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

by L. Steele

"Wow," I take in the room, "You had the bed moved from the suite?"

  He shuffles his feet, "It's where we first made love. I couldn't leave it behind, could I?"

  OMG! That is...hot and romantic and sentimental. This man is a teddy bear inside. "I thought it came with the hotel room?"

  He scrutinizes my features, "I ordered it the day after I met you at Sterling's wedding."

  "Oh?" My heart stutters, "You were so confident that you were going to have me?"

  "You bet," his lips curl.

  And that arrogance of his? Honestly, I can't make up my mind whether to slap him or kiss him. "Guess I don't get a say in whether we're keeping it?" I pout.

  "Nope." He heads for the bed, steps up on the platform, "And not in how I take you once we are in it either."

  He lowers me onto the mattress—slowly, gently, his every move such a contrast to the fierceness of how we'd fucked before that I can't stop the moan that escapes me.

  "Shh," he places his finger on my lips, "let me take care of you."

  He steps back, unties the sash on my wraparound dress. It parts in the front. He eases it off of one shoulder, then the other. Pulls me up into sitting position, to take it off of me completely then unhooks my bra and pulls that off.

  I shiver.

  "You cold?"

  "No... It's how you look at me...like...like..."

  He steps back, rakes his gaze down my chest, to the hollow between my legs. "Like?" he prompts.

  "Like you want to own me."

  Color smears his cheeks, "I thought that's what I wanted too, but I was wrong."

  "I don't understand."

  "I want to imprint myself into every part of you, sink into you, until it's impossible to tell where you begin and where I end. I want you to think of me even when you're not aware of it. Turn to me before you have a rational thought, coil into my memories as you drift off to sleep, dream of me when you are awake..." He frowns, "I want you to be me. That makes no sense, does it?"

  My lips tremble, "I think I understand."

  "You do?" His eyebrows knit.

  I nod, "You want to love me like you've never loved anyone before?"

  "More than I love myself." He brings his lips to mine, kisses me sweetly—a touch, a nibble, a deep drinking from my lips that sets my head reeling. The world tilts.

  I look up to find he's stepped back.

  He strips off his shirt and my throat closes. The light pours in through the open windows, highlighting the dips and hollows between that eight pack. My belly quivers and my sex clenches. I'll never get enough of his gorgeous body...or the raging intensity of the feelings he manages to cloak so well with it.

  He toes off those ancient cowboy boots, shoves down his pants and his boxers, along with his socks. He straightens and his dick springs out—thick, heavy, the head swollen and weeping with need. I hold out my arms. He sinks down to join me. I wrap my legs around his waist, loving the feel of his hard planes biting into my flesh, his thick thighs a heavy comfort between mine. I trace the planes of his back and his muscles coil—so vital, so real, and all mine. His shoulders blot out the world and his face fills my line of sight. He lowers his head so our noses bump. A giggle tumbles from my lips.

  "You're gorgeous, Gigi."

  Heat sears my cheeks.

  His lips kick up. Then he bends his head and captures my lips with his. His touch sinks all the way to my bones; heat tugs low in my belly and my pussy clenches. I tip up my chin, meeting his tongue with mine. A groan rips from him. He drags his palm down my side, settles it on my hip in a gesture that's possessive and intimate.

  His cock nudges my opening. I tilt my hips up. "Please," I mumble in my throat.

  He slides his dick into my melting pussy. So good, so full, so heavy, and so right. A groan rips from him, or was that me? He stills as I adjust to his size. I dig my heels into his back, wrap my arms around his breadth, and urge him on. He slides in further, his shoulders bunching, the muscles in his back flexing with tension. He's holding back, not allowing himself to give in completely. A smile curves my lips. I drag my fingers down the length of his spine, tracing each contour, each dip and crevasse. He shivers. Oh, this is different. A rush of power engulfs me. I reach his taut butt, dig my fingertips into the tight flesh. His entire body shudders. "I don't want to hurt you," he whispers against my lips.

  "You're hurting me now."

  He pulls back, "What?"

  I smirk, "Unless you complete what you set out to do."

