Page 38 of How to Bang a Billionaire

Strange to admit it aloud, but I had. A kind of backward nostalgia—missing a man I barely knew and something that could have been.

He was quiet for so long, I thought he might have hung up on me. I wouldn’t have been entirely surprised. It was basically the long-distance equivalent of stuffing me in a car and going back to his meeting.

“Um. Hello?”

“Arden, if you’re interested in journalism, I know some—”

“No way. Nepotism is icky.”

“If you’re concerned about nepotism, you’ve attended the wrong university.”

He had a point. “Yeah, well, that still doesn’t mean I want donations for blow jobs or to only have what I have because I knew somebody who knew somebody.” He made a noise I couldn’t quite interpret. “What are you fnuh-ing about?”

“I think you’re being naive.”

It’s my life rose hysterically to my lips, but I held it back. There were no circumstances under which saying that was ever the right thing to do. I’d shouted it at my family once at breakfast—couldn’t remember why, something that had seemed world-crushingly important at the age of thirteen—and they’d all burst out laughing. Called me CAPSLOCK!ARDY for weeks. “Maybe. But not thinking exactly like you do isn’t necessarily a deficiency in my worldview, y’know.”

“Ouch.”

That had come out way more insulting than I’d intended. I should have stuck to It’s my life. “Fuck, sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. And you’re right, of course. It’s just”—a very faint sigh, almost if he was embarrassed—“I don’t like to think of you being upset or afraid.”

I swallowed. Not quite sure what to make of that. My stupid-arse heart uncurling like a cat hopeful for caresses. I knew it would be safest to make a joke (“Good job you weren’t there for the final episode of London Spy, then”) but in the end I just shrugged—even though he couldn’t see it—and said as lightly as I could, “That’s nice, but it’s not your problem.”

Another of his hesitations. “No, but if it was. If you were…”

“If I was what?”

“If you were mine.”

Now it was my turn to freeze, the distance between us solidifying in the silence. I knew how I should answer: But I’m not. And then say my goodbyes, try to sleep, face my exams with some pretense of courage or fortitude.

“What if I was?” Why was I was whispering for no particular reason? I tried to sound confident and flirty instead. “What would you do to me?”

I’d been expecting something sexy back: Bend you over the nearest piece of furniture and make you scream, would have done nicely.

“I’d want to make you feel safe,” he said. “And I’d make sure you never forget the extraordinary man you are.”

Chapter 11

It was the last thing I ever could have imagined. Far more shocking than depravity. Far more powerful. I made an embarrassing sound into the phone. A shocked, wanton, needy little moan.

God, to be wanted in that way by Caspian Hart. To be claimed, protected, cherished. So that, for a little while at least, I didn’t have to be scared or small or lonely or failing.

I could be his.

Until I could be my own again.

I briefly thought about telling him he’d got it wrong. That I wasn’t extraordinary at all. But, honestly, I’d rather he kept his flattering delusions. Even if they made me feel like a con man. Like I was leprechaun gold and he was going to see me clearly at any moment: just a handful of pebbles.

“Can we”—I asked—“c-can we pretend I’m yours?”

He let out a long, not-quite-steady breath and I thought he was going to refuse. I wouldn’t have blamed him. I don’t think I could have come across as more stupid or pathetic if I’d been actively trying.

“Um, sorry, you don’t ha—”

“Yes.”