The Bad Boy Billionaire: What a Girl Wants (3 page)

Maybe Sam ought to be having drinks with Roxanna instead.

But it wasn’t all due to her. I had typed—and imagined and felt—every word of my novels. I offered up my heart and soul—aka my novels—to the world and that had been
terrifying.
I weathered the good reviews and the bad. Everything wasn’t always perfect with Duke, either, but I held on and had faith.

So I was sorry Sam was having a bad time, but I didn’t want to apologize for my own success.

I sipped more of my wine and couldn’t help but note how the tables had turned. Sam had once been the darling of the Montclair University English Department who mocked women’s fiction and other genre authors so much that I kept my romance novels hidden under the bed. I didn’t dare let my guy see the real me. Until now.

“That’s great Jane,” Sam said. I breathed a sigh of relief. Too soon. “Well, all those desperate housewives in the red states need something to get them off. Your book is as good as any I suppose.”

I spit out an ill-timed sip of chardonnay, spewing it over my jeans.
Curses!

I couldn’t let that dig at romance readers slide.

“Sam, all kinds of women read romance novels. Red states, blue states. Happily married, or single. Young, old. Lots of education. Or a little. There are too many of them to fit neatly into that stupid stereotype.”

He ordered
another
beer. I eyed him nervously.

“Sam, did you take the bus into the city?”

“No, I drove.”

“Are you staying over? Because drinking and driving is a bad idea and they’re going to close the bridges and tunnels before you can sober up.” I checked my watch. “In an hour, to be exact.”

“I don’t know if I’m staying over or not. Am I, Jane?” He lifted his head and fixed his darkened gaze on me. In all our years together, I’d never seen him so wounded, haunted, troubled. I wasn’t in love with him anymore, but my heart ached for him all the same.

“What’s going on Sam?”

He shrugged those broad shoulders of his. He sighed wearily.

“Everything in my life has gone to shit since you left, Jane. When we were together, I knew who I was and where I—we—were going. We had a house—a fucking
home
. I had someone to come home to. I was the rock star of my English Department with all the promise in the world. Then I lost you. Then I lost my job and now I’ve got nothing and you . . .”

He stopped talking then. Just laughed bitterly.

I had blossomed since we broke up. But Sam had clearly stumbled. And fell. On his face.

“Sam . . .”

“Now you’re a successful published author and dating a fucking billionaire. And I need you back. So tell me how to win you back.”

“Sam, I don’t think that’s in the cards for us.”

“You’re not wearing your ring,” Sam pointed out.

“I lost it.”

That, at least, made him laugh. A bitter laugh that made me cringe.

“You lost that rock? Jesus, it must have cost what, a hundred thousand? More? That thing was huge. Bigger than anything I ever could have gotten you. But he’ll just buy you another won’t he? Won’t even notice a few hundred thousand missing in his bank account.”

“It was insured,” I lied. I didn’t want to explain that it was only a cubic zirconia piece of gift shop junk—that would have prompted too many questions. I just wanted to leave. Sam was wearing me out. All I wanted was to rest my head against Duke’s chest as he held me. I wanted to get out of here and get to Duke before the storm hit.

Was it rude to go so soon? Sam still had half a beer to go. I glanced at my phone again—the minutes were ticking by way too slowly. The storm was getting closer. Soon there’d be no way out of the city for Sam and already the island of Manhattan felt too small for us both.

“You know what else?” Sam asked.

“What?”

“Even Kate dumped me.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“No you’re not. You hate her.”

“I don’t
hate
her. And gosh, Sam. Just because we’re not together doesn’t me I wish you ill.”

“Jane . . .” He sighed and put his hand on my thigh. I pushed it away.

“No girl. No job. No house.”

“No house?” I echoed. “What happened with the house?”

“Payments. Moving back with the folks. Etc., etc.”

We had lived in that house on Court Street for years. We had loved there. I had left out bridal magazines on our coffee table. He had written his dissertation at the kitchen table.

Gosh, when it rains it pours doesn’t it? He’d always been the golden boy and now he was crashing hard. Of course he was a wreck about it.

“I’m really sorry, Sam. I’m sure this is just a rough patch. You’ll be fine. You’re smart and good-looking and you’ll be fine.”

