Page 162 of The Billionaire's Christmas Bride

"What do you want?" he asks. "If it's money, let me get to my wallet—" He takes a step forward.

The man swoops out his hand, grabs a knife from the rack next to the cooking range. He presses its edge to my neck and the blood drains from my face. No, no, no, this can't be happening. My pulse rate ratchets up, my heart hammering so hard in my chest, I am sure it’s going to jump out. My head spins. No, I will not faint, no way. I bite down on the inside of my cheek, draw in a breath, then another. The silence stretches. A beat, another.

The ticking of the countdown clock fills the space. Weston's gaze darts to the egg timer—his face pales. A nerve throbs at his temple, beating in tandem with the stupid tick-tock of the timer. Ugh, why did I have to wind it up? Because I could? Because I thought I was alone. Because I was being spiteful... Gah! Death by kitchen timer... Nooo, that's like a terrible B-grade screamer movie. I am not going out this way, not without a fight. I raise my hand and the intruder presses the knife deeper. Pinpricks of pain spark out from the cut and I feel a drop of blood trickling down my throat. The ball of emotion in my chest seems to expand. I try to swallow, but find my mouth is too dry. Hell, do something, anything.

I stare at Weston, at the sweat that glistens on his forehead.Look at me, look at me,I urge him in my mind.Please baby, tear your gaze away from that stupid egg timer—if we get out of this, I promise I'll throw away every single, stupid timer in the house... I'll switch to those silent ones, the newer digital ones even—I cringe. Okay, so they are not my favorite, but no choice. Needs must, and all that. The intruder grips my arm, urges me to take a step forward.

Weston doesn't move—the muscles of his massive shoulders lock and his chest planes could be hewn out of rock. Everything within him seems riveted by that horrible timer.OMFG, what the hell am I going to do now?

The intruder nudges me and I move forward, closer...closer to where Weston stands, rooted to the spot. His jaw tics and the tendons of his throat bulge. His arms are locked into his sides—frozen in the moment that he'd spotted the timer.

How long did I set it for? Ten minutes? Five? Oh God, please let it be for five or less. Why did I have to touch that stupid thing?Can I rewind back this morning...to the time in bed, when he had reached for me and tickled me until I couldn't stop laughing? Had it been just this morning? And why hadn't I thrown my arms and legs around him, clung to him and not let him leave? We could have still been in bed, all toasty and warm, and fucked each other until we'd collapsed again. Yes, that's what I want when this is over—an entire non-stop marathon of make-up sex.Weston, darling, please hold on, just a few more minutes, just a—The intruder shoves me forward, I stumble, slip on some of the remnants of the apple pie that are still on the ground. My legs slide out from under me, and I scream.

There's a blur of action. I sense Weston move—he swoops down, grabs the egg-timer, hurls it toward me.

49

Weston

The egg-timer rings as it sails through the air. It grazes the forehead of the intruder—who's wearing a mask. Of course, he is. Motherfucker! And my aim with my left hand sucks! Jesus, and I call myself a surgeon? When I most need precision, I am fucking hampered by the bloody splint. The asshole sways, then the knife slips from his fingers and crashes to the ground.

Amelie lurches forward. She stumbles and my heart slams into my ribcage. I jump forward, reach her as she collapses. I yank her to my side and behind me.

I raise my hand at the bastard, who's still standing. Why the hell is he still standing? I bury my fist in his face. He howls. I swing my fist at him again, he arches back, and I graze his shoulder. He straightens, then swings at me. I raise my left arm, deflect the blow. He comes at me again. I swear, angle my body to protect her. He lands a punch in my shoulder. At least it's the unhurt arm. I grunt, try to weave away. Behind me, Amelie stiffens and wriggles in my grasp. I turn my face—big mistake, asshole lands one in the side of my head. Sparks flare between my eyes. I growl, shake my head.

Amelie snarls, tugs in my grasp. "Let me go," she whispers.

"No," I growl, pull away as the bastard tries to deck me again.

"Unhand me, you macho ass." She pulls away, but I refuse to release her. She buries her teeth in my bicep.The fuck?

I grunt, loosen my hold on her, just as the intruder buries his fist in my other shoulder. A growl rips from me; my entire arm throbs...especially the motherfucking middle finger in a splint—"F-u-u-c-k!" I shake my head, focus my attention on the motherfucker. I curl my fist—my bloody left fist—swing at him, land a hit, then again. He grunts, lumbers backward. I head butt him, and he crashes into the counter behind him.

I raise my arm as Amelie yells, "Take that you bastard." She heaves the spatula at the stranger, catches him in the nose. He howls, presses his palm to his face, pushes away, turns and lurches around the dining table. "You bloody prick, you dare break into my apartment?” She grabs the next available weapon—which happens to be the other pie—the one left to cool on the counter behind her. She throws it at the retreating figure, catches him in the shoulder. He grunts, stumbles, steadies himself at the doorframe—asshole's wearing gloves as well.

"You think I am afraid? Huh? You think you can come in here and invade my space... you... you..."

"Dickhead?" I supply.

"No, that's an insult I reserve for you," she cries.

She glances around, reaches for another knife, throws it at him...misses. The blade embeds in the doorframe.

The intruder runs out of the kitchen. The next second, the door to the apartment slams behind him.

"You fucking prick, you horrible, mangy-faced, skiving, conniving, dodgy cocksucker—" She grabs hold of a whisk, hurls it at the door, picks up the pastry brush and throws it, then reaches for a wooden spoon.

I reach for her, "Amelie."

"Randy, ass-whipped... ignominious—" She throws the spoon in the direction of the door, but it only makes it halfway over before hitting the floor. She stumbles forward, reaches for the cookie cutter. I grab her wrist. She swings at me, her gaze wild, hair flowing about her shoulders.

"Princess, stop," I admonish her. She stabs the rolling pin in my chest, "Ouch." I grunt, press down with my fingers, "He's gone, Buttercup."

"What if he comes back?" she pants.

"He won't," I promise.

"What if he does?" she insists.