The Billionaire's Secret: Enemies to Lovers Fake Marriage Romance (Big Bad Billionaires Book 2)

by L. Steele

"When you plead with me to hurt you, to hold you down and claim you, to put you out of your agony even as you ask to be tormented further; when you beg for me with your pretty mouth, when you yearn to be filled in any way I deem fit... Then, and only then, I might let you come..." I pause, "Or not."

  She swallows.

  "And when I finally take you, it will be unexpected, life-altering, mind-blowing, intense. Everything else before will fade in comparison. "

  Her breathing grows more ragged. Good. I step back, pull the lapels of my jacket together. My knuckles brush against her breasts and she shivers.

  My groin tightens and my balls hurt. Fuck me, but this might be the first time I've talked myself into a hard-on—thanks to her.

  "You want that, hmm?"

  She shakes her head.

  I chuckle. "If I touched you between your legs, you and I both know you'd be wet. And you are soaking, aren't you?"

  She bites down on her lower lip, spots of color burning high on her cheekbones.

  I lower my voice to a hush, "Answer me."

  She trembles, "Yes."

  "Do you want me?"

  She tips up her chin, "What if I do?"

  "All you have to do is ask."

  "And you'll give me what I want?" Her eyebrows knit.

  "I'll make sure you get everything you deserve." I look her up and down, "The time you spend with me will be the single most pleasurable time of your life."

  Her lips part.

  Her pupils dilate.

  "You feel me?"

  She nods.

  "Say it."

  "I... I feel you," she whispers.

  "Good."

  I turn to leave. Take one step, another.

  "Wait," she calls out.

  Bingo, I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. Give it another second, then turn to glance at her.

  "Your jacket." She begins to shrug out of it.

  I hold up my hand, "Keep it." I pivot and leave.

  What the hell happened there?

  Why did she ask me a riddle? How did she know about the ghosts that have haunted my worst nightmares since the incident when six of my friends and I had been kidnapped? And why the hell had I allowed myself to be drawn into further conversation? I'd seen the hurt in her eyes and had wanted to replace it with a twisted pleasure. A primal part of me had wanted her to wear clothes I bought for her. Had wanted to replace memories of any previous encounters with her husband with those that my words had aroused in her.

  Does she enjoy it when he fucks her?

  I clench my fingers at my sides. What the hell is wrong with me? She's taken, married to another. I should let her go. So why does every pore in my body insist that this is not over?

  I head inside the townhouse that belongs to my friend Sinclair Sterling, aka the groom of the wedding. Striding to the bar, I lean over the counter, "Where the fuck did she come from?" I slide my fingers into my pocket, searching for the pack of cigarettes that isn't there. Shit, why did I quit again? Whose bloody idea had it been to give up smoking? I sure could do with a puff now.

  Weston tops up my champagne flute. "Who are you talking about?" he asks.

  "Victoria," I mutter.

  "You mean the woman you've been ogling—"

  I snarl.

  He snickers, "—I meant ‘staring at’ for the last half hour."

  "Fuck off." I reach for the champagne.

  "She's married." Weston pours the remainder of the bubbling liquid in his glass.

  "Yeah." I raise the flute to my lips.

  "Isn't that off limits, even for you?" He overturns the bottle, places it in the bucket of ice.

  He's right. I stay away from married women... Normally. Don’t need the kind of emotional baggage that comes with them. Hell no, I prefer my hookups to be neat—swoop in, decimate, get out.

  I chug down the drink, then grimace. "Isn't there any real alcohol in this place?"

  "That's £20,000 you chugged down there, ol' chap."

  I stare into my glass. "Could have fooled me." I survey the shelf of liquors behind the bar. "Whiskey," I growl. "Why are you bartending anyway?"

  "Because Damian decided he preferred the company of one of the fairer sex than our esteemed selves."

  "Right," I mutter.

  Weston half turns his body, reaches for the bottle I'd have chosen myself. Good man.

  He places the bottle on the counter, pulls out tumblers, then proceeds to pour in a generous measure. I dunk my hand into the bucket, pull out ice-cubes that I plop into my drink.

