-fifty?”

“Eh, probably better than that. Keep a positive thought. Gotta go.”

“Fuck,” I say, hanging up and putting the phone away just as Carly reappears in the kitchen doorway.

“Oh no,” she says with an exaggerated frown. “You’re looking very grumbly now. What’s happened? Do I need to take your phone away while you cook dinner? I don’t want to be forced to eat overcooked and under-seasoned pasta.”

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