Page 33 of The English Billionaire's Obsession

When I nod, she takes out her mobile, bringing it to her ear as she swipes to answer. The phone is loud. Her friend’s voice is audible even though it’s not on loudspeaker.

“Hey, chica,” an East Coast American voice says. “How are things with Mr. Billionaire? Have you bled him dry yet?”

I release my woman’s hips and almost take a step back.

Ami gasps and says, “Emma, I have to call you back. I’m busy right now.”

“Oh, okay—”

Ami hangs up. “I don’t know why she said that.”

I try to keep my expression neutral as I shake my head, but there’s a tight ball of rage, of passion, of something ugly and fierce trembling inside of me. It’s taunting me with visions of Ami and her friend laughing about the gullible old billionaire. I picture them laughing at the idea of getting as much money from me as quickly as possible—tricking me, just like when I was a kid. Dammit, not that. Bloody hell, it’s been years since that happened, yet it still slams into me occasionally.

She places her hand on my chest. It seems to be one of her favorite places to touch, as if we can communicate through the pounding of my heart alone.

“What are you thinking?” she asks.

I laugh gruffly. It’s not that there’s anything funny about this, but laughter feels like the only response, the only method by which I can let out some of this tension.

“The truth?”

“Always,” she says, which could be the most hypocritical thing shecouldsay.

If she and her friend are plotting to—what was it she said?—bleed me dry.Then the truth is the last thing she’d want to offer me.

“It’s pretty sad,” I tell her, “or maybe you’d call it lame, but I’m thinking about something strange that happened to me when I was a kid. That’s all.”

“Tell me,” she says, “or we can talk inside if you prefer?”

Before Emma called, I would’ve leaped at this chance.

It was exactly what I wanted, to be as close to my woman as possible, to spend time with her. It could be a steamy time, or maybe just emotional, sitting with her,beingwith her, but now, I can’t. I won’t stop thinking about what her friend Emma said.

“I’ve got an overseas call tonight.”

It’s true, but the call isn’t for a couple of hours.

“Oh,” she says. “Seriously, Tommy, I haven’t said anything to Emma to make her think that. She was probably trying to be funny.”

There’s a pause as we stare at each other. I will myself to believe her, but it’s like this evil little prick is inside me, whispering viciously that she’s laughing at me behind my back.

“What happened when you were a kid?” she asks.

I grit my teeth, then tell her in a quick rush. I don’t want to speak about this, but at the same time, it might help her understand. If sheistrying to bleed me dry, understanding won’t mean much, anyway.

“I grew up in a bad neighborhood. My mom died when I was young. My dad was a poor addict. Even so, I worshipped him. Don’t all kids worship their dads? But he never wanted to spend time with me. Then, one day, he was suddenly interested in me. For the whole summer, we did everything together. It was the best summer of my young life.”

I don’t realize I’m getting choked up until she tenderly lays her hand on my arm.

“Then, just as suddenly, he stopped. Back to his old ways.”

“What happened?”

“He wouldn’t tell me at first. Then one night, he came home completely rat arsed.”

She grins, despite the serious conversation, despite the fact she might be bleeding me dry. “Rat…what?”

Despite everything, I grin too. It’s like our connection transcends all the ugly possibilities.

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