Page 89 of Friends Who Fake It

“Because I like to hear you beg,” he said darkly. “And I need to hear you repent.”

“You’re a bastard,” she said through chattering teeth.

“Yes,” he agreed with a sharp dip of his head, his features all hard-planes in his arrogant face. “And it’s best you don’t forget that. Because I am a bastard, and I will make your life a living hell if you don’t do everything I ask of you. Is that clear, Elizabeth Jones?”

ChapterSeven

XAVIER KEPT IMAGINING HER as she’d been the night before, her beautiful body naked, her face incandescent with need, her voice shrill and desperate. Her pride in tatters. And his gut churned even as he told himself he liked seeing her like that. Even as he knew he could become addicted to the power he wielded over her.

She deserved it. She deserved to face the consequences of her actions night after night, to never be allowed to forget that she had made a choice to part father from son. Was his bond with Joshua not as much worth fighting for as her own tether to their child? Did she think biology discriminated between genders?

He had missed Joshua’s laughs and scrapes, his growth and milestones. He wouldn’t miss any more and, when Joshua was older, if he asked Xavierwhythey’d been separated, Xavier would be honest. He would lay the blame for that all at Elizabeth’s door, right where it belonged.

He would never forgive her for this.

So, he’d cheated. He’d married someone else. That gave her no right to keep Joshua from him!

None whatsoever.

He shot another glance at his wrist watch then stared at the room that would be Joshua’s. For the moment it was a fairly innocuous bedroom, with cream walls and a single bed, luxury fittings as all Salbatore houses boasted. This home was no different – though it was far from a home. Xavier often preferred to stay in hotels in London, if he were only in the city for a night or two. He couldn’t have said why; perhaps because the house was so cold?

London was cold; too cold for him. Too cold for any Salbatore.

When he’d looked down at his son the night before, every cell of his Spanish blood had burned within his veins, reminding him that he belonged to another land, another place, that he was a proud Spaniard and always would be. And he would raise a Spaniard as his son, not an English boy.

They would remove to his Madrid house once the school term was completed. He could start anew from there.

And Elizabeth? Unbidden, images of her against the backdrop of his sprawling Madrid mansion came to him. Her small, delicate body naked, her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders, the ends playing with her taut nipples, the view of his infinity pool in the background.

Yes, she’d look good in Madrid, but the location would change nothing about what he wanted from her. She was simply a means to an end – the easiest way to lay claim to his son. Besides, he wasn’t heartless enough to believe he should simply wrench their boy away from his mother. He had no interest in punishing Joshua for the mother’s sins. Punishing Elizabeth would suffice.

A muscle jerked in his jaw.

They should have been here by now.

He lifted his cell from his pocket and dialed José’s number – the man who acted as Xavier’s private security, driver, organizer and pilot as needed. He answered on the first ring.

“Where are you?” Xavier had employed José for long enough to be able to speak plainly to him without risking offending the other man’s feelings. José knew that where Xavier was no-frills it didn’t mean he was without heart.

“At the address you gave me,” José answered in Spanish.

Something like awareness and afrissonof alarm vibrated against Xavier’s spine.

“And?” He drawled, the word calm even when his central nervous system was humming.

“No one’s here.” The sound of José pushing at a window came through the phone, then a grunt signaling that it hadn’t budged. “House looks empty.”

Xavier swore under his breath. “Stay there. I’ll phone Elizabeth.”

He disconnected the call and tried Elizabeth’s mobile number. It rang out. A cold slick of alarm permeated his chest. She wasn’t home and she wasn’t answering her mobile. Was it possible she’d done what he’d have never thought her possible of?

Had she run?

I will make your life a living hell if you don’t do everything I ask of you.

He’d thrown the promise at her with cold precision, meaning every single breath of each word. He still did.

But he could see how inflammatory that warning was now, how likely she would be to react against it and run from him. How she would choose to keep her son to herself for the rest of her life.

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