Page 187 of The Billionaire's Secret
"No," I swallow, "I was walking to the hospital."
"Hospital?"
"For the check-up."
"Check-up—?" His voice trails off. A strange look comes into his eyes. Fear? Anger? Then his features close. "Is everything okay? Are you—?"
"I’m fine." My chest hurts; the back of my throat burns. Shit, why should it matter to me that he doesn’t want kids? This entire thing had gone wrong. He was supposed to have guessed my riddle, then embraced me, kissed me, and taken me home. To his hotel room, I mean, because of course, the man doesn’t have a place to call his own. He prefers the transience that being in a hotel room gives him. The freedom from relationships, from someone like me.
I push at his chest.
His grip tightens. "Victoria.’
"Saint."
We speak at the same time.
"I…"
"You…" I swallow, "you were saying?"
A dull thud echoes around the space. I stare at him and his gaze widens. "We need to get out of here." He rises, carrying me.
"I can walk," I protest.
He ignores me and heads for the doorway. For the first time, I glance around, taking in the space. It’s an empty room with a closet in the corner, the one I had been locked in. I shudder.
He holds me closer, "You’re safe."
His voice rumbles in his chest. I shouldn’t feel the need to lean on him, to thrust my nose into the strip of flesh that peeks out from between his lapels, and inhale his scent. My lungs fill with his essence and my heart rate stabilizes. Shit, why do I feel so secure, so protected when I’m with him? For so long, I had depended on myself—my instincts, my ability to withstand anything thrown my way. And how had that worked out, huh? I’d done a slap-up job of it—negotiating Nina's release, and my continued freedom, by agreeing to play a role in Saint’s downfall.
Tears prick at the backs of my eyes. Even my bloody hormones are no longer on my side.
"I’m sorry," I whisper.
"For what?" He prowls down the steps, reaching a landing that opens into another vacant room.
"For everything."
"I should be the one apologizing for being so hardheaded."
"No arguments there," I snicker through the ball of emotion in my throat.
"Guess that’s one more thing we agree on."
He walks out onto the landing, glances around, then continues down the dilapidated steps toward his Jaguar, parked outside.
A couple of boys in hoodies mill around nearby. I take in the house next door—paint peeling, garbage cans over-filled, with trash on the pavement outside. Across from us, there’s a boarded-up store. The other houses on the street seem as deserted. The electronic lock beeps, then he opens the door on the passenger side and places me in it. "Buckle up."
He leans back, shuts the door, and walks around. One of the boys stops him. They speak, then he pulls out his wallet, pulls out a few notes, and hands them over. He reaches into another pocket to pull out a card. He slips that to the second boy and they fist bump. In seconds, he’s in the driver’s seat, and starts the car.
"What was that about?" I ask, as he eases the cars from the curb. The boys step back, watch us as we pull away.
"Told them to call me if they see anyone coming in or out of the house."
"How did you find me?"
He pulls out his phone and hands it to me, then focuses on the road ahead.
