The Billionaire’s Christmas Bride by L. Steele

52

Amelie

"Holy fuck." I stare out of the window at the view of Tower Bridge from the window of Weston's penthouse.

He'd informed me that I was on his guest list, so I could come and go as I please. Also, my fingerprints had been added to the fancy-ass security thingy on the front door to the apartment. So I had to simply touch my palm to the lock pad provided and—wowza!—the door would open to let me in. Oh, he'd let me try it and it had worked on the way in. Woo. That is some fancy shit. The kind of security only the seriously well off could afford.

Don’t get me wrong, I knew he was loaded...and talented, and over-the-top dominant...but this... All this luxury that surrounds me... It’s too much. When we were at the cabin, London had seemed so far away. It had been easy to forget about daily life, my debts, my growing business, the fact that he is so bloody out of my league. And at my apartment... Well, that had been my turf. I had felt more in control maybe... Which is a laugh, considering it has been broken into. It is also the place where he told me he loves me.

"Did you mean what you said?"

I hear the words and curse myself. Why the hell can't you filter your thoughts, bitch? Why is it so important to know what he feels for you? He wants me. He was taking no argument about leaving me behind at the apartment either. So, he lusts after my body... I mean, that's good, right? It's a start. The fact that he finds me attractive? Heat sears my back, then his big arm wraps me around my waist. He pulls me back and flush against his big chest. Instantly, I feel tiny and cherished and taken care of. Big mistake. He is going to lure me in, fuck me senseless, keep me in a sex-induced haze, and when I wake up from it, I will regret every little piece of me I had shared with him.

"Do you actually want to know the answer to your question?"

Of course, he knows what I was referring to... And yeah, I definitely want to know the answer.

"No."

I shake my head.

"Liar," He pulls me close so my back is plastered against his perfect chest. Heat from his body cocoons me, sinks into my blood.

My toes curl. My thighs clench. Get your mind out of the gutter, you slut. “Umm,” I hesitate. "It was nice of you to have a security system put in my flat, and on such short notice."

Yeah, he'd made one phone call and in half an hour, his security consultant had arrived, armed with an array of devices. She'd checked out the place, then rigged it with enough alarms and sensors to satisfy his exacting demands. It had taken less than two hours from start to finish, during which time, Julia and Weston had gotten along well. I'd watched from the sidelines as he'd charmed her, put my friend at ease, so that by the time it was time to leave, she was completely convinced that this was the right move for me. Well, apparently, he saves that hard-headed, demanding alphahole side of his for me... Not that I am complaining. It is part of his appeal—I admit, that firm hand of his is a bloody turn on for me. If only I could always live in this sex-haze of a bubble, huh?

He wraps both of his arms around my shoulders, enveloping me in that gorgeous scent of his. "You're deflecting, babe." He bends to nibble on the shell of my ear.

I shiver.

"Didn't think you were such a coward." He blows in my ear, and I shiver. Bloody hell, with him, every part of me turns into an erogenous zone. Bet I've sprouted nerve endings where none existed before... All the better to sense you with, Mr. Wolf.

He spreads his fingers over my stomach. The width of his palm is so wide that the tip of his thumb brushes the underside of my breast. My nipple instantly pebbles. Stupid, stupid, that I am so responsive to him.

I pull away from him. Of course, he doesn't let me budge, not a millimeter. Against his strength, I am helpless. His force of will, his confidence... How is it possible that he always seems to know what he wants? Unlike me. My entire life is a two steps forward, one back kind of scenario. "Let me go," I mumble.

"Not a chance," he growls. The edge of his voice shivers down my spine, sinks into my center.

"Wes," I plead, "you're making this very hard."

"I'll make it simple." He releases me, only to flip me around. "Look at me."

