Page 163 of The Billionaire's Secret
I brace my shoulders. Since whenhaveI needed Dutch courage to face a woman? Since when have I made a habit of drinking enough to layer on a veneer of indifference before facing a room full of people? Since that bloody beautiful,dark-haired witch had gotten under my skin.
"She still in mourning?" Weston frowns.
"What? Of course, not," I shake my head. "That piece of shit husband of hers was one only in name."
"Sure doesn’t look that way, given what she’s wearing."
"She didn’t..." I pivot, take in her slender figure poised at the entrance. She’s draped in black. The dress clings to her curves, covers every inch of her torso, and ends above her knees. It is far from the seductive gown she’d worn earlier… Just the opposite.
The high collar grazes the tip of her chin—not a sliver of skin on show. The full-length sleeves drape over her wrists to cover her palms, leaving only her fingertips exposed. She’s wearing high, over-the-knee boots that come to mid-thigh.
The six—or is that eight?—inch heels boost her legs so they seemed to go on and on. Slender yet muscled, perfect to coil around my waist. She takes a step forward and a slim band of skin peeks out between her dress and boots. I’m instantly hard—Okay, harder. By any standards, her dress is more than demure… And that’s the issue, because the flash of skin is almost obscene, given every other inch of her is covered in black. She raises a hand to flip down the veil attached to the jaunty hair accessory attached to her sleek hair. The thick strands are caught up and tied at the nape of her neck in a demure bun—that screams for a man’s hands to rip out the pins and drape the waterfall of dark desire about her shoulders. The slash of red across her lips highlights her full, pouty lips. The overall effect is part widow-part slut.
"Fuck," I squeeze my fingers into fists.
Next to me, Weston grimaces, "She’s doing it on purpose, to get a response out of you."
"No shit," I growl.
"She wants you to lose your shit in front of all of the guests," he warns.
"The fuck I care?"
"She’s baiting you, Saint."
"She fucking succeeded." I take a step toward her.
"You don’t want to do this," he grips my shoulder.
I shake him off, "Oh, but I do." I pause, shoot him a sideways glance, "Can you ensure that all the paparazzi have their cameras on us?"
He frowns, "You sure about this?"
"A hundred fucking percent." I stalk toward her.
A guest steps in my path. "Fuck off," I growl at the man clad in an ill-fitted suit.
He pales, then draws himself up, "I didn’t come here to be insulted."
"Too fucking bad, you just were."
"You’ll pay for this." He holds up his phone, snaps what is, no doubt, a shot that’s going to be all over the internet.
"Knock yourself out, tosser." He’s confirmed that it had been the right decision to invite every piece of shit news reporter and key influencer in town.
I walk toward her as men and women step aside, their gazes tracking my progress. Good. She takes a few steps forward, her gaze fixed on me.
I thrust out my chest.
She tips up her chin.
I look her up and down. She props a palm on her hip, angles her body. She strikes a pose, ensuring I take in every detail of how the fabric clings to the slope of her shoulders, the thrust of her breasts, the tiny waist ensconced in lace. She leans her weight to the side and the dress pulls tightly on her thigh. My cock twitches. I hasten my pace.
She stays rooted, her chest visibly rising and falling. I near her and the color from her already pale cheeks leeches out.
"You going to faint?" I curl my lips, "Not had your orange juice or whatever it is you need to stave of the shakes?"
She firms her jaw, "Your concern is touching." She pretends to flick a tear from her cheek, "Went straight to my heart."
