On the other end of the line, there’s total silence.
I’m not sure what kind of response I was expecting, but dead air is definitely not it.
I say uncertainly, “Hello? Callum, are you listening?”
Nothing. I move the phone from my ear, look at the screen, see the call ended symbol, and am baffled. I look up at the Outlander poster on the wall. “What the fuck, Jamie? Did that smug asshole just hang up on me?”
My Scottish Highlander smolders unhelpfully.
Then an icy wave of horror washes over my body. I inhale sharply. “Wait. Oh God. Was this all some…some kind of…test?”
I sit with the phone gripped in my hand and my mind going a million miles per hour with all the awful possibilities of why Callum might have ended the call at the exact moment I agreed to marry him.
Was he only trying to get me to say yes all this time, but he never intended to actually go through with it? Did he make some sort of malicious bet with another rich person to see if he could convince the broke bookworm that he was swooping in like Superman to whisk me away? Was this whole thing just a game, a bit of entertainment, a way for a bored billionaire to pass the hours?
Could he do something like that?
Is he capable of such cruelty?
I recall all the times he smirked at me, how smug and self-satisfied he always seemed, and feel the phone grow hot in my hand.
I drop it onto my desk, then sit and stare at it with wide eyes, willing it to ring.
It refuses.
After twenty minutes of no callback, where I sit frozen at my desk with clammy hands and a pounding heart, I have to admit to myself that as much as I hate the thought of spending the rest of my life in prison, I better get used to the idea.
Because I’m going to kill Callum McCord.
I’m going to kill that arrogant, ruthless, game-playing son of a bitch in some grisly, agonizing manner that will headline the news cycle for months.
“Hello?” a man calls out from the front of the store. “Where are you, darling?”
I’d know that deep voice anywhere. The voice and that sarcastic nickname he insists on calling me. My blood heats instantly from simmering to a rolling boil.
My face hot, I leap to my feet and look wildly around the office for a murder weapon. Then I grab the stapler off my desk and march into the main room…
Where I find Callum standing near the front counter, flanked by two men.
“There’s my bride,” he says, smiling like a shark. “Why is your face so red?”
I brandish the stapler at him and demand, “Who are they?”
Without looking away from me, he gestures to the man on his left. He’s middle-aged, tall and balding, wearing a navy pinstripe double-breasted suit and carrying a leather briefcase. “This is my attorney, William.”
He gestures to the other man, a young, preppy-looking guy who’s dressed in beige slacks and a short-sleeved black polo shirt. “And this is Andrew.”
Andrew beams at me. “I’m thrilled to meet you, Emery. Callum has told me so much about you.”
The way he’s smiling at me is disturbing. I suspect he’s about to ask me if I have a personal relationship with Jesus.
I snap at him, “Who are you?”
“The McCord family chaplain.”
Chaplain? Startled, I look at Callum. His sharky grin grows wider.
“Could you lower the stapler, darling? You look a little unhinged.”
I drop my arm to my side, then look back and forth between the three men.
Standing between two mere mortals, Callum’s physical beauty is even more pronounced. He’s taller than them both, wider through the shoulders, with a more defined jaw and that stupid sculpted nose and those stunning eyes and that animal charisma that pulses off him like a heartbeat.
He’s simply all-around, ridiculously gorgeous.
God, that’s aggravating.
Everyone seems to be waiting for me to say something, so I go with a haughty “I’m confused. What’s happening?”
His voice low and his eyes burning, Callum says, “We’re getting married. Or did you already forget that you said yes?”
Married? Now? Is the man completely crazy? Rattled and sweating, my pulse haywire, I declare, “We are not getting married.”
My outburst doesn’t ruffle Callum’s feathers. In fact, he seems to enjoy it. He says calmly, “No? Why not?”
I cast around for a reasonable explanation, but my head is spinning and I can’t get it to stop. I finally end up shouting, “You hung up on me!”
Chuckling, Callum glances at his attorney. “It’s fine. Everything’s fine. She has a bit of a temper, that’s all.”
William gazes at me doubtfully.
“Would you gentlemen please excuse us for a moment? We’ll be right back.”
Callum crosses to me, takes my arm, and leads me into my office. He closes the door behind us and removes the stapler from my hand. Then he walks to my desk, sits on the edge of it, places the stapler next to the phone, and smiles.
