Billionaire’s Sins by L. Steele

2

Two days later

"Each blossom still blooms in its field; each child still clutches your hand; each friend still lingers in your heart. And that…is where time goes."

I glance at the words I’ve scrawled out in my diary.

My heart stutters. The hair on my forearms rises. Time. Why am I so obsessed with time? I am only nineteen; I have my entire life in front of me. So why do I often ponder how fast time goes by? How it can all be over in a matter of minutes... Blink, and it’s gone. A mother playing with her son as an infant one second; the next, he’s all grown up and she’s shooting a movie with him as her subject. The son, who is the mirror image of her first and only love, the man she fell for, her soulmate...who turned out not to be. And now she has him… The son, who is the image of the father. Stop it… All these thoughts that meld and flow and turn my brain to mush. Even Twilight was more cheerful than this.

I hear a splash from the pool, and glance around from my perch on the chair in the far corner of the pool area. I am at my friend Summer’s townhouse in Primrose Hill. It’s February and freezing in London. Which is why I had grabbed my book and my blanket, then crawled over to the far end of the pool area. I’d hidden behind the wide trunk of the oak-tree, then settled down to write.

People hate the cold. Me? I thrive on it. Darkness is my friend, my companion. It clothes me, hides me from the sight of the world, like this blanket that I’ve wrapped around myself. If I look down, I can see the slope of Primrose Hill fall away below, the grass an undulating carpet that stretches down to the canal. This early in the day, it is quiet, except for a few joggers… And the man who’d dived into the pool and is now swimming laps.

From my hiding place, I can see his massive shoulders flex as he cuts through the water. He propels forward, leaving ripples in his wake. He’s moving so fast, he’s almost a blur as his powerful arms slice through the water. He hits one end of the swimming pool, then pushes away and begins to swim toward the other side. He zips forward, flings out an arm, thrusts the other back so his body shoots ahead. He lunges onward, keeps going until he hits the other edge of the pool, then turns back. I watch as he does five more laps of the pool… Hell, is he training for a triathlon or something? My entire body hurts, thinking of the punishment he’s putting himself through. What the hell is he trying to prove anyway?

He hits the edge of the pool, throws his arms over the rim and holds on. Then he presses his hands down on the ground, hauls himself up. He pitches his leg up and over. The corded muscles of his thigh tauten as he raises himself up and over the side. Water streams down from his sculpted chest, the cut planes of his back, and pours down the sides of his thighs. He raises his arms, throws back his head and stretches. For a second, he stands poised. The first rays of the sun hit his skin, and he seems to sparkle. My throat dries. All of my nerve endings pop. Moisture pools in my core. A shiver runs down my spine.

He turns, giving me a full-frontal view and I draw in a breath. I saw him at my friend Karina’s wedding, a few weeks ago. Only difference, he had more clothes on…and he wasn’t this wet. Nor was I—ha! Nor did he have his thick hair slicked back to outline the contours of his scalp. Nor did the hollows under his cheekbones seem this prominent. I trace my gaze down his hooked nose to his thin upper lip, made all the more pronounced by his full lower lip, which seems soft, pouty enough for me to sink my teeth into and suck. My belly clenches. My core softens. I squeeze my thighs together, watch as he moves toward the deckchair and picks up a towel. He drags it down his massive chest, across that ripped stomach, down the crotch of his black swimsuit, which outline what he’s packing. I bite down on the inside of my cheek. Is that man packing or what?

Is he some kind of athlete? He has that strength and confidence that comes with someone who works a physical profession. Or else, he trains a lot. As evidenced by this morning’s work out.

He loops the towel around his neck, straightens, then meets my gaze.

I pull back. "Shit, shit, shit." Did he see me? Of course, he spotted me. He seems like the kind of man who wouldn’t miss a thing in his surroundings.

Go on, get out there and wave at him or something. Tell him ‘Hi.’

"Hi." I wiggle my fingers in the air in his general direction, too embarrassed to look that way again.

"Hello, there." A gruff voice sounds above me and I yelp. My heart pounds in my chest as I glance up, straight at eye-level with his gorgeous crotch—now covered by his pants. He’d managed to pull those on before heading over, apparently. Not that it does anything to hide, but rather, reveals the gargantuan proportions of whatever it is that it encloses.

Jeez, get your mind out of the gutter, bitch.

I raise my gaze, and hell, if the view doesn’t get even more serious. Dense muscles, packed one on top of the other, moving, slipping, sliding as he draws in a breath. An intricate design inches over one shoulder, and damn, if I don’t want to jump up and peek around to find out how it continues across his back.

He folds his arms across his chest and his biceps bulge.

Heat sears my blood. My thighs clench.

I tilt my head back, and further back. The sun chooses that moment to shine on him again, shadowing his features. This guy is a sun trap; that’s for sure. The golden glow folds about him, caresses him, so sparks of amber flare in the air around him. I blink, and his face comes into view. Dark close-cropped hair slicked back from the water. His eyes are golden...amber with a hint of black in their depths. Like he has secrets which he holds close to his chest. Thick eyelashes that sweep down over high cheekbones you could cut yourself on. I curl my fingers into fists and my nails dig into my flesh.

A scar mars the expanse of his left cheek, and somehow that only heightens how perfect the rest of his face is.

