Billionaire Novelist 3 : The Wicked Redhead and the Billionaire Novelist(3)

I shook my head. "I suppose this was all part of the research you did before you hired me. Fuck. What else do you know?"

He grinned, those sapphire eyes glinting across the candle-lit table, mocking me. "I know you pucker your lips right before you come. You look like you're kissing an angel."

He puckered his own lips and fluttered his eyelashes to illustrated.

"Yeah? This is what you look like when you come." I grimaced and made a grunting noise.

There was a clattering around us, as people in the dining room set down their utensils and stared in shock at our table.

Smith squirmed in his seat.

"Oh, baby," I said, louder now, and still grimacing. "Oh, redheads! Creamy, milky tits. Oh, oh, I'm coming."

He put his hand over his face and looked down.

I was too pissed-off at him for mentioning my ex to stop, not that I wanted to. He'd made a game of coaxing me into being worked up so we could have angry sex, and now it was time to see how he liked the same treatment.

I slammed my hand on the table. "I'm gonna pull your hair and come on your back now, and you're gonna like it." I wasn't yelling, but the people near us could definitely hear everything. Most of them looked like they could use the entertainment, too.

Smith peeked at me between his fingers and said, "You love it when I pull your hair. You're a wicked girl."

I stood up, the napkin from my lap falling to the floor. "Blam," I said, miming that I was stroking a c**k in my hand. I gritted my teeth and said between clenched molars, "Blam, blam, thank you ma'am." I thrust my hips, banging into the table and shaking all the dishes.

One of the fancy-looking ladies sitting nearby found this hysterical, and she began laughing, braying like a donkey. Her hair looked like a helmet of extensions. Within seconds, the other women around us joined in laughing, much to the consternation of their older husbands.

The French waiter appeared at my side. "Mademoiselle, may I assist you in any fashion?"

I grabbed the bread from the basket at the table.

Smith sat still, not allowing a reaction on his face.

"I'll take my dinner to go," I said, and I walked out with a handful of bread.

I didn't turn back to see Smith Fucking Wittingham sitting alone at the table, because the image in my mind was perfect. That would serve him right for toying with me, using my own private information to throw his superiority in my face.

Outside the restaurant, I got into the town car that was waiting. The driver didn't seem at all surprised to see me so soon, and without Smith. I didn't know the hotel we were staying at, but the driver did, so I had him take me there.

Part 2: The Hotel Le St. James

The penthouse at the Hotel Le St. James rivaled any room I'd ever seen in person. I took the private elevator up to the suite, and stepped out into the pages of Architectural Digest. My heels made a sexy noise on the Italian parquet floors as I walked through the space, soaking in the opulence. To my surprise, the huge windows were doors, and led to a fifteen-hundred-square-foot wrap-around terrace, overlooking the city of Montreal. I stood outside and let the distance-muted sounds of the city float up around me. The air was mid-summer muggy, and not as refreshing as Vermont, but the view more than made up for the fumes.




 

 

The sun was setting behind the beautiful city skyline, and the sky shifted to indigo. I went back into the room and considered ordering room service, but raided the refrigerator instead. The place didn't just have a mini-bar, but an actual gourmet kitchen. You could cook a turkey and have ten people over for dinner at the long table, which made me laugh. I wondered how many movie stars had stayed there.

I rooted around the fridge, which had been nicely stocked for us, looking for something to calm my nerves.

I wondered, what would Jennifer Lopez drink when staying at the Hotel Le St. James penthouse?

Champagne. Definitely.

But I was no Jennifer Lopez, so I grabbed a beer, some trail mix, and chips.

I kicked off my shoes, pulled off my bra, and walked back out to the patio. I cracked open my beer, got comfortable in a lounger, and had a picnic by myself.

After half an hour, I felt lonely. I'd checked in with my mother that morning, in Vermont, but she didn't know where I was now. I thought about going out to buy a new cell phone, since Smith Fucking Wittingham had dropped mine in a glass of water, but figured it would be too late.

With nothing better to do, I dove into a glass of vodka, ice, and loneliness.

After an hour, my lips and body were numb, and I started feeling bad about my behavior. Had he stayed behind in the restaurant alone and enjoyed both of the meals we'd ordered? With all those people staring at him?

After two hours, I started to panic, and more vodka didn't help. Had he left me in Montreal?