The Billionaires' Brides Bundle

“Please,” Lucas said coldly, “don’t hold back. There’s no need to watch what you say on my account.”

“Well, you set yourself up for it, didn’t you? Expecting a mobile phone to work out here, driving a thing like that on back roads…”

Dios, this was the stupidest quarrel he’d had since he was eight and in a nose-to-nose battle over whether Real Madrid or Futbol Club Barcelona fielded the better soccer team.

What was wrong with this woman? Arguing with him, angering him when for all she knew, he was a madman come to do her harm. And when in hell, how in hell, had she managed to turn the tables?

He was the injured party here, not she.

“Anyway,” she said, “this is all beside the point. I didn’t hurt you. Except…well, maybe your pride. I mean, we both know you ended up in a ditch…”

Lucas saw her lips twitch. Could a man’s blood pressure rise to the point where he exploded?

“And,” he said silkily, “you found it amusing.”

“No,” she said, but there was that twitch again.

“You know,” he said softly, “a smart woman might consider a simple apology appropriate just about now.”

That gave her pause. He could almost see her weighing her options. She was alone with a stranger, nobody to turn to for help.

On the other hand, he had a strong suspicion the word “apology” was not a normal part of her vocabulary.

A long moment passed. Then she huffed out a breath that lifted the silky, jet-black curls from her forehead.

“Yes. Okay. I shouldn’t have laughed.”

“Or tried to run me down.”

“I told you, I did not try to run you down.” She hesitated. “But I guess it was impolite to find the situation amusing.”

“The understatement of the century.”

“It’s just that…it was—it was interesting. You, dressed as if you might actually know one end of a horse from another—”

“Which,” he said coldly, “is surely an impossibility.”

“And your lady friend…Was that get-up left over from Halloween or what?”

If this was her idea of an apology, he could only imagine what she would consider an insult.

“My lady friend,” he said, lying through his teeth in a last desperate attempt at maintaining the upper hand, “was simply wearing what any attractive woman would wear.”

“To a masquerade party, maybe.”

She was right, but he’d be damned if he’d let her know it.

“To ride a horse in Central Park,” Lucas said, lying again and fervently hoping all the horses who called Manhattan home would forgive him. He took a step back, his hand still wrapped around her wrist, and gave her a long, slow look. “But then, what would you know about being a woman in a place like New York?” He took another long, lazy look at her, from her toes to the top of her head. “You are a woman, aren’t you, amada? Under all that ridiculous clothing?”

Dios, he thought, hearing himself, picturing himself, what was he doing? The leer, the line—it was all such bull.

And yet, to his surprise, it had its effect.

The rider blinked. One blink, that was all, but enough to tell him she’d suddenly remembered she was in a situation she didn’t control.

“Okay.” Her tone was cool but, yes, there was an underlying tremor. “I’ve apologized. Now you can let go of my wrist, say adi

os and get out of here.”