Page 28 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy
I don’t let her finish. I can’t deal with the fallout right now. I need distance. A whole fucking lot of distance.
I need to regain control.
“My offer stands, Ms. Hammond,” I say, my voice rougher than I intend, the mask of cool indifference firmly back in place, even though my insides are churning. “You know my terms. Contact Tatiana when you have your decision.”
Without waiting for a response, without trusting myself to stay another second in her presence, I turn on my heels and walk away, the taste of her still burning on my lips.
Fuck.
10
Lucy
Walk, Lucy.
Just walk.
Don’t run.
Running implies panic, and panic implies he actually affected you. Which he didn’t. Except he totally, completely, apocalypticallydid.
My heels click too fast on the polished marble floor of the St. Regis lobby, echoing the frantic jackhammering in my chest.
Get out. Get out. Get out.
I can still smell the ghost of his cologne. And my lips tingle.Burn, actually. Like I’ve been… well, like I’ve been thoroughly kissed by Christopher Blackwell, the man actively trying to swallow my family’s company whole.
Did anyone see? Oh god, please tell me no one saw.
I wonder if he’s still here.
I risk a glance back towards the elevators leading to the rooftop ballroom.
No sign of him. Good.
He probably vanished in a puff of smug billionairesmoke the second I turned my back. Or more likely, coolly adjusted his perfect cuffs and went back to dissecting someone else’s vulnerabilities for fun and profit.
Outside, the cool night air hits my flushed face like a blessing. I wave frantically for a cab, ignoring the doorman’s attempt to summon one. A yellow blur screeches to a halt.
I practically dive into the back seat.
The driver eyes me in the rearview mirror. “Rough night, miss?”
“Understatement of the century,” I mutter, slumping against the worn vinyl. My reflection stares back from the window. Wild eyes, slightly smeared lipstick (his fault), hair probably escaping its elegant updo thanks to my panicked flight.
And my cheeks are flaming. Of course they are. A hostile-takeover-turned-makeout-session is practically guaranteed beetroot territory.
I quickly give the driver my address and then close my eyes to think.
Okay. Tactical retreat executed. Enemy contact… unexpectedly physical.
What the hell was that anyway?
A power play?
A moment of sheer insanity?
Boredom?
