Page 77 of The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée

Did he hear me?

I wait, blood racing. The breeze whooshes.

Marvin mumbles something I can’t hear. The talking starts up again, tone casual…I think. He’s moving though. Is he coming up here? Trying to move to get a better view?

I ease off my sandals and stick the straps in my mouth, then stretch myself low along the warm metal, and then I begin to scuttle away on knees and forearms, trench warfare-style. It’s a little crazy, but this whole thing is crazy! I move on, carrying my sandals like a dog, thankful for the many plank poses I sweated through in yoga this year.

When I get to the interior space, I crawl over the rail onto the lower deck and rush down some steps, heart pounding in my throat. I go into the dining room and cut through and head back to our quarters.

Clark and Rex spin around when I yank open the door.

Rex takes one look at my face and stiffens. “What’s going on? Is everything okay?”

I close the door and lean back against it, clutching my sandals, taking a moment to compose myself.

“Are you okay?” Clark asks.

I push off the door and strut across the room like I’m the queen of the world. I pour myself a drink and slam it back, just to put them off balance, and also, I’m a little shaky and I just want a drink.

Then I turn, hand planted on my hip, and I smile my most dazzling, most brilliant smile. “‘A bubbly stupid girl into soap operas,’ they said. ‘Stupidly thinks they’re profound,’ they said.”

Rex says, “What’s going on, Tabitha?”

“What’s going on is that it’ssolike a jerky, rich asshole to mock my female intuition, to mock the most awesome type of show ever, namely, the daytime drama.”

“What are you talking about?” Rex asks.

“Tabitha,” Clark says.

I’m feeling so strange, standing there. Like I’m on this high mountaintop where I’ve never been, being totally unlike myself, and I no longer care about being fun. I have very little to lose where Rex is concerned. He hates me. He hates everything about me. You can’t turn that around by being fun.

It’s…freeing.

“If it wasn’t for Gail,” I continue, “I wouldn’t bother telling you jackasses what I just learned about Bellcore.” I fix an eagle eye on Rex. “Youarebullish on Bellcore, are you not?”

Rex blinks. I suppose market talk like that sounds as weird coming from me as it would coming from a passing whale pod.

“Are you?” I ask. “Strong on it?”

He tilts his head. I hate how I still feel our connection. I hate how his beauty affects me. “Sure,” he says.

“Well, there’s a plan afoot. It’s going down while your position is strong.”

Bewilderment transforms Rex’s hotness into, well, a bewildered version of his hotness. He and Clark exchange significant glances.

“Where’s this coming from?”Rex asks.

“Soap opera 101. When you’re sitting around somewhere and somebody who is a totally suspicious character is talking on the phone saying super-suspicious things, announcing yourself is a definite soap opera DON’T. But staying hidden and listening? Total DO. It’s a Dorian Lord DO. A Stefano DiMera DO.”

“No, I mean, where did you hear it?” Rex asks.

His gravelly voice pulls at something in my groin. I try to wipe away the memory of his lips brushing my ear, his hands inside my bathing suit bottom.

I inspect my drink. It’s scotch I’m apparently drinking. I don’t usually drink scotch, and now I see why. It’s bitter and unpleasant, but I like the idea of it. Maybe it can be my new drink now that I’ve unleashed my inner bitch. It would be even better if the scotch had been contained in a crystal decanter on a liquor cart in the corner of the room, and I’d poured the scotch from the decanter into a cut crystal lowball glass—then my soap opera bingo card would be complete.

This glassware is smooth, however. Nothing to be done. I swirl the liquid.

The guys are waiting. I should put them out of their misery, but why? Rex hates me. Clark doesn’t give a shit. I have nothing to lose.

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