New York Billionaires Series

“That may be so,” he says, “but could you do it, Cecilia? A fight at home would spread to your work, and that’s intolerable.”

“Not all couples fight that much.”

“Married ones do.”

“They do? We haven’t had a single one.”

His lips twist. “Not yet, anyway. But you and I are a different story.”

“We are?”

“We’re not a real couple. They,” he says, inclining his head to the couple in the distance, “are.”

“That’s your take on relationships, then. They’re bound to devolve into fighting?”

He looks away from me. The sharp line of his jaw above me looks like a pane of glass, distant and imposing. But he answers. “Yes. Small disagreements grow, turn to nagging, which turns to arguments. I don’t have time for that.”

“But the rewards are bigger, too,” I say. “When you know someone well enough to get past a disagreement. It strengthens you.”

He snorts. “Are you a psychologist, as well?”

I can’t let this go, even if I’m just poking the bear. He leads the way beneath a large archway. “What was the longest relationship you’ve ever had?”

“I’m not lying on a couch in your office,” he says.

“So you don’t want to answer my question.”

He turns me toward a set of stone stairs. I let my hand trail along the smooth wood railing as we ascend. The place still smells of new construction, the promise of memories yet to be made. It’s beautiful.Nôvel(D)rama.Org's content.

“I’ll answer your question if you answer it first,” he says.

“Three and a half years.”

He’s silent as we walk along an empty hallway. I tighten my grip on his forearm. “Victor?”

“A year,” he says. “Almost.”

“Gabriella?”

He looks down at me. The question is in his eyes, but he swallows it, and shakes his head. “No. This was college.”

I nod. I had been in charge of booking his weekly dates with his supermodel ex, and when they ended things right after he took over as CEO of Exciteur, I’d been the one to send her flowers, too.

“College was a long time ago.”

“You’re my wife,” he says. “Not my therapist.”

The gruff way it’s said makes me laugh, and then I can’t stop, the sound filling the empty hallway. “No relationships for you, then. Just marriages.”

Victor shakes his head. It’s not in anger, though. More like exasperation. “Yes, and only when they’re business arrangements.”

“Noted,” I tease. It’s his word.

“What I really don’t like,” he says, “is when a woman gets under your skin. When you can’t get them out of your head.”

Victor’s voice drops. “It’s worse when you’re forced to be close to them.”

“Like when you live across the hall from them?”

“Yes. When they walk around your apartment in tight pants.”

Pleased surprise rolls through me. “How dare they,” I murmur. “In their own home.”

“The audacity,” he says. His arm disappears beneath mine and a strong hand grips my fingers.

He pulls me into an empty cloakroom. Rack after rack has bare coat hangers on them. With no large audience, there’s no staff and definitely no coats.

My voice is breathless. “If you’re looking for a way out of talking about relationships, you won’t find it here.”

“Yes,” he says, hands closing around my waist. “I will.”

My lips are still smiling when he presses his against them, kissing me firmly.

It’s a while until I speak again. “Oh. Effective.”

His chuckle is dark. “The only way to shut you up.”

I press my hands flat against his chest, strong beneath the fabric of his dinner jacket. He kisses me like he had in the gym, like he knows what he wants and has no qualms about taking it.

He kisses me like he negotiates. To win.

I’ve never felt wanted this way before, never wanted quite this much in return. It’s heightened by the complicated tangle of emotions I feel for this man.

Respect, dislike, intrigue, awe. He’s an enigma.

And right now, he’s an enigma who’s entirely focused on me.

His hands dig into my hips and I meet him in the same intensity, sliding my hands into his hair. The wall is hard against my back.

“Do you think this is why they designed so many cloakrooms?” I whisper.

He laughs hoarsely, moving his lips to my neck. His beard tickles, sending goose bumps across my skin. “Yes,” he says. “The architects are married.”

“They needed somewhere to sneak off during constructions.”

His hands slide down my body, over the soft fabric of the dress, and it was worth every cent. Victor groans, his hand ghosting past the curve of my breast. A hard length digs into my hip. “Fuck, Myers. This wasn’t part of the plan.”

“Yeah,” I say, locking my knees around his hips. “It wasn’t part of mine either.”