Page 31 of Sin Bin

She taps her phone against her thigh. “He’s amillionaire.”

I roll my eyes. “Of course he is. Does he have apenthouse,too?”

“You’re assuming I’vebeenup to hispenthouse.”

The thought of Zoe alone with a guy who may or may not be her boyfriend doesn’t sit well with me, even though I know she’s faking this whole thing. “Haveyou?”

“Aren’t you dating Suzanne?” shecounters.

No. “No chemistry, remember?” I pause, deliberately waiting until she’s practically on the edge of her seat, and then add, “Doesn’t mean that there won’t be other women, though. Just like you’re not exclusive with your . . . penthouse-owningmillionaire.”

“You’re achauvinisticpig.”

At the frustration in her tone, I smother a grin. “I knew you werelying.”

More with the phone tapping. “Aboutwhat?”

“Youdating.”

She’s quiet, probably deliberating her next move. Then, stiffly, she mutters, “I like my life just asitis.”

I hear the seat creak under her weight and then the radio comes back on. It’s an old-rock classic. Seems like she’s over the whole talkingthing,too.

I reach for the radio, prepared to turn the volume up. But my hand wavers, dropping back to the steering wheel, and I hear my voice instead, low and raspy. “Me too, Zoe. I like my life just the way itis,too.”

I think we both know that the other islying.

ChapterTen

ZOE

“Why didwe decide to drive again?” I demand two hours later. My legs burn from hobbling in my stilettos for ten blocks. My feet, though I’m too scared to look, have no doubt been torn open and are spilling blood all over the New York City sidewalk—I should have stuck with my sneakers from themorning.

Andre barely spares me a glance as he keeps pace. He’s so tall that his long legs naturally bring him farther, but every few yards he lets the gap close between us again. “I hateflying.”

I forgot about that phobia of his. It’s tough to imagine that the big, bad Andre Beaumont turns scared at the thought of being thirty-thousand feet in the sky. “We could have taken the train,” I tell him, pushing my legs to movefaster.

We’re latefor our appointment with the editorofFame.

And, according to my cell phone’s GPS, we’re still fourblocksaway.

At this rate, my feet will probably snap off as soon as we get in front of thebuilding.

“We’ll be fine,” Andre says, then expels a bundle of curses when my ankle wobbles and Igodown.

He catches me about the waist, his arm strong and muscular, and it takes every bit of willpower not to beg him to carry me the rest of the way toFame’soffices.

“Zoe?” he says, lifting me back up onto my feet. “Yougood?”

I test my ankle, resisting the urge to wince when a sting flares in the bone. Not wanting to appear a wimp, I shrug off his grasp and wave my hand at him. “I’m good,allgood.”

He peers at my face, his dark eyes roving over my features. “You lookgreen.”

“It’s my complexion,” I tell him, brushing away his worry. “I’m naturally olive-toned.”

“You’re Irish. The fact that your dad owns an Italian restaurant doesn’tcount.”

I open my mouth to deliver a hot retort, only to realize that I don’t have one. He’s totallyright.

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