Stolen Heart (Bride of the Billionaire)

“Good?” she asks.

“Perfection,” I reply. It really is. Not only could she be a model or an actress, but she could also be a chef at any of the Michelin-starred restaurants I frequent in town. “Like you.”

“Stop,” she hums. “You don’t have to try that hard.”

“I’m just being honest.”

And it feels good.

“You’re not the man I expected,” she muses, twisting her fork in her fingers. Normally, I don’t like when people analyze me. But I’m actually dying to know what she has to say.

“What were you expecting? Dan Bilzerian?”

“A dickhead.” She smiles.

“With hired girls in bikinis prancing around?” I suggest. “Maybe my own marijuana company? Some diamond chains?”

“The media portrays you as cold. Mysterious. With nobody close to you.”

“They’re right,” I admit. “I am cold. I try to be mysterious. That way no one can get a read on me. Makes it easier to make bold moves when they don’t see you coming.”

“And the last one?” she asks. “Why is there no Mrs. Duke in your life?”

Jesus, she doesn’t waste any time getting right down to it, does she? I suddenly realize I haven’t given the Picasso a second thought. I haven’t checked my phone for texts or e-mails, and I’m not thinking about the big deal I have tomorrow.

Amory’s eyes are like a window to another life. She could be the one to warm me, to save me, to pull me back from a life that was growing harder and harder to live. A life where each new thrill had to be bigger than the last. A life that was surely going to end in me going out in a blaze of glory.

But now I see that there’s another path. The only question is; am I too far gone to take it?

“There could be now.”

4

Amory

Wow. I’m falling in love with the one guy in the world you should not fall in love with.

Cold. Mysterious. A total playboy. If my mom was alive, she’d be telling me to run for the hills.

I’d tell her that there’s more to this man than meets the eye, and she’d tell me I’m crazy. “That’s what all the girls say, Amory.” But I’d ignore her. This man is more than what I’ve read online. More than his public persona. More than he even thinks he is. And I know it. This man, the billionaire thief, has stolen my heart.

He’s staring at me, making my whole body tingle. The attraction between us is undeniable. It’s electric. I can practically feel it in the air, and when he slides his stool right up beside me, I almost fall out of mine.

“Tell me more about your painting.” As he speaks, he slides a gentle finger up the inside of my thigh. The thick coverall material may still be there, but it does nothing to shield me from the intensity of his touch. I’m still unzipped up top, and my nipples have been hard since I started cooking. But now, something else is going on between my thighs. My body is readying itself for him.

“Um…” I search for the words. “I paint portraits mostly. Not realist but not quite as abstract as your buddy Picasso there…”

“I’d love to see some sometime. Do you have an Instagram you post them on?”

“No.” I shake my head. His finger moves up, closer to my center of warmth. The electricity in the air has gone right through me. “I guess…I guess I’m just nervous. What if people don’t like my work?”

“You can’t let that hold you back, Amory.”

“I know, but…”

“But nothing,” he tells me. The strength in his voice leaps from his chest to mine. “As an artist, you need to share your work with the world. Everyone will have their detractors, but you just ignore them and move on. Do what you love.”

“Maybe…maybe after I keep painting, if you like them, then I’ll start showing them to the world,” I say, thinking out loud. “Maybe I’ll even paint you—”