Liars Like Us

39

I’m still confused, but now I’m frustrated and annoyed too. “So you just assumed I’d agree to marry you on the spot?”

“I didn’t assume. I knew.”

“How?” I demand, growing angrier.

With a trace of darkness in his voice, he says, “Because I know everything about you, wife. Including where you hide your spare set of keys.”

I stare at him for a moment, my mind and my pulse both racing. “You really did hire a private investigator to spy on me, didn’t you?”

His small smile is the only answer I need.

We drive down a sloped driveway and pull into an enormous underground garage. A few dozen luxury vehicles in various models and colors line each side. As the driver parks, I look around, taking in the sheer size of the place. Soft overhead lighting makes the cars and floors gleam. It’s immaculate, like a showroom.

Callum exits the car, then comes around to my side and opens my door for me. Looking up at him in growing alarm, I stall by saying, “I left my purse at the store.”

“Do you want it?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll have someone bring it here. Give me your hand.”

I look at his outstretched hand, telling myself not to be a coward, that everything is going to be okay, and that if it isn’t, I’ll deal with it.

I’ve made it this far in life. I’m sure I can handle a bossy billionaire who apparently has a predilection for s******g tender body parts.

“Give me your hand.”

His command is spoken in a gentle tone, but there’s steel underneath.

Trembling, I glance up at his face. Then I chew on my lip, undecided.

Callum reaches in, grasps my hand, hauls me out of the car, then lifts me and tosses me over his shoulder. I squawk in panic and grab his suit jacket for balance as he starts to walk away from the car.

“Hey!”

“Yes, wife?”

“Put me down!”

“Soon.”

When I kick my feet in frustration, he gives me a sharp smack on my behind to settle me down. It does the opposite.

“Do that again, and you’ll regret it!”

My threat does nothing but earn me one of his annoying, self-satisfied chuckles.

He carries me through a door at one end of the garage with the ease of a man accustomed to abducting adults from their places of business, scrambling their brains with some unexpected, filthy s*x talk, then speeding away with them to his bachelor pad in the hills.

I barely have time to wonder if his backyard is full of buried bodies before we’re moving through a lavish marble foyer with a staircase on one side. Sparkling chandeliers hang from the ceiling, casting a warm glow over the space.

I’m starting to get dizzy.

“May I please not be upside down anymore? I don’t like this.”

He stops midstride and sets me on my feet, then steadies me with his hands on my shoulders when I sway to one side.

I thank him breathlessly. He smiles, then bends, lifts me into his arms, and starts walking again. I gaze up at his handsome face and try to figure out what the hell this crazy person thinks he’s accomplishing by this.

Noticing my expression, he says, “Don’t overthink it.”

“I’m going on the record right now to inform you that the next time you say that, I’ll hit you in the head with something heavy. Put me down.”

He smirks. “And you say I’m bossy.”

Then he’s taking the stairs, two at a time.

Pretending I’m not impressed—or freaked out, or in shock, or any of the other things I currently am—I say calmly, “Your home is lovely. A bit gargantuan for one person, but I suppose you need all the extra space for your ego. I wouldn’t have pegged you for the French country décor type.”

He slants me a look, warm and full of secrets. “I’m not.”

“I’d ask if you could be any more irritating, but I already know the answer. Why are you carrying me?”

“It’s traditional for the groom to carry his bride across the threshold.”

I’m about to argue with him about the absurdity of that statement when we reach the top of the staircase and he makes a sharp left turn down a corridor. It’s lined with gilt-framed portraits of people who all look like they need more fiber in their diets.

“I’m afraid to ask, but I will. Where are we going?”

“To bed.”

I stare at his profile. He doesn’t smile, so I have to assume he’s not making a joke.

“I’m not sleeping with you.”

“Who said anything about sleeping?”

“I think you should put me down now.”

“And I think you should admit that you’d like to have s*x with me so that we can dispense with the bullshit once and for all.”

He strides through an open set of carved wooden doors. We’re in what looks like the master suite. It’s elegantly decorated in shades of cream and gold, with floor-to-ceiling windows on one side of the room and a cozy sitting area on the other. Complete with gauzy white panels of fabric and too many plush ivory throw pillows to count, a king-size antique canopy bed dominates another wall.

Callum heads straight for it.

“Whoa, cowboy!” I say, panicking.

His sideways glance is so hot, it sears me. He grins and chuckles darkly. “Oh, I’m a cowboy all right. Just wait until I show you my pistol.”

He stops at the edge of the bed, drops me onto it, then flattens his body over mine. I try to roll out from under him, but the man weighs a thousand pounds. With his forearms braced on either side of my shoulders, he holds my head in both huge hands as he gazes down into my wide eyes.

He smiles.