The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée Page 4

  Jace leans back, eyes gleaming.

  Oh. He enjoyed that little trick.

  My nails bite into my palm. I will not slap him again. Will not.

  The sun's rays slant through the window, blinding me for a second. Then the plane breaks through the clouds, and levels out. Now we glide, the difference startling after the bumpy ride of the few seconds ago.

  "Your first trip to London, right?" He asks.

  "You went to boarding school in England, didn't you?" I respond.

  Question for question. Only fair.

  That gets his attention.

  "Did some research of my own." I pause. "Google search."

  His features relax.

  "Do you miss London at all?"

  He glances out the window before replying, his voice short. "No."

  I wince at the bite in his tone.

  A shutter comes down over his features.

  "Sorry," he says, in a calmer tone, sounding very English right then. "I don't miss the people there. But I do miss the way of life. There is a kind of grace, a love for the softer aspects of life in London."

  "An angel investor who also sounds poetic?" I exclaim.

  I hadn't expected him to say something that hints at the man behind the persona―the ambitious businessman trying to break out of his father's shadow.

  That much I'd read between the lines of his interviews online.

  He chuckles, a full, deep-throated sound that rumbles up from his chest.

  His features relax, making him look younger.

  So far, he's been aloof, shut off, only the occasional flash of intelligence hinting at the sharp brain behind that lazy charm. But relaxed like this, he's more open. And it's as if I can feel him for the first time.

  Strictly business, remember?

  This is a business trip.

  Right.

  "So what's the story?" I ask.

  "Story?" He asks, eyebrows slashing down.

  "Us," I point from me to him. "How did we meet? Any deep dark secrets about your past I should know?" I bat my eyelashes. "After all, if we're lovers"―I gulp as the word sends a spurt of melting heat through me―"then we must have exchanged some intimacies?"

  "Intimacies," Jace drawls out the word. A promise of all kinds of naughty, pleasurable things.

  Not good.

  "Love at first sight," I snap before he can say anything else.

  "What?" Jace frowns.

  "You saw me across a crowded room, at a cocktail party. Fell in love with me." I say.

  Jace continues the story without blinking. "And I had to have you. On our very first date, I kissed you in the back seat of the limousine on the way back home. You couldn't resist me."

  "No. I seduced you, on the way back home—" I insist, trying to gain the upper hand.

  He goes on as if not having heard me.

  Stubborn, arrogant man. Won't let me win even this one.

  "We made wild, passionate, love in the back seat." His words arrow straight to my core. Dampness pools as my thighs clench.

  I cross my legs.

  A hint of a smile.

  Damn him. Jace knows exactly what he's doing. He's using his words to turn me on.

  "I woke you up the next morning, already hard and in you." His voice flows over me, sinking into my skin.

  My eyes drop to his lap. He is hard. And aroused. He wants me. Makes no pretense of hiding it either.

  How will it feel to have him inside me?

  I shudder. Pin pricks of desire dance across my skin.

  "You came home that night, and never left. That was a month ago. We've been together since." Jace's voice trails off.

  I swallow, the sensations tumbling through me, nerves stretched to breaking point.

  If he wanted he could have me now.

  No. Fucking. Way.

  "Relax," Jace says. "Get some rest while you can."

  He pulls out the tablet again, bends over it with that absolute focus I'm coming to expect from him.

  And I want to take the device from his hand and throw it away. Ask him to make me the focus of those incredible eyes

  A shiver of anticipation, of liquid want spurts through my veins. Stop it. I tell myself. I'm beginning to hallucinate about this guy.

  Sitting there next to Jace, in that enclosed space, the charisma coming off him in waves, I know I'm trapped.

  7

  Sienna

  * * *

  Somerset Hotel, Hampshire, UK

  The suite of rooms assigned to Jace is three times the size of my studio: two bedrooms with a living space and a kitchen in between.

