He sets me aside on the bed, then straightens. He reaches for the phone from his pants pocket, checks the message and silences it, then proceeds to get dressed.
I watch the play of muscles on his back, the coil of power in his thighs as he stalks to the door.
A hollow sensation smolders in the pit of my stomach. He dare walk out on me again? I stiffen, curl my fingers into fists.
This time I won't let him leave. This time I am going to fight for what's mine.
"Saint," I yell after him. "Where the hell are you going?
He pauses, turns around. "Aren't you coming with me?"
54
What did the bee say to the flower?
Answer: Hello, Honey!
Victoria
An hour later, I watch as Saint eases his Jeep into the deserted parking lot.
I'd dressed quickly and followed him out earlier. He'd led me to the garage in the basement, which had been a surprise, considering I'd never seen him drive anything but the Jaguar. I'd been shocked to find that, in addition, he has a Jeep, a Harley—of course he has a Harley. What billionaire doesn’t huh? More surprising, had been the SUV—a Mercedes SUV.
I'd paused in front of it and he'd simply tilted his head in that manner which is meant to convey, Of course, I have a car which can be fitted with a baby seat.
I'd stared at it and he'd said, if I didn't like it, he could get me another. I'd simply shaken my head, too bemused to say anything. I'd followed him into his Jeep, stared around at the simple interior. With his jeans, black sweatshirt and beat up cowboy boots, this vehicle feels more like him than anything else. Is the obnoxious billionaire persona an act then? I frown. Will my alphahole ever stop surprising me?
"You okay?" his voice slithers down my spine, coils in my gut. Now that smoky, sensuous burr of his tone... I'll never get used to that.
"I'm good."
"So why are you biting your nails?"
Oh. I pull my hand back, then shove it under my thigh, for good measure.
"Something on your mind, babe?"
Hell, why does he have to be so intuitive when it came to me, huh? I flip my hair back, then mutter, "You taking me to meet that woman?"
He nods.
'Is she like, your ex?' is what I want to ask, but he'd denied anything between them, and damn him, but I want to believe him. Besides, I am not going to turn into a nagging shrew, not when he's taking me to meet her. I'll find out soon enough, what this is all about, huh?
His gaze stays focused on the road.
I glance sideways at him, and my stomach does that little flip-flop at the sight of his patrician nose, that mean upper lip, the pouty lower lip—moisture beads my core. Shit, I am pregnant and he'd made love to me—in the sweetest way possible—just before we left the house, so why am I already turned on by taking in the profile of his face?
I turn to stare ahead as he veers off of the main road. The narrow road he's turned onto winds its way through a heavily-shaded strip of trees. He takes another turn, then pulls into a driveaway.
He switches off the ignition and silence descends.
I peer through the windshield at the field in front of us, "Are we still in London?"
"We're in Zone 4 of the city, so on the outskirts."
He reaches to the dash, pockets a small paper bag, then opens his door. I open my door and step out. He comes around the vehicle, holds out his hand. I take it. He weaves his fingers with mine, "Ready?"
No, I'm not. I take in a breath and nod. He leads me toward the small two-floor cottage. I sniff the air, assailed by the scent of dried hay and huh, is that the manure I smell? The pounding of hooves splits the air. I glance up as a horse gallops over from the edge of the field to the wooden stile.
His dark black coat glints in the sunlight. He tosses his head, snorts.
Saint, lowers the zipper of his sweatshirt, then pulls out the packet and empties out a couple of sugar lumps.
"Is that for the horse?"
He smiles, walks toward the fence, "Devil here, is a pure-bred Arabian. I couldn't pass up the opportunity to sneak him a treat, could I?"
He holds out his palm and the horse moseys over and licks up the cubes. Devil snorts again. Saint reaches up to run his fingers over his long nose. The horse, whines, stamps his feet. The horse lowers his head and Saint scratches him behind his ears until a rumbling sound emerges from him.
What the—? I blink.
"He sometimes behaves more like a dog than a horse," a voice explains.
I whip around to see a woman walking toward us. She's the one Saint met the other day. Tiny, exquisitely curved, her legs are enclosed in boots and slim jeans. Her plaid shirt is tucked into her hourglass waist. Her hair flows around her shoulders. Behind her, the door to the house stands open. Guess I'd missed that, entranced by the ease with which Saint had petted the horse.
She walks up and holds out her hand, "I'm Tink."
"Tink?" I frown.
She sighs, "Yeah, I was named Tinkerbell. I do prefer Tink, though."
"Don't blame you," I mutter. "I'm Victoria." I take her hand.
"Your name suits you." She looks me up and down, "You do bear a resemblance to Posh—"
"Don’t say it, please. I don't know her, have never met her. She is no relation to me..."
"—Spice," she completes her statement. "Sorry, bet you've heard that a million times and hate it as much as I do my name."
"Hate to say it, but yours suits you, too," I bite my lips.
"Well, guess we are kindred, huh?" She drops my hand, turns to Saint.
"You made it," she jerks her chin.
"It sounded urgent."
"Sorry, but I think you need to
