Page 172 of The Christmas Wife

"Are you kidding me?" He scowls. "That's what it is meant for—to pave the way, to achieve dreams, to help you get what you want."

"I can do it on my own." I tip up my chin. "I will achieve my goals, on my own merit."

"What are you saying?" He glowers, "You're not making any sense to me."

"For the first time since I met you, I am making sense to myself."

His gaze widens, "So you admit that I affect you?"

I throw up my hands, "That has never been in dispute. I mean, come on, it's clear we can't keep our hands off of each other. Put us in a room and we'll end up in bed. Hell, I hear your voice on the phone and I'm wet."

"You are, huh?" He smirks and his shoulder muscles seem to broaden.

"OMG!" I slap my forehead, "Of course, you'd choose to focus on the more obvious. Of everything I said, is that the only thing you heard?"

"You want me; I want you. We're good together." He raises his shoulders, "What else is there?"

"Everything." I swallow, "And nothing." I peer into his face, "After all that we've been through, you still don't get it, do you?"

"Is this about the money?" He scowls, "Because if that's the case, I'll double what I am paying you."

"Money?" A chill spreads across my skin. "You think it's about the money?"

"I'll triple it."

"Triple?" I stare, "You'll triple the money?"Is he for real? Isn't he hearing anything I am trying to communicate to him? And I thought he got me?

"That's eighteen million pounds in your bank account on New Year's Day."

I cough. That's a bloody hell of a lot of money. I'd never see that in this lifetime, for sure. If I accepted it, I'd never be able to live with myself. I'd hate myself every day for the rest of my life. Besides, what's the difference between one million and eighteen million, huh? Other than the zeroes? That's the thing with money. The more you have of it, the less it does for you. Nope, I may have been blinded by what the money could have done for me—could still do for me, but not anymore.

"I'll throw in this penthouse," he growls. "Hell, say the word and I'll sign it over to you."

I open my mouth, then purse my lips together, "Good bye, Weston."

I brush past him, spot my suitcases by the door of the living room. He'd had his driver deliver my suitcases to this address. Sneaky bastard had planned it all along... How did I miss it? How come I didn’t see through him? I was an acquisition for him. A possession. Hell, he even dropped the 'L' word in the height of passion, hoping it would convince me to give in to him. Well, fuck him, and his money and his bloody view—which is spectacular, I've never seen that view of London in real life before and will probably never do so again. Tears prick the backs of my eyes.Get out before you bawl your eyes out over that ass.

I ignore my luggage; it will only delay me, and I don't want that. I have Peter's contact details; I'll ask him to deliver it home. I'm sure Weston won't stop him, will he? I hesitate. Too bad. I'll have to risk it then. I am not stopping here for one second more. I grab my chef's satchel from the coffee table, tuck my handbag into my side, then head for the door.

"Don't you want to check out the kitchen?" He calls out.

I pause. "What?"

"The kitchen," he says, "it's to your right."

I stare straight ahead. Focus my gaze on the double doors to this blasted, beautiful penthouse.Get out of here, get out of here.I take a step forward.

"It has a never-before-used double oven that you have to see."

"It does?"

"You bet." He walks past me, heads toward what I assume is the kitchen. "And all the ingredients you'd need to bake apple pies..."

I swallow.

"Macaroons," he drawls.

I tighten my grip on my bag.

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