  His lips twist. He eases himself inside of me—gently, slowly, his weight stretching my super-sensitive channel. Every ridge of his shaft slides, chafes against my flesh, sending pulsing, coiling, roiling sensations up my back, toward my extremities. The climax builds almost instantly, swelling from the point where we are joined.

  He tilts his hips and his cock dips inside further, until he bottoms out. "You're my other half, Gigi," he whispers. "You're the better half of my conscience, the edge to my sense of humor, the lightbulb in my creativity, you're my heart," he whispers.

  I swallow down the lump in my throat. Hell, I'd been wrong. He could simply tell me what was on his mind and I'd come with the intensity of his true self.

  "Saint?" I clear my throat.

  "Hmm?"

  "I love you too, but... Would you please just shut up and fuck me now."

  He chuckles, then rocks his pelvis again and again, each thrust sending waves of pleasure shooting out from the contact. The orgasm whips up my spine. I strain up and into him, plastering my breasts against him. He holds my gaze with his, scrutinizes my every response, searches my features with an intensity that pierces my heart. My pussy clamps down on his dick and his cock pulses. The climax swells and pauses, waits. I open my mouth and the cry sticks in my throat. I swallow, moan, plead with him silently.

  His gaze intensifies; those blue eyes sparkle, glow with that cold heat that calls to me, beckons to me. "Come," he whispers.

  I splinter into little pieces. He closes his mouth over mine—soft, searching—drawing another moan from somewhere deep inside of me that he swallows. Another low groan from him, his shoulders shudder, and he comes, filling all of the empty places inside of me. His muscles bunch, then he flips me over and onto him, without pulling out.

  I coil into his broad chest, wrapping my fingers around his biceps, or trying to—considering their width.

  He draws his warm palm across my back, from nape to arse and back again. There's a whisper against my hair.

  I turn my head, place my chin on his chest, "You're a hidden romantic, Saint Jordan Killian Caldwell."

  "I actually did miss one," he drawls.

  "What?"

  "When we first met, you asked if I’d missed a name." He flexes his shoulders, "Turns out, I did."

  "What is it?" I rest my chin on his chest. "No, let me guess."

  He raises his eyebrow, "Do I want to know?"

  I snicker, "Is it, insensitive wart?"

  He smirks.

  "Giant squid?"

  He chuckles, "It is giant, though I'd rather liken it to an octopus than a squid."

  I choke, "You're a mugglepuff, you know that?"

  He blinks, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

  "You don't?" I sit up.

  "Nope."

  I gape, "You've never read Harry Potter?"

  What does that have to do with anything?" he glowers.

  "You hate The Beatles..." I count off on my fingers, "You've never read a Harry Potter novel," I shake my head. "Next you'll tell me you've never seen, When Harry met Sally."

  He reddens.

  I throw up my hands, "What the hell am I doing with you?"

  "Does it help that the missing name is Harry?" he drawls.

  I pout, "You're kidding me."

  "Believe it," he raises his shoulders, "or not."

  I peer into his face, "That's such a typical Saint-Douchebag-Caldwell retort."

  "And it turns you on," his lips curl.
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  "Now hold on a second—"

  His phone buzzes.

  I freeze.

  His jaw tics.

  It buzzes again.

  "Let it go," I whisper.

  He searches my features and swallows, "I can't."

  He sets me aside on the bed, then straightens. He reaches for the phone from his pants pocket, checks the message and silences it, then proceeds to get dressed.

  I watch the play of muscles on his back, the coil of power in his thighs as he stalks to the door.

  A hollow sensation smolders in the pit of my stomach. He dare walk out on me again? I stiffen, curl my fingers into fists.

  This time I won't let him leave. This time I am going to fight for what's mine.

  "Saint," I yell after him. "Where the hell are you going?

  He pauses, turns around. "Aren't you coming with me?"

  54

  What did the bee say to the flower?

  Answer: Hello, Honey!

  * * *

  Victoria

  * * *

  An hour later, I watch as Saint eases his Jeep into the deserted parking lot.