I stare at his chest, the smattering of hair that peppers the dent between his perfect abs. We'd walked in and I had headed for the view and lost my composure. Now, when I lean in and press my nose into his skin and inhale, notes of sweetness mixed in with his darker scent fills my senses. "You smell like us," I whisper, draw in another breath, then bend and lick him. "You taste like honey and chocolate bomb overlaid with cinnamon and cloves and a dash of vanilla." Yum!

A groan rumbles up his chest.

"Woman you've got to stop comparing me to desserts."

"Oh?" I glance up at him, "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day instead?"

"Shakespeare?" He tilts his head.

I stare up at that perfect visage, that strong jaw, the mean upper lip that hints at the dominance inside that drew me to him...those thick eyebrows, the eyelashes that fringe his keen gaze. Everything about him is right, more than right. He is the complete package—he fits me; body, mind and soul, and damn it... This is all wrong. I can never have him, could never keep him. What do I have that could hold his attention? Why does he have to understand me so well? Tears knock against the back of my eyes.

"What's wrong?" He frowns.

"I don't belong here."

"You belong with me.

"I don't want you."

"You do."

"I can't do...this."

"What?"

"Whatever this is." I wave my hand in the air, "Playing house...or rather playing mansion—or whatever it is the other half calls it."

"Is that what you think this is?" He seems perplexed.

"Isn't it?"

"Maybe," he concedes. "Maybe not." He releases me, then steps back. He'd changed clothes, and now his tailored slacks mold his thighs and cling to that spectacular butt as he paces the floor in his Italian shoes—how many of them does he have in his closet, huh?

He drags his fingers through his hair, drawing my attention to how his biceps bulge against his button-down shirt. My mouth waters. Whoa down girl, haven't you feasted on his delectable body enough? And that's the problem. I'd prefer to lick his sculpted abs—and uh, other parts of him—over chocolate. Shit, I am so screwed.

"I am not sure what this is between us," he concedes.

"You're not?" I blink. The alphahole is always bloody sure of himself. He rolls his shoulders now, then cracks his neck, then pivots to face me, with his eyebrows knitted into a look I can only describe as confusion. This is a first.

"I'm not," he confirms my suspicion. "When I walked in and realized you were in danger, when he held that knife to your neck, something changed."

"It did?"

"I thought I'd failed you. If something had happened to you, I could have never forgiven myself."

"You're not my keeper," I mutter. "I've taken care of myself for so long."

"And look where that has gotten you." He scowls.

"What?" I blink, "Did you just say what I think you did?"

"Look," He holds up his hands, "I'm not saying you haven’t tried your best, but I could make things much easier for you with my money, my contacts."

I swallow and something hot stabs at my chest. My throat closes and my eyes burn. Why the hell had I thought anything had changed? Because he'd chased that goddam burglar from my apartment? No, hold on, I'd played a part in that too. Because he'd ensured that my friend would be safe in my apartment? That was because he wanted me close, where he could keep an eye on me, take care of me, control me. That's what this is about.

He wants me here so I can be his little fuck toy. He'd have his way with me... Oh, yeah, I'd enjoy every second of it too.. And then what? He'd throw me away? Well, he'd have paid me for my time...

And I don't want it. I'd rather live in debt for the rest of my life, than be obligated to him.

Not that it wasn't part of the arrangement. I mean, I'd gone into it with my eyes open, not realizing I was giving him what he needed—a way to manipulate me.

Whatever the future might hold for us, whatever there could be between us... As long as the money stands between us...the money I had accepted...it would always be a relationship which would be measured, a connection which had a number attached to it... It’s too finite. Too tangible. Too...restrictive. Something that goes against how I had lived my life, the future I wanted for myself. I want him, all right, but not at the cost of my self-respect.

If I stay, and accept the money, and allow him to treat me like one of his other women, someone whose bond is tainted by the materialistic aspects of life... We don’t stand a chance. Not the way I want.

"This...is all wrong," I say.

He closes the distance between us, "I don't agree."

"I don't want your money."

He stares, "Excuse me?"

"I don't like how it makes everything too easy."