  "Classy." Weston grimaces, uses ice-cube tongs for his. "So, you interested in Summer's stepmother?"

  "She's Summer's age." I glower.

  "You’re not seriously considering this, are you?"

  "Why not?" I swirl the liquid in my glass. "Besides, something about that marriage is not right."

  "You can never tell from the outside," Weston retorts. "Only those in the relationship have an inkling of what's happening."

  "Come on." I jerk my chin, "Watch the two of them. You really think she has feelings for that piece of shit husband of hers?"

  Weston glances past me. He takes a sip from his glass, "Didn't think you were the kind to indulge in speculation."

  Me neither. I rub the back of my neck. What the hell am I doing thinking about possibilities, about could-have-beens? Hadn't the events of my past taught me to move on swiftly? To never look back, never dwell on the piece of shit hand I'd been dealt. I chug down my drink.

  "You're right." I set down the glass with a thump. "I am going to find out everything about her, ex-boyfriends, what food she likes, her taste in clothes—"

  "Wouldn't you rather ask her about it?" He tilts his head.

  "What would the fun be in that?"

  He stares at me, then nods. "True. Knowledge is power and all that."

  "I am going to dig out every piece of dirt on her and why she’s married to that fucker of a husband." I tighten my fingers about the bottle.

  Weston pulls out his phone, moves his fingers over the screen. "I know just the person to help you."

  2

  What is always in front of you but can’t be seen?

  Answer: Your future

  * * *

  5 days later

  * * *

  Victoria

  * * *

  Sunlight shines off the polished casket of my husband. Adam Rhodes died 4 days ago in his home city of London of a heart attack. He was fifty-five years old.

  If I sound like I am reading the words from an impersonal obituary, it's because I didn't spent much time with him. I had played the role of his wife for less than two months. Nevertheless, I should cry, shouldn't I?

  I bite down on my lower lip, stare as the casket disappears out of sight into the ground. No one deserves to die that young. I hadn't spent much time with him... Yet the fact that he was breathing one second, gone the next is...a shock.

  A wind blows and goosebumps dot my skin. That's London for you. One moment you are warm in the sun, then the breeze brushes over you and it's as if someone walked over your grave. Not a good comparison right now. My lips twist. I hunch my shoulders in my jacket—okay, Saint's jacket. It dwarfs me, and I had rolled up the sleeves so it would fit. Why the hell had I worn it? What the hell had I been thinking? It had seemed like a small act of defiance, one way to exert control over my life, I suppose. Had I wanted to be surrounded by his scent? I huddle into its warmth.

  Next to me, Summer's shoulders shake. She clings to her sister Karma. Both girls had reconnected to their father after so long, only to lose him again. This wasn't supposed to happen. It means I am on my own.

  An electric current surges up my spine. I stare past the open grave. Blue eyes bore into me. The force of his physical presence crashes into me. The impact of his dominance pulls at me. The hollow feeling in my belly intensifies. The melting sensation in my core deepens. Shit. My 'husband' is in his newly-dug grave, not a few feet away, and I can't s
top eye-fucking the man—the almost stranger—the man who'd threatened to hurt me if I engage with him again. What the hell is wrong with me?

  He takes a step forward, and hell, if I'm going to let him approach me here in front of my family—my dead husband's family. That makes me a widow, right? A pressure builds at my temples. This entire thing is getting out of hand. This is not what I had agreed to when I had bargained with the kidnappers for Nina's freedom.

  I'd agreed to pose as wife to Adam Rhodes on this trip, and returned to my home country, as part of the plan. But Saint...? This chemistry between us...? Hell, if it isn't a complication. In that sense, Adam dying had been opportune. It means I don't have to add the role of cheating spouse to my persona.

  I squeeze my eyes shut. Bloody hell. How can I be this callous? I barely knew the man who had posed as my husband, but when had I become so insensitive that I couldn't pause long enough to mourn the end of someone's life?

  I turn to Summer. "I have to go," I choke on the words. I don't have to fake the confusion or the pain that I am sure is etched on my face.