"You okay?" He tilts his head.

"Of course." My voice cracks and I clear my throat. "Why wouldn’t I be?"

"You seem like you saw something...unexpected?"

"Uh, you’re not a vampire, are you?"

He blinks, then chuckles. A full-throated, deep reverberation that sucker-punches me in the gut. My thighs tremble. My toes curl. I watch as those full lips of his quirk.

"I’m Edward." He holds out his hand.

"Wha—" I gape, "you’re kidding me, right?"

He frowns. "Excuse me?"

"Your…your name," I choke out. "It can’t be Edward."

"I am not following..." His cultured tone carries a note of warning, which I ignore.

"I mean, you can’t be called Edward. Who put you up to this? Was it Isla?" Only she knows about my slightly stalkerish obsession with Edward, from Twilight, and surely, she wouldn’t tell the others, right?

"Ah." The wrinkles on his forehead dissipate. "You’re Isla’s friend?"

I hold out my hand, "Ava."

"Ava?" He frowns.

He touches my hand and the rest of the words dry in my throat. Goosebumps flare on my skin. His gaze widens and the planes of his chest twitch. Did he feel that shock of the impact as well? I try to pull back my hand but he holds onto it.

"Why are you hiding, Eve?"

"I’m not," I scowl. "and that’s not my name."

"It suits you better," he tilts his head, "and you haven’t answered my question yet."

"Which one?"

"What are you doing here?"

"I came here to write," I bite the inside of my cheek, "only... I heard the splashing in the pool and I turned around and spotted you swimming.

"And you watched?" His lips curl in a hint of a smirk.

I glance away. "I, uh, may have peeked a bit."

"Did you like what you saw?"

I jerk my head in his direction, to find him watching me closely. His expression is one of curiosity, like I am some kind of lab specimen whose responses he is clocking in a clinical way. The hair on the back of my neck rises. I want to glance away, break the connection with this man, but I can't. My pulse rate ratchets up. Despite the chill in the morning, my palms begin to sweat. I clear my gaze, force the words out, "Wh....why Eve?"

"You know why." He peruses my features. "And you haven't answered the question."

"Do I?" My heart begins to race. "And what question?"

"You know the answer to both." He folds his arms across his chest and his impressive biceps bulge. Heat blooms between my legs and I resist the urge to rub my thighs together.

"I'm not sure what you're referring to," I say stiffly, "and no, I don’t find you attractive."

His grin widens, and the impact of that smile… Oh, my. His teeth sparkle against the tan of his skin, his features brighten, the charisma pours off of him, and honestly, I can’t glance away. I take in the gleam in his eyes, the hair on his forehand drying and already curling a little.

I blink. "Aren’t you cold?"

The breeze picks up, and a strand of hair whips across my face.

He releases my hand, only to lean down and push the hair aside. Goosebumps pop on my skin. My stomach trembles and my heart begins to race. I watch as his gaze holds mine, as the pupils of his eyes dilate. His nostrils flare, and he straightens. "I’d better be going. Sinclair's expecting me for breakfast."

"Oh, that’s right. Me too." I’d promised Summer I’d join them for breakfast. I jump up, and the movement brings me close to him. The heat of his body slams into my chest and my throat dries. I stare up at him, as he glares down his nose. Something like anger steals across his features, before he schools all expression from his face. A strange sensation grips my chest. I draw in a breath and the oxygen rushes to my head. Shit, when had I forgotten to breathe? He steps back, and the cold air rushes in. I shiver.

He pivots, walking toward the pool house. I take in the tattoo of the snake that crawls diagonally across his back. Whoa! That’s one mean-ass tattoo. It’s as spectacular as it is unexpected against the much paler skin of his back. The forked tongue of the snake is thick in girth, and within it are etched tribal signs that I can’t decipher. The edge of it flows over his shoulder, which is what I must have seen earlier. The scales on the snake are patterned in color and the triangular head has slitted eyes which seem to follow me as I jump to my feet, then tug the blanket around me, hold my book close and follow.

"Hold on," I protest, "your legs are too long."

He slows his pace and I catch up.

"So, you are a friend of Sinclair’s?"

He nods.

"You’re one of the Seven, aren’t you?" I peer up into his face, "I saw you at Arpad and Karina’s wedding."

His jaw hardens. Now what did I say for him to seem angry?

"Surely, you remember?" I mutter. "Didn’t you notice me?"

"I don’t notice every girl who crosses my path."

I blink, then pause my steps, "Now, that’s not fair. I could have sworn that you saw me there. Besides, I am not a girl."

He pulls forward, and I run to catch up. "Did you hear what I said?" I demand. "I am not a—"

"Girl." He stops so quickly that I bump into him. The scent of chlorine, and under that, the fresh-cut grass scent of him teases my nostrils. I draw in a breath, filling my lungs with his earthy essence. Moisture pools in my center and my nerve-endings seem to fire all at once. Why the hell does he have to smell so utterly delectable?

He pivots to face me and the heat of his body seems to turn up a notch. Does this man have a furnace under his skin, or what?

He looks me up and down. "What are you then?" he asks.

"What—" I blink.

"You said you are not a girl, so what are you?"

I tip up my chin. "A woman." I square my shoulders. "I am a woman."

"And I..." He squares his shoulders, "I am sworn to celibacy."