The Billionaire Bargain 2 (11 page)

The sun through the window brought out the gold in Grant’s hair, lighting him up like an angel. It softened the lines of his face, too, or maybe it was sleep that did that—made him look so young, so sweet, so vulnerable. I lightly traced the lines of his face and neck, not wanting to wake him. Needing to touch him nonetheless.

This was the man I would marry today.

We hadn’t had sex last night; just cuddled. And talked. Talked for hours. I loved the way he said my name. I loved the the way he talked in the darkness about all the things he couldn’t in the light of day, all his insecurities and worries and dreams.

I loved the way he stroked my hair until I fell asleep.

I loved—

I loved him.

There. I said it.

I slipped out from under the covers as quietly as I could to avoid disturbing him, and stole just one more moment looking at him asleep. The line and shape of him under the sheets, his arm thrown carelessly overhead, his mouth hanging slightly open as if there were one more thing he had left to say. I savored one last look at that beautiful face—those eyelashes, so long and fine, that skin I knew the feel of so well.

I very nearly kissed him goodbye, but I told myself I’d be back before he even knew I was gone.

• • •

I stepped through the doors of the Mandarin Oriental Hotel and into their dramatic Italian travertine marble lobby, trying not to feel like I was trespassing. I had a perfect right to be here; Portia had, through an amount of wrangling, backroom deals, and downright threats that I did not even want to think about, reserved the hotel’s event space for our wedding. So what if that wasn’t for another several hours? I didn’t want to get married in a strange place.

Staff and security did double-takes as I glided by, starting forward as if to eject me from the premises before recognizing me and performing an about-face. I glided unmolested up the striking grand staircase, outfitted with curved glass and mapa burlwood veneer. Whatever else our wedding was, it was certainly going to be fashionable as hell.

On the second floor, preparations were in full swing.

Sunlight streamed through the large windows, letting in the sounds of the waking city. Fresh daffodils and irises were being cut and placed in vases around the California Room, their bright colors offsetting nicely the tasteful beige and white décor. White tablecloths were being shaken over tables, chefs were barking out lists of ingredients, bottles of wine were being carted in by the truckload.

So many people! They were doing this all for us. They were doing this all…for me.

For a lie.

Guilt crashed over me like a tsunami wave, drowning me in self-recrimination. This was all fake. This was all nothing. Oh God, I wanted it not to be, I wanted it to be real, I wanted to be able to stand here knowing that Grant and I were really going to be married, that he really loved me, that we were going to spend the rest of our lives together—

I couldn’t. I couldn’t do this to him. I couldn’t nod and smile and pretend to have nothing more than lust and friendship for him, and all the while be stewing in my own loss and grief.

I couldn’t spend months—or maybe it would even be years before we could convincingly amicably separate—mooning after him, taking the scraps of affection he could give. Waiting up nights wondering why I couldn’t make him love me, feeling resentment start to wear its way into my heart. I would start twisting my own feelings around until I hated Grant as much as I loved him, for not loving me back.

And I didn’t ever want to hate Grant again.

I ran downstairs as fast as my feet could carry me. I wasn’t thinking; just operating on autopilot. My mission: save Grant.

“Excuse me,” I said breathlessly to the woman at the desk. “Can I leave a note with you for my fiancé? Grant Devlin? He should be here later.”

“Certainly, ma’am, and congratulations, we’re all so excited to be hosting—”

“Thank you,” I said automatically, and scribbled a note on my steno pad, trying not to burst into tears as I remembered what my mother had said to me about following my heart.

Dear Grant, I am so, so sorry. I can’t do this. Don’t look for me

Love, Lacey

I took off the ring and put it into an envelope with the note. The staff person’s eyes widened, and I saw her mouth open as if to ask a question, but I was already out the door and gone.

• • •

The muffler on my rented car groaned and sputtered as I roared down the road, a quickly tossed-together bag of belongings in the trunk, my phone turned off, and the radio blaring mindless pop songs and no news. The sun blazed bright as if in mockery of the pain I felt, tearing me up inside like I had swallowed cut glass.

“I’
m doing the right thing
,”
I said to myself, revving the engine to get to my parent
s’
house faster. I would be safe there; I would know what to do there
.“I’
m protecting him
.
”

I could hide at my paren
t’
s house; hide from Grant, hide from the whole world. But could I hide from my own heart?

To be continue
d
…

Find  out what happens next in THE BILLIONAIRE BARGAIN 3 coming February 2015.

Last week, I was in the penthouse with a sexy Australian billionaire. Now I'm back to Netflix Friday nights and leftover takeout. And it's all my fault.

I'm the one who left the high life behind, and all because I couldn't bring myself to go through with a sham marriage to my sexy boss, Grant Devlin -- because I went and fell in love with him for real.

I know, stupid.

Now he won't talk to me, my job is hanging by a thread, and oh yeah, a devious plot to take over Devlin Media Corp. means all my hard work could be for nothing. if we're going to save the company, I need Grant's help.

Help that doesn't include hot sex in the copy room.

Wish me luck.

Thank you to the lovely Jenn Watson at Social Butterfly PR LTD for her sexy teasers, amazing edits, and all around awesomeness! To all my new readers, thank you for taking a chance on a debut author! And to all the bloggers who Facebook, tweeted, and posted about my release, I am forever grateful!

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