Page 8 of The Billionaire's Fake Wife
3
Summer
"You kneed me?"
He growls, actually growls. A shiver of heat ladders up my spine. My heart begins to thud.
Oh, hell I’ve done it now. Men and their delicate egos. Bet he won’t take this lying down.
I shove at his shoulders and he lurches to the side. I spring up, glance down to where he glares up at me, hunched over. My nerve endings tingle.
Why do I have such visceral reaction to him? Pompous prick.
He straightens, then shoves himself up to standing.
What the—?How could he have recovered from that knee to his balls so fast? I blink. No one has that much endurance, not unless he’s trained for it… Nah! I shove the thought aside.
He is a spoiled, pampered brat, no doubt. Typical. One of those who likes to flaunt what he has. Why do those with money think that is the solution to everything, huh? Because it is?
A hot sensation stabs at my chest. I’ve screwed it up. I’ve messed up my future and a chance for my sister to live a normal life.
The jackass in front of me swipes out his hand. I duck.
His features harden. He leans forward on the balls of his feet. Hell no, not going to let him catch me this time. I grab my bag from where it hangs on the hook below the bar counter, and head for the exit.
Shoving open the heavy glass door, I burst onto the sidewalk.
"You! Stop, right there." Something brushes my collar. I scream, lunge ahead. Adrenaline laces my veins. The blood slams so hard at my temples, I am sure I am going to faint.
Two cops approach me. Oh, my God! I wave at them. "Help!"
One of them catches sight of me; his forehead pinches.
The heat at my back turns up to a furnace. Shit, he’s close. He’s really, really, close. The hair on the nape of my neck rises. "Help me, please."
There’s a low exclamation behind me.
My stomach flip flops. Damn the man, how did he get here so quickly?
The first cop reaches us, "Everything okay here?"
"This chap," I stab my thumb in Mr. Grouchy Pants' direction, "he’s harassing me."
The second officer glances between us, then straightens, "Sinclair."
"Hello Josephine, Will." He nods at them.
What the—! He's on a first name basis with the cops? Does he have them on his payroll?
Of course he does.Asshole here would do everything to ensure circumstances are always within his control.
I dart forward.
"We're not done." His low growl follows me.
I sprint past the cops, up the street, veer right, then a left onto crowded Oxford Street. Safety in numbers. Okay, I go this! The breath rushes out of me.
When I reach the entrance to Tottenham Court Road tube station, I peek a glance behind me. There's no sign of him. Whew!
