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

by L. Steele

  Hell, he can't smell my arousal, can he?

  A chuckle rumbles up his chest.

  Bastard. All of this is amusing to him.

  He reaches the door, then pauses. "I am taking my business across to my space." He turns to survey the other two, "You guys cool with that?"

  "Saint," Summer's voice is resolute, "don't hurt her."

  Saint's muscles tense, then he tilts his head, "I won't do anything that Victoria doesn't want me to do."

  He glances down at me, "We understand each other, don't we?"

  The hell does he mean by that?

  I open my mouth to ask, but he's already striding out and down the corridor.

  "I am not your business," I protest.

  He laughs, "So why are you here?"

  Well, hell. He has me there. I am the one who stumbled in and collapsed at his feet. Which had not been part of the script, by the way. What the hell happened to me? I swear I am not a damsel in distress...though that's the part I've been told to assume. Lucky for me then, that my actions corroborate my persona, huh?

  He walks past two offices, then shoulders open the door to the last one. He steps into one similar in size to the one we left behind. A bookcase lines one wall; on the opposite wall is a massive painting of a question mark.

  A question mark? The outline is filled in with shades of blue—jeweled, hypnotic. The more I stare at it, the more I am pulled into it. My head swims and my vision fills with spots. Shit. I shake my head to clear it, then drag my fingers through my hair. This has to be Saint’s office. I stiffen. Apparently, conforming to stereotypes of the weaker sex has its benefits. I'd found my way into Saint's inner sanctum. Can I accomplish my goal as quickly?

  "Let me go," I huff.

  "That's not what you were saying a few minutes ago." His shoulders heave. A chuckle rumbles up his chest.

  "You're an asshole," I mutter.

  "So, they say."

  "And a condescending prat."

  "At your service," he drawls.

  And I turned to him for help? Not that I had a choice; but hell, if I stay silent, he'll walk all over me.

  He'll take me for granted, use the force of his personality to subdue me, no doubt about that. Men such as him are so used to getting what they want. I'd become another of his conquests. He isn't known as the most eligible bachelor in London for his good behavior, that’s for sure. No, I can't simply give in to him. I have to intrigue him, hold his interest long enough to win his confidence, to get close to him so I can get ahold of the information I need so badly; but damn, if I am pandering to his already swollen ego for that.

  I tip up my chin. "Release me," I demand.

  He yawns, continues walking toward the far end of the room. What the hell? He ignored me?

  I begin to struggle in earnest, shove my elbow in his groin. He huffs, glances down at me and his gaze widens.

  Good. That'll teach him to underestimate me.

  "Let go of me you prick," I snarl.

  His biceps flex. The muscles of his forearms ripple against my back.

  The next moment I fall through the air.

  5

  Saint

  * * *

  She bounces on the couch, her glorious dark hair falling about her face. She shakes it back, scrambles up. I place my hand on her shoulder.

  I should let her know exactly what I have in mind for her. How I plan to ensure it's a long time before I let her go again. Oh, I've been receiving minute by minute reports of her movements; but nothing compares to having her in my office, on my couch, under me, as I proceed to strip her of every shred of dignity. As I bring her to the edge of orgasm and never let her come. "So, you obeyed me, huh?"

  "What?" She frowns.

  I lean in and sniff her neck. The sugar sweet scent of her arousal, magnified, more complex than before, fills my nostrils. "Good girl." I grin down at her. "You haven't had an orgasm since we last met."

  Her mouth opens and closes. "You have a nerve." She tries to sit up. I apply enough pressure on her shoulder so she sinks back into the cushions.

  "Take your hands off of me."

  "No."

  She blinks. "You can't just...just..."

  "Command you?"

  "Stop me," she grinds out.

  "I can. I have." I straighten and she stays where she is this time. Good. "Have you eaten?"

  She scowls.

  "I'll take that as a no." I stalk over to the massive table that takes up almost the entire length of one side of the room. I snatch up the phone. "Meredith?"

