Why didn’t I take something from my stage clothes to wear? A sexy dress, or a short skirt? Something that wouldn’t remind me of my humble upbringing as he surveys me. You can take the girl out of the trailer park . . .
Pushing the thought away, I straighten my shoulders and hand over my coat. He drapes it over the back of a chair with efficient movements and turns to face me once more. A briefcase sits on the desk, and I wonder if the notorious prenup is inside.
This is insane, I tell myself. But desperate times . . .
I try to lighten the mood by gesturing to myself. “I guess this isn’t exactly what you were expecting.”
“You wore a skirt last time.”
I’m not sure what to make of that. “Yeah, well, I figured if you’re serious at all about this, you should see something that approaches the real me, which is nothing fancy. The only time I generally go for anything special is when I’m onstage.”
A flash of surprise spreads across his face, but he locks it away as quickly as it came. His next question surprises the hell out of me.
“Are you a stripper?”
I can’t help but laugh. Given where I come from, that’s not really a bad guess. A little devil on my shoulder takes control of my mouth.
“Is your offer contingent on me not being a stripper?” I automatically reach up to twirl my hair in what I assume is a stripper-like mannerism.
He considers the question for a moment. “I suppose not.”
I smile, but I’m shocked by his reply. Really? Creighton Karas would marry a stripper?
“Why would you—”
My question is cut off when he says, “You didn’t answer me.”
I drop the lock of hair and lower my hands to my sides. Not fidgeting under his direct stare takes all my effort.
“No, Mr. Karas, I’m not a stripper.”
I could swear he breathes a sigh of relief at my answer, but his expression never changes.
“You have me at a disadvantage then. You clearly know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
Here we go. “My name is Holly Wickman, but most people know me as Holly Wix.”
I’m not a big enough deal that I would expect recognition to light his features, but I’m slightly disappointed at the continued lack of change in his expression.
Finally, one arrogant eyebrow lifts as if telling me to continue. I stay quiet.
He fails to keep a slight edge of frustration out of his tone with his next question. “And why do most people know you as a name other than your own?”
“It’s my stage name. I sing. Country music.” The explanation comes out in a disjointed tumble of words.
Knowledge flares in his eyes. Has he heard of me? For some reason, that sends a shiver up my spine.
He frowns and his eyes turn hard. “I have heard of you. My assistant is a fan of yours, and your boyfriend who was . . . supposed to propose tonight?” He turns and reaches for my coat. “I make it a policy not to fuck other men’s women. And I sure as fuck don’t marry them. I would’ve married a stripper, but even I draw the line at a cheating whore.”
The complete one-eighty in his mood throws me for a loop, and I cringe. “Please don’t call me that.”
“If the cowboy boot fits . . .” His expression is no longer blank, but filled with ugliness.
My stomach drops to my toes, and I take my coat from his outstretched hand.
Well, that was quick. And now I’m screwed.
“I knew it was a mistake to come here,” I whisper.
“Then why did you?” he asks. “And why the hell did you leave that bar with me on Christmas Eve if you had a fucking boyfriend?”
I walk to the door, static buzzing in my head. I just bet it all on him, and lost.
What am I going to do now?
I grasp the handle, twist, and tug before I realize the door is still locked. I flip the dead bolt and pull it open an inch before a large tanned hand slaps against the door, slamming it shut.
“Answer me,” he demands.
I don’t care if he is a billionaire, I won’t let anyone speak to me that way. Spinning around, I find myself trapped in the cage his arms have formed around me.
“You really want to know why I did what I did on Christmas Eve?”
“Obviously.”
He bites the word out, and now that I have nothing to lose, I want to slap the expression off his face. Instead, I go for as much honesty as I can offer.
“Because sometimes you just need to escape from reality. And what better way than to let someone screw you into oblivion? And it’d been fourteen months since I’d been with anyone. I was overdue, and you were there. I considered you my Christmas present to myself. That’s how I justified it.”
I turn again and reach for the handle as his arm wraps around my waist. It’s the same move as when I was sitting on a bar stool downstairs. Before I can protest, he hauls me back against his hard, hot chest. I struggle, ready to elbow him to let go.