Page 93 of Dial B for Billionaire

Caleb probably thinks Bennett’s lost his mind. My assistant is probably fielding calls. And my father…

I push the thought away. Right now, there’s only this—Bennett’s arms around me, the gentle hum of engines, and the knowledge that for once in my life, I chose chaos over control.

And it feels right.

Not smart.

Not safe.

But perfect, in the way only chaos ever can be.

LAYLA

By the time we land in Lisbon, we've christened the bedroom, the sofa, and the surprisingly spacious shower. I've lost count of how many times he's made me come, each orgasm more intense than the last. I'm boneless and glowing.

“Welcome to Portugal,” he says as we step off the plane, Mediterranean sunshine washing over us.

I'm wearing a dress that’s been hiding in my wardrobe for years without having an occasion to wear it, about to have lunch in a country where I don't speak the language, with a man who casually flies to Europe for dates. My life has officially become unrecognizable.

“We have about eight hours before we need to head back,” he continues, sliding his hand to the small of my back. Even that simple touch makes my skin tingle with memory.

“What's the plan?” I ask, sliding on sunglasses against the bright light.

“First, lunch.” He guides me toward a waiting car, sleekand black against the tarmac. “Then perhaps some sightseeing. I thought you might enjoy the historical architecture.”

The driver takes us through sun-drenched streets lined with azulejo-tiled buildings, their blue and white patterns catching the light. The scent of fresh bread and coffee drifts through the open windows as we climb toward the coast.

The restaurant perches on a cliff overlooking the Atlantic. It's small, intimate, with a terrace offering breathtaking views of azure water crashing against rocks below.

“How did you arrange this so quickly?” I ask as we're seated at the best table, champagne already waiting. The server greets Bennett by name, clearly expecting us.

“Money opens doors,” he says simply. “But in this case, it's more about connections. The owner's an old friend.”

Of course he has friends who own cliff-side restaurants in Portugal. I'm learning that Bennett's world has no boundaries.

The food is extraordinary. Fresh grilled sardines with lemon and herbs. Some kind of seafood stew that makes me close my eyes in pleasure. Local wines that taste like sunshine. But what strikes me most is Bennett himself. The sharp edges from Chicago have softened. He laughs more freely. His eyes crinkle when he smiles.

“You're different here,” I tell him, stealing a bite from his plate. When his fingers brush mine reaching for his wine, I'm instantly back on that plane, remembering how those same fingers felt inside me. The thought makes my cheeks warm.

“Portugal has that effect,” he says. “Hard to maintaincorporate intensity when you're eating fresh fish by the ocean.”

“Tell me something no one else knows about you,” I say, leaning forward. “Something that's never made it into a business profile.”

He considers this, swirling his wine. “I failed my driver's test. Twice.”

“You're kidding.” I stare at him. “Mr. Perfect-Control failed a driving test?”

“I was seventeen and overconfident.” His smile is self-deprecating. “Thought I knew better than the instructor. Took a corner too fast and knocked over three traffic cones.”

I laugh, delighted by this glimpse of teenage Bennett. “What else?”

“I'm terrified of horses.”

“Horses? Why?”

“Summer camp when I was twelve. Got thrown and broke my collarbone.” He touches his left shoulder absently. “Never got back on.”

“The great Bennett Mercer, brought low by a pony.”

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