Page 166 of The Billionaire's Baby

"Fuck that," I snort, " I don’t want to see any of your porn."

"This is much more important." He waves his phone in my face.

I stare at the video playing on the screen and my heart twists. My guts knot. I see a vision in red. Damn it, she's wearing red. Is it because I'd told her that’s the color that suits her the best? Of course, it is. She's wearing it to taunt me.

But hadn't she bought a white dress earlier at the boutique? No matter. She has her hair piled on top of her head and I take in the curve of her neck, the arch of her shoulders, the bouquet of white and pink flowers she holds between her fingers. I run my gaze down the curves of her body shown off by the dress, how the hem rises to show a flash of her legs as she steps inside a town car.

Peter, Summer and Sinclair's chauffeur, shuts the door behind her, then walks around to the driver's side.

Shit. My mouth dries. It's her, on the way to her wedding. She's about to get married and I am here holding my cock in my hands. Not literally, but you know what I mean.

"Hey, ol' chap. You okay?”

His voice seems to come from far away.

"You’re not gonna faint or something, are you?"

"What?" I blink, then draw myself up to my full height, "You think I'm a pussy?”

"Yes."

I stare, "The fuck do you mean, asshole?"

"You're the one waiting for your valet to get your car while your girl walks away with another man."

"She's not..." Fuck, the word sticks in my throat. I force myself to say it. "Mine," I snarl. "She's fucking mine."

"Damn right," he nods, "you going to get her, or what?"

I squeeze my eyes shut. Fuck, fuck, fuck. How could I have messed this up so badly? How could I have not seen what was in front of me all this time?

I'd wanted her, decided she was for me. She is it for me. And yet, I'd let my ego come between us. I'd thought I was right all along, that I could get my way, no matter what. I'd forgotten how it is that a man treats a woman when he loves her. And fuck, if I don't love her. I love her more than I love myself, and fuck, if that isn't something.

And... holdonabloody second. How the hell did this guy get ahold of that video of my woman?

I snap my eyes open to find the space in front of me is empty. Huh? I glance about me and find the homeless guy hurrying away. The hair on the back of my neck rises.

Why the hell hadn't I thought of asking the question earlier? Had I been so shaken by what I'd seen that I'd forgotten basic common sense?

All of which doesn't answer the question: what the hell had he been doing watching her?

Why had he filmed her? How did he know I had checked into this hotel? Only the Seven know I’m here. How the hell had he found out? No way, would any of the Seven have told anyone else. So, who the hell is he? "Wait," I call out. He breaks into a run.

I spring forward, when the valet calls out, "Sir, your car is here."

I pause so suddenly that I almost stumble. Shit. I glance at my watch, 8.35am. Shit, no way, am I making it in time to stop the wedding, but I have to try. I glance up the sidewalk and spot the guy turning the corner. That will have to wait. For now, I have to go get my girl.

Turning, I race to my car and hop in.

I pull away from the curb, press down on the accelerator with such intensity that my Jag jumps forward. I tear around the corner, hit Oxford Street and the inevitable traffic. I press down on my horn, swerve around the vehicle in front of me. The driver shows me the bird; I don’t even bother to respond. I focus on finding breaks in the traffic, hit the next streetlight which, of course, turns red as I pull up. I hit the brakes, wait for the pedestrians to cross. Glance at my watch.

8.45am.

Hell. I am never going to make it in time. Sweat beads my brow and adrenaline laces my blood. As soon as the light changes, I hit the accelerator and the car jumps forward.

For the next ten minutes, I race through the streets of London. If I am too late, I will never forgive myself. If I allow her to become someone else's wife I... I will never be able to live through it. No, I have to get to her in time. I never lose, remember? I am going to reach her in time. I have to.

I navigate the roads, head closer to Islington City Hall. When I am only a few blocks away I hit a traffic jam. Bloody hell. Sweat trickles down my spine. I clutch the steering wheel with such force that my knuckles turn white. Come on, I am so close. I pound my fist on the steering wheel, peer through the windshield. Nothing seems to be moving. Shit, this isn't good. I am not going to make it. I shove the door open, spring out, then dodge around the vehicles.