Page 12 of Jingle Belle's Biker

The man who charmed me with his supposedly soft-edged and warm ways, his chivalry, and his supposed desire to protect the small people while expanding his fortune turned out to be a lie.

I’ve got nothing against making money and wanting to make money. I do have an issue with grinding others into the ground to get there.

Beneath the smooth layers of Lance is a brutal-edged man. One with avarice in his veins.

“Me?”

“I asked you to marry me, after all.”

“Or my parents’ money.”

His mouth hardens. “Do you really think so badly of me, Isabelle? Do you think someone like me needs their money? And worse, you think I researched you? I was charmed by the sweet, sunny, and passionate schoolteacher. That’s it. You broke up with me. And I think I deserve to try my hand at winning you back.”

He likes to twist. Not in an evil way, but that slick, manipulative touch that wins him all kinds of things solidifies what his face promises. We both know I didn’t mean he wants my parents’ money. His account can run rings around theirs. Or maybe one ring. I don’t know.

Money isn’t the be all for me.

But he also knows I meant I’m acceptable because of the Rosso money.

It’s something he doesn’t air, but it’s there, in the shadows, down in the bones of him.

“I want to win you back, Isabelle,” he murmurs, reaching for my hand as I snatch it away and put it on my thigh under the table. “I think you want it too. You and me, we could change the world.”

“In what way?” I ask. “By destroying things?”

“By moving with the times, and the only thing being destroyed by your continual rejection is my heart.”

“Now, who’s being dramatic?” I try not to clench my hand under the table. He’s got a knack for dragging me into his little emotional webs. What I should be doing is getting up and walking away.

Except . . .

His grandmother owned the building.

For a second, it flashes in my head that he’s been nice and trying to worm his way back in with me over that. Like I’m standing in his way.

But how?

I frown. “Is this about the signatures?”

“The—” He stops, and the slight set to his mouth gives him away. He knows about them. “The signatures? The fact your building’s poor people are trying to stop the mega Hank’s?”

I grab my wine and take a gulp as he pulls his phone from his suit pocket and checks it, placing it on the table. He doesn’t have a drink. But he doesn’t need one in the way he sits and takes up space with the self-entitlement I never noticed until almost too late.

“You hate the signatures. We both know you want to kick everyone out.”

“Okay, you got me.” He flashes his winning smile. “But that isn’t me trying to kick anyone out. There’s a real estate company. Grandmother chose that company?—”

“A company she was a shareholder in.”

“Yes, she was a part owner, but she chose them to represent Secret Gardens and her other properties precisely so they could be handled hands-off. There are rules, Isabella, and she never wanted the family to fight over it all.”

“You’re the eldest.”

“I own the land opposite, and when?—”

“If—”

“When Hank’s and other places are built, rents might go up. That’s it. The only reason I’m offering to pay for people to move. If they want to.”

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