  When our bags arrived, I'd stalked into the main bedroom, laying dibs to the side of the bed I wanted to sleep on.

  A small gesture. But it'd felt important to stake my claim as soon as possible. He may own my time but he can't control every single move I make.

  I'd stalked into the shower, and when I'd emerged wrapped in a long bathrobe, he'd been on the phone, his back to the room, looking out the window, speaking to someone in a low voice.

  Refusing to speculate who he was speaking to, I'd taken my gown and my cosmetics, and walked off into the other room to dress.

  Now I turn to see myself fully in the mirror.

  The green gown clings to my curves. When I move, the deep slit up one side parts enough to show a flash of my thigh. I can't get over how the dress dips in front, low enough to plunge almost to my navel. I'm not a prude, but jeans or formal trousers and a shirt are more my daily uniform.

  I'm supposed to be alluring enough for a moneyed player, a cut throat investor like Jace, to fall for me.

  I'd succeeded.

  I look like... sex

  Baring my teeth at my reflection, I stalk away from the mirror and pick up my small evening bag. Before I lose my nerve, I flounce out of the little room. My three-inch-high heels catch in the carpet, and I stumble.

  Swearing aloud, I take a deep breath, then steady myself before walking across to the master bedroom. I fling open the door only to find the room is empty.

  What the—? Where is he? So, I am late. Only by half an hour.

  Turning away, I walk toward the kitchen and find a note propped up on the breakfast nook.

  * * *

  Downstairs, at the bar

  * * *

  It's unsigned.

  For some reason, I'm angry he didn't wait for me. It's difficult enough being here, doing this. The least he could have done was walk me down.

  Some moral support please?

  Tearing it into tiny pieces, I drop it on the floor, then sweep out of the room.

  When I reach the bar, it’s empty.

  Comfortable leather chairs are scattered around. I walk toward the sofa in front of a lit fireplace. I’m about to seat myself, when a draft from the half-open French doors makes me shiver.

  I walk to the door and am about to shut it, when I spot Jace, his back turned to me. I lean out, trying to see who he is speaking to.

  As I look on, Jace takes a last puff before stubbing out his cigarette. He smokes?

  Except for what I've learnt from the Internet, I don't know much about him. Once again, the un-realness of my being here strikes me, and I shove at it.

  Then the man opposite Jace, steps forward and comes into view. He's slimmer than Jace and ... he's beautiful.

  Dark blond hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, with wisps escaping around his lean face. His skin is lighter than Jace's burnished brown, a pale olive color hinting at exotic undertones.

  His startling violet eyes taper at the side. His cheekbones jut out, and a muscle twitches below one of them.

  Jace turns as if to leave, and the other man reaches out, gripping his sleeve. He takes another step forward,moving close enough for his body to brush Jace. The other man says something, a frown marring that perfect forehead. He leans in even more and even at this distance I can see that this man feels a lot for Jace. That he wants to pull Jace close into his embrace. />
  It's as if he's already afraid of how Jace is going to react and yet he can't stop himself. As if he'll do anything for even a second more together.

  Jace hesitates, then turning back, brings both arms around the man, hugging him close.

  Feeling as if I am intruding, I move back toward the fire. I wrap my arms around my waist as a delayed chill from standing in the cool air outside sets in. A shiver runs down my back. I'm disturbed, and I'm not sure why.

  It could've been just a friendly guy-hug.

  But even as I'm thinking it, I know it isn't true. Whoever that man is, it's clear they know each other. Intimately.

  Should I be shocked? After all, people do choose partners from both sexes.

  But you haven't. You've never felt the need to sleep with another woman.

  Not to say I've not been attracted to women, but I've never wanted to take it all the way.

  But this is Jace. Sex-appeal-oozing Jace. A Jace who had undressed me with his eyes within seconds of meeting me the first time.

  No. It doesn't feel right and yet, there's no mistaking the emotion on the other man's face. The one who'd clung to Jace as if his life depended on it.

