Dirty Billionaire(9)

I yank at his hand and open my mouth to tell him to let go when a rough, deep voice curls around me.

“I’ll thank you to take your hands off my wife.”

In one swift move, the unwelcome hands touching me are gone, and the man is stumbling off his stool. My gaze jerks from the handsy guy trying to catch his balance, and darts over my left shoulder.

Another guy in a suit. Except instead of being on the slippery side of fifty and overweight, this man might just be God’s gift to women. Or maybe just Saint Nick’s gift to me in the form of a rescue? Because, holy wow. Dark brown hair falls perfectly over his forehead, and his cheekbones could have been carved by one of those Italian master sculptor guys.

A hint of recognition tugs at the edges of my whiskey-soaked brain as his dark eyes burn into mine, as if daring me to play along. I don’t know what his game is, but for him . . . I might just be willing to try it.

The sexy man in the suit lifts a hand to my hair and smooths a lock between two fingers. His dark brown eyes never leave mine. “Darling, I told you that the picking-up-strangers game to make me jealous was for New Year’s Eve, not Christmas Eve.”

The other guy backs away another step, and the memory of his touch is fading just as quickly as it came. It’s like watching the laws of nature play: the beta male bows to the alpha, and the sexy man in the suit is one hundred percent the alpha dog in this situation.

Whatever pheromones he’s throwing off have me shifting on the velvet bar stool and leaning closer to him without thinking. It’s a million times better than the thought of getting up close and personal with Handsy. I reach down to rub my arm where the jerk touched me, and a red mark has already appeared.

Alpha Dog doesn’t miss my move. He lays a possessive hand on my shoulder and speaks to Handsy in a low, dangerous growl. “If you don’t want to be still picking up teeth next Christmas Eve, I’d suggest you pay your tab and get the fuck out of here before I lose my temper. You don’t ever put your hands on a woman who clearly isn’t interested.”

Handsy apparently doesn’t recognize the alpha yet. “She came in here looking like she was trolling for a man. She was fucking interested. Maybe you should keep a leash on your woman if you can’t control her.”

I open my mouth to tell him I was most definitely not interested, but Alpha speaks first.

“I suggest you walk away while you’re still able.”

Alpha’s expression must be even more dangerous than his words, because Handsy snaps his fingers at the bartender, who slides an embossed leather folder down the bar. Apparently he’s been listening to this whole exchange as well, because he’s grinning smugly.

Alpha slides an arm around my middle and pulls me back against his solid chest. It’s everything I can do to stop myself from purring and rubbing up against him like a tabby cat in heat.

What is coming over me? I’ve never reacted like this to any man before. I should want to shower off the other guy, but instead I just want to get closer to the leader of the pack behind me.

Handsy flips the folder open and fumbles for his wallet.

Alpha Dog clips out, “Make sure you leave a good tip.”

The other man is counting out bills, and Alpha Dog’s thumb begins to rub a path back and forth across my stomach, just below my breasts. With every stroke, I press more weight back against him as all the nerve endings in my body seem to come to life at once.

His chest rumbles with his words. “Two hundred should be sufficient. It’s fucking Christmas. Don’t be a cheap fuck, you prick.”

I bite my lip to hold back the giggle welling up inside me.

Handsy shoves two hundreds inside and flips the leather folder shut before stumbling off his stool.

He takes three steps, and Alpha says, “I sure as hell hope you haven’t forgotten to apologize to my wife for being a dick before you go.”

Handsy pauses and stiffens. “Sorry, ma’am. I apologize sincerely.”

My belly shakes with silent laughter, and Alpha squeezes me tighter.

“Something funny, sweetheart?”

I’m debating whether I should disentangle myself from his hold to face him when he takes the decision out of my hands and drops his arm. He pulls out the bar stool next to me, unbuttons his suit jacket, and sits.

I expect him to turn and start explaining what just happened, and why the hell he rescued me and then pretended to be my husband, but he just holds up two fingers.

“Bushmills 21 for the lady.”

The bartender hops to it, nodding before he grabs a tall bottle from the top shelf.

“I’ll have a double shot of Jack,” I say, correcting him.

The bartender freezes and looks from me to Alpha Dog.