Page 87 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy
That’s… huge.
Maybe even bigger than this limo.
“Sometimes direct is the only language certain people understand,” Christopher finally says, his voice low and gravelly. His eyes dip down, tracing theneckline of my dress, and the heat in my cheeks intensifies.
Okay, maybe he’s not thinking about debt-to-equity ratios right now.
Dominic chuckles softly. “Indeed. Well, my stop is coming up.” As the limo slows smoothly, pulling over near a sleek Tribeca high rise, Dominic stands. “Always a pleasure, Ms. Hammond.” He gives me a charming nod. Then he claps Christopher on the shoulder. “Have fun, you two.” He winks, a blatant, shit-stirring wink, before disappearing out the door along with his own security detail.
Thanks, Dominic. Real subtle.
The doors close, sealing us back in the quiet intimacy of the car with Elijah and Maya.
The air immediately feels thicker, charged with unspoken things. The memory of the balcony, and the things unsaid between us. The weight of his public defiance. The heat in his gaze that’s definitely not about business strategy.
“Dom enjoys stirring the pot,” Christopher says, finally breaking the silence again.
“Seems like it,” I agree, fiddling with the strap of my clutch bag. “So… your penthouse?”
He nods. “Unless you’d prefer I drop you off at home?”
Home? To my apartment that suddenly feels tiny and inadequate after spending time in Billionaireland? Where I’ll just pace and overthink everything that happened tonight?
No thanks.
“Your place is fine,” I say, trying to sound casual. As if hopping into a potential business adversary turned lover’s heavily secured penthouse after a dramatically charged public event is just, you know,normal stuff.
The rest of the ride passes in that same loaded silence. When we arrive, the security detail melts away with practiced efficiency as Christopher leads me through the private entrance, up the silent, buttonless elevator, and into the sprawling, minimalist expanse of his home.
The city lights glitter beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, a breathtaking backdrop to the quiet tension humming between us.
He heads straight for the bar, pouring two drinks without asking what I want. He hands me a glass of white wine.
Predictable. And probably ridiculously expensive.
I take a tentative sip. Okay, yes.
Ridiculously expensive and delicious.
“That was quite a performance tonight,” I say, swirling the wine in my glass, trying to gather my thoughts. “Your father…”
“Is irrelevant,” Christopher cuts me off sharply. “His games, his vendettas… they don’t dictate my decisions.”
“Maybe not,” I concede, “but they affect things, Christopher. They affectus. Him having me investigated? His threats? Morgan Weiss feeding him information? It’s… a lot. And I worry…” I trail off, suddenly unsure how to phrase the knot of anxiety in my stomach.
“Worry about what, Lucy?” he prompts, his voice softer now, drawing closer. He stops a few feet away, close enough that I can smell that intoxicating cedar and black pepper scent of his cologne mingling with the primal scent of his skin.
“About… this.” I gesture vaguely between us. “Mixing business and… whatever this is. We started as adversaries. Now we’re partners, allies… lovers. And there’s Project Nightingale hanging over everything. What happens if the deal changes? What if one of us has to make a decision that’s good for business but bad for… us?” My voice trembles slightly on the last word.
God, I sound pathetic. Needy. Everything I swore I wouldn’t be.
But still, the question needs answering.
He sets his drink down on a low table, his gaze intent. “You think my commitment to Project Nightingale is contingent on… this?” He gestures between us again, mirroring my earlier awkward wave.
“I don’t know what to think!” I burst out, frustrated. The wine, the stress, the lingering adrenaline from the gala, it’s just all bubbling up. “You’re Christopher Blackwell. The Executioner. You don’t do partnerships, you do takeovers. You don’t get emotionally involved, you make calculated decisions. But then you stand up to your father for me. You send me flowers. You share things about your past. And then…” I blush furiously, remembering our encounters. “…you’re incredibly dominant and controlling and possessive in ways that completely short-circuit my brain. It’s confusing!”
He takes another step closer, his presence filling my personal space. “Is it?” he asks softly. “Or is it that you’re finally seeing the man behind the reputation?”