“Yeah,” he said dryly. His head was still bent over his pint.

“I’m going to go now,” I said. “I have a thing.”

“I’ll walk you home. It’s the gentlemanly thing to do. Especially with this storm coming.”

It seemed like he was really searching for a place to crash and there was no room at the apartment I shared with Roxanna. That, and I wasn’t going home—I was going to Duke’s apartment and there was no way I was taking Sam there with me. That, and I was kind of done with Sam for the night.

Or so I thought.

“I’m fine,” I said. “The streets are well lit. But I’ll just get a cab. It’s safe. Stay, finish your beer.”

Sam chugged the last of his pint. I threw down some cash—hopefully enough to cover whatever enormous bar tab he had racked up.

“I don’t need you to pay for my drinks,” Sam said, eyes flashing. Was that
anger
at a gesture of generosity?

“No worries! My treat!” I said brightly. “Goodnight Sam.”

“Take your money back, Jane. Or is it your boyfriend’s? Either way, I don’t need it.” He grabbed a bunch of it in his fist before throwing it back down on the bar in frustration. He was drunk. And mad. This wasn’t the man I knew.

I wanted to leave, desperately, and I already regretted coming out tonight.

“I have to go,” I said, leaving the money on the bar and pushing my way through the crowd of New Yorkers who seemed oblivious and/or unconcerned about the looming hurricane. Honestly, it was the least of my worries at the moment.

“Jane . . .”

He grabbed my wrist. I shook it off. I didn’t want to be rude, but I really wanted to get away.

I pushed through the doors and out onto Hudson Street and started walking uptown. Sam was right behind me on the street. My heart started to pound, and not in the “Ooh he might kiss me” kind of way. Strange but true: I was scared of a man I knew. I walked away at a brisk pace.

Sam caught up with me on the corner of West 10th Street and grabbed my wrist.

“Jane, I just need another minute with you.”

“Sam, let me go,” I said, trying to keep my voice firm.

“Please, Jane.” Then his other hand closed around my upper arm. “Come with me.”

What was happening?
His fingers gripped me so tightly that I winced from the pressure.

“I have to go,” I repeated firmly.

He tugged me onto the side street. Before I knew it, I was up against a brick wall.

Sam was tall, dark, and handsome. Women tend to have a thing for tall, dark, and handsome. But right now I was so over it. Because he was tall, towering over me and making me acutely aware of how small I was. He was dark—not in the handsome way—but in the dark, twisty, slightly dangerous way.

Sam pressed his weight against me. I felt the cold, rough brick wall hard up against my back.

“Jane . . . I need you.”

I was reminded of all the times we made love and he’d whisper those words. It was romantic then.

I was reminded of all the times we made love and he
hadn’t
said that because we had become comfortable old lovers together.

I didn’t want him anymore. I didn’t want
this.

“Sam, you have to let me go,” I insisted, trying to shrug his hands away. “We broke up. We’re
over.
I don’t want this.”

“I
need
you.”

It was as if I hadn’t spoken. As if I didn’t matter.

“Stop it, Sam.” I struggled. I tried to push him away. But his hands had enclosed around my arms, grasping with a force that would certainly leave bruises in the morning. His chest and hips pinned up me against the brick wall, leaving me stuck. And powerless. Tears stung my eyes.

One drink. Be a friend.
I knew I shouldn’t have come out with him. I should have heeded all the red flags—the strange and cryptic text messages indicating someone had gone off the deep end, all those pints he’d been downing.

This is what I get for trying to be kind to the former love of my life.

This is what I get for being fucking
nice.

Nearby, a police station was lit up. I could see it halfway down the block.

“Sam, let me go or I’ll scream.”

He didn’t release his hold on me so I opened my mouth to holler for help. I wasn’t kidding, and I was no longer feeling like being a friend to him. I was going to scream and cause a scene.

But Sam’s mouth crashed on mine for the worst sort of kiss. One-sided. Unwanted. Eyes open. Bad taste of beer in my mouth. His stubble was like sandpaper against my cheeks.

