Dirty Billionaire(21)

A harsh whisper in my ear doesn’t still my movements.

“Fourteen months? You don’t get to throw out something like that and then not explain yourself.”

I continue to fight against his hold, and his arm pulls tighter.

“You’re not leaving this room without giving me an explanation.”

I can feel the ridge of his erection pressing against my lower back, and I’m battered with memories of Christmas Eve. I need to get out of here and fast, because I’m liable to do whatever he says. There’s something about the man that I just can’t stay immune to for long.

“I’ll probably get sued if I tell you more,” I say.

His hand spreads out across my stomach, his thumb sliding up and down beneath my breasts in another move I recognize all too well.

“I’ve got top-notch lawyers, Holly.” His lips brush my ear, and heat gathers between my legs.

I have to get out of here. I tug again at his hold—unsuccessfully.

“Good for you,” I say. “I hope you and your lawyers are very happy together.”

His tone loses a fraction of its edge when he replies, “They’ll be your lawyers too, if you’d just explain yourself.”

Those words finally still my struggle because they hit on the exact reason I chose him—my hope that he has enough power, leverage, and blood-sucking lawyers to uncoil the mess I’ve gotten myself into.

I took one leap of faith tonight, and I have no other alternatives. What is telling him really going to hurt now?

I suck in a deep breath before I whisper the truth that only the label execs, JC, Tana, and Mick know.

“My whole relationship with JC is a PR stunt organized by the record label, and I had no choice but to go along with it. JC and I . . . well, let’s just say that we’re both into male equipment.”

It’s as if I can feel the leashed anger drain out of him. He steps away, turns me back around to face him, and takes my coat from my hands, holding it up and open as if expecting me to slip my arms into it.

“Now you’re throwing me out?” He really is the complete asshole his competition makes him out to be.

My thoughts are stolen straight from my head when, for the first time tonight, he smiles. And my panties are a lost cause.

“No, Holly. We’re going to Vegas.”

Holy. Shit.





I look down at the diamond on my left ring finger. You could buy the entire trailer park I grew up in with this thing, and still have money left over to buy a brand-new F-250 to park in front of it.

I lean against the plush leather of the limo delivering us back to Caesar’s Palace, unable to believe I actually went through with it. I’m officially Mrs. Holly Karas, and tonight is my wedding night—or maybe to be more accurate, my wedding morning, as it’s New Year’s Day in Nevada now too.

I look at the man seated across from me. Creighton Karas.

I just married a billionaire. Granted, the prenup I read on the jet during our flight made it very clear that those billions are largely to remain his, regardless of the outcome of our marriage. If things fall apart, I’ll have to refer to Section 39, subsections (a) to (zz), which list possible causes of the “dissolution” and the accompanying formula to calculate what I walk away from this union   with.

Nearly fifty pages, and I read the entire thing. I was screwed by one contract, and I wasn’t looking to get screwed by both this man and his contract. With my community college drop-out status, it isn’t surprising that reading it mostly confused the crap out of me. If my adrenaline wasn’t continually dumping into my system due to the looks Creighton kept giving me, I probably would have fallen asleep. Regardless, I’m guardedly confident that I understand enough to hope that I’m not missing anything obvious.

Creighton made a call to his lawyers as soon as we walked out of the twenty-four-hour wedding chapel. They now have their hands on a copy of my contract with Homegrown, courtesy of the e-mail I forwarded Creighton, and are going over it with a fine-tooth comb.

Apparently now that the task is in competent legal hands, he considers the matter handled. And for tonight, I don’t think there is anything more I can do either. My phone has stayed off because I don’t want to face the voice mails that surely wait for me. So instead, I focus on the present.

It’s my wedding night.

Oh my God.

What the hell am I doing?

Aside from my one night with Creighton, I’ve been with exactly two other guys—my high school boyfriend, and a friend with benefits who was a regular at the bowling alley. With my high school boyfriend, I was lucky that he got it in the right hole on the first try. It hurt the first time, and all the times after that weren’t a heck of a lot better. My friend with benefits was an improvement, but nothing like the night I had with Creighton.