The Billionaire's Wife Page 2

  Anton Waters, I decided then and there, was a jerk.

  I strode up to the front desk, sleek and cleverly fashioned and utterly alone in the center of the dark gray slate floor. The receptionist behind it tapped away on a thin white keyboard and stared at a thin white monitor. She wore the tiniest of bluetooth headsets. Also white. Naturally.

  She didn't even look up at me for a full minute. It figured. I was dressed like... well, like a boho hobo who had just crawled out of her weed den. Streaks of dried clay marred my work clothes, cracking and crumbling. Even as I stood there, not moving, tiny flecks flaked away and floated to the immaculate floor.

  Good. I wasn't going to be the perfect little wife Mr. Waters probably wanted, and I was happy to show it in whatever way I could.

  Finally the receptionist deigned to glance at me. Her perfect nose wrinkled. The clothes she wore probably would have paid for a month's rent.

  “May I help you?” she said.

  This was going to be fun. “Yeah,” I said. “I'm here to speak to Anton Waters. He's expecting me,” I added, hoping this would help my case. It didn't.

  She blinked politely, and I felt a tiny bit bad. She probably thought I was a crazy person who had refused to take her meds. I kept a close eye on her hands in case she had a secret panic button concealed under the lip of her desk. “Is he?” she said. “May I ask who is calling?”

  “Felicia Dare.”

  At the sound of my name her entire demeanor changed.

  “Oh!” Her pretty eyes grew wide. “Of course, Ms. Dare. I'll call up and let them know you're here.”

  So he was expecting me. That was... unexpected. Frankly, in my experience, powerful rich men made their own schedules and everyone else had to keep up with them. That I wasn't going to be kept waiting was... nice. “Er... thanks,” I said. I glanced around for a place to sit down while she hurriedly punched numbers into the sleek numberpad sitting next to her computer.

  “Yes, Felicia Dare is here to see Mr. Waters,” she said. Someone burbled at the other end of the line. “Yes, thank you,” she replied, and hung up. She flashed me a huge smile. “He'll be waiting for you. Top floor, of course.”

  “Thanks,” I said again, feeling lame. I skirted the desk and the now-beaming receptionist and made my way to the corridor of imposing elevator doors. They looked like something out of some old sci-fi silent film. One of the creepy dystopian ones. I pressed the button for the doors that led straight to the top, and they opened immediately. I stepped inside. They shut behind me, and the bottom dropped out of my stomach as it shot up.

  Now that I was inside the elevator and clearly on my way to actually see Anton Waters, my nerves began to fail me. What was I thinking? What was I doing? I should have ripped up that contract and thrown it back in my father's face and not even bothered to come here. I could take out a line of credit to pay for Mom's treatments. Couldn't I? Like everyone else and their dog applied for credit cards and ran up crazy massive debt. I could do that too! And then I could declare bankruptcy! Everyone wins!

  Yes. That was what I would do. I'd yell at the billionaire for a bit, and then turn around, go back to my apartment, and drive myself into financial ruin. Hey, it worked for my father.

  No sooner had I reached this conclusion than the elevator came to a heart-stuttering stop, and the doors opened wide.

  The top of Anton Waters's personal financial behemoth resembled the bottom only in that they were both huge spaces. Where the bottom floor had been all brushed steel and dark gray slate, the top floor of the building was laid in white marble and gold. Everything, from the white marble floor to the delicious dark brown leather furniture to the rich mahogany desk to the crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling—a chandelier! in a corporate office!—spoke of tastes too sumptuous for mere moral minds to ken.

  Behind the desk, a man whom I could only assume was Mr. Waters's personal assistant stood and bowed to me. Like, actually bowed. Full tilt and everything. Perhaps the firm did a lot of business with the Japanese or visiting Arab royalty and it was just a reflex? This place was too much. My vague, dim memories of my father's offices were of stately grandeur, not spartan modernity or spa-weekend getaway gaudiness.

  “Ms. Dare,” the man said. “You may call me Arthur. Mr. Waters is waiting for you inside.” And he gestured to the right, at a pair of double doors, the twins of the doors on the left.

  Butterflies raged in my stomach but I lifted my chin. I was not going to be cowed. “That's tits,” I said. I had the satisfaction of his startled face as I swept by him and through the doors.

  Another small foyer waited behind the doors. This space was decorated much more sparingly, with a large aquarium full of brightly colored fish and a few zen fountains dotting the corners and walls. Two grand doors of frosted glass stood in the center of the wall across from me. A small, understated name plaque simply said, 'Waters.'

  I took a deep breath and opened the door.

  Anton Waters stood behind his desk staring out at the New York skyline from one of the windows. He turned when I entered and watched as I marched to the center of his office.

  I didn't even look around. I'd seen his face everywhere in the past few years, and he was, depressingly, just as stunning in person as he was on magazine covers. His dark hair was a perfectly coiffed mess, and his vivid green eyes were visible even from across the room. The light fell on them beautifully, as though the whole world were set up to highlight his incredible looks. High cut cheekbones framed a straight, powerful nose, but his lips were full and sensuous. He had a chin you could cut diamonds with. And, judging from his comfortable and yet oh-so-GQ attire, he had the body to go with it.

  I hated him on sight. For guys like Anton Waters, earth was a photography studio, not a planet, and everyone was a sycophant telling him to make love to the camera. In fact, my first thought was, Man, I'm going to hate this guy.

  Unfortunately for me, my second thought was, Holy shit, he's hot.

  Even more unfortunately, my third thought was, Those are some lips you could really ride until morning.

  Goddamn hormones. I hadn't gotten laid in six months since I broke up with Steele—no, that hadn't been his real name and yes, he had been just as much of a douche as you would expect from a guy who willingly called himself Steele—and it was showing.

  I crossed my arms. “So what's this about us getting married?” I demanded.

  He stared at me and didn't react.

  My words seemed to fall to the floor between us, clattering like spilled silverware. The longer he stared, the more I realized that he was no ordinary handsome man. Even from across the room I could feel the magnetic charge he gave out. It was terrifying, intense, turbulent. The force of his personality far outweighed his beautiful face, even when he wasn't even moving.

  This was a man who could rule the world, if he wanted to.

  You know. Like the antichrist.

  Finally he smiled faintly. “Hello, Miss Dare,” he said.

  Vaguely, I wished I'd been sitting down. His voice was like... something really sinful. Deep. If he'd been singing, he might have reached the great depths of a basso profundo. It was the kind of voice you could turn up really loud and then sit on your speakers to. Not, of course, that I'd ever done that...

  Oh, fine. When it's three in the morning and you've had too many PBRs everything is a great idea, okay? And if I'd had his voice stowed away in a little file on my computer, I'd have played that damn thing on repeat for an hour.

  I shook myself, trying to focus. “Yeah,” I said. “Hello.” I forced myself to look away from him and tried to concentrate on studying his office.

  Except there was nothing in it. There was only his desk with his chair and his computer at one end of the room, and just to my left, two sofas arranged across from each other with a spartan coffee table between them. The only nod to individuality he seemed to have given was another small fountain sitting on the coffee table, the water running over carefully pl
aced river stones.

  A small, hysterical part of myself wanted to laugh. Waters! it 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 ar
ranged 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.