"Are you kidding me?" He scowls. "That's what it is meant for—to pave the way, to achieve dreams, to help you get what you want."

"I can do it on my own." I tip up my chin. "I will achieve my goals, on my own merit."

"What are you saying?" He glowers, "You're not making any sense to me."

"For the first time since I met you, I am making sense to myself."

His gaze widens, "So you admit that I affect you?"

I throw up my hands, "That has never been in dispute. I mean, come one, it's clear we can't keep our hands off of each other. Put us in a room and we'll end up in bed. Hell, I hear your voice on the phone and I'm wet."

"You are, huh?" He smirks and his shoulder muscles seem to broaden.

"OMG!" I slap my forehead, "Of course, you'd choose to focus on the more obvious. Of everything I said, is that the only thing you heard?"

"You want me; I want you. We're good together." He raises his shoulders, "What else is there?"

"Everything." I swallow, "And nothing." I peer into his face, "After all that we've been through, you still don't get it, do you?"

"Is this about the money?" He scowls, "Because if that's the case, I'll double what I am paying you."

"Money?" A chill spreads across my skin. "You think it's about the money?"

"I'll triple it."

"Triple?" I stare, "You'll triple the money?" Is he for real? Isn't he hearing anything I am trying to communicate to him? And I thought he got me?

"That's eighteen million pounds in your bank account on New Year's Day."

I cough. That's a bloody hell of a lot of money. I'd never see that in this lifetime, for sure. If I accepted it, I'd never be able to live with myself. I'd hate myself every day for the rest of my life. Besides, what's the difference between one million and eighteen million, huh? Other than the zeroes? That's the thing with money. The more you have of it, the less it does for you. Nope, I may have been blinded by what the money could have done for me—could still do for me, but not anymore.

"I'll throw in this penthouse," he growls. "Hell, say the word and I'll sign it over to you."

I open my mouth, then purse my lips together, "Good bye, Weston."

I brush past him, spot my suitcases by the door of the living room. He'd had his driver deliver my suitcases to this address. Sneaky bastard had planned it all along... How did I miss it? How come I didn’t see through him? I was an acquisition for him. A possession. Hell, he even dropped the 'L' word in the height of passion, hoping it would convince me to give in to him. Well, fuck him, and his money and his bloody view—which is spectacular, I've never seen that view of London in real life before and will probably never do so again. Tears prick the backs of my eyes. Get out before you bawl your eyes out over that ass.

I ignore my luggage; it will only delay me, and I don't want that. I have Peter's contact details; I'll ask him to deliver it home. I'm sure Weston won't stop him, will he? I hesitate. Too bad. I'll have to risk it then. I am not stopping here for one second more. I grab my chef's satchel from the coffee table, tuck my handbag into my side, then head for the door.

"Don't you want to check out the kitchen?" He calls out.

I pause. "What?"

"The kitchen," he says, "it's to your right."

I stare straight ahead. Focus my gaze on the double doors to this blasted, beautiful penthouse. Get out of here, get out of here. I take a step forward.

"It has a never-before-used double oven that you have to see."

"It does?"

"You bet." He walks past me, heads toward what I assume is the kitchen. "And all the ingredients you'd need to bake apple pies..."

I swallow.

"Macaroons," he drawls.

I tighten my grip on my bag.

"Triple chocolate cake," he adds.

I turn to him, "Nothing I can't do in my kitchen."

"With this view?" He jerks his chin toward the kitchen, "Not to mention, the complete range of baking tools that you'll need to whip up your specialties."

"You know how I feel about your flaunting your wealth in my face, right?"

"Who said anything about money? This is simply a fully-equipped kitchen, crying out for the right chef to inaugurate it and give it purpose."

I frown. How the hell does he know exactly how to get to me? I mean, his words... They are like coffee in the morning, like oats for granola bars, like custard for fruit salad, argh! Stop it...your comparisons suck. Besides, I don't plan to stay. I'll take a peek, check out the kitchen... I mean, it's only a few minutes more, right?