The Billionaire Beast(9)

They were burning now, full of gold fire, the calm, steady mask she’d been wearing slipping for a second.

So she did have a line. She could be pushed. And there was something else beneath that smooth, not-a-hair-out-of-place exterior of hers. Something like . . . fire.

It made a savage smile twist his mouth, and he kept his fingers wrapped around her wrist, because he knew that somehow his touch was disturbing her, could feel it in the way her arm had gotten all tense the moment he’d grabbed her. The way her whole body had stiffened up, her eyes widening.

Her skin was warm, and he could feel her heartbeat against his fingertips, could feel it get faster and faster. The pulse at the base of her pale throat was fast, too, and he had a sudden, intense urge to put his mouth there and taste it.

Phoebe swallowed and looked away from him, her lashes veiling her gaze. “Please let me go, Mr. de Santis.” The edge had gone from her voice.

He ignored her. “Of course, it’s my business. Anything that might potentially affect my employee’s ability to do her job is my fucking business.”

She’d relaxed in his grip, but not totally. He could still feel the tension in her arm and the quick beat of her heart against his fingers. “I assure you that paying for Charles’s medical care will not affect my ability to do my job, not in any way. In fact, it’ll make me more likely to do a good job.”

Nero had never denied himself anything he wanted. Not after ten years of being denied virtually everything, even the most basic of things such as food. Warmth. Human company. Oh, he’d had enough to keep him alive, but only barely.

Back then his needs had been simple. He would have sold his soul for an apple or a thicker blanket in winter. For more than a day or two here and there of his mother’s company. But one of the few blessings of that existence had been the fact that he hadn’t known what he was missing. Only the taste of apples. Warmth. The sound of his mother’s voice saying his name. He hadn’t known there had been anything else out there until the police had broken down the boards covering the door and found him, the dirty little secret hidden in the walls.

It hadn’t been until then that he’d found out. Oh, yes, then he’d discovered all the things that had been kept from him.

Slowly, Nero tugged on her wrist, pulling her closer. Because something about her was fascinating him and he wanted to study her. Because her skin was so very warm and soft, and that sweet, jasmine scent was intriguing.

Because he wanted what he wanted, and his days of denial were behind him.

Phoebe’s eyes widened in surprise and he could feel her resistance, but he ignored it, exerting a bit more strength, urging her right up close so they were inches apart. Her mouth had opened, and he found his attention caught by the shape of it, the rounded softness of her lower lip, so at odds with the sharpness of the rest of her features.

“Mr. de Santis?” Her voice had gone breathy, the crispness of her accent blurring around the edges. “What are you doing?”

Jesus Christ, how long had it been since he’d had a woman in his bed? A couple of weeks at least. Maybe he should have her. He certainly wouldn’t be averse, even though she wasn’t his type. Her skin was very pretty, and her hair was a glory. Her eyes, too, that intoxicating shade of brandy, and if anger could make them glow gold the way they were doing right now, then what might pleasure do to them?

With her hair down and her clothes off, looking at him with that same flare of challenge, her scent gone all musky with feminine desire, she would be . . . beautiful.

Lust caught him, heavy and hard, like a punch to the gut.

He didn’t sleep with his female assistants anymore, not when he wanted a good job done more than he wanted a good blow job.

But he was beginning to wonder if he mightn’t make an exception for Miss Phoebe Taylor. Having her for a night or two might even be worth the undeniable hassle of trying to find a new assistant afterward.

“Mr. de Santis,” Phoebe repeated, firmer this time and yet with that same breathless quality to her voice. “You need to let me go.”

“No,” Nero said.

She blinked. “Look, I don’t think—”

“Keep quiet.” He stared down into her face, watching, fascinated, as a tide of pink flooded her skin. It should have clashed horribly with her hair, but it didn’t. It made her face glow instead, taking away her usual pallor, revealing almost a different woman.

An almost pretty woman.

His anger and frustration at the lead he’d lost slid away, desire flooding through him instead. Yeah, this was what he needed. The warmth and softness of a woman, not running himself to death on that stupid fucking treadmill.