  My mind whirling at the possibilities and what this meant, I turn as if in a dream and walk to the sofa by the fire.

  8

  Jace

  * * *

  Asher's eyes burn into Jace. Familiar eyes that look through him, as if they want to swallow him whole.

  It was inevitable he run into Asher here at Natalie's wedding. After all, Asher is still a part of London social circles. Regardless of the role Asher played in Jace's mother's death, Darren would still have invited Asher, if only to keep up appearances.

  The emptiness of the life he'd opted out of comes crashing back. Silicon Valley was shallow too, but at least there, people were open in their drive to succeed and make money.

  Yet, Jace had come, for he couldn't refuse his cousin. Natalie's the one person who knows why Jace left London after his mother died.

  Seeing Asher had churned up those memories, never far from the surface. And landing in Heathrow and being surrounded by the familiar sights and smells had brought it all rushing back.

  Perhaps his mother was right. There is no escaping one's past or one's destiny. She'd believed that.

  But he'd never been that fatalistic, not till his life had turned upside down in the space of one night.

  And the person responsible for all of it now is here, in front of him.

  He'd wanted to push Asher away, to turn away and pretend he didn't know him. But seeing Asher in pain had made Jace pause. Asher is still grieving. For Jace's mother's death, for the friendship Asher and Jace once shared.

  For the distance Jace had put between them.

  Asher was in agony, his features twisted as if trying to hide his feelings, and failing.

  Jace couldn't leave then. And when he'd finally looked into Asher's eyes, he was transfixed, transported back to the days after his mum's funeral, back to when he'd wandered his home in a daze, refusing to eat or drink till Natalie had come by. She'd told him to pull himself together. And even that hadn't helped.

  As a child, Jace had often returned from school to find his mom sulking, refusing to see anyone. Not even her own son.

  If she'd thrown a tantrum, told him off, or slapped him, he could have handled that.

  But it was that indifference, that stoic sense of her putting up with him, that had pushed him over the edge. Even as a child, Jace knew, he hadn't mattered.

  She'd done her job, hadn't she? Borne her husband an heir. And as far as she was concerned, that had been enough.

  Perhaps everything Jace did in those growing years was to get a reaction from her.

  Indulging Asher, leading him on when he had no intention of reciprocating Asher's affections, was a way of getting his parents' attention. But Asher's adoration had made Jace feel good.

  With Asher, Jace could be as indifferent as he liked, as rude as he wanted. Jace could be himself and Asher would not leave. He'd known that deep inside.

  Asher had mistaken his indifference for something deeper. He'd wanted Jace to become his lover.

  Jace had turned him down, but by then it'd been too late. Asher was obsessed by Jace, would not let him go that easily. Asher had gone out of his way to get Jace's attention―with disastrous consequences.

  Jace hadn't expected Asher to hurt him like that. Perhaps despite everything that happened between them, Jace had still considered Asher his close friend. And after what Asher did, Jace had simply withdrawn into himself.

  It hadn't been Jace's style to throw tantrums. Unlike his father, who lost his temper at the least provocation, Jace had always been good at blanking people, cutting them out of his life completely, as if they never existed. A lot more like his mother than he'd cared to admit.

  At twenty-two, Jace had opted to study in the US, going so far as to leave the continent itself behind.

  It was only when Jace's mother committed suicide that he returned home, for the funeral. He'd stayed away again afterward.

  Now Jace is back in London and facing Asher.

  The past comes rushing back, and he can't stop himself from hugging Asher in the memory of his mother—the woman they'd both cared for in their own way. And lost. As if sensing his thoughts, Asher reaches up to wrap his arm around Jace's neck. He pulls his head down, and then kisses him.

  Asher's loneliness pours into Jace, swimming through him. For a second, he can't move.

  Then Jace pushes against Asher, breaking his hold. He steps back so quickly Asher's hands fall to his side.