  I'd dressed quickly and followed him out earlier. He'd led me to the garage in the basement, which had been a surprise, considering I'd never seen him drive anything but the Jaguar. I'd been shocked to find that, in addition, he has a Jeep, a Harley—of course he has a Harley. What billionaire doesn’t huh? More surprising, had been the SUV—a Mercedes SUV.

  I'd paused in front of it and he'd simply tilted his head in that manner which is meant to convey, Of course, I have a car which can be fitted with a baby seat.

  I'd stared at it and he'd said, if I didn't like it, he could get me another. I'd simply shaken my head, too bemused to say anything. I'd followed him into his Jeep, stared around at the simple interior. With his jeans, black sweatshirt and beat up cowboy boots, this vehicle feels more like him than anything else. Is the obnoxious billionaire persona an act then? I frown. Will my alphahole ever stop surprising me?

  "You okay?" his voice slithers down my spine, coils in my gut. Now that smoky, sensuous burr of his tone... I'll never get used to that.

  "I'm good."

  "So why are you biting your nails?"

  Oh. I pull my hand back, then shove it under my thigh, for good measure.

  "Something on your mind, babe?"

  Hell, why does he have to be so intuitive when it came to me, huh? I flip my hair back, then mutter, "You taking me to meet that woman?"

  He nods.

  'Is she like, your ex?' is what I want to ask, but he'd denied anything between them, and damn him, but I want to believe him. Besides, I am not going to turn into a nagging shrew, not when he's taking me to meet her. I'll find out soon enough, what this is all about, huh?

  His gaze stays focused on the road.

  I glance sideways at him, and my stomach does that little flip-flop at the sight of his patrician nose, that mean upper lip, the pouty lower lip—moisture beads my core. Shit, I am pregnant and he'd made love to me—in the sweetest way possible—just before we left the house, so why am I already turned on by taking in the profile of his face?

  I turn to stare ahead as he veers off of the main road. The narrow road he's turned onto winds its way through a heavily-shaded strip of trees. He takes another turn, then pulls into a driveaway.

  He switches off the ignition and silence descends.

  I peer through the windshield at the field in front of us, "Are we still in London?"

  "We're in Zone 4 of the city, so on the outskirts."

  He reaches to the dash, pockets a small paper bag, then opens his door. I open my door and step out. He comes around the vehicle, holds out his hand. I take it. He weaves his fingers with mine, "Ready?"

  No, I'm not. I take in a breath and nod. He leads me toward the small two-floor cottage. I sniff the air, assailed by the scent of dried hay and huh, is that the manure I smell? The pounding of hooves splits the air. I glance up as a horse gallops over from the edge of the field to the wooden stile.

  His dark black coat glints in the sunlight. He tosses his head, snorts.

  Saint, lowers the zipper of his sweatshirt, then pulls out the packet and empties out a couple of sugar lumps.

  "Is that for the horse?"

  He smiles, walks toward the fence, "Devil here, is a pure-bred Arabian. I couldn't pass up the opportunity to sneak him a treat, could I?"

  He holds out his palm and the horse moseys over and licks up the cubes. Devil snorts again. Saint reaches up to run his fingers over his long nose. The horse, whines, stamps his feet. The horse lowers his head and Saint scratches him behind his ears until a rumbling sound emerges from him.

  What the—? I blink.

  "He sometimes behaves more like a dog than a horse," a voice explains.

  I whip around to see a woman walking toward us. She's the one Saint met the other day. Tiny, exquisitely curved, her legs are enclosed in boots and slim jeans. Her plaid shirt is tucked into her hourglass waist. Her hair flows around her shoulders. Behind her, the door to the house stands open. Guess I'd missed that, entranced by the ease with which Saint had petted the horse.

  She walks up and holds out her hand, "I'm Tink."

  "Tink?" I frown.

  She sighs, "Yeah, I was named Tinkerbell. I do prefer Tink, though."

  "Don't blame you," I mutter. "I'm Victoria." I take her hand.

  "Your name suits you." She looks me up and down, "You do bear a resemblance to Posh—"

  "Don’t say it, please. I don't know her, have never met her. She is no relation to me..."

