The Billionaire's Wife (3 page)

A small, hysterical part of myself wanted to laugh.
Waters! i
t
said, and I had the sudden, wild idea that Anton Waters was just like poor,
dumb old Steele, except with actual charisma. He'd chosen a name for himself—a
far better name—and gone out to conquer the world. The fountains were a hint to
anyone keen enough to decipher them.

No, that's stupid.
I was almost afraid to look back at
him, but I did it anyway.

He hadn't moved. He was still staring at me with that faint smile
on his face.

I never
had
known when to keep my mouth shut.

“Looking's free,” I snapped, “but touching will cost you.”

Slowly, deliberately, he tilted his head. “Nothing is free,” he
said.

If he had been any other person, the words would have been
laughable, comical, a real human being trying to sound like a Bond villain, but
the way he said it, his entire demeanor, screamed that he had given those words
serious thought and he had said them because of a long struggle to find the
truth.

I swallowed and tried to stay calm. Against my will, my heart was
picking up speed. For a second I couldn't quite understand why, but then he
broke out of his stillness.

Slowly, he rounded the desk and walked toward me. His gait was
graceful and flowing. Like a predator. Like water.

I stood my ground as he approached and forced myself to remember
just what I was here for. I was pretty sure it wasn't sex. What was it again?

Oh yeah. This guy wanted to
buy
me.

That thought cut through the strange spell he seemed to have
placed on me, and for a brief second I was able to distance myself from the
situation and break free of his gravitational pull.

“God, you're rude,” I said. “You want to marry me and you haven't
even asked me to sit down. Usually guys try to get me drunk first.”

The only reaction he had to my words was a slight tightening
around the eyes. When he got to the place where most people stop and respect
personal space, he took two more steps.

He was
tall.
He loomed over me, and his scent filled my
head. It was cool and calm, like ice, but underneath it there was the subtle,
rich tang of his skin. The smell of a man.

My heart, already doing double time, picked up the pace. My blood
rose. His body was only inches from mine. If my tits had been bigger I could
have inhaled deeply and brushed them against his chest.

This is not going well,
I thought, but it was a fuzzy thought.
Slippery. Hard to hold on to. Other thoughts were coming to the fore, thoughts
like,
kiss him!
and
grab his crotch!

Not helpful.

The faint smile returned, and he lifted an arm. For a split
second I thought he was going to crush me to him and my heart leaped.

But he only gestured toward the couches off to my left.

“Please,” he said. “Sit.”

Man,
I thought.
I
really
hate him.

I whirled in place, making sure to give him a good smack with my
shoulder—not in a sexy way, but in a good old you're-in-my-way-asshole way—and
stomped to the couch. The effect was somewhat marred by the gasp I had to
stifle; the touch of his body on mine sent electric shocks through me.

I really,
really
hate him.

I made sure to flop down on his perfectly appointed couch without
ceremony, and propped one of my flip-flop clad feet on the table. My chipped
toenail polish was, I thought, a nice touch. Subtly, I squirmed, hoping to
grind dried clay into the fabric.

Anton Waters didn't even move. He stood in the center of his
office, regarding me coolly.

“Aren't you going to sit down?” I asked him.

“Yes,” he said, but he didn't. He tilted his head, studying me. I
sat on his couch, feeling awkward and horny. At last he seemed to be satisfied,
and walked over.

However, instead of sitting on the opposite couch, he sat down
next to me and crossed his legs, exposing the fine, well-made lines of his suit
pants. He was close to me. Too close. I didn't want to shift away and show him
he made me uncomfortable—in more ways than one—so I busied myself with fishing
the contract from my purse.

“So what's this?” I said. I brandished the contract at him like a
knife. It would have been far more effective if he'd been sitting across from
me, like a
normal
person. Instead I sort of had to flap it under his
nose.

That faint smile creased his face again, and he turned, propping
one arm up on the back of the couch in an overly intimate manner, and tilted
his head again.