  She glances at me, "You okay Victoria?"

  I nod.

  "Why don't you come home with me and..." She glances at Sinclair and her voice trails off. So, the two of them haven't resolved whatever has been marring their relationship? I wish I could offer her some advice, but glass houses, and all that.

  "You could come to our place," Karma offers. "It's a tiny apartment, but you'll have company."

  "I..." I swallow. "I think it's better if I am on my own." I glance between them. "Not that I don't appreciate the offer. Honestly, you two have been more than generous, considering how much of a shock the last couple of days have been." My chin wobbles. I twist my fingers together. "I need to get my head around what's happened."

  Karma opens her mouth to speak, but Summer shakes her head at her sister. Karma frowns, then subsides. Whew! Okay. I don't want to tell any more lies... I need to crawl into bed and think about how to put the next phase of this plan into action.

  Summer reaches forward and hugs me. I pat her shoulder. "Thank you for accepting me," I whisper.

  "You're welcome." She steps back, "We need to stick together, huh? It's the only way to get through this shit that life insists on throwing at us."

  I squeeze her hand, then brush past her, and head for the black limo that had brought me here. I twist open the door handle and sink inside the vehicle.

  "Move over."

  Saint ducks inside, forcing me to scoot over.

  He drops into the seat opposite me, slams the door shut.

  "What are you doing?" I gape.

  He half turns and raps on the partition that separates the chauffeur from the passengers, then straightens.

  The car pulls away from the curb, leaving me trapped with this...this man whose face I have seen only once; whose features are burned into my mind. Hell. No way, am I riding with him. Not for one second more. I grab at my handle; the door doesn't open. The hell? I slap at the barrier between the seats. The driver doesn't respond. Hit the switch that opens the communication channel with the chauffeur,

  "Pull over. I want to get out."

  There's no answer.

  "Stop this car now, or I am going to call the police."

  "Go ahead." Saint smirks.

  I pull out my phone from my handbag, position my fingers over the keypad. And pause. A beat, another.

  "Thought not." Saint takes the phone from me and pockets it. "I'll take that jacket now." He jerks his chin at my attire.

  "What?" I gape.

  "My jacket, my rules." His eyes glint.

  Jerk. I undo the buttons, shrug off the jacket.

  "It wasn't your color anyway," he comments.

  "No?"

  He shakes his head, "It accentuates the dark circles under your eyes."

  "Fuck you very much." I hold out the jacket to him.

  He chuckles, then jerks his chin. I follow his gaze to the coat hanger by the window on his side.

  It’s either maneuver around him or over him to reach it.

  "Do it."

  What a complete bastard.

  To hell with it, I am not going to allow him to intimidate me. I half crawl over him, reach for the hook at the far side, miss, then swear aloud.

  His chuckle floats from over me, his scent surrounds me, and the corded muscles of his thighs graze against my stomach. I shiver, reach up for it again. Success. I hang the damn thing up, then retreat to my side of the seat.

  "You get much sleep?" His voice dips, takes on that gravelly tenor that sends a fresh surge of heat down my spine. Hell, this crazy reaction to his proximity? Clearly, I hadn't imagined it from our first meeting.

  "What do you think?" I glance out through the tinted windows as the car eases onto the main road. "Where are we going?" I ask.

  "Where do you think?" I hear the amusement in his voice.

  A fresh burst of anger flares to life in my chest. I turn on him, "Stop this, whatever it is."

  "You started it." He folds one leg over his other knee, and my gaze is drawn to the beat-up cowboy boots.

  "Is that the same pair you had on the other day?"

  He stiffens, then circles his ankle with his thick fingers. "Curious about me? Want to get to know me better, hmm?"

  "Of course, not."

  I turn away, glance at the bumper-to-bumper traffic. Who knew there was a graveyard in the middle of the city tucked away behind all those trees? That's London for you. Full of surprises. You are never too far from a park, or as it turns out in this case, a resting place reserved for the very rich.