  "Saint?" M replies, "She there with you?"

  "Yeah," I mutter.

  "Do you know what you're doing?"

  "Don't you trust me?" I scowl.

  Her voice softens, "Be careful, Saint."

  "Always." I smile. "I was going to ask for—"

  "I ordered you two a late lunch," she interrupts me. "It's on its way."

  There's a knock on the door.

  "I think it's here already. What would we do without you?"

  She chuckles. "I'm immune to your charms, but I'll accept the compliment."

  I drop the phone in the cradle, stalk to the door.

  A girl stands there, carrying a tray of food. Another intern? How many of them do we employ here?

  I scowl at her and she pales. Her arms tremble. "Uh, may I come in?"

  "No."

  She gapes.

  I take the tray of food from her, then shut the door in her face.

  "Treat them that way and no one will want to work for you," Victoria mutters.

  I turn, march over to the couch. "Pay enough money and it's surprising how much they'll put up with."

  She swings her legs over, places her bag on the floor next to her. "That your personal philosophy?"

  "Sure." Whatever she wants to believe.

  I place the food on the coffee table next to the couch and whip off the covering. The tangy scent of soup fills the air.

  Her stomach grumbles. She glances from the food to me.

  "It's lentil and quinoa soup." I add, "Vegetarian, as well as filled with complex carbs."

  She frowns.

  I pull up a chair and seat myself opposite her, then dip a spoon into the broth. I bring it to her lips, "Open."

  Her pupils dilate. Is she remembering the last time I commanded her to do so? The blood rushes to my groin.

  She opens her mouth and I feed her the soup. Watch as she licks her lips. My pulse begins to thud. I feed her a few more spoonful's.

  A drop clings to the edge of her mouth.

  I lean in, lick it off.

  She draws in a sharp breath.

  "Tastes good," I murmur.

  She swallows.

  "The soup, I mean."

  She frowns.

  "What's on your mind?" I ask.

  "How did you find out that I was vegetarian—?" her words trail off. "Did you have me investigated?"

  "You don't think I'd let you anywhere near me without doing that, do you?"

  She pales.

  "I'm sure you have nothing to be worried about. After all, you are ordinary, hmm?

  "Bastard," she bites out.

  "Not to mention that you tend towards hypoglycemia," I mutter

  She gapes at me. "You know that too?"

  "Is that why you fainted?"

  "Almost fainted," she scowls.

  "When did you last eat? You need to keep your blood sugar levels steady."

  "Why do you care?" she huffs.

  "I don't." I raise my shoulders. "But I need you strong enough to answer my questions."

  "Is that why you're feeding me?" Her chest heaves.

  "I am doing it because it amuses me to see you lap up all the attention."

  A snarl escapes her, then she raises her hand.

  "Your penchant for using your palm...." I tilt my head, "I'll remind you of it, when my handprint graces your butt cheeks."

  She shudders, "You won't." She curls her fingers into he
r fist.

  I sigh, "Don't make this worse on yourself."

  She hesitates, then lowers her hand into her lap.

  "Good girl."

  She flushes, then parts her lips for the next spoonful, and the sight of her tongue... That hunger in her eyes, fuck. I press my thumb into her mouth.

  She sucks on it, and fuck, if I don't feel the tug all the way to the tip of my cock.

  She lets go of my digit, then smacks her lips together, "Tastes good." She raises her chin.

  "You upped the ante." I allow my lips to curve.

  "You didn't think I'd simply allow you to take me for granted?"

  "Trust me," I scoop up more of the soup, hold it out to her. "I much prefer a fight." I tip the spoon, the soup drips into the 'V' of her neckline.

  "What the hell—?" She cries out, glances down at herself. "Did you just try to burn me?"

  "If you can't stand the heat, then get out." I glare at her.

  She pales.

  "Well?" I replace the spoon in the bowl of soup. "What's it going to be?"

  She glances from me to the door, then back at me, "What if I leave?"

