The Billionaire Beast(13)

She almost laughed. “That’s not what I’m worried about. What I’m worried about is that you’re blackmailing me into having sex with you.”

“So?” It was clear he didn’t think that was a problem. “You get something out of it and so do I.”

He was serious. He was honest to God, completely and utterly serious. He genuinely did not see that what he was asking was wrong.

Phoebe had always been sensitive to people who needed help, to people who needed fixing. And she knew in that moment, without a shadow of a doubt, that some part of Nero de Santis was broken. She didn’t know how and she didn’t know why, but he was.

Maybe that’s why you’re here. To fix him.

No, of course that wasn’t why she was here. She was here because she needed the money for Charles.

But you can’t fix Charles.

A small, electric thrill jolted through her. It was true that she’d put a lot of effort into taking care of Charles. Going to the hospital, sitting by his bed, talking to him and playing him music, doing all the things that were supposed to make a difference. Yet nothing had. His condition remained unchanged.

You could make a difference to Nero.

Well, she could. But why would she want to? Nero de Santis was arrogant and selfish, and clearly he had a few issues with the difference between right and wrong. Why would she want to take that on?

Nero’s dark, piercing gaze was on her, staring so intently at her it was as if he was trying to read her mind. As if he was genuinely trying to understand. It came to her then, quite suddenly, that at least Charles had her to take care of him. Nero had no one. He was massively strong, powerful, exceedingly rich, and extremely charismatic. And apart from his butler, he was quite alone.

“It’s not about getting something out of it,” she said, meeting his eyes, the decision made before she was even aware of having made it. “It’s about respecting other people. It’s about respecting their choices. Even when you don’t like it. Even when it’s not what you want.”

The harsh lines of his face hardened. “What if the other person’s choices aren’t worthy of respect?”

“So what you want is the most important thing in the world?” She kept her voice calm, patient. “That it’s more important than anyone or anything else?”

He scowled at her. “Careful, Phoebe. Be very fucking careful with that judgment of yours.”

Phoebe took a little breath. This was clearly going to be a challenge. Then again, the challenge was exactly what she’d been enjoying so much about the past couple of days, wasn’t it?

“It’s not a judgment, Nero.” She held his gaze, unflinching. “Here’s an example for you. Do you respect me?”

His eyes were full of glittering black sparks. “Yes.” The word could not have been more grudging.

“Then if you respect me, you need to respect my choice,” she went on, determined now. “Blackmailing me into changing my mind isn’t showing me any respect.” She took a breath. “It’s wrong.”

Another silence fell, loud as a thunderclap.

He said nothing for one long, endless moment.

Then, without taking his obsidian gaze from hers, he spun the laptop around with a sharp movement, so the screen was facing toward her.

“I’ve chosen,” he said flatly.

* * *

Phoebe’s steady amber gaze dropped from his to the screen, where the two redheads he’d chosen were prominently displayed. The likeness was pretty clear—they looked like Phoebe. Of course, he never had any intention of getting her to hire them, he’d just wanted to make a point. Yet the only sign she gave that she’d noticed was a tightening of that delectable mouth.

Well, if that was all he was going to get, he’d take it.

Anger glowed like a hot coal in his gut. She’d been so fucking patronizing, explaining how wrong paying her fiancé’s hospital bills was. How it was blackmail to get her into bed. He hadn’t seen it as such, more as a . . . business proposition. She got something out of it and so did he, and yet . . .

She’s right and you know it.

Nero shoved the thought away, battling with the urge to throw the laptop against the wall and grab her anyway. Jesus, he didn’t need money to get her to change her mind. He could use his cock. That tended to work just as well, if not better.

Besides, he wouldn’t hurt her. He may not be very good with people, but he wasn’t a fucking savage. He knew hurting women was wrong.

Except if you take her when she doesn’t want it, you will hurt her.

Something unfamiliar turned over in his gut, a feeling of wrongness.

