Page 20 of Engaged to London's Wildest Billionaire

The driver nodded and left the vehicle, standing close by.

‘The minute we step out of this car, the game begins.’ Lance’s voice was low and steady, in some ways reassuring. And still her heart skipped a few beats.

‘What game?’

His responding slow grin was pure wickedness. If it could be bottled, it would corrupt millions and send the world into chaos. ‘The tabloid media—one of my favourite amusements. Are you ready to play?’

‘Yes.’

He clapped his hands together. ‘Excellent! Now, what’s your favourite food? Not something ordinary. Your guilty pleasure.’

She looked at him, sitting there in a magnificent pinstriped suit and pristine sky-blue shirt. His hair gleamed like burnished gold. This man,hecould become her guilty pleasure. It would be so easy to lose her head around him. But he didn’t want her. He’d made that clear. It wasn’t what he was asking for...

‘Sacher torte.’

‘Excellent choice. Now...’ He nodded to the driver, who opened Lance’s door. Lance hopped out and bent down to look at her. ‘Look at me like you look at a slice of Sacher torte. You know you want it but shouldn’t have it. It’s decadent. It’ssinful.You’re going to eat it anyhow.’

She didn’t know what to say. Her mouth dropped open, because the idea of thinking of him like that was now filling her brain. He frowned.

‘You look like you’ve come down with indigestion.’

She shut her eyes. ‘Okay. Right.’ She took a deep breath, because she knew how to act. She’d spent a lifetime doing so. When she opened her eyes again she allowed herself to admire the tempting hint of chest where he wore no tie. Wondered how his skin would feel there. If she’d be able to feel the beat of his heart under her palm...

‘Perfect. Just like that,’ he murmured, his gaze softening. ‘Good girl.’

The words made her feel like abad girl.If a human being could self-combust, she would have lit up like a torch. She wasn’t sure her legs would work right now. Everything about her simply melted.

He seemed to realise she needed a bit of help, reaching his hand into the car, palm up. She placed hers into it and he squeezed, then assisted her out. He slipped his arm round her waist and led her down a narrow, cobbled lane to a small midnight-blue door. The only sign on the premises was a name, John T Smith, in gleaming gold.

‘What is this place?’ she asked.

‘Somewhere we can find a man who can help with your amethysts.’

‘Is John Smith really his name?’

The corner of Lance’s mouth curved up into a sly smile. ‘I’ve never been impolite enough to ask.’

As he pushed the door open a little bell tinkled. They walked into the dimly lit room, which glittered with sparkling glass display cabinets full of gold, silver and porcelain. The walls were adorned with magnificent artworks in ancient gilded frames.

‘Oh.’ It was all she could say. She knew the value of some of the pieces here. It was an incredible collection of rare and valuable objects.

‘Thought you’d appreciate it,’ Lance murmured.

A man walked out from behind a curtain. He was wiry and small like a jockey, with a beaming smile for Lance.

‘Your Grace, how good to see you again.’ His voice sounded overly deferential, but he winked at Sara, and she smiled back at him.

‘Cut it, John.’

‘I’m trying to be properly polite to my betters.’

Lance sighed. ‘When have you ever thought me better than you?’

‘Never.’ He turned his attention to Sara then. ‘But this vision before me. She’s better than the both of us combined.’

‘She is indeed.’ Lance squeezed her hand and introduced them. ‘You know why we’re here.’

‘The parure. May I see it?’

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