Glaring at him, I say, “Don’t you dare grin at me like that. What do you think you’re doing?”
“Ah, you’re right. Forgive me.” He reaches into his suit pocket and extracts a little black velvet box.
The little black velvet box.
He cracks it open, displaying the Easter-egg sized diamond. “You should put it on before we say our vows.”
I throw my hands in the air. “What’s the matter with you? You hung up on me and left me sitting here thinking it was all a terrible joke!”
“Are you always this dramatic when you’re angry? I’m only asking in case I should prepare myself for a lifetime of tiptoeing around the house.”
“You’re laughing at me.”
He chuckles. “I wouldn’t dare.”
“You are! You just did! You hung up on me when I said I’d be your wife, then you show up a nanosecond later with an attorney and a priest!”
“Chaplain,” he corrects matter-of-factly.
“I don’t care if he’s the damn pope. I can’t believe the nerve of you.”
Callum lowers his head and studies me through narrowed eyes. Then he snaps shut the box, puts it back into his suit pocket, and stands.
“You’re upset I’m not giving you a proper wedding. You want a white dress and expensive flowers.”
I exhale in aggravation, because not only is he outrageous and overbearing, he’s clueless.
“No. I’m upset you didn’t act like a normal human and communicate with me after I agreed to marry you. Instead, you hung up on me, then showed up not even half an hour later with your dream team without giving me a word of warning.”
I pause to catch my breath and look at him suspiciously. “How did you get here so fast?”
“I was in the neighborhood.”
I scoff. “For such a rich guy, you spend an awful lot of time cruising bad neighborhoods. Did your attorney and priest just happen to be in the neighborhood too?”
“Chaplain. No, I called them as soon as I got off the phone with you.”
“And they both dropped everything to run to my crappy little bookstore in the middle of the day?”
“Of course. I’m Callum McCord. I could’ve called them at midnight on Christmas Eve and had the same result. And as soon as you have my ring on your finger, and you’re sleeping in my bed, you’ll have the same power.”
Blood pulses in my cheeks. Only this time, it’s not from anger. It’s from hearing him say “sleeping in my bed.”
I can’t help but imagine it. Us, naked under the sheets together, his hands roving all over my body, his lips on my skin. What would he be like as a lover? Rough? Tender? Dirty? Sweet?
Probably all of the above, if my surging estrogen levels are any indicator.
His gaze sharpens. In a husky voice, he says, “What are you thinking right now?”
I clear my throat and attempt a disinterested expression. “Nothing.”
Head cocked and eyes fierce, Callum moves slowly toward me. “Do I need to put a section in the contract about lying, Emery? Because I don’t like it when you lie to me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say nervously. “And go stand over there. You’re crowding me.”
“How odd. You’ve never seemed intimidated by me before. What could it be that has you so flustered?”
“I’m not flustered. Or intimidated. And why are you such a close talker, billionaire? That’s far enough.”
He’s only about two feet away from me and showing no signs of stopping. I back up a few steps before coming into contact with the closed office door. Flattening myself against it, I watch in panic as Callum advances on me like the Roman army.
When he’s inches away, gazing down into my eyes with the heat of his body warming mine, he murmurs, “I said ‘sleeping in my bed,’ and you melted.”
“I’m not butter. I don’t melt.”
He leans closer until his lips brush the edge of my ear. “Do you want to sleep with me? Is that what has you so wound up?”
I stand there silently trembling for a moment, on the verge of shouting Yes! but then give myself a mental slap across the face.
If I’m going to sign a wedding contract that binds me to this man from here to eternity, I need to be clearheaded. For all I know, this is a ploy to get me to overlook some important clause in the paperwork.
I flatten my hands against his broad chest and push. When he doesn’t budge, I look up at him and set my jaw.
He says, “What are you doing?”
“Pushing you away.”
He glances down at my puny hands. “It doesn’t seem to be working.”
“Stop being horrible and stand back.”
“Why would I want to do that? Watching you work yourself into a froth up close is highly amusing.”
“I’m not frothing!”
“You’re unusually weak for someone with such a hot temper.”
“I’m not weak, and I’m not angry. Now move.”