  Asher looks at him. Desire squeezes his violet eyes into pinpoints of black.

  "Don't," Jace says. "What the fuck, man?" Anger explodes inside, his heart slamming against his ribs.

  Asher holds up both his hands. "I'm sorry. Didn't mean for that to happen." The pain in his voice is evident.

  "Just like you didn't mean to sleep with my mother. Like you didn't mean to push her to her death."

  Jace is not sure why that slips out. He'd never known he'd miss his mother, not till she was gone.

  Asher's face pales. He looks as if Jace punched him in the gut.

  Turning, Jace strides away, through the French doors and toward the bar.

  He can't put this off any longer. It's time to pay for his mistakes.

  9

  Sienna

  * * *

  A prickle of awareness ripples across my skin. Crossing the floor, Jace takes a barstool at the far end. His jacket clings to his shoulders, shows off his slim waist. He looks sleek, streamlined.

  The bartender hands him a drink.

  When Jace reaches for it, the makings of his tattoo peeks over the mandarin collar of his shirt. His back is erect, straight as if he's gathering strength to face whatever is in store.

  He turns and meets my look head on. I flush, but don't turn away. I will not turn away.

  I hold his gaze. Search for those familiar silver-green sparks in his eyes. Search for a clue that the man I saw outside, the one overcome with emotion, is the same cold, calculating man I'd met in Silicon Valley.

  What I see instead is a man who is shattered. Jace is hurting. The stark loneliness in him reaches out to me, pulls at me. Before I realize it, I'm walking over to him without breaking that connection. I slip onto the barstool next to him.

  When I gesture to his drink, the bartender places whiskey in front of me. I toss it back. The liquid burns its way down, and I cough. My eyes water, and I wipe away the tears. Then I sit there for another few seconds, letting my breathing stabilize.

  Without waiting to be asked, the bartender tops up both our glasses.

  This time, I clink my glass to Jace’s without saying a word.

  Our eyes meet for a second. Then he's drinking, tilting back the glass. He knocks back the drink, before I've even started on my second whiskey.

  So, that's how it's going to be then? He wants to ge
t drunk tonight. To numb the emotions he's feeling about the man outside.

  I'd love to get drunk too. It's one way to forget how I came to be here, seated next to a man who has me at his beck and call for the next week. A man I find so attractive, and yet must resist.

  If I sleep with him, I'll lose my own sense of self-worth.

  I'm also aware that one of us needs to be sober here. Especially since it's technically 'meet the in-laws time' for me.

  Changing my mind, I leave my drink untouched.

  I am not sure what to say to him, though. I don’t understand this strange, lost, almost vulnerable feeling vibrating off him. Almost as if he's half here and half not. As if he's reeling from shock. So, instead, I do something that surprises even me: I lace my fingers through his.

  There's no reaction. He's silent.

  Still.

  And then he exhales in a quiet whoosh and grips my hand. Squeezing my palm, tangling his fingers through mine. I don't dare look up at him, don't want to see the expression on his face.

  I sense he's not looking at me, either.

  The bartender refills his glass.

  His fingers tighten on mine. Without letting go of me, he uses his free hand to lift the refilled glass.

  I'm sitting close enough to hear him gulp, sense the whiskey burn its way down his throat.

  He shudders. "Thanks." His voice comes out rough, and he clears his throat.

  "For what?" I look up and meet his eyes.

  Lose myself in those silver-green depths.

  Oh. My.

  His gaze slide down my bare neck, and then farther down to where my dress stretches across my hips. I know the exact moment he sees the slit, showing most of my right thigh, for his jaw hardens. His gaze veers back up, tracing the plunging neckline.

  Goosebumps on my forearms, and I try to pull my hand out of his grip to cover myself, but I can't.

  His eyes lock with mine, that silver-green otherworldly fire sparking in them. He leans closer, so the side of his leg slides up against my thigh—the clothed one—and I gasp.