Page 3 of The Billionaire's Secret
His nostrils flare.
Bloody hell, can he sense my uncertainty?
He tilts his head, “Your husband left you on your own?" His voice ripples up my spine. My scalp tingles.
What in the ever lovin' hell is happening to me? I brace myself, tip my chin up. "He knows he can trust me," I reply.
His lips curl, "But canyoutrustme?"
I blink. The hell does he mean? My fingers tingle and my palms itch. I'd tried every bloody remedy to cure myself of this horrible nail-biting habit. But the events of the last few months have wiped out any progress I had made.
He holds out his hand. "Saint Jordan Killian Caldwell," he drawls.
"Did you miss a name?"
His features go blank, then his lips curl, "Very good."
"Not looking for your approval," I scowl.
"You sure?" His lips kick up in a smile that isn't one at all.
I shiver.
"I'm Saint to my friends."
I glance down at his proffered hand, then thrust mine behind my back.
"Good thing I am not one of them," I mutter.
He lowers his arm. "No, you're not." His eyes gleam. "You and I, we could never have such a bland relationship."
"No?" My belly flutters.
He shakes his head, then looks me up and down. "In fact, you don't feature on my radar at all."
Jerk. Pretentious, spoilt, rich prick who wears his privilege as if the world owes him. I firm my lips.
He flicks another invisible piece of dust from his tailored jacket. The breadth of his shoulders stretches the fabric. His biceps strain against the cloth. He widens his stance, and I can't stop myself from taking in the sculpted abs outlined through the white dress shirt that sheaths his muscles. Power surrounds him. The force of his magnetism is a tangible sensation that pours off of him, hits me in the chest. I gasp. My throat closes.
"Good bye, Victoria." He turns to leave, takes a step away, then another. His jacket stretches across his tight butt—clearly he forgot to take the stick out of it when he left home. My lips quirk. He prowls forward and his slacks mold to powerful thighs. I swallow. This man wears that suit like it was stitched onto him. The muscles of those powerful thighs coil and coil, barely contained in those pants that narrow over boots. Huh? He wears faded cowboy boots that've seen far better days.
What the hell?
Is that a quirk, or another affectation? Why would he wear boots that simply don't match the rest of his £7000 suits? Only when my heel sinks into the ground do I realize that I've placed my stilettos squarely in his footstep. I bite the inside of my cheek.
Let him go; don't say it. Don't let curiosity get the better of you.
"The more you think, the more you find; what am I?" I call out.
He tenses, then swivels to face me.
"What did you say?"
Those cold blue eyes bore into me, the force of his personality pinning me in place. My heart begins to race. I've done it; I've revealed my hand. Ugh. Why couldn't I have kept quiet?
"N...nothing." I wave a hand in the air, "Forget it." I turn away.
Hard fingers clutch at my wrist. I am spun around, with such force that I stumble. The grasp on my arm increases in pressure, and I find my balance. He keeps my hand imprisoned behind me, his arm lined up against mine, my back curved, my breasts thrust up. The heat from his body crowds me, envelops me. Less than an inch separates us. How would it be if he had plastered my chest to his? I flick out my tongue to wet my lips. His gaze drops to my mouth. His nostrils flare.
