Page 73 of Seduced by Her Billionaire Fake Fiancé

Marco’s eyes narrowed. “You work too hard.”

“That’s what your family pays me for,” she responded crisply, finally getting her head back in order and jerking her hand away. “You need to sign these papers.”

“Which papers?”

“These.” She reached into her bag and removed the envelope. “Do you need a minute to get dressed?” She prompted, eyes dropping of their own volition to his broad, naked chest, chasing the tattoo that ran horizontally beneath his right pectoral muscle, the cursive script just as difficult to read now as it had been the first and second time she’d seen him half-naked.

“Do you want me to get dressed?” He drawled, moving a hand to his chest, running it over the tattoo, then drawing it lower, down the mid-line of his impressively muscled body, towards the sheet.

A lump formed in her throat. She couldn’t swallow, couldn’t move, couldn’t tear her eyes away. His hand went lower still, and her breath snagged in her throat.

“Yes,” she said simply, trying to work out what she was responding to, if it was the right answer, if it was what she’d meant to say.

He lifted a brow. “Yes, what?”

Think, Portia, think.“You need to get dressed,” she blurted out with relief. “I’ll wait for you in the living room.”

Except she didn’t leave. Her feet still wouldn’t cooperate. She simply stared at his body, transfixed by his striking masculine perfection. Marco didn’t seem like someone who worked out and yet he must, because there was no way anyone had this physique without putting in some kind of effort.

“I can sign the papers here, can’t I?”

“Here?” Her voice was squeaky. She controlled it with effort. “In your bedroom?”

His laugh was a low rumble. “You sound as though I’ve just propositioned you for sex,cara.Relax, you’re not my type.”

Something jabbed deep beneath her ribs and it galvanized her into action. “I’m glad to hear it. Believe me when I tell you having a man like you be attracted to me would be quite an insult. I’ll wait in the living room. Hurry up.”

She left his room quickly before foolish tears could spring to her eyes.

It had beensix months.When would she be done with this feeling of hurt, betrayal and rejection? Of believing that she hadn’t been enough for Jack? That if she’d been more fun, spontaneous, sexier, he wouldn’t have cheated?

You’re not my type.

Yeah, well, she hadn’t been Jack’s type either, apparently.

“Okay, Portia,” his voice drawled, low and husky. Damn it! She hadn’t expected him to come out so quickly. She blinked rapidly, hoping he’d be too hungover or drunk to notice the tears she’d had to stave off, taking an extra moment to remove the thick wad of papers from the envelope before laying them out on the table.

“Do you have a pen?” He asked, not looking at her. Thank God. It gave her a moment to process the fact he’d pulled on a pair of jeans, done up the zip but neglected the button, meaning they sat dangerously low, revealing those fascinating hip bones. A shirt had apparently been too much effort.

She studiously ignored his tattoo.

“Seriously? This is your house,” she muttered, pulling out one of the three pens she always had at the ready. “What kind of person doesn’t have a pen available?”

“I’m more of a digital guy. I keep telling Dante, this can be done online.”

“Your lawyer wants paper,” she snapped, wearied by everything suddenly. By Jack, by his affair, by her family’s unswerving loyalty to him, their insistence that he was a good guy who’d just made a single mistake, who deserved a second chance. As though Portia was an unfeeling bitch because she’d broken off their engagement and refused to look back. She was weary of Marco too, of the way he lived his life and somehow got away with it, weary of men who acted like women were dispensable and good for only one thing.

“I’m surprised to find you alone,” she murmured, passing a pen over. “I think that’s a first.”

He shrugged. “Does it bother you?”

“That there’s not some naked woman here to contend with?” She asked.

“That there quite often is,” he corrected, pinning her with his gaze once more. Sharp, astute, way more like Dante than she liked.

Something trembled down her spine; she ignored it. “I don’t really care,” she said stiffly. “It’s your life.”

“You seem to care,” he responded, dropping the pen to the table without having signed the documents. “Or maybe you’re just naturally very prim.”

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