Page 30 of Caught Between Two Billionaires
Sutton gives a rough laugh. “He’s pretending he can’t see anything except his fancy French sauce, but if he thought you didn’t want me, he’d have already given me a black eye. And I’d have deserved it. Do you know why he hasn’t done that?”
Because he always knows what women want. It really is a curse.
I’m tired of having Sutton pursue, not because I don’t want this, but because I do. Why am I holding myself back from him on account of Christopher? It’s in this moment that I can admit that I still want him. Still love him. That’s the only reason I could be thinking about him when another man stands right in front of me. It hurts to admit that, even privately. My fortress of protection against men and their transience, torn down in an instant of self awareness.
The heart is fickle. It doesn’t listen to reason.
But I don’t have to obey my heart when I know it’s wrong. There’s no loyalty I owe Christopher Bardot, and none he would want from me anyway.
I grasp the red silk tie in my hand and pull. A grunt of surprise, and then he’s falling forward. His lips meet mine without any semblance of softness. We’re all determination in this moment, which is more potent than a thousand sweet caresses. More real than a hundred whispered promises.
He deepens the kiss with one arm beneath my head, his other hand against my cheek, angling my mouth to take him better. It’s consuming, this kiss… and public.
A polite cough sounds from a few yards away.
Distantly I realize the music has stopped. It’s almost painful to tear my gaze away from the burning blue eyes staring down at me, made hazy and harsh with desire.
Bea stands just outside her music room, looking scandalized. “We really need to have more dinner parties, Hugo.”
He crosses the room and greets her with a kiss. “Do you have a bit of the voyeur? They do make a beautiful couple.”
“We’re not a couple,” I say quickly, but the objection loses some of the steam considering Sutton is still half over me, my leg draped over his from where I had pulled him close. Roughly I push him away and sit up, shame making my cheeks warm. “I just work for him.”
“But of course,” Hugo says agreeably. “That’s how Bea and I met as well.”
With any other couple I probably would have died of embarrassment, but Hugo and Bea have a way of putting me at ease. They share a few funny stories about their cooking mishaps. There are a stack of cookbooks from around the world on a tall shelf. Mostly Hugo is a brilliant cook, but when he encounters an ingredient that’s hard to get, he improvises with mixed results.
“Did you cook for Sutton when you were roommates?” Bea asks.
“I made many packages of cheap noodles.”
Sutton smiles, looking a little distracted. “They were all we could afford at the time, but Hugo used to talk about food. About caviar and foie gras and other shit I’d never even tried back then.”
“And what do you think now?” I ask, twirling the wineglass. A few pours of that Bordeaux, and I’m feeling downright pleased with my short public performance.
Sutton’s blue gaze meets mine. “I’m a simple man.”
“You know,” I say, drawing a little circle on the marble table, “I’m pretty sure that’s not true.”
Hugo laughs. “She has you figured out.”
“Not all the way,” I admit. I’m a little tipsy after helping finish two bottles of wine. Not drunk. Enough to lower my guard, that’s all. “Enough to know that good-old-boy act hides a lot underneath. Tell me something about you that I don’t already know. No, that’s too easy. Tell us something that Hugo doesn’t know about you.”
Sutton looks away, a half smile on his face. Not quite refusing. “And what will I get in return?”
“You’re always looking to make a deal.”
“That much is true. So what are you going to give me, in exchange for this secret you want?”
“What do you want?” The question comes out more seductive than I meant it to, my voice low and thick with desire. He turns me into some other woman, one who doesn’t need to be rescued. One who rescues a man instead.
“A goodnight kiss,” he says in that way that sounds simple but isn’t.
“Only a kiss?”
He smiles. “Only that.”
“Then you have yourself a deal.”
“Aren’t you going to shake on it?” Bea asks, her cheeks pink even though she’s the only one of us who didn’t touch the Bordeaux, her green eyes bright with mischief. “If the deal’s going to be official, you should shake hands.”
Sutton appears solemn as he offers his hand over the table, on top of the empty platter of coq au vin and the brandy-sauce green beans. I grasp the warm strength of him, the rough calluses of him, and squeeze. He gives a gentle squeeze in return. Our bodies can speak a language more fluently than our mouths, communicating, negotiating.
