Page 98 of The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée

“Don’t worry about me,” he says. “I can run my massive and undeniably superior global empire from my phone. And I have the best investigators running down all things Bellcore before anybody can pull the trigger on anything.”

“And if he is indeed a fake nephew,” I tease, feeling our comfortable jokey banter get back on line. “Because if I’m right about that—”

“And I’m pretty sure you’re not—”

“Ninety-nine-point-nine freaking percent!” I remind him.

He leans in, looking all sexy. “If you’re right, then we don’t need to prepare for the review at all.”

“I’m so incredibly honored that you’ll give me that tenth of a percent.” I stand and adjust a flap of the cabana, feeling his eyes on me like a caress, taking in all of me, scar and all. Rex doesn’t flinch from things. It’s part of his jerky toolbox, and something I really like about him.

Slowly, I stretch out on the incredibly plush pool lounger so that the sunshine kisses my winter-sad belly, my thighs, my legs, but not my face and chest. My winter-sad skin soaks it in, practically undulating with pleasure.

“You’ll be so shocked when he turns out to be a fake nephew,” I tease.

Rex clicks away on his phone.

“Do you even know how to relax?” I ask after a while.

“Nope,” he says.

“You should try.”

He gives me one of his hard-ass glares and my pelvic muscles squeeze of their own accord. Like they have a mind of their own, and that mind is all about Rex. In a low voice, he says, “If you put a jasmine-scented cloth over my face, I’m gonna throw you in the pool.”

I squirm with delight and keep poking the beast. “Try to empty your mind.”

He goes back to his phone. “That’s what stupid people do.”

I grin. Such a jerk! “For the record, it’s what smart people do. Relaxing the mind has been shown to have many benefits.”

“That’s a myth to make people feel better about being lazy,” he says.

“Gasp!”

“You know, a simple gasp would be so much more efficient and accurate in communicating the concept of gasping,” he says, clicking away.

“You know, saying things that remind me of the hate list is not an efficient way to get back into my good graces. I mean, if you think you’re gonna ever get any of this action again.” I sweep a hand above my bikini-clad self, up and then down.

“Oh, I think I will get some of that action again,” he mumbles, and then he looks up, gray eyes sizzling over my skin. “And I think it’s going to be even better than the first time.” With that, he goes back to his phone.

“Gasp,” I say again. He’s such an asshole! Yet I want to kiss him.

Clearly I need an intervention, possibly even a laboratory full of highly advanced interventionists armed with negative reinforcement techniques that have been proven to work on the toughest subjects. Maybe throw in one of those dog collars that sprays something yucky when I get within five feet of Rex O’Rourke and his scowly hotness? That would be good.

“So you never stop working,” I say, fumbling back to a topic that will hopefully engage my powers of complex reasoning instead of my lizard brain. “Working too hard really isn’t good for you, you know. I’m being serious, now.”

“Work is good for you if you like it,” he says. “It’s important to keep moving forward and not let anybody get the better of you. If you’re not getting ahead, you’re being pummeled.”

I straighten. “Seriously? That’s what you actually think? Like you’re being pummeled?”

“I’m not being pummeled. I’m the one who’s getting ahead.”

“So, kill or be killed.”

“Exactly,” he says.

“That’s a grim way of looking at things. I don’t see anybody trying to kill you right now.”

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