The Billionaire’s Christmas Bride by L. Steele

58

Amelie

"Past pleasure doubles present pain,

To sorrow adds regret,

Regret and hope are both in vain,

I ask but to — forget."

I take in the words scrawled on the board held by the homeless man. I'd ridden the elevator down, and walked out of the apartment building.

Every step I'd taken had echoed the thumping of my heart. I am doing this. Really doing this. I am leaving him. Good thing I had gone online and returned the money already. A few days ago, I'd checked my bank account and the zeroes in my account had brought home exactly how much I stood to gain from this relationship. I could pay off my debts, expand my business, ensure my parents are taken care of for the rest of their lives... And he'd always take me for granted. He'd known that I could be bought. Next time we came to an impasse... He'd know how to get his way. Throw more money my way...

And no, it’s not only the money that binds us. There is so much more—emotions and conflicts and a buzzing physical attraction that shows no sign of abating. There is so much there to build on... But the money...would always be a barrier... Unless he looks past it. Unless I take a risk, and leave him... Give him space to figure out his shit, while I do the same thing. I'd pushed forward, and had almost stumbled across the outstretched legs of the homeless guy.

"Excuse me," I mutter and step around him... Which is when I spot his shoes: tailormade, Italian leather, spotless, and polished to within an inch of its life. They seem familiar. Huh? I stare at them. Where have I seen them before?

"Pretty fancy, huh?" Homeless guy chortles, "Think these will impress the ladies?"

I glance up at his face. "I am sure they’d have an impact," I say. "Where did you get them?"

He frowns, "You mean, what's a man like me doing with shoes like these?"

My cheeks heat. Hell, that hadn't come out polite at all, had it? "I meant, uh... They seem familiar. Someone I know had a similar pair."

"Boyfriend?" He asks.

"He's...ah, currently no friend," I mutter.

"Ach!" he cackles, "Had a fall out with your man, huh?"

"Maybe, probably." I raise my shoulders, "He's an arrogant so-and-so. Know what I mean? He thinks he can buy anything."

"Not you, obviously." He nods.

"Exactly... See?" I flick my hair over my shoulder, "And he claims to love me."

"Do you?" he shoots back.

"Huh?" I frown, "Do I what?"

"Do you love him?"

"Yes," I reply. "Wait, I mean... No... I mean, yes...but..."

"No buts." He tilts his head up, pulls his legs up to sit cross-legged, "You gotta tell him that."

"I do?" I scowl.

"Absolutely," he jerks his chin, "better to take the risk and be sorry than to be a coward and—"

"Regret it," I complete his statement. "Yeah... Well..." I glance away. A pressure builds behind my eyes and my heart begins to race. What the hell is wrong with me? This constant back and forth... This not knowing my own mind... It's bloody tiring. So much easier to plan out a menu and bake. Even though the outcome of a dish is not completely in my hands, at least I can control the environment... Decide the ingredients. And if I change something, hell, I know the risks of what I’m doing. But with him...? I can't predict a thing. Not my reaction to him, not his ability to throw me off guard... Well, except for that sizzling attraction between us that throbs and ties us together. For better or for worse—that is one thing I can count on. The one ingredient that would never fail to liven up the dish... I mean, the relationship... I mean... I blink, turn to him. "I should, right?" I ask.

He lowers his board to the ground, then glances toward the apartment. "Go on, then."

I take in his features, those intelligent eyes undeniable, despite his unkept whiskers.

"Who are you?" I frown. "What are you doing here?"

"All the world's a stage and we are but actors," he chuckles.

"First Byron, then Shakespeare?" I stare at him. "You have a thing for poets?"

"Or for pompous wankers who churned out pretentious shit."

"Sounds like someone I know," I mumble.

"Don't we all?" He rises to his feet, sketches an exaggerated bow, "Don't delay, young lady." He snatches his hat with the change inside and slams it on his dreadlocks. "Goodbye." He hauls the board over his shoulder and walks off.

"Bye." I turn, retrace my steps toward the apartment. What a strange man. He was well educated, no doubt about it. And his accent... I could have sworn he sounded almost posh. And when he'd smiled...his teeth were perfect. Which is bloody odd in England. I mean, when was the last time I'd met anyone with even teeth... Other than the alphahole... And the Seven...who had clearly spent a fortune on the dentist. But normal people like me... Hell... We can't afford that kind of dental work. So how had the homeless guy swung that, huh? I turn to call out, but the sidewalk is empty. Geez, he must have doubled his speed to get away from me or something. I shake my head. The shoes did fit him though. Chalk it up as one more good deed for Dr Grumpy McDick. He has his redeeming points... A lot of them, actually.

Too bad it isn't enough... Is it? I shake my head. Stop overthinking this. Just march back for the last time and tell him how you feel. As easy as baking banana bread, which would be done in double-quick time in his oven. Fine, fine... Don't think about his kitchen, or his equipment... No, definitely don’t think about the tool he hides in his pants either. Get on with it; don't back out, bitch. I stomp inside the apartment, and head for the elevator door, which glides open. Shit, even the elements are working with me on this.

