Page 62 of Friends Who Fake It

“I beg your pardon,” she murmured, pleased that the words sounded forged in ice. “I agreed to a drink. Nothing else.” Though heaven forbid, even the thought of that ‘else’ set a vibration racing through her body, heating her up from the inside out.

“Si. And there are drinks in my room.”

She snorted – having been fooled by his practiced flirtations once before, she could read all the signals a second time around. No way was she going to let him charm her again!

“Do you really think I’m going to fall into your bed?” She demanded, the question hoarse with indignation.

He turned to face her, one thick, dark brow lifted. She looked at it, and then her gaze dropped to the cheek that had been scared, presumably in the accident four years ago. His face had been bandaged when she’d gone to the hospital. She’d only been able to see his eyes, bruised and closed.

“I think you’re lying to me and I intend to get to the bottom of it,” he retorted with cool detachment.

Ellie’s heart ratcheted up a gear as a mental image of Joshua swam before her eyes. Joshua who was almost the mirror image of a smaller version of this man. Joshua with his dark eyes and thick curling lashes, chestnut hair and passionate Latin nature. Joshua who was a daily reminder of Xavier Salbatore.

How dared he have forgotten her? How dared he still be cheating on his fiancé? No! Hiswife!

She was his wife now. Nausea rolled through Ellie’s stomach at the predicament this man had landed her in. She’d becomethe other woman, and without having any damned idea that he was engaged!

He’d acted like a free man. He’d seduced her with determination and skill, and she had been no match for his expert flirtation.

What a naïve idiot she’d been – falling into his bed, just like that.

And all the while, he was engaged to be married! The doors to the lift pinged open and she stayed resolutely where she was, purse tucked under one arm, body frozen to the spot.

He stepped out, holding a hand to keep the doors open, his eyes watching her with lazy cynicism.

“Well?”

“I’m not coming with you,” she said, shaking her head.

He waited, without speaking.

“You can stand there all night, it won’t change my mind.”

And a muscle ticked in his jaw as he shrugged, and for a brief moment, she thought she’d won. She thought he’d simply accepted her decree and would disappear from her life once more – back to his perfect wife and perfect life, his money and career and doting parents.

Only Xavier Salbatore never gave up, ever. The accident he’d been in should have killed him; it was only through sheer stubborn determination that he’d managed to fight his way back to life.

He stepped back into the lift and without a single hint of what he intended, scooped down and picked her up around the waist, hoisting her over his shoulder with as little ceremony as if she were a sack of potatoes.

“Hey!” She shouted. “Put me down, you… you…”

“All the name calling in the world will not make any difference.” His accent was thicker when he was driven by emotion, and in that moment, it was heavy, coating each word in a Spanish summer. Oranges, jasmine, cloves and spices. She wanted to ignore it, she wanted to resist the tug on her senses, but he was drugging her, just as he had then.

No! Not just as he had then! She’d been younger, ignorant and so stupidly trusting. She’d been a fool then.

Now? She was a mother and a damned good one at that! She was strong and resilient – she’d had to be, and mostly because of this lying, cheating bastard.

“I will scream,” she said, kicking her legs and connecting with his torso. It was hard, like granite. Visions of his abdominal muscles danced in her head.

“Then I will find a way to silence you.” The threat was far less menacing than perhaps he intended, because it set off a reaction of awareness, cascading through her, so she was barely able to breathe when they entered his hotel suite and he slid her down his body and placed her feet on the floor.

Awareness zapped at her senses; to cover how easily he could affect her, she shoved at his chest, rewarded by the feeling of connecting with his body. Of pushing him. Of hurting him. Except she was no match for him physically; her violent action had barely shifted his body an inch.

“What is your name?”

“Of course you don’t remember,” she muttered, no longer pretending that they were strangers. What was the point? He mightn’t remember the specifics of their time together, but he clearly rememberedsomethingabout her.

“I know you.” And he sounded relieved, but she was simply offended. Offended beyond belief.

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