Page 34 of Just Not That Into Billionaires

“Of course not,” I say.

He’s more like a wolf—that’s what I’m thinking. I don’t know how to feel about him—I just don’t. Benny’s presence has always put me off-balance, ever since the Beau Cirque days when I was so acutely aware of him sitting there in the smoldery shadows, sexy lips pressed together in total concentration, his large, awkward hands flying over the controls, lighting the stage on fire with his robotic innovations buzzing along the cavernous ceiling.

“You are not here to manage my social schedule,” he says.

“That’s too bad,” I say. “Because I was going to see if Juliana and the gang would like to go with us to a Dave Matthews concert.”

The momentary horror that suffuses his face is priceless. “Not. Happening,” he rumbles.

It’s all I can do not to squirm with delight. Instead I put on a face of innocence and sigh dramatically. This shouldn’t be so fun but itsois. “Well, you know your wife is just so full of surprises. It would be a shame if we arranged something and got their hopes up and then cancelled. But if you don’t want a wife, you know what to do. It rhymes withgavel vapors.”

He grunts, annoyed.

“He was so grateful for how his beautiful wife saved the day that he decided to release her from this charade and get her visa stuff in order. He set his whole legal team on it—that’s how grateful he was.”

“Ah yes, the famous Francine Janea wishful thinking.” He grabs a beer from the posh little fridge. “Your visa problems will disappear when I decide to make them disappear.”

“He so wished he had a wife just like her, but all his money couldn’t buy such an amazing wife, so hemadeher be his wife by threatening the one thing she most wanted.”

He gives me a hard stare—his Wolf Benny stare. This new Benny feels a lot more dangerous than the old Benny. It’s not just the way he puts me off-balance. It’s something more—something ineffable.

“Such a sad tale,” I continue.

He holds up his ice-cold beer bottle, watching it catch the lights from the cityscape outside the window, reds and blues and flashing neon.

I go into the limo fridge and grab a fizzy black cherry water for myself and a few cans of bubbly for my friends. I stuff them in my purse. “A little something for my friends. Your better half is very generous to her gal pals. You don’t mind, right? Oh, and of course, you’re welcome for the amazing job I did playing your pretty and charming wife.”

“You want an Oscar?”

“You know what I want,” I say.

“You nearly blew it with that outfit.”

“This outfit killed,” I say. “And for the record, it is extremely stylish, and I think it’s pretty, too, don’t you agree?”

Naturally his expression is shrouded in shadows.

“Don’t you think it’s pretty?” I repeat, because I know what he thinks of it. I might be playing with fire, but I can’t stop. “What’s your favorite part of my outfit?”

He turns to me all smoldery.

My pulse races. “Do tell.”

His eyes darken.

I give him a witchy grin. I can’t stop goading him, pressing him. I feel like one of those granite-boring machines they use for mining, like I have to bore down through his rock-solid armor, down to the beating heart of nerdy Benny.

“Tell me,” I say. I want to make him say it.

There’s this beat of silence there in the back of the limo, and I’m pretty sure he’s not going to tell me his favorite part of my dress.

Then he tilts his beer bottle so that the bottom edge is pointing to the ruffle at the top edge of my bodice. Before I can make sense of what’s happening, he touches one ice-cold corner of it to the bare mound of my breast, right above the ruffle.

Heat blooms low in my belly.

He slides the cold finger of glass along the bare top of my breast toward the center of my chest, tracing along the top of the bodice.

My breath hitches.

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