Page 86 of The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée

I wish suddenly that she’d found some hair, just because she so wanted it. We could’ve FedExed it to a lab. Useless waste of time as it would be, I want it for her. I go in now to where she’s standing. “Nowwhat would Stefano DiMera do?” I ask.

A sly smile. “You don’t want toknowwhat Stefano would do.”

“Oh, I do.” I slide a hand over the mass of hair that’s caught up in her long ponytail, sliding it around so that it hangs over one shoulder.

Her breath quickens.

The energy between us runs thick and hot.

I slide a finger down the outside of her bare arm, shoulder to her wrist, slow and steady. “Tell me,” I rasp. “Tell me what Stefano would do.”

Her voice is barely a whisper. “Are you trying to distract me from the list? Is that what this is all about?”

“Kitten,” I say, conscious of the heat of her skin, conscious of the fact that we’re alone in this forbidden space where nobody will bother us. “I could think of far better ways than this to distract you from the list.”

“Yeah,nowyou act interested in my theories. Now that I found the hate list.”

Hoarsely, I say, “It’s not a hate list.”

She snorts, smoothing it over with humor, but the list wasn’t funny. I hate that she found it. I hate that I wrote it. Why did I write it?

“So what next?” I slide my finger back up again, tracing a hot trail over her silky skin.

Her breath stutters.

The familiar tug in my groin intensifies.

“You’re really on board with checking this thing out?” She looks up. Her gaze is dark, charged with lust. “Just to rule out the fake nephew possibility?”

I move closer to her, overwhelmed by my need for her and by the feeling that she wants me just as badly, in spite of everything.

Our chemistry runs thick and hot.

Her breath brushes my chin, my lips.

All available blood in my body rushes furiously southward, straight into my iron-hard cock—leaving my brain without sense.

That’s the only explanation I can think of for my answer to her question of whether I’m on board with the fake nephew possibility. My very boneheaded answer.

“I don’t know that I’d go so far as to call it apossibility,” I say.

Her lips part, as if in shock. “Wait, what?” A furrow appears between her brows in the split second before she steps away. “Not a possibility? So what are you doing here, then?”

“Uh,” I begin, regretting my words.

“What?” she asks. “You’re just humoring me? Is that it? Humoring ol’ bubble-headed Tabitha?”

“Well,” I stammer, “maybe it’s notcompletelyimpossible…”

“Notcompletelyimpossible? A UFO attack isn’t completely impossible. Oh my god, youarejust patronizing me! God, were you laughing at me the whole time?”

“I wasn’t laughing at you,” I say. “You have to admit, it’s not the sanest idea ever—”

“Not the sanest? Youwerelaughing at me. Like I’m this idiot? But then again, pathetically impoverished people with stupidly positive attitudes will believe most anything. How many ways can you be a complete asshole?”

“Tab—”

“Uhh!” She shoves me away. “You’re such a pompous, self-obsessed hornbag.”

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