“It is a contract for marriage,” he said. “I thought your father
would have told you that much.”

Oh my god. He was infuriating. And sexy. The heat of his body
radiated across the small space between us. My shoulder nearly brushed his
chest, and I wished I had worn a thin skirt, because I was almost positive his
knee was touching mine, but my clay-stained jeans were too thick to feel it. My
knee tingled anyway, sending shivers up my leg. They wrapped around and under,
curling at the hot apex of my thighs.

I did my best to push the feeling away. “Yeah, I
know
that,
but
why?”

He shrugged. “I would like a wife,” he said.

“And you're willing to take on my father's bad debt for it?”

He pursed his lips, a gesture too delicious to not be purposeful.
Which, of course, didn't stop my gaze from being drawn to them. I wanted to run
my tongue against the seam of his mouth and tease it open, snake my tongue
inside and do battle with his. Unconsciously, I found myself licking my own
lips as I stared at his face. When I realized what I was doing I stuffed my
tongue back behind my teeth and raised my eyes.

He stared back at me, cool and knowing. “Your father's debt,” he
said, “is not insurmountable. His company is still worth something in name
and... contacts.” Almost absently he reached out and took the contract from me,
angling his wrist so that his fingers slid over mine. Over the sudden sound of
my blood pounding in my ears I heard myself gasp.

Deliberate and controlled. That's what he was. He laid the
contract on the table and turned back to me. His gaze drifted up to my hair, a
messy birdsnest of dark chestnut curls that I could never tame and settled for
piling on top of my head in the most haphazard manner possible. One hand
reached out and teased a curl from the mess I'd pinned it into today.

I should have stood up and walked away. I should have slapped
him. I should have screamed.

Instead, I let him.

Boy, was that dumb.

His fingers twined around the lock of hair. It was as though he
were twisting me around his fingers, up and over and under. My skin burned and
my lips—both pairs—were swollen and aching for his kiss. I tried to think
through the desire unfurling in my belly.

“So... you get my father's company and me. I, uh, I mean... it,
uh, seems like a guy like you would have no trouble...
whoah!”

Anton Waters had leaned in and buried his nose in my hair. This
was a little too far, even for me.

I staggered to my feet, snatching the contract from the table.

“What do you think you're doing?” I demanded.

For the first time, he seemed vaguely surprised. “Seeing if we
are sexually compatible,” he said, as though this were obvious.

“That's awfully presumptuous of you. I haven't even said I would
marry you yet!” I exclaimed. My legs trembled and I wished I could sit down
again, but I didn't want to show weakness.

A faint line appeared between his brows as he frowned. “But why
would you agree to marriage if you did not desire me sexually?” he said. Like
he was a fucking robot. A fucking
hot
robot. “It seems wise to get such
things out of the way to begin with before anyone makes a decision they
regret.” He lifted his chin and ran his eyes over me appraisingly. I felt his
gaze like a blowtorch, blasting away my resistance, exposing my skin, melting
my bones. “I believe we would do quite well in that regard.”

I didn't want to think about this man desiring me. No, I didn't
let
myself think about it. It was too tempting. I had to stay focused on my
goal. Which was... what again?

“Wait... why do you want an arranged marriage? You could get any
woman you wanted.” Yeah.
That
was my biggest problem with this whole
thing. God, I was an idiot. But at least it was a question and not me ripping
all his clothes off.

He shrugged. “I do not require love or emotional attachment,” he
said. “But a wife—as outlined in the contract—would be ideal for my personal
needs.”

I hadn't read the contract. I didn't need to. There was no
way
I would marry this guy.

“What made you think
I
would agree to this?” I said.

He raised his brows. “I believe you can evaluate the benefits for
yourself,” he said. “There are generous clauses within the contract for your
own use.”

Rage bubbled up in me. “Fuck you,” I said. “Like I would ever get
married for money. My father had money, and it left my mother with
nothing.
”

The vague smile returned. “Not money for
you,
Miss Dare.
Money for certain... pet causes of yours.”

