The Billionaire's Bargain. Naima Simone

feeling might be.

      “So, you don’t want to share your name,” he continued. “And I’ll respect that. But since I’m sharing a cereal bar with you, I feel like I should know more about you besides your predilection for sci-fi movies. Tell me something about you.”

      She didn’t immediately reply, instead nibbling on her snack while she figured out how to dodge his request. She didn’t want to give him any details that might assist him in figuring out her identity. But another nebulous reason, one that she felt silly for even thinking, flitted through her head.

      Giving him details about herself...pieces of herself...meant she couldn’t get them back.

      And she feared that. Had been taught to fear that.

      Yet...

      She bowed her head, silently cursing herself. What was it about this man? She’d never seen his face, didn’t know his name. And still, he called to her in a way that electrified her. If she’d learned anything from the past, she would shield herself.

      “I’m a grudge-holder,” she said, the words escaping. Damn it. “I’ll never let my brother off the hook for burning my Christmas Barbie’s hair to the scalp when I was seven. I still give Elaine Lanier side-eye, whenever I see her, for making out with my boyfriend in the eleventh grade. And I will never, ever forgive Will Smith for Wild, Wild West.”

      A loud bark of laughter echoed between them, and she grinned. The sound warmed her like the sun’s beams.

      She tapped his leg. A mistake on her part. As she settled her hand back in her lap, she could still feel the strength of his muscle against her fingertips. Good God. The man was hard. She rubbed her fingertips against her leg as if she could erase the sensation. “Now your turn,” she said, forcing a teasing note into her voice. “Tell me something about yourself.”

      He hesitated, and for a moment, she didn’t think he would answer, but then he shifted beside her, and his thigh pressed closer, harder against her knee. Her breath snagged in her throat. Heat pulsed through her from that point of contact, and she savored it. For the first time in years, she...embraced it.

      “I love to fish,” he finally murmured. “Not deep sea or competitive fishing. Just sitting on a dock with a rod, barefoot, sun beating down on you, surrounded by quiet. Interrupted only by the gently lapping water. We would vacation at our summer home in Hilton Head, and my father and I would spend hours at the lake and dock behind the house. We’d talk or just enjoy the silence and each other. We even caught fish sometimes.”

      His low chuckle contained humor, but also a hint of sadness. Her heart clenched at the possible reason why.

      “Those were some of my best memories, and I still try to visit Hilton Head at least once a year, although I haven’t been in the last two...”

      His voice trailed off, and unable to resist, she reached out, found his hand and wrapped her fingers around his, squeezing. Her heart thumped against her chest when his fingers tightened in response.

      “I have the hugest crush on Dr. Phil. He’s so sexy.”

      He snorted. “I cook the best eggplant parmesan you’ll ever taste in your life. It’s an existential experience.”

      Isobel snickered. “I can write with my toes. I can also eat, brush my teeth and play ‘Heart and Soul’ on the piano with them.”

      A beat of silence passed between them. “You do know I recognize that’s from The Breakfast Club, right?”

      Laughter burst from her, and she fell back against the wall, clutching her stomach. Wow. She hadn’t laughed this hard or this much in so long. It was...freeing. And felt so damn good. Until this moment, she hadn’t realized how much she’d missed it.

      At twenty, she’d met Gage, and within months, they’d married. She’d gone from being a college student who worked part-time to help pay her tuition to the wife of one of Chicago’s wealthiest men. His family had disapproved of their marriage and threatened to cut him off. Initially, Gage hadn’t seemed to care. They’d lived in a small one-bedroom apartment in the Ukrainian Village neighborhood of Chicago, and they’d been happy. Or at least she’d believed they had been.

      Months into their marriage, the charming, affectionate man she’d wed had morphed into a spoiled, emotionally abusive man-child. Not until it’d been too late had she discovered that his fear of being without his family’s money and acceptance had trumped any love he’d harbored for Isobel. Her life had become a living hell.

      So the last time she’d laughed like this had been those first four months of her marriage.

      A failed relationship, tarnished dreams, battered self-confidence and single motherhood had stolen the carefree from her life, but here, stuck in a mansion with a faceless man, she’d found it again. Even if only for an instant.

      “Hey.” Masculine fingers glanced over her knee. “You still with me?”

      “Yes,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m still here.”

      “Good.” His hand dropped away, and she missed it. Insane, she knew. But she did. “It’s your turn. Because you phoned it in with the last one.”

      “So, we’re really not going to talk about how you know the dialogue to The Breakfast Club?” she drawled.

      “Yes, we’re going to ignore it. Your turn.”

      After chuckling at the emphatic reply, she continued, “Fine. Okay, I...”

      Seconds, minutes or hours had passed—she couldn’t tell in this slice of time that seemed to exist outside of reality. They could’ve been on another plane, where his delicious scent provided air, and his deep, melodic voice wrapped around her, a phantom embrace.

      And his touch? His touch was gravity, anchoring him to her, and her to him. In some manner—fingers enclosing hers, a thigh pressed to hers, a palm cupping the nape of her neck—he never ceased touching her. Logic reasoned that he needed that lodestone in the blackness so he didn’t surrender to another panic attack.

      Yet the heated sweetness that slid through her veins belied reason. No, he wanted to touch her...and, God, did she want to be touched.

      She’d convinced herself that she didn’t need desire anymore. Didn’t need the melting pleasure, the hot press of skin to skin, of limbs tangling, bodies straining together toward that perfect tumble over the edge into the abyss.

      Yes, she missed all of it.

      But in the end, those moments weren’t worth the disillusionment and loneliness that inevitably followed.

      Here, though, with this man she didn’t know, she basked in the return of the need, of the sweet ache that sensitized and pebbled her skin, and teased places that had lain dormant for too long. Her nipples furled into tight points, pressing against her strapless bra and gown. Sinuous flames licked at her belly...and lower.

      God, she was hungry.

      “You’ve gone quiet on me again, sweetheart,” he murmured, sweeping a caress over the back of her hand that he clasped in his. “Talk to me. I need to hear your beautiful voice.”

      Did he touch all women this easily? Was he always this affectionate? Or was it the darkness? Did he feel freer, too? Without the accountability of propriety?

       Or is it me?

      As soon as the traitorous and utterly foolish thought whispered through her head, she banished it. Yes, these were extraordinary circumstances, and she was grabbing this slice in time for herself, but never could she forget who she was. Because this man might not know her identity, but he still believed her to be someone she absolutely wasn’t—wealthy, a socialite...a woman who belonged.

      “Sweetheart?”

      That endearment. She shivered. It ignited a curl of heat in her chest. It loosed a razor-tipped arrow at the same