Page 6 of The Mysterious Billionaire
She laughs, a slight flush appearing on her cheeks. “You talk like you’re an expert.”
I shrug. “Well, I’m not Olympic-medal material like some people around here, but I could probably compete at national level.”
She giggles, which is such a delightful sound that it sends a tingle all the way down my spine.
“Flirty Girtie,” she says.
“You can talk.”
“I know.” She twirls her glass. “Blame the Cosmos.”
“Ellis,” I call to the bartender, “another round please.”
That earns me another giggle, and she nudges me with her elbow. Doing so makes her lose her balance on the stool, though, and as she moves her foot down to stop herself falling, she getsthe heel of her sandal hooked on the base and flails as she heads for the floor.
“Whoa.” I catch her as she topples, and she squeals, bumping against me. “This is turning into a habit,” I tell her, tightening my arm around her waist. The spaghetti straps of her dress make me suspect she’s not wearing a bra, and her breasts, which have been restrained by the boned bodice, bulge a little where she’s pressed against me.
“I just wanted to feel your biceps again,” she says, but she’s gone completely pink now, almost the same shade as the dress. “I’m so sorry. You’d get used to this if you were around me a lot.”
“It’s not a problem,” I murmur.
She flicks a gaze up at me. “You can let me go now.”
“Do I have to?”
Even though she’s wearing a mask, I can see that she’s baffled by my comment. I lift a hand and tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear. “He really did a job on you, didn’t he?”
She doesn’t say anything, and I lower my hand. Her hair is very dark, almost black, and it doesn’t match her pale complexion. Is she wearing a wig? If she is, it’s a very good one, but I’d imagine a woman who wears designer clothes would be able to afford a high-quality hairpiece.
Now she’s regained her balance, I remove my arm from around her waist but hold her hand to keep her steady as she sits back on the stool. When she’s settled, I lower my head and kiss her fingertips before releasing them.
She shivers. “You give me goose bumps.”
I lean back on the bar and push her drink toward her. Luckily she wasn’t holding it when she fell. “Is that a good thing?”
“I’m not sure.” She sips the Cosmo, her violet eyes watching me, a tad warily.
“So tell me why your ex called you vanilla,” I say. “I’m intrigued.”
She eats the other half of the cupcake, then gestures at her dress. “This isn’t my usual attire.”
“What do you normally wear?”
She hesitates. Then she says, “The thing is, if I tell you, you’ll think I’m weird.”
“I already think you’re weird.”
“Good point. Weirder, then. And… I don’t want you to think that.” Her last words are a soft admission. Her sassiness is just a façade, I think, hiding a vulnerable and very hurt woman.
“I don’t think you’re weird,” I correct. “Interesting is a better term. Fascinating, even.”
She lowers her gaze to her drink for a moment. Then she says, “All right. Well, my hair isn’t the only reason my colleagues compare me to Einstein. I tend to wear jeans and gray T-shirts all the time.”
I smile. “Why so?”
“It makes it easier to get dressed in the morning. I don’t want to waste time wondering what to wear, so I just put on my jeans and take the next T-shirt out of the drawer.”
“It’s a sensible idea. So this,” and I gesture at her dress, “isn’t a common occurrence?”