Smiling at me, he murmurs, “Say please.”
I almost drop my hands right then and use them to tear all my hair out. Instead, I slide them up his chest on impulse and wrap them around his neck.
His big, warm, strong, stupid neck.
Gritting my teeth and staring into his eyes, I say, “I don’t care how many people you can summon at midnight on Christmas Eve to do your bidding, demon spawn, I’m not one of them. And if you don’t move away right now, we’ll see exactly how weak I am, because I’m gonna start squeezing. I won’t stop until you’re passed out on the floor.”
Into his eyes comes a look of such hot excitement and pure animal savagery, I almost pee my pants in terror.
He grips my hips, yanks me against him, and growls, “You better make sure you squeeze hard, schoolgirl, because if I’m not passed out in five seconds, I’ll throw you onto that desk, tear off your panties, and give you what we both know you need.”
Stunned, I stare at him with my mouth hanging open, my heart racing, and my nipples growing hard.
Against my pelvis, his erection throbs.
He drops his blistering gaze to my mouth. Breathing erratically, he licks his lips. His fingers dig deeper into the flesh of my hips. I’m either about to burst into flames or be devoured.
I say breathlessly, “Here’s where I remind you that you said you’d give me anything I wanted. Remember that?”
Still staring hungrily at my mouth, he growls, “I remember.”
“Good. Because what I want right now is for you to step back.”
His hot gaze flashes up to mine. “You scared of me, little lamb?”
“Call me a farm animal one more time, and your testicles pay the price. Step back.”
Instead of doing that, he resumes staring at my mouth like it’s a ripe apple he’s dying to sink his teeth into. The heat of his body burns me right through my clothes. He’s huge, hot, and immoveable, and if I don’t get away from him within seconds, I’m liable to crack and crush my mouth to his.
That can’t happen.
Despite the heat pulsing between my thighs, I can’t kiss Callum. If I do, and it’s as good as I suspect it would be, I’ll end up liking it. And if I like it, I’ll want it to happen again. Multiple times. And what starts out as kissing turns into me catching feelings, which inevitably winds up with me having a broken heart.
The last few times I tripped and fell in love, it ended in disaster.
This time I’m going to keep my head straight, keep my panties on, and stay on the safe side of love by marrying a man for his money.
I look into his eyes and enunciate each word. “Step. Back. Or the deal. Is off.”
He says hotly, “You don’t want me to move.”
“I really do.”
“Don’t fucking lie to me!”
Why does he have to smell so good? Why does he have to feel so good? And why, oh why, does he have to pester me to tell him the truth when we both know this will all be so much easier if I lie?
Oh, yeah. Because his bloodthirsty ego demands every woman within shouting distance throw themselves at his feet and beg to have his pretty, rich, entitled babies.
I smile sweetly up at him. “For every second you stand in that spot, I’ll add a million dollars to the contract.”
Thunderclouds descend over his head. He glowers at me, his jaw muscle popped out and his brows drawn together.
Oh, the thrill it gives me, making him mad. It’s perverse, but it’s good for him. The man needs someone in his life who doesn’t cower or swoon in his presence.
In fact, I’m probably doing a public service. I should get a tax credit for this.
“I could do this all day, billionaire. I’ll just keep on counting my money until you decide to move.”
A low, dangerous sound rumbles through his chest. It rumbles louder when I whisper, “You’re up another ten. Darling.”
He wrests himself away from me, whirls around, shoves his hands into his hair, and stands with his back to me and his hands on his head. He exhales hard.
The loss of his body heat chills me. Unsteady, I wrap my arms around myself and try to shake off the fog of sexual desire clouding my vision.
It’s a good thing I wore a bra today, because otherwise the front of my blouse would be shredded by my nipples. The damn things are so hard, they could etch glass.
When Callum turns back to face me, he’s got himself under control. His expression is placid. The fire in his eyes has cooled. The only thing that remains of his unexpected excitement is his disheveled hair, sticking on end where he tugged on it.
He says calmly, “Twenty million it is. Now let’s go sign the paperwork before one of us does something we’ll regret.”
He grabs my wrist and doesn’t let go of it until I’m standing behind the counter in the front of the shop with the contract in front of me and a pen in my hand.