His grip on her wrist tightened as he pulled her abruptly against him, wanting to know how her body would feel against his. And sure enough, as he’d expected, it felt pretty fucking good. She was as warm as he’d thought, warmer. Hot, in fact. Like a flame licking his skin. It made him want to—

Phoebe’s palm cracked hard across his face, the shocking suddenness of it making him loosen his grip on her wrist and stumble back a couple of steps.

Holy shit. She’d hit him. She’d fucking slapped him. When had anyone ever done that to him? Not since the time he’d paid that boxer to come to the gym and teach him how to box. The guy had managed to land lots of hits the first round, and then Nero had learned. And after that, the guy hadn’t managed to touch him, not once. No one had.

Not until this little woman—his own fucking employee for Christ’s sake—had slapped him across the face.

For a moment, the electric shock of it held him absolutely still.

Her face was suffused with color, her hand raised, her eyes gone brilliant gold with rage. “How dare you.” Her voice was shaking and furious. “Touch me again, and I’ll kick you in the bollocks.”

If she had been a man, he wouldn’t have thought twice. He would have punched him in the face and laid him out cold on the floor for daring to raise a hand to him. No one hit him unless he’d asked for it. No one hit him ever.

But she wasn’t a man. She was a woman. And a woman he wanted at that. And she was standing there, blazing like a fire, her anger hot as a furnace, ready to come at him, completely unafraid.

Jesus. He didn’t want to hit her. He wanted to fuck her. Right here, right now, and screw the fact that she was his assistant. Screw everything, quite frankly.

He took a step toward her.

“Come any closer and I’ll kick you, I swear it.” She squared her shoulders, her hands lowering to curl into fists by her side, making it clear she was fully ready to make good on her threat. And she would, he could see that.

It made him want to see her try.

He took another step.

Her chin came up, her gaze full of brilliant gold flames. “You don’t want me, Mr. de Santis. You just want a woman. So why don’t I get you one? I can have her here within half an hour, if you give me a moment.”

Nero ignored her, adrenaline and lust pumping hard through his veins, coming closer. If she kicked him, he’d grab her ankle and tip her off balance. She’d fall and he’d catch her in his arms, and then he’d take her to the floor. Pull up that ridiculously prim little pencil skirt, find out how hot she was. How wet.

“I’m sure you’d prefer a woman who’d enjoy being with you to one who wouldn’t,” Phoebe continued, annoyingly. “And I’m sure you’d get tired of me continually trying to knee you in the groin.”

“I could make you enjoy it,” he growled, not stopping, prowling closer to her. “I know how to make a woman wet, believe me.”

Her shoulders firmed, her fist lifting again, ready no doubt to launch itself into his face again. “Mr. de Santis, if you touch me like that again, I’ll call the police. And then you’d be arrested. And they’d take you out of this house and put you in a cell.”

An icy thread of something he didn’t recognize pulled tight inside him, stopping him in his tracks.

Take you out of this house. Put you in a cell . . .

He shoved away the feeling. “If you did that, you wouldn’t get the money I’m paying you,” he said roughly.

“And you’d still be a jail cell.” That maddening red-gold brow of hers arched again. “Are you sure you want that?”

The icy thread pulled even tighter.

Fuck, he didn’t know whether to be furious with her or applaud her sheer audacity. It was very, very rare for someone to take him on and win, still less an employee who apparently didn’t know what side her bread was buttered on.

Because there was no denying that as much as he hated to admit it, Phoebe had won this round. He didn’t want to be put in a jail cell, that was for sure. It would make it very hard for him to do business or follow up on the search for his stepfather, for a start. Of course, that was if the police even believed her if she was to call them.

He stood there for a moment, debating whether or not to call her bluff and force the issue, ignoring that small kernel of ice that sat in his gut at the thought of being dragged from his house and being locked up in a cell.

The room he’d been kept in wasn’t very big. Five paces wide and six long, and it had a small window that looked out over the roofs of the houses around him. He knew every inch of that room, had walked up and down it a million times a day, the walls the borders of his world. When he’d been very small, the walls had made him feel safe. But when he’d gotten bigger, sometimes he’d stand by that window for hours at a time, dreaming of being a bird and being able to fly away, right up into the sky . . .