Unsurprisingly, there are no questions. Almost to a one, everyone gathered in front of the podium waits to see if Eli is going to announce anything groundbreaking. This is not nearly as exciting as his last press conference.
Harlan and Eli exchange a look, and then Harlan steps off to the side.
I’m instantly on edge. This isn’t the plan. Harlan was supposed to make a short statement in support of his son, and then take a few questions. What is he doing?
Eli pulls another piece of paper from his breast pocket, unfolds it, scans it for a moment, and tucks it into the podium. Then he turns and gestures for me to come forward.
I arrive at the podium just as he steps to the opposed side, in plain view of the reporters.
“Eli—what—”
“Quinn Campbell,” he says, his voice clear as a bell. The three anchors who have assembled each thrust their microphones another inch closer to us, desperate to pick up every word. “There’s so much I want to say to you that I can’t possibly fit it all in during this press conference.”
What is he doing?
“I loved you almost from the moment I saw you,” he continues, and it dawns on me.
This is a proposal.
Oh, my god.
My heart soars.
“I never want to spend another day without you by my side.” Eli gets down on one knee and pulls a small velvet box from his pocket and opening it to reveal a diamond set in a ring of sapphires. It’s the most beautiful piece of jewelry I’ve ever seen, and perfectly unconventional. “Will you give me the chance to spend the rest of my life telling you, every day, how much I love you?”
A happy tear spills out of the corner of my eye, and with a trembling hand I wipe it away.
“There’s nothing else I’d rather do,” I choke out.
“Is that a yes?” says Eli, a cheeky smile on his face.
“Yes!” I cry, and then throw myself into his arms. Laughing, he stands up, lifting us both, and kisses me long and hard, right on the mouth, for all the world to see.
Dirty Ransom
A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance
Chapter One
Angelica
Rush hour. That’s when Adam calls me to come bail him out of God knows what. The middle of rush hour. On Thursday.
Taking a cab might not have been the smartest decision I’ve ever made, but when I heard the sheer panic coming through loud and clear in my younger brother’s voice over the phone, I didn’t take time to weigh all my options. I just went.
Jesus, I just left.
My boss isn’t going to be thrilled. The name Hadley Martin may make you think she’s the kind of happy-go-lucky woman she pretends to be on camera and that’s depicted in the light-drenched photo where she’s dressed in creamy pastels that’s posted on her website—the website she owns and that I work for—but don’t be fooled. I’ve never met a more ruthless and demanding person. It’s not that she doesn’t have a heart—it’s just that the one she does have makes Antarctica seem like a tropical rain forest. Hadley eats, sleeps and breathes profit, profit, profit. The concept of having a “personal life” doesn’t exist in her world.
I was lucky, in one way, though. She was out of the office attending some late meeting when I got the frantic call from my brother. Still, I have no delusions. She’ll inevitably discover that I ducked out before five and....
I can’t think about that right now. Adam is in trouble.
What kind of trouble, I have no fucking clue. He didn’t—wouldn’t—say. My chest tightens as do the muscles of my jaw. It’s not the first time he’s called me like this since we both moved to the city. I’m going to be royally pissed off if this is because he can’t pay his rent again. Or for his groceries. Or because he’s blown his paycheck by going out with his friends, again.
At twenty-four, he should be able to clean up his own messes.
My mouth goes dry when I remember the way he stumbled over his words.
From the front of the cab, the driver sighs. “Fucking traffic,” he mutters under his breath, then slams his hand down against the horn, just for good measure. I crane my neck and see nothing but cars all around us, backed up bumper to bumper, all of us trying to get to Brooklyn.
During rush hour.
Sweat pricks underneath my arms despite the A/C blasting from the vents on the front panel of the cab’s dashboard. For Christ’s sake, running there would probably be faster, and I’m wearing heels. I’m considering just paying the fare, along with a handsome tip, right now and making a break for it when, at last, the cab lurches forward.
“Thank God,” I say, half to myself.
The cabbie shakes his head. “Damn right.”