Dirty Billionaire(36)

I can’t help but hum the melody of my new badass song to myself as I step into the darkened penthouse. Dropping my purse on the huge table in the entryway, I grip the notebook between my teeth as I tug off my boots. It’s cold as heck outside, and even during the short walk from the corner where the cab dropped me off, I think I slogged through some nasty stuff hiding in the snow that has been falling since this afternoon. Since I take better care of these boots than some people do their children—they’re one of very few extravagant purchases in my life—I whisper that I’ll be back to wipe them off in a hot second.

I’m crossing into the living area and heading toward the kitchen when a lamp clicks on. The pooling light reveals Creighton seated in the chair by the fireplace.

For a moment, I’m reminded of one of those movies where the teenager is sneaking into the house after curfew, and the mom or dad is waiting in the living room all quiet-like before flipping on the lights and surprising the kid. Considering I never had a mom who cared enough about me to set a curfew—let alone ever have a dad—I’ve always been a little envious during those moments in movies. Gran was amazing, but she was in bed by nine every night, and I respected her too much to stay out past midnight, which was my self-imposed curfew.

Creighton’s expression is dark, despite the crisp white light. “Where the fuck have you been?”

I stumble to a stop at the question. “Excuse me?”

“I said, where the fuck have you been?”

I’m taken aback by his tone. Creighton was the one who left within moments of depositing me in this penthouse, so if anyone has a right to be pissed, it would be me. And regardless of how nice a place it is, I’m not exactly the kind of girl who can sit idle. He never said anything about not being able to leave.

I try to interject some lightness into the mood. “It’s lovely to see you too, my dear husband.”

“Answer the question, Holly.”

Seriously, why is he so pissed?

“I was out. I needed a guitar, so I went and found one.”

“And you couldn’t answer your goddamn phone?”

I glance in the direction of my purse. I don’t remember it ringing, and I sure didn’t look at it after I found my way to Rudy’s. Then I look back to Creighton, a flare of guilt building inside me, but it’s quickly doused when he pushes out of the chair and stalks toward me.

“You don’t leave this building unless I know where you’re going.”

Say what now?

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“I didn’t realize I was a prisoner here.”

“You’re not a prisoner; you’re my wife.”

“Apparently that’s the same thing,” I mumble, dropping my gaze to the floor. Because I’m pretty sure if I look at him right now, I might incinerate him with the fire shooting from my eyes.

He lifts his hand, and I flinch before he cups my jaw and lifts my chin. I’m forced to meet his gaze, and open my mouth to spit that same fire, when he says, “Scared the hell out of me to come home to find you gone. I came up with a million different scenarios while I was sitting here, calling your phone over and over. Thought maybe you’d run.”

I blink, the intensity of his gaze unnerving me. “Run?”

“From me.”

I bite my lip. A hint of vulnerability creeps over his features before they harden once more.

“Not that it’d do you any good. I’d track you down. There’s nowhere you could hide from me.”

My eyes widen at his words, and heat rushes through me at the sheer possession in them. I should hate it, but I don’t. Being wanted is a feeling I’m not used to, and it’s seductive.

“I’m not done with you,” he finishes.

And the heat cools, because I can hear the unsaid “yet” floating in the air.

I clutch my notebook to my chest, trying to hide the pang that just jabbed at my heart. I shutter my expression, not wanting him to know that I feel the word he didn’t say. Not wanting him to know that I care. Because I don’t.

This is temporary, I tell myself. We both know it. Embrace it. And then move on.

“I guess it’s handy that I’m not done with you yet, either,” I say. It’s the honest truth. I want more of him before he finally gives me my walking papers.

Creighton loses none of his intensity as he lifts his other hand and frames my face. I think he’s going to lower his mouth and kiss me, but he doesn’t.

“Where the hell have you been?” he asks again, this time much more quietly.

Disappointment fills me. I was actually looking forward to that kiss.