My breath caught. “What?” I said. “How could you know anything
about me?”

“I know a lot about you,” he said in that same cool tone. “I know
you enjoy knitting but abandon your projects frequently. I know you sometimes
leave very cruel anonymous comments on other artists' websites. I know you
often feel bad enough to go back and anonymously attack your own criticisms.
And I also know you recently posted the phrase
'eat the rich'
in
response to the latest financial crisis on a certain left-leaning website.”

My face burned. “Wh—what? You've been... checking
up
on
me?”

The barest expression of confusion flitted across his face, as
though he could not comprehend why I would ask such a question. “Of course,” he
said. “If we are to wed, I should know the sort of person I will be marrying.”

Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.
What else did he know?
What was he
not
telling me?

Anton Waters could see right through me. He knew
everything.

He knew it, too. I could see it in his eyes as he stood lazily
and walked toward me.

“Of course, you would have all the time in the world to work on
your artwork, as well. No more working as a bartender. No more taking gifts
from your mother. No more shoving your creations down a flight of stairs
because you have to move and can't afford to take the big pieces with you.”

My chest constricted. That had only happened once. But it had
hurt. Oh, it had
hurt.

He drew closer and closer and I backed up until I hit the floor
to ceiling window behind me and flattened myself against the glass.

He reached out, running a finger over my cheek, down my throat,
down between the valley of my breasts.

“There are a few small clauses in the contract that I thought you
might find... distasteful,” he said. His voice had taken an almost dreamy
quality, but I could barely hear him over the roar of blood in my head. “But
given how much you want me, I don't think that will be a problem.”

How much you want me.
Yes, I did. Oh god, more than I had
ever wanted anyone. If kissed me, I was sure I would spontaneously combust.

“I don't want you,” I said. Even to my own ears, I could hear my
throaty arousal.

His lashes fluttered. His finger traveled across my breast, and
when it found my nipple, he rested his thumb and forefinger around it.

“What did you say?” he asked me.

I swallowed around my dry tongue. “I don't want you,” I told him,
louder this time.

He pinched my nipple and twisted.

The effect was electric—painful pleasure shot from my nipple,
through my heart and straight down to my clit. I cried out and my legs buckled.
My purse and the contract slipped from nerveless fingers.

“Don't lie to me,” Anton Waters said.

I didn't answer.

He moved in.

He didn't touch me. Not really. He ran the tips of his fingers
over my body, but he avoided my skin, as though touching my directly would
cause him pain. His lips traversed the fabric of my sweater, over my waist,
traveling over the outside of my hip. His hands skimmed against my ass, finding
the sensitive creases where my ass met my thighs. He scraped dull fingernails
down the backs of my legs. I could barely feel them through my jeans.

I wanted to grab his face and shove it into my crotch. I needed
his mouth on me, his cock in me. My hands hovered near his hair, at the tips of
his ears, but I was afraid to touch him.

The tip of his nose met my hip, scraping over the front of my
jeans. He stopped, just at the cleft of my thighs, and inhaled deeply.

Putting his hands against the glass behind me he stood up and
leaned in. His lips brushed my ear and his body moved forward until, at last, I
could feel his cock, trapped in his pants, push against my belly.

“I can smell you,” he whispered in my ear. “Your pussy is already
begging for me to fuck it.”

Yes.
God,
yes. My clit ached, and my cunt felt like it was
about to explode. I couldn't even try to hide my arousal any more. My breath
came hot and fast. His body hovered over mine, furnace-hot, and the thick swell
of his erection pressed firmly against my stomach.

I couldn't get enough air. I was going to pass out.

“Sign the contract, and you will have everything you desire.” He
rolled his hips, rubbing his cock over me, almost but not quite brushing
against my pussy. My panties were soaked and slick with my juices. Then his
lips found my throat, brushing over my hammering pulse.