The Billionaire's Innocent. CAITLIN CREWSЧитать онлайн книгу.
exit the car ahead of him. For a moment he thought she might crack—but she climbed out instead, squaring her shoulders and straightening her spine as she stood there beneath the stars with the breeze in her hair, and he found he admired her for it. More than was at all wise.
That was as dangerous as anything else.
He ushered her into the villa, dismissing his guards as he went, knowing that only once they’d taken their positions on the grounds outside could he speak freely. Until then, he studied this bright, shining girl who shouldn’t have been here, with him, in this tainted place.
He was looking for clues as to why she’d come to Cannes, he told himself. Looking for weaknesses you can use to your advantage, you mean, the cynical voice inside him said. Or hints that she’s what you’d like her to be.
God, but he was tired of himself.
Nora walked in through the airy atrium, straight through the graceful sprawl of the open reception and living areas to the wall of windows on the far side. Zair followed at a distance. The night was clear and cool, and he thought she could see almost to Italy. The gemlike coastal cities stretched out like a necklace threaded along the shoreline, from Antibes to Cap Ferrat to Monte Carlo, and Nora had never looked more celestial to him than she did then, bracketed here in the hills of France with the whole of the Côte d’Azure at her feet.
But they were both playing deep games tonight, and there was no place for angels in this particular gutter.
He heard the faint beep that meant the villa was clear of any potential intruders and that his guards had retreated to the security quarters elsewhere on the property. And for the first time all night, Zair took a long, deep breath and felt something like himself.
“Nora.”
She turned around then and he didn’t recognize her. That girl he thought he knew was absent entirely from her face, her usually expressive eyes. She was an icy blonde stranger, a confection of smooth limbs and the glorious blond waves that surged over her shoulders. Her blue eyes were a wall he couldn’t see through, and if it was possible, he wanted this tough, unreadable version of her more.
He wanted to take her apart. He wanted her to want that as much as he did.
But it didn’t matter what he wanted. It mattered what he did. And Zair supposed it mattered what she was doing here—because he didn’t buy that she was looking for the kind of rough evenings that friend of hers returned for, year after year.
Everything else was fantasy. And would be reason enough for her brother—his friend, he reminded himself acidly—to kill Zair with his own hands.
“So?” Nora’s voice was challenging and went through him like electricity. She folded her arms over her chest and he watched that belligerent chin of hers tilt up. “How do you want to fuck?”
For a long moment, Zair simply froze solid while red-hot images chased each other through his head. But then he felt his pulse, hard and insistent, drumming through him. She shouldn’t have been here at all, but she was. And for once, he simply acted.
He stalked toward her, taking a deep satisfaction in the way her eyes widened. He knew she wasn’t as cool or collected as she apparently wanted to pretend. He could read it in the way she held herself, the way she reacted—a man with his preferences and years of martial arts training learned how to read the signals a woman showed with every inch of her body.
But it had been a long night even before he’d made it to that yacht, and she was the last person he’d expected to see when he got there. And if she wanted to play this game with him, Zair didn’t think he had it in him to refuse.
He didn’t try.
“Right here?” she asked when he was nearly upon her, her eyes dark and wary, and that scratchy note in her voice that he thought was more than a little bit of panic. If he were a better man, he might not have reveled in it. “Right in front of the windows?”
“Wherever the hell I want,” he growled at her. “Haven’t you been paying attention?”
And then he indulged himself, at last.
They weren’t in public anymore. He didn’t have to play his stomach-churning role and make certain he looked the part as he sought his own pleasure. He swept her to him, capturing her mouth with his and letting his hands roam where they pleased. At last. From her soft cheeks to her satiny shoulders, then down the tantalizing, bared curve of her back. He finally found her hips, and he soaked in their lush shape for a moment before he hauled her up against the hardest part of him.
And then he let himself go.
He kissed her the way a dying man might, and he hadn’t understood until that moment how very much he felt as if he really were dying. As if he already had. As if the Zair al Ruyi he’d been all those years ago had ceased to exist when he’d decided to build this new persona, the better to flush out his quarry. When he’d decided he had no other choice.
She tasted as bright and as beautiful as she looked, and Zair wanted to lose himself inside her more than he wanted anything else. More, in that moment, than he wanted the truth and the justice that he’d been seeking all these years.
More.
He kissed her until he thought he might lose his iron grip on himself and even then, when he pulled away, he was so hard it nearly hurt.
And she looked up at him, dazed and wild, her sweet mouth ajar and her breath coming in little pants, and it took everything Zair had not to simply pick her up, wrap her legs around his hips, and sink deep inside her where they stood. She was a slight thing, for all her height, and it would hardly take—
She blinked as if she were the one who could read him. She licked her lips, and when he let out a rough sound at the sight, her blue eyes flew to his.
And then he watched her remember the game she played tonight. He saw that wall of hers come down, hard, and his hands tightened where they were still buried in her hair.
“You need to pay me first,” she said, coarse and sharp.
He felt as if she’d slapped him. He imagined that was the point. He let go of her, stepping back to put space between them and to keep himself under control. He saw the way she tilted back her head, as if she was bracing for his temper.
As if that was exactly what she wanted.
Because, he realized then, she thought he really was the kind of monster he’d pretended to be all this time. She saw only the mask he wore. She thought he was the mask, exactly as he’d wanted her to think. Exactly as he’d wanted everyone to think.
There was absolutely no reason that he should feel that like some kind of grand betrayal. It wasn’t. And he opted not to ask himself why he felt something far too much like grief besides. As if a silly crush a spoiled little girl like this one had had on him throughout her adolescence should have meant something. He knew it didn’t.
Instead of giving her the show of temper she was courting, he reached into his jacket and pulled out the envelope he’d stashed there. It was stuffed full of euros and her eyes widened, as if she hadn’t expected that. Perhaps she wasn’t entirely sure if he was his mask or not.
He held it out, yet didn’t hand it to her.
“You can have it,” he told her. “But it’s not a donation. You’ll have to work for it.”
Zair watched her pale. And he was a lost cause, a twisted creature all the way through, because he liked it, for all kinds of reasons. Chief among them, the fact that she didn’t back down, pale as she’d become. How far would she take this?
“Is there a problem?” he asked, calm again. Cool, while she stared back at him with wide, worried eyes, and he liked that, too. “Because surely you must know this, Nora. This is what hookers do.”
* * *
Nora opened her mouth to automatically object