Jesus fucking Christ. What the hell was the matter with him? What he wanted was always of paramount importance, and he didn’t much care about other people. He never had. After all, no one had given a shit about him when he’d been locked in that room. No one had tried to look for him. No one had even known of his existence or even bothered to find out.

No one had cared, so why the fuck should he care about them?

Except, no matter how loath he was to admit it, he did respect Phoebe. She was extremely capable and good at her job, and he respected that if nothing else. It made the thought of riding roughshod over her choices feel . . . wrong. Made him feel . . . uncomfortable.

He had no idea why. She was only some woman he’d known all of three days. She wasn’t anyone special. Sure, in the gym this morning, he’d wanted her quite badly, but now? After her little lecture about respect and choice and all sorts of other bullshit words that didn’t mean anything to him? Yeah, maybe not so much. Maybe he would have those other women after all.

“Very well,” she said in her infuriatingly cool voice. “I’ll contact the agency.” And she held out her hands for the laptop, as if she was expecting him to bring it to her.

She could fucking wait all day.

After a moment, when it was clear he wasn’t going to move, she came toward him, her chin lifted, a slightly wary look in her eyes. As if he was a dangerous animal she wasn’t sure of.

Which made him even angrier.

Stopping in front of his chair, Phoebe held out her hand for the laptop.

He did nothing, staring at her instead, though he had no idea what he was looking for. Some clue, maybe. A clue as to what she was thinking, though, again, he didn’t know why that mattered.

Wasn’t she pleased that she didn’t have to worry about the hospital anymore? Didn’t that matter to her? Was sleeping with him really not what she wanted?

Phoebe let out a soft, impatient breath and leaned forward, bending to take the laptop off his lap. And abruptly her jasmine scent was all around him, sweet and sensual and heady. Like the sun was shining on his skin.

He didn’t stop himself, reaching up on instinct to slide his fingers around the back of her neck, holding her there so he could have that scent around him for a moment longer. He heard her breath catch.

She’d gone quite still, half bent over him, her fingers gripping the computer, her face close to his. She wasn’t looking at him, her attention on the flimsy bit of technology she held in her hands.

He was conscious of the warmth of her silky skin beneath his fingertips. Of the red-gold gleam of her eyelashes and the dusting of freckles on her nose. Of the curves of her upper lip.

She was very small. Very fragile.

“I wouldn’t have hurt you.” He pitched his voice low. “I’d make you feel good.”

Phoebe lifted her head slowly, and her pretty eyes were right there, so close he could see the glitter of gold in the depths. Or maybe that was anger, he didn’t know.

“You don’t understand, do you?” she said huskily. “You don’t understand why what you did was wrong.”

His fingers tightened on her neck just a little, her skin pressing against his, the scent of her surrounding him with a garden of flowers. “Don’t treat me like a fucking child,” he growled, the smell of her making him hard. Making him want to pull her close so her mouth met his. “Of course, I understand.”

Except her gaze had sharpened on his, searching his face as if she could see his frustration, his confusion. His blindness. “No,” she murmured, a hint of . . . fuck, pity, in her voice. “You really don’t, do you?”

He hated that note of pity. Because whatever had happened to him, it was far, far behind him now. He wasn’t that small, emaciated teenager anymore. The boy who’d cried and tried to hide under the bed when the police had smashed down the door. Who’d screamed as they’d carried him from the room into a world that was too big, too bright. Too much for him to even comprehend.

It had been like being born again, and like a newborn, he’d been helpless. Unable to make sense of anything, still less the frightening strangers who’d tried to talk to him. Later, he’d realize that they’d only been wanting to help, but at the time they were just frightening and all he’d wanted was the reassurance of four walls and silence.

A pitiful creature.

He wasn’t pitiful. Not anymore.

Nero tightened his grip on the back of her neck and exerted some pressure, bringing her closer. Her eyes widened as she realized what he was about to do, a bright, blinding flare of gold.

“Nero,” she said breathlessly. “Don’t—”