Page 37 of The Billionaire's Beauty

Something in her quiet voice—a note of demonic possession, maybe—strikes terror in my heart and freezes me where I stand.

Dumbstruck, I watch as she removes my place setting from the table and, making a real production out of ignoring me, serves herself wine, manicotti and bread. Oh, and she made a nice salad, too. Part of me wants to laugh. Part of me wants to demand to know what the hell she thinks she’s proving here. A bigger part of me wonders why I can’t keep my fucking mouth shut more of the time.

“Okay,” I finally say as she sets her plate on the table and reaches for her wine. “Can I grab my food now? You’ve made your point.”

To my absolute astonishment, she lowers the glass from her lovely lips, flashes me a chilling smile and uses her free hand to take that knife and jam its tip into the cutting board.

“I don’t think I have made my point,” she says, casually gripping the hilt as that knife stands upright. “I would rather pack all this food up and drive it to the nearest food pantry than give you any. I would rather throw all this food into the ocean and let the fish eat it than give you any. Matter of fact, I would rather binge-eat all this food, vomit and then eat all the vomit than give you any. Just so we’re clear on what to expect from each other.”

A standoff ensues. I debate whether to just grab a plate and take my chances. The manicotti looks and smells delicious, and I’ve got several inches and probably a good fifty to seventy-five pounds on her. I could probably take her.

On the other hand, the steely glint in her eyes perfectly matches the knife’s blade. I don’t think she’d slice me open like a freshly caught trout she plans to cook for dinner, but I don’t particularly want to find out.

Oh, and by the way?

I’ve never been more fascinated—and aroused—by a woman in my life than I am engaging in this battle of wills with Bellamy.

I usually get what I want, but I’m willing to strategically lose a minor battle here or there to make sure I win the war.

In this case, I want the manicotti, sure. But I really want Bellamy. I’ll sacrifice the one to make sure I don’t lose the other.

“Have it your way,” I say, shrugging. “There’s other food. Enjoy.”

“I will,” she says sweetly. “I’m a great cook. Not that you’ll ever find out.”

I shrug again as I make my way toward the hallway, giving her plenty of time to change her mind and call me back—

“Griffin,” she says behind me.

See? It worked.

Stifling a smile, I turn back and try to look politely puzzled.

“Can we leave early in the morning?” she says coolly, making my hopes plummet through the floor. The unexpected boom of thunder outside punctuates the end of her sentence and makes things a million times worse. “I’ve got a lot of stuff to do before work on Monday.”

I stare at her, listening to the sudden sound of rain driving against the house and fearing that I may have met my match. God knows I lost that round, and worse, I have absolutely no idea how to get myself back on the playing field.

---