  My heart begins to race and sweat beads my palms. I wipe my fingers on the starched white napkin, put it aside. "You won't."

  Her mouth opens and closes. She splutters, "Why you presumptuous, cocky—"

  "Are you?" I frown. "Leaving?"

  She purses her lips, twists her fingers together.

  "Want me to take the choice out of your hands?"

  She doesn't reply, peers into my face, then rubs her thighs together. My groin tightens. My muscles harden. I lean over, lick the trickle of broth that I spilled on her neck.

  She freezes.

  I follow the trail down to the valley between her breasts.

  She shudders. "Oh, my god," she whispers.

  "Want me to touch you?"

  "What? No." She straightens, "Of course, not."

  I rise to my feet, pivot and head for the door.

  "Wait," she calls out.

  I wipe the smile off of my face, turn.

  She looks at me, then away.

  I tap the toe of my boot against the floor.

  "You're going to make me say it, aren't you?" she says bitterly.

  I pull back my cuff, check the time on my watch. "My next appointment's waiting."

  "Fine." She hunches her shoulders.

  "Fine what?"

  "Fine, I want you to touch me."

  I cross the distance between us, fit my knuckles under her chin. She glances up at me, her green eyes shining with that inner turmoil I'm beginning to recognize.

  "Not so hard now, is it?"

  "This is not why I came," she whispers.

  "Shh!" I press my thumb to her lips.

  She gulps, opens her mouth again, and I shake my head. She subsides. All of the confusion and all of the emotions she's feeling are reflected in her eyes. So fucking vulnerable, this woman, yet so sassy.

  "You're not as innocent as you seem," I say.

  Her gaze widens.

  "But that's okay." I frame her face with my hands. "I am going to enjoy unravelling your hidden agenda."

  She sits up straighter. "Takes one to know one."

  "Don't make the mistake of thinking you know me, Gigi."

  "Don't flatter yourself," she mutters. "You're not so special. Just another spoiled billionaire a-hole, who thinks he can use his power and influence to get anything he wants."

  "Gazillionaire." I grin, then slip my palm under the heavy curtain of her hair. "And you're sitting here, aren't you?"

  Color flares on her cheeks. She tries to rise, but I wrap my fingers around her nape and hold her down.

  Her shoulders jerk and the pulse at her neck flutters.

  "Poor, Gigi. So confused. So out of your league."

  "I'm more than a match for you, rich prick." She bares her teeth.

  A shudder works its way down my spine. My balls throb. I haul her up by the scruff of her neck. She gasps and her breasts push up, the nipples beaded against the black cloth of her dress.

  "Fucking hate that color," I grumble. I lower my head until I can make out the little creases between her eyebrows, the flecks of gold in those green irises beckoning me. Calling me. I rake my gaze down to her mouth. Her lips part. She flutters those thick eyelashes down. "Please," the whine bleeds from her lips.

  "What do you need?"

  "I... I don't know," she murmurs.

  "You do."

  I draw in a breath and her scent grows straight to my head. A hot sensation stabs in my chest. Fucking fuck. This woman, she is too potent. Weston was right, I am way too deep into this game already.

  I release her so suddenly, her rear hits the couch with a thump. Turning, I stride to the door.

  "You're a real piece of work you know that?" she yells after me.

  I raise my hand in the air. "Rest up, Gigi. You have until I finish this next appointment to figure out why you came. After that, the choice is out of your hands."

  6

  I am often mistaken for being true. What am I?

  Answer: A lie

  * * *

  Victoria

  * * *

  "Help me."

  I snap my eyes open, jackknife up, heart racing, pulse pounding. I try to swallow and my throat hurts. Sweat slicks my palms, slides down my back. The blood thuds at my temples and my stomach twists.

  After Adam's untimely death, I'd received another call. This time with instructions that I had to get close to Saint, and get hold of the evidence he has on the Mafia. The man on the phone had also played me a recording of Nina's voice crying for help. Then he'd warned me not to breathe a word about this to anyone else, before hanging up. I drag my fingers through my hair.