  "—Spice," she completes her statement. "Sorry, bet you've heard that a million times and hate it as much as I do my name."

  "Hate to say it, but yours suits you, too," I bite my lips.

  "Well, guess we are kindred, huh?" She drops my hand, turns to Saint.

  "You made it," she jerks her chin.

  "It sounded urgent."

  "Sorry, but I think you need to see this one," she replies.

  Saint pulls away from the horse, dusts his palms on his jeans, then reaches for mine, "Shall we?"

  Tink leads the way inside, past a small living room, to another room that's furnished like an office. A bank of computer screens fills most of one wall. There are more screens sitting on the desk, each showing different images, two of them have maps with dots blinking on them. Whoa, someone loves their technology.

  She slips into the chair, pulls up surveillance footage.

  The screen shows a group of girls in a room which looks like a dormitory. Some of them are lying down, some sitting. One of them paces back and forth. She pauses, glances round the room, looks straight at the camera. Her desperate eyes seem to fill the screen, as she begins to weep.

  The other women in the room sit up. One of them gets out of her bed to approach her... One of the others gestures to her. She hesitates, then falls back.

  Tink shuts it off. "Sorry," she apologies, "it's hard to watch."

  Saint wraps his arm around me and pulls me into his side. I rub my cheek against his sleeve.

  He kisses the top of my head, "Shouldn't have allowed you to see that... But I wanted you to meet Tink and find out about the work we do together."

  I look up at him, "So, you and she..."

  "She runs an initiative that helps rescue those kidnapped or those who go missing." His lips stiffen. "No one should go through what I went through; nor the kind of mental trauma..." he peruses my features, "inflicted on Nina, and then on you."

  What I'd been through couldn’t begin to compare with his experience; but we'd both survived the challenges thrown at us.

  Is that why we’re attracted to each other, because we are survivors? No, it’s more than that. We could have met anywhere, in other circumstances, and yet, the connection between us would have been there.

  "This is why you respond so quickly every time she calls?"

  He nods, "It normally means she's tracked down the
whereabouts of a victim or victims," he nods toward the screen "and needs my help."

  "Saint finances the efforts." Tink glances between us, "I'm sorry if I've called him at inopportune times. Sometimes I’ve needed backup, and since the operations are kept secret, I can’t risk calling in anyone else."

  I tighten my grip around Saint's waist. "So this is what you were doing?" My cheeks heat.

  "You didn't think..." Tink glances up at Saint, then makes a face.

  "Ugh, I wouldn't date him. He's waay too up his own arse.” She laughs, “Besides, he's more like a brother to me."

  Saint tugs on her hair, in a decidedly sibling-like gesture.

  "When did you two decide to start this?" I ask.

  Saint shuffles his feet, "I've already told you that I took my mother's death hard." He rubs the back of his neck, "Let's just say, I was out of control for a while."

  "That's putting things mildly," Tink snorts. "He opened fire in his house when his father was away."

  "O-k-a-y." I peer up at Saint, "Did you hurt anyone?"

  He shakes his head, "But I destroyed the place. My father packed me off to go work with his friend."

  "That's my father," Tink clarifies.

  "He was an urban Cowboy, you could say." Saint rolls his shoulders, "He and his friends ran the adjacent farms. They trained and sold horses, and ran a riding school specializing in equine therapy."

  "In the middle of London?"

  "Zone 4; it's on the outskirts," he reminds me. "But yeah, they are technically in London."

  "Wow," I glance around the space, "This place is something..."

  Tink nods, "After my father died, Saint became my defacto guardian."

  "The stint with Tink and her father saved me. Her father was more a parent to me than my own. If it were not for Tink's dad... I would have ended up shooting myself."

  I glance down at the faded Cowboy boots.

  "Those are—"

  "My father's," Tink completes the sentence.

  "I borrowed them from him," Saint says, "when I lived here on the ranch. It's where I was reborn a second time, in a way. Since then—"

  "You wear them because they help you remember to stay sane?"