Page 14 of The Billionaire's Claim: Possession
Disapproval turns his face even more remote.
I stare at his chest, noting the buttons on his shirt are pearly white and semi-translucent. It’s amazing that he can make me squirm faster than Dad. But then, Dad could never manage calm, icy disapproval the way Dane can.
“She’s bad business,” Dane says.
I’m getting tired of people disapproving my choice of friends, but I’m not brave enough to tell Dane off. “Okay,” I mumble.
“And you should dress better in public.”
I look down. Yeah. It’s sort of obvious I’m trying to pass a man’s shirt off as a dress. I clear my throat. Again. “Right.” Mom.
A sudden thought lights up my mind. I should’ve given the shirt back to Dominic. I’m flying to Italy tomorrow evening. Maybe he’ll call me, but I can’t take a taxi to his place or drive my Maserati. What excuse am I going to give him about my car?
Dane starts to walk past me. “Can I borrow a few thousand bucks?” I blurt out.
“Define ‘a few.’”
“Um…” I hesitate for a moment, berating myself for asking Dane, of all people. When I need something, I put it on my credit card. If it’s over the limit, I call one of my parents’ assistants. If I don’t want to bug my parents—and I don’t want to involve them at all—I turn to Mark, who’s a helluva lot sweeter and more fun than Dane. “Eight?”
“For what?”
“Um. A car…?”
Is eight thousand enough to get me a cheap car like college kids drive?
I have no idea. The Maserati was a gift from Dad when I tu
rned sixteen. Not an indulgence, but a gesture to show Mom, who was his Wife Number One, that he’s rich enough to throw that kind of money around and not miss it. Isn’t she sorry she divorced him instead of shrugging off “one minor indiscretion”?
“What’s wrong with your Maserati?” Dane asks.
“Nothing.”
He raises an eyebrow.
I shift my weight back and forth. “I just wanted to buy a normal car that won’t stand out so much.”
“And you’ve come to this decision after having the Maserati for over a year?”
“I can pay you back.”
“You’re going to do more than that. You’re going to owe me one.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine.”
He shakes his head. “Never say ‘fine’ when somebody says you’re going to owe them one. The answer should always be ‘go to hell.’”
Whatever, I think, but don’t dare say it out loud. The Reptile might not give me the money.
“Even if I gave you the cash, you still wouldn’t be able to buy a car anyway.”
“Why not?”
“You’re seventeen, Elizabeth.”
I stick my tongue out…almost. “Wrong. I’ve been eighteen since ten hours ago.”
“Ah, that’s right. Your birthday’s today.”