  "I am taking you to your hotel." Saint's gravelly voice chafes over my skin. I'm instantly wet... Okay, wetter. Oh, my god! If anyone can seduce with words, it is this man.

  "This is my car," I turn to him, "so it stands to reason that I am the one taking you—"

  His smile widens

  I snap my mouth shut. "That's not what I meant."

  "Oh?" He tilts his head. "I beg to differ, but let me be absolutely clear, you won’t be taking me anywhere. I’ll be taking you. And I promise you, I will take you, and when I do, it will never be a meeting of equals, for..." He leans in close, "I hold the power. Never forget that."

  I stare into those cold blue eyes.—the blackness that crawls in their depths, that pulls at me, calls to me, that resonates with that most intimate part of me, the one that I've never acknowledged, that wants to be taken without mercy. How dare he find out about my innermost needs when I had never acknowledged them myself? Only when my palm connects with his face, do I realize what I've done.

  I gasp. My fingers tingle. I take in the reddening fingerprints on his cheek.

  "I... I'm sorry," I whisper.

  He peels back his lips, his teeth flashing white against his tanned skin. "Oh, you will be."

  He swoops down. I cringe away, but he's too fast. He buries his fingers in my hair, tugs me forward. I strain against his hold. He applies pressure—not bruising, not punishing, but just enough for me to lean into him. The black scarf slips from around my neck.

  He lowers his gaze to where the tops of my breasts are exposed from above the low-cut neckline.

  His jaw tics.

  "What belongs to you, but is used by others?"

  His voice coils around me, slithers down into the crevasse between my lower lips, reaches deep inside, touching, stroking, molding to my contours—a living entity that wants and takes, that never stops, that will not be satisfied until I submit to him. Submit.

  "Answer the bloody question." His tone rams through the jumbled quagmire of my mind, pulling me in, drawing me down, insisting that I focus my attention on that beautiful visage.

  "You have one second to answer." He raises heavy-lidded eyelids; a flush of red suffuses his cheeks. So, he's not impervious to me either. This, whatever it is between us, affects him as well.

  What does that mean? Can I use it to my advantage? Do I dare leverage it to get what
I want from him?

  I tip up my chin. "I… I don’t know." I swallow.

  "Are you sure you want to find out?" He leans in close enough for his scent to overpower me. The heat from his big body slams into my chest. His breath sears my cheeks, and our noses bump. He drops his gaze to my mouth. I part my lips, close the remaining millimeters between us. The world tilts. He grabs my shoulder, applies enough pressure that I slip off the car seat and down onto the floor on my knees.

  I glance up at him, "You have some nerve."

  He smirks, widens his legs.

  Don't look down. Don’t. I glance down at the bulge that tents his crotch, which is definitely considerably larger than what I'd noticed at the wedding. Saliva pools in my mouth. How big, how beautifully heavy he'd feel down my throat. What the hell am I thinking?

  "I just buried my husband," I swallow.

  "You didn't love him."

  My jaw drops, "How dare you arrive at that assumption?"

  "Am I wrong?" His gaze burns into me. A pulse beats at his temple. He peruses my features, "Tell me."

  I shake my head.

  His shoulders relax. Huh, does it mean anything to him that I had no feelings for Adam? That it was all a front to get me here? Why is it important to him that I didn't love another man?

  I blink at him.

  He lowers his chin, "Ask me to pull the car over and leave."

  "Would you do it?" I frown.

  "Nope," he chuckles, "but it sure was fun allowing you to think you had the option."

  Anger twists my chest. Blood thuds at my temple. I raise my hand again.

  He doesn’t take his gaze from my face. "Don't," he rasps.

  One word. A softly spoken command. My belly quivers. The force of his personality seems to grow until it fills the space, pushes down on my shoulders, holds me in thrall of this strange connection between us. I lower my arm

  "Good girl."

  A flush burns my cheeks. Why does his praise mean the world to me? Why do I want to please him with every fiber in my being? This is unnatural. I frown.

  "You think too much, Gigi." He touches his finger to my forehead.

  "My name's Victoria," I retort.