  I've barely slept a wink the last few nights, nervous about this encounter with Saint.

  Clearly, my subconscious associates that asshole with security. Enough that, for the first time in weeks, I'd fallen into a deep sleep in the middle of the day. On his couch, in his office, no less.

  A sound reaches me through the door. I stiffen, swing my legs over and a jacket falls to the floor. Huh? It's light gray in color, different from the one he had loaned me. He hadn't been kidding when he'd said that he hates the color black on me.

  Had he come in while I slept and decided not to wake me up? Had he watched me sleep, and covered me with the jacket? I blink.

  At least I hadn't drooled. Small mercies. I pick up the jacket, then bury my nose in the luxurious fabric.

  The scent of him laces my nostrils—masculine, complex, layers upon layers that sink into my skin. My cheeks flush. My thighs clench. Ridiculous. I can’t have such a reaction to his scent. I drop the jacket on the couch, then spring up to my feet, and walk toward the desk.

  Starlight streams in from the windows. Huh? It had been late afternoon when I'd arrived. How long did I sleep? I glance at the sleek wall clock on the far side of the room. What the—? It's late—almost 9pm. Why did he let me sleep away the evening?

  I sink into the massive leather chair; the scent of him deepens. My belly flutters. My throat dries. Why the hell am I having such a strong reaction to the presence—? No. My lips twist. Technically, that would be his absence—of this man I barely know.

  I touch the pad of the laptop in front of me and the screen lights up. It's fingerprint locked. I'd checked it as soon as Saint had left, of course. It wouldn’t have been that easy, right? I have to get into his files to get what I need, which means—my shoulders slump—I have to get close to him. No choice.

  I glance at the desk, spot the riding crop on it. "What the—?" Who keeps a riding crop on his work desk, in his office? Saint does; that's who. I shake my head, reach for the top drawer. It's locked. Well hell, of course it couldn't be that simple.

  I open the drawer below; there's stationery, pens, excel sheets printed with rows of numbers. I wrench open the drawer at the bottom... my breath catches. A gun? Huh? He keeps a g
un? Another noise reaches me through the door. Shit. Where the hell is Saint?

  I snatch up the revolver. The weight is reassuring. Two months ago I'd never seen a gun in my life. Now? Well, I'll take every break I get.

  The one thing my experience has taught me is never to be taken by surprise. I shut the drawer, then walk across the floor. Opening the door, I step into a corridor. Strain my ears… Nothing. Scratch that... Is that a sound from down the hall? I glance down the passageway, then the other way. Right. I march down the hallway to the set of double doors, and fling them open.

  Pale blue eyes cut into me; his eyebrows slash down.

  I take in the breadth of his shoulders ensconced in the same white dress shirt he had on earlier. Only now, the front is unbuttoned and pulled apart to reveal his cut torso. Black hair clings to the eight pack abs that ripple and flow down to meet the waistband of his pants… His unzipped pants where a woman bobs her head. So, this was his very important appointment?

  She grips his powerful pant-clad thighs, which buck and flex under her touch. He parts his legs, then clasps the back of her head. The veins on his muscled forearm flex.

  A moan bleeds through the air and I’m instantly wet. My mouth waters. My scalp tingles.

  Omigod, why is that the most intensely erotic thing I have ever seen? I seriously can’t be thinking that now. Get out of here, get out. My feet seem stuck to the ground, my legs too heavy to carry me out of there. I watch, riveted, as he brings up his other hand, the veins on his forearms popping.

  His shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows; his biceps bulge as he swipes a finger across his lower lip.

  "You want to share it when you have it, but when you want it you don't have it." He rumbles, "What is it?"

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

  His lips curl. He is laughing at me.

  He knows exactly the picture he presents.

  So damn arrogant. So confident.

  Did he orchestrate this entire tableau for my benefit? Nah, why should he? Bet he has a mile-long queue of women outside the door ready to suck his every appendage. I chuckle.