Page 92 of Wreck Me

‘No way. I was just looking.’ I take a step back. ‘This might be your world, but it’s not mine.’ I tear my eyes awayfrom the window to look at him. Even here, in “holiday mode”, he looks every bit the playboy billionaire in a pair of designer jeans and a polo shirt that presses indecently against his pecs.

I look down at myself, eyeing my own holiday wear, slim fitting jeans and pale blouse. My clothes definitely don’t radiate the wealth in the way James’s do.

‘It is now.’ He wraps an arm over my shoulder and attempts to steer me towards the sliding doors, but my feet root firmly to the spot.

‘What’s up?’ he asks when I refuse to budge.

‘I just can’t believe this is real.’ A lump forms in my throat. ‘I’ve never had anyone treat me the way you do. I’ve never had anyone care about me like this. I still don’t trust that it’s going to last and that maybe I’ll wake up one day and this will all have been a dream.’

‘I don’tcareabout you. Iloveyou.’ He pulls me into his torso and tilts my chin up, forcing me to meet his eyes.

‘And it terrifies me,’ I admit. ‘Love didn't last for my mother. If anything, love killed her.’

‘You know you can talk to me about it, whenever you’re ready.’ His hand moves to the back of my head, cradling it tenderly as people bustle by, oblivious to the moment we’re sharing. ‘I can’t undo all the pain you’ve endured, but I promise it stops here. I told you I’ll never hurt you. I’ll protect you with my life.’

‘But what if you get tired of me? Bored of this relationship? What if I give you my heart and you smash it into a trillion pieces? I don’t think I could survive that.’ That’s the crux of it.

‘It’s never going to happen.’ He presses a kiss on my temple. ‘You’re not the only one with trust issues. But we’ll work through them together.’

‘I want to tell you. I really do.’ I grab his hands and pullthem to my chest as I stare into his dark, soulful eyes, willing him to believe me. ‘But I can’t. It’s…complicated. I’m not allowed to tell you, or anyone about it.’

James frowns. ‘Not allowed?’

I turn my gaze away. ‘Legally,’ I say. ‘You’d have to promise not to breathe a word of it to anyone.’

‘Of course,’ he gasps. ‘Whatever it is, you can tell me. I’d never betray your trust.’

‘When we get home, I’ll tell you everything.’ It’s time. ‘But I warn you, it’s ugly.’

‘Nothing you can say will change the way I feel about you.’ His promise soothes my soul and I slump into him, every bit of tension seeping from my shoulders.

‘I’d be lying if I said I wasn't utterly intrigued but if you really won’t tell me until we get home, we should make the most of Paris. Let’s burn some plastic. You need a new dress for tonight.’

‘I do?’ My eyes veer to the black silk masterpiece in the window.

‘Well, you can’t go on a private yacht dressed like that,’ he smirks.

‘A private yacht?’

‘So you can experience the city in the most magical way.’ He drags me inside the store before I can put up any further resistance.

The report in the tabloids about James’s scandalous behaviour on a yacht flashes through my mind. I push back the green-eyed monster and replay his “I love you” instead. ‘I thought you might take me to the Moulin Rouge. Maybe they’ll let me dance.’

A low growl rumbles in my ear. ‘I’m the only man who gets to see you dance from now on.’

‘But you took away my pole,’ I joke. The truth is, I miss it. ‘I miss the exercise. I miss testing the strength of my body and losing myself in the music and movement.’

‘But now you have a new pole,’ he grunts with a sparkle in his eye as he slaps my ass playfully.

‘True, although it’s not quite the same size as the last one.’ I stifle a laugh as he bites out another growl.

‘Careful, or I’ll be forced to remind you exactly how big it is.’ He blows a gentle stream of air over my neck. A tingle cascades down my spine. ‘Now, let’s go buy you that dress.’

Inside we’re treated to a glass of champagne while James insists on buying everything I glance at. A crystal-studded clutch, three two-piece suits, three new blouses, and a slim-fitting pencil skirt which he insists I wear to his office on Monday.

‘Can we get these bagged up and sent directly to Ireland?’ he asks the sales assistant as he hands over his credit card. ‘All except this.’ His palm grazes over the black backless masterpiece that had originally caught my eye in the window.

As we walk out of the store and back into the Parisian sun, he says, ‘Wear this tonight. And don’t even think about putting on any panties.’

---