Page 77 of Just Not That Into Billionaires

I frown. Seriously, he thinks I’d do that? Now I’m annoyed, too. What kind of person does he think I am?

“You don’t think it would look good above the mantel?” I ask. “You don’t want to honor your beautiful wife?”

“You can’t order that kind of thing!” he says.

“Why not? I’m your wife. You said to go crazy.”

“Not seven million dollars’ worth of crazy!”

“Is this our first fight? I can’t believe you don’t like it!” I take the picture and carry it into the living room. He has a beautiful, tasteful photo over the fireplace mantel. I lean the picture of me over the photo. “There!” I say.

He looks pale.

I stand back and link my arm through his. “Don’t you think it’s pretty? Do you like the way the diamonds shine?”

“No, I don’t like the way the diamonds shine.”

I snort.

“What?” he demands.

“It’s not what you think,” I say.

“This is an invoice for seven million,” he says, waving the paper. “And that’s a picture that has little diamonds stuck to it.”

“Benny,” I say, deciding to put him out of his misery. “It’s a joke. Those aren’t really diamonds. You didn’t pay seven million. Nobody paid seven million.”

He looks bewildered. “It’s a joke?” he asks.

“You might have paid a thousand—tops.”

He narrows his eyes, cogitating.

“It was this silly something my gal pals cooked up to make you regret this whole wife thing. It seemed funny at the time. Frankly, it still is…”

The color is finally coming back into his face. “Jesus Christ.” He shoves his hand through his hair in the old Benny way, and this rush of lust fills me.

“You totally thought I was going to make you pay seven million for a picture of me?” I grab his arms. “I can’t believe you think I would order a picture like that! What kind of person do you think I am?”

Something flashes across his face, like the question hits him strangely.

I draw closer, heat pooling in my belly. “You think I am one of the legions of gold diggers that are constantly after you?” I hover my lips near the fleshy lobe of his ear. “Is that what you think? And I’m soooooo enchanted with myself that I must have this portrait?”

He winds my hair lazily around his fist. “I think you have some freaking nerve, that’s what I think,” he says.

“Bring me an artiste! I want the grandest picture of me, me, me! Is that what you think?”

He pulls our faces near, staring into my eyes.

“Maybe next time they’ll be real diamonds,” I whisper. “You never know. Mrs Benjamin Stearnes likes only the finest things.”

Some emotion crosses his face—affection mixed with desperation. Blunt fingers grip my arms more tightly; I can practically feel the energy vibrating through him. My pulse skitters.

He seems to give in to something, and he kisses me hot and hungry.

I wrap my arms around his neck, pressing into him, needing to be touching all of him. “You think I’m a gold digger,” I mumble into the kiss.

Protest rumbles in his throat.

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