Page 13 of The Billionaire’s Fake Fiancée
Tattoo?
It only adds to his reputation of being eccentric, hints at a misspent youth. Curious, I follow the design, which sweeps up, disappearing inside the sleeve only to reappear, peeking above the neckline.
A strange intricate design, letters in a language that I vaguely recognize.
It's Hindi.
A language I'd heard growing up in Bombay. Faint images of those years often come back.
A woman's laughter.
Tinkling of anklets.
Echoes of voices. Words I don't understand, but often I feel their underlying emotions.
I blink and shake my head to clear it, and when I take a breath to calm myself, the smell of sea air, fresh, tangy flows over me. Desire unfurls in the pit of my stomach.
Before I can question why he has a tattoo in the language of my birth country, he says, "Good morning."
His voice slides over my skin, sinking in. It accelerates the slow burn inside, and all other thoughts go out of my head.
Ridiculous, this reaction to him.
I grunt, not trusting myself to speak. Instead, close my eyes behind my sunglasses and lean back against the seat.
"Hungover, are we?" His tone is mild, humor lurking beneath the words.
The patronizing 'we' in his sentence grates on my nerves. I'm about to retort, but he's already turned back to his tablet, frowning at it.
Spying the stock market reports up on his screen, I say, "Busy, are we?" I try to mirror the same degree of boredom I heard in his voice.
Fail.
I just come across as interested in what he's doing.
He replies without looking up from the screen, "We have an IPO coming out—" He stops mid-sentence, as if losing track of his thoughts. Opening up a fresh window on his tablet, he composes an email. I don't want to snoop but can't take my eyes of his fingers flying over the keyboard.
Long, tapered fingers.
Sensitive fingers.
How would they feel on my skin?
A little shiver runs down my back.
Firing off the email, he sets aside the tablet. His eyes sweep over me. I'd pulled on my oldest T-shirt in defiance. Refusing to dress up for him. A last stance at rebelling.
Stupid.
The T-shirt is comfortable. Also threadbare. When his eyes alight on my breast, my nipples harden. I'm sure they are outlined against the thin material.
I'd made sure I'd shopped using his credit card. A lot. Yet, by the end of my little expedition, I was nowhere near maxing out the credit card. So, I'd called the bank to ask for the limit. The amount had made my mouth go dry. I could have shopped all year and still not hit that number. Even thinking about the kind of money this man is made of makes my head spin. It also makes me wary. Men with such money are used to buying, owning. Possessing. Like he owns me now for the next few days.
The sunlight pours through the window, draping his shoulders, picking out hints of silver in those silver-green eyes. I take in the breadth of his shoulders, the shirt stretching across his chest and down over his stomach?which would be flat. Hard.
Desire pools in my chest, making it difficult to breathe.
"Like what you see?" he drawls.