I reach the penthouse, push the door open and walk in. I cross the living room, pause only to place my satchel and handbag on the center table, then peek into the kitchen. There's no one there. Hmm. I pivot, head for the bedroom, when I spot movement. I pivot head toward the sliding doors at the far end of the living room, pulling them aside. I step outside and onto the terrace, walk another few steps and spot the hot tub... This one's sunken into the decking with steps leading down, and at the other end of it...is him. I’m drawn to him like chocolate to a clean surface... know what I mean? I pause at the tub.

He's sprawled in the water that froths around his waist, the bubbles covering the bottom half of his body. Not that I have any doubt about the state of his undress. He leans back, raises a bottle of whiskey. His biceps bulge and his shoulders flex. He brings the bottle to his mouth, swigs from it. The tendons of his throat move as he swallows.

I am instantly wet.

He raises his other hand, places a cigar between his lips. I rake my gaze over his features, watch him watch me with unblinking eyes, as I take another step forward. I reach the edge of the tub. The water writhes below me. My heartbeat writhes in my chest.

He glares at me from under hooded eyelids. He lowers the cigar, blows out a cloud of cigar smoke. The scent of cloves and spices, of darkness and lust, passion and fucking... Hell... I'll always associate the scent of cigar smoke with wild, out-of-my-head desire.

He doesn't move, doesn't say a word.

I shuffle closer, my toe brushing against something smooth. There's a plop as it falls in. I glance down to find an egg timer floating on the surface.

I bend my knees, reach over and scoop it up.

He glances down at the object, then up at my face. His lips twist, he swallows and opens his mouth, and I'm sure he's going to say something. Instead, he takes another swig from the bottle of whiskey. The skin across his knuckles stretches white... Huh? I peer across the distance and at his features... Lines radiate from the corners of his eyes, and the hollows under his cheekbones seem more pronounced. Why had I not noticed that before?

He keeps his gaze focused on my face, the skin around his mouth tightening. That's it—something’s on his mind. But what? Why would the most confident man I have ever met seem unsure of himself.

"Why are you so on edge?" I laugh nervously. "I'd think you were going to pop a marriage proposal or something,” I mutter, “if I didn't know you better."

His face pales. My gaze widens. I take in the way he holds onto the whiskey bottle. The skin of his knuckles stretch white. Then the bottle slips from his grasp, hits the decking and rolls away... "Fuck." He swears, then straightens. His lips twist. An expression I can't fathom grips his features.

"Holy shit." I gasp, "Is that what you are going to do...? I gulp. "No way. You aren't, are you?"

Again, he glares at the stupid egg timer I am holding. What the hell? I stare down at the curved object, raise it, fiddle around with it. I twist it and it comes apart in my hands, revealing something shiny, something with a perfectly-cut sapphire that winks back at me.

My throat dries. My heart begins to thud. "What...what is this?" I squeak.

"A fucking gummy bear," he growls, "what do you think it is?"

"I... I..." I glance at the ring, then back at him, then at the ring again.

"How... how long have you been planning this?"

"Since I met you?" He tilts his head, "Strike that. From before I met you. The ring was my grandmother's."

"Oh!"

"You mean oh, yes, don't you?" he drawls.

"Wait, wait." I draw in a breath. Stay calm, don't lose it now. Need time to think, just a bloody second here. I tip up my chin, train my gaze on him, "How did you rig the timer to accommodate it, considering I was gone for less than half an hour?"

He yawns.

"Of course. You repair clocks, so you could adjust a stupid egg timer, huh?" I pout.

"Not apologizing for the fact that I pulled off an almost-miracle, babe." He thrusts out his chest, "Besides it is Christmas."

"Wow," I stare. "Seems you're getting into the spirit of the season, after all?"

"As you are coming around to the idea of our wedding."

"Yes." I nod.

"So, it's settled then." He grins

"What?" I shake my head. "No, no, no, I didn't mean it that way. I mean, not yet... I mean... What the hell!" I exclaim. "This can't be happening."

"It is." He shakes out his palm—the one with which he'd gripped the whiskey bottle.

"Did you hurt your good hand? I ask.

"I've been hurting in other places since I met you," he grumbles.

"Anyone ever tell you, you have the manners of an oaf?" I scowl.

"Only you, babe." He rises to his feet—the water pours off of those sculpted abs, his concave stomach, drips off of that spectacular cock. Oh, my God! I swallow, take a step back, stumble, drop the ring, let go of the pieces that formerly constituted the egg timer, swoop down, catch the ring. I straighten the ring, slip it onto my left ring finger. I blink, open my eyes in surprise. "It fits."

"Of course, it does," he snaps.

"Presumptuous, much?" I huff, turn my hand this way and that. The heart of the ring glows with silver sparks. Wow. My pulse thuds at my temples; my stomach bottoms out. OMFG, does this mean, what I think it does?

"You're marrying me," he growls. "What's so presumptuous about that?"

"I haven't said yes."

He looks at my hand then back at my face. "You’re wearing the ring. Are you saying no?"

"You haven't asked...you...you...ass!” I yell.

He blows out a breath, stalks his way across the length of the sunken pool to where I stand. He glances into my eyes. Despite the fact that I am standing on a higher level, we are at the same height... That's how fucking big my alphahole is. I gulp; he frowns. His chest rises and falls, then he reaches out and takes my left hand.