I struggled and I thought of statistics: Was it one in four women in the United States? Hadn’t I read somewhere that women were most likely to be assaulted by a current or former partner? I couldn’t remember exactly. I just knew I didn’t want to be another nameless, faceless number.

Nearby, people walked along Hudson Street rushing home to beat the storm. They laughed and chatted and walked at the brisk New York City pace and generally didn’t pay attention to girls pinned up against brick walls on side streets by their crazy ex-boyfriends.

His tongue, plumbing the depths of my mouth, erased any memory I had of tender kisses between us. I had once welcomed the weight of Sam’s body over mine. Now I felt smothered. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think, other than
no.

I struggled. I bit his tongue and he swore at me. I shouted out for help. This was the West Village for fuck’s sake. It was still early. There was a police station in sight. Wouldn’t someone help me?

Sam’s hand, closing over my breast, grasping for a feel. I felt Sam’s fingers struggling with the button on my jeans as I tried to writhe away from him.

“No, Sam. STOP.”

The button on my jeans popped open. His hand slid down. I tasted something salty: tears. I gagged as his fingers brushed against the waistband of my underwear and . . .

. . . Driven by fear, and revulsion, and determination, I heaved my knee up and slammed it into his balls. I had said
no
.

“Fuck!” Sam hollered. “What the fuck, Jane?”

He backed away from me, doubled over, clutching his precious balls. I stood, sucking in big breaths of cold air. My heart was pounding so hard I couldn’t hear anything else.

Sam looked up me. Accusatorily. As if I was the guilty one!

He stepped toward me.

I planted the heel of my hand in his face and
ran.

“We’re not done, Jane!” Sam shouted after me. “We belong together!”

I felt the first drops of the hurricane hit my skin as I ran away.

Chapter Four

I
RAN, BLOCK
after block, without stopping. My lungs were burning. The raindrops were cooling. Within a few blocks I was totally soaked. My wet jeans and sopping sweater set clung uncomfortably to my limbs. I wanted to take these clothes off and burn them. I wanted a long hot shower until I felt clean again.

When I hit Fifth Avenue I had to slow to a walk. I glanced wildly behind me. I didn’t see Sam. Or anyone. The streets were strangely desolate. Didn’t help my pounding heart. Or the heaving of my lungs. Or the panic coursing through my veins.

What the hell had just happened?

That was Sam . . .
Sam.

I couldn’t reconcile the man I loved with the man who had assaulted me tonight. Assaulted—it was such a technical word. Attacked. Molest. Batter. Grope. Paw. Fondle. Destroy.

I kept walking, thinking up synonyms and euphemisms for what had happened because I could
not
process what had just happened.

Someone I knew—

Someone I trusted—

Someone I had loved—

I followed the news. I knew the statistics. I just never thought I would be one of them.

I spat out the raindrops that had found their way into my mouth. I wanted the taste of him gone. I wanted to get on with pretending that had never happened.

But I knew that bruises would remind me in the morning. I would have to tell Duke, and he wouldn’t let this go. There would be no forgetting.

Finally, I arrived at Duke’s building at Bowery and Bond. The doorman let me up, no questions asked. When I stepped into the elevator I pressed the button to whisk me away to Duke’s penthouse apartment where I would be safe. My back thudded against the wall of the elevator, my knees buckled and I sank to the ground, my back sliding against the walls.

When the
ping
announced my arrival, I struggled to my feet.

The elevator doors opened directly into Duke’s apartment and he was there, waiting for me.

He looked so innocent. He had no idea what had just happened to me. He wore a Google T-shirt. Dark blue jeans. Bare feet. Tussled hair. So comforting. The next-to-worst thing had just happened to me and Duke was still Duke. Not dressed up for the occasion. Smiling charmingly as if he didn’t think such things happened to girls he knew. It was oddly comforting.

“I was just about to call you, Sweater-Set. I just got home. My trip to San Francisco was canceled because of the storm. Which I see has started.”

He eyed my wet jeans and wet sweaters clinging to me. My hair plastered to my head. I probably looked like a madwoman. Hell, I felt like one.

I stepped into the apartment and the elevator door closed behind me. I was safe. Sam couldn’t reach me now. I could proceed with a hot shower and try to make sense of a world that had been turned upside down.