Page 216 of The Billionaire's Secret
The puppy whines again.
"I’ll be right there, little man." His voice takes on a cajoling tone, and damn him, but my ovaries seem to spasm.The hell is he doing to me?Before this, I’ve never thought about kids… Hell, I’ve barely managed to embark on a halfway decent career, and I’ve never thought of myself as someone who’d want a family. But Weston, with his smoldering glare, his hard face, his harder—um—body, and that coaxing manner with which he talks to Max… I can see him with a child tucked under one arm, and me under his other… Heck, I can see me under him, period. My mouth waters. My panties dampen further.Get your mind out of the gutter, you slut.
"Isn’t he Sinclair and Summer’s pet?" I frown. My friend Summer had married Sinclair Sterling, one of the seven billionaire co-owners of 7A investments, not long ago. She’d found the love of her life, that lucky bitch. Not that I begrudge her her happiness. What I wouldn't give for some of that moon and stars glitter to rub off on me as well...
"They’re away on an extended honeymoon," Weston grunts.
"Aww. So you decided to puppy-sit?" I breathe. A warm glowing ball lights up inside of me.
He glowers, "Don’t gush any sweet icky stuff now—uh, what’s your name again?"
Poof—that warm feeling I mentioned? Forget about it. The hell is wrong with this man? "You know my name all right, you ass." I stab my finger in his chest, "So why are you pretending otherwise?"
"Me?" He blinks, "Do I?" He tilts his head, pretending to think, "Is it Lily?"
A slow burn starts up my spine.
"No… No." He cracks his neck, "It will come to me, it will… It’s Malia, right?"
Anger laces the edges of my vision. I draw in a breath, then another.Stay calm, he can only get so much more obnoxious, right?
"Wait, let me try, one more time…" He pats his temple with the palm of his injured hand. "It’s…something French, isn’t it? Like… Valerie, Malory, maybe? No, I have it." He snaps his fingers, "It’s Celine. I got that right, didn’t I?" He chuckles.
I clench my fists, then raise my hand toward his face.
He catches my wrist. "Tsk, tsk," he clicks his tongue. "What a temper you have, little one."
"Don’t ‘little one’ me… You… You wanker."
"Finally," his eyes gleam, "here kitty, kitty, show me your claws."
"I’ll do better than that," I hiss, "I’ll show you how it is to see the sun at night time."
I bring up my knee, aim for his groin.
TO FIND OUT WHAT HAPPENS NEXT READ WESTON AND AMELIE'S STORY IN THE BILLIONAIRE'S CHRISTMAS BRIDE HERE
Read an excerpt from Karma and Michael Byron's story...
Karma
"Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day…"
Tears prick the backs of my eyes. Goddamn Byron. Always creeps up on me when I am at my weakest. Not that I am a poetry addict, by any measure, but words are my jam.
The one consolation I have, that when everything else in the world is wrong, I can turn to them, and they’ll be there—friendly steady, waiting with open arms. And this particular poem had laced my blood and crawled into my gut when I’d first read it. Darkness had folded into me like an insidious snake that raises its head when I least expect it. Like now. I'd managed to give my bodyguard the slip and veered off my usual running route to reachWaterlow Park.
I look out on the still-sleeping city of London, from the grassy slope of the expanse. Somewhere out there, the Mafia is hunting me, apparently.
I purse my lips, close my eyes. Silence. The rustle of the wind between the leaves. The faint tinkle of the water from the nearby spring.
I could be the last person on this planet, alone, unsung, bound for the grave.
Ugh! Stop. Right there.I drag the back of my hand across my nose. Try it again, focus, get the words out, one after the other, like the steps of my sorry life.
"Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day…"My voice breaks. "Bloody, asinine, hell." I dig my fingers into the grass and grab a handful and fling it out.Again. From the top.I open my eyes, focus on a spot in the distance.
"Morn came and went—and came, and…."
