Page 42 of Most Eligible Billionaire

Everyone gets out. The door slides shut.

Roller coaster belly flip.

Henry pushes off the wall with the lazy grace of a large predator. He shifts so that he’s leaning sideways, eyes like sea glass, gaze glued to my lips. He lowers his voice. “You were smelling me?”

I grip the bar. “Why would I be interested in smelling you?”

“I can think of a lot of reasons you’d be interested in smelling me.” He gets that amused smile I hate so much. He seems to think it’s funny.

My skin heats. “Name one.”

“Hmm.” His eyes drop to my neck. “I’m going to go with lust.”

“Oh my god, you are so full of yourself.”

“That’s not a no.”

“Seriously? Do you automatically assume every woman wants you?”

He watches me, curious.

“Seriously. You think everyone lives to scrape at your feet, scrambling for crumbs of your attention and approval? Trying to smell you? And if a girl is truly lucky, maybe you’ll pick her?”

He tilts his head. Waits a beat.

“Well?” I demand.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Are you waiting for an answer? I thought that was a rhetorical question.”

“Oh my god!”

He beams at me, and right then those lopsided dimples appear. The smile that tugs at my belly.

This is his genuine smile—I recognize it as such instinctively. It’s the smile that cameras never capture, the one that’s not part of the Powerful Prince Henry show. Real. And so human.

Was he teasing me with the smell thing?

The elevator stops. The door opens.

And he’s on, folks. He’s straightened up and giving the million-dollar smiles to the group of senior execs. He places his beautifully masculine hand on the elevator door to keep it open and he turns to me, waiting. Ladies first and all that.

He’s greeting the men by name, joking with them as they file in. They treat him with deference, like he’s a minor deity.

We head out through the fabulous lobby with Henry carrying Smuckers. He’s macho enough to carry a little dog. All eyes are on him. He knows all names.

I may control fifty-one percent of the company, but the world is Henry’s billion-dollar oyster.

And how does he remember so many names?

It’s a crisp, sunny day, cool for September in New York. Magically, a limo is there. The driver opens the door.

Henry turns to me, eyes a lighter, brighter shade of blue out in the sunshine. “How do you feel about walking a bit?”

“I’d love a walk.”

He puts Smuckers down, and we set out through the crowds.

I catch people staring at us and I get the old familiar stir of worry that I’ve been recognized in spite of my hair-color change—long curly red hair was one of the more remarkable features of Vonda O’Neil.

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