Page 9 of The Morally Grey Billionaires Boxset

Liam

"How did you know to bring the doggy treats?" she hisses as we follow her mother into the living room.

"You should know better than to ask that question." I smirk.

Her features darken. "I suppose you found out about Tiny when you had me investigated. No wonder he bypassed me and went straight for you. That was a cheap trick, carrying treats for him." She huffs.

"It worked, didn’t it?" I can’t stop myself from grinning wider.

"Don’t think you can win over the others the same way." She brushes past me, making sure to grind her Ferragamo-clad heel into my shoe. I chuckle. She’s curvy but weighs barely enough for me to feel the pressure.

She moves into the room, then pivots and begins to walk back past me.

"Hey," —I grab her wrist— "where are you going?"

"It’s worse than I thought. They’re all here. All of them."

"Who? Your extended family?" I blink.

"They—" She gulps. "My mother’s entire knitting club is here."

"Your mother’s knitting club?"

She tries to pull away in the direction of the door, but I hold her back.

"So fine, we’ll meet her knitting club. Why is that a problem?"

She looks at me like I’ve grown horns or just landed from outer space. "They are her knitting club. You have no idea what that means, do you?"

"Umm, that they knit together?"

"And while they knit, they talk. They gossip.

They dissect each and every one of their friends and family and relations—including their fourth and fifth cousins removed—to pieces.

They know everything about everyone in this town.

And once they start asking questions, believe me, the paparazzi are nothing compared to them. "

I chuckle. "I’m sure you’re exaggerating. They’re a small-town knitting club. Surely, they can’t be that intimidating."

She laughs, a desperate, evil sound. "You have no idea, do you? You poor thing." She pats my cheek. "I already feel sorry for you."

Sparks of sensation sizzle out from her touch.

My pulse rate shoots up. Jesus, what is this crazy response toward her?

It must be the fact that I don’t like her.

That’s all it is. It’s a natural reaction to someone you can’t stand.

I take a step back, and her hand slides off.

A hurt look flickers across her face, then she tosses her head.

"I hope you’re prepared."

"Stop trying to make it out to be something bigger than it is." I draw myself up to my full height. "Let me show you how it's done." I brush past her and cross the room. The clickety-clack of knitting needles greets me, and I stop in the middle of the room next to Nadine.

The sofa opposite me has three women of varying ages between fifty and seventy, with varying degrees of gray in their hair.

To my right, a man and a woman in their late forties are seated; to my other side are another man and two more women.

The women are dressed in formal skirts or dresses, the men in slacks. All are intent on their knitting.

"They’re dressed in their Sunday best to see you," Isla murmurs.

Right. "Ladies and gents." I clear my throat. "It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Nadine turns to me with a gleam in her eyes.

"This is the Lymington Knitting Club. We meet every week on Friday to knit together. But when they heard Isla was coming with her beau, they wanted to meet you. They’re very excited.

" She claps her hands and turns to the ladies in front.

"Everyone, this is Liam Kincaid, Isla’s—" She looks to me for her help. "Isla’s—"

"Husband-to-be," I say.

"Friend," Isla interjects at the same time, but it’s, clearly, only for my ears.

I shoot her a glance, and she raises a shoulder. Had to try, she mouths silently.

"Husband?" Nadine pales. "Did you say husband?"

The clickety-clack of the needles stops. Silence descends, except for the panting of Tiny, who’s settled down in a corner of the room on his mat.

"Umm, yes, Ma." Isla walks over and puts her arm around her mother. "That’s why we wanted to see you. It didn’t feel right to tell you over the phone. And Liam thought it best we break the news to you together."

"Oh, my." Nadine sways.

I turn to her. "Are you okay? Maybe you should sit down?"

"No, no." She shakes her head. "I’m fine. It’s just, I’ve dreamed of this day, when my Isla would get married, and I can’t believe it’s here already." She sniffs.

"Ma, please." Isla pats her shoulder.

"I’m good, just... happy. Of course—" she turns to me "—in order to marry her, you need to pass the Lymington Knitting Club test and be inducted into our circle of trust."

"Test?" I look toward the gathered crowd. All of their gazes are on me. The expressions on their faces are, universally, ones of curiosity. They don’t seem friendly, but they’re not unfriendly. "I’m ready to answer any question you may have of me."

"May I introduce Wilma Mason, the President of our knitting club?" Nadine gestures to the woman on the far right of the sofa in front of me.

“Hmph.” Wilma purses her lips. She puts her knitting in her lap, and fixes her steely gaze on me. "Do you love her?"

I blink. Talk about going straight for the jugular.

All of them look at me expectantly.

"I’ll do anything to protect her. I promise to cherish her for the rest of my life. I swear, she’ll never want for anything as long as she lives. I’ll ensure she’ll always be happy."

I glance around the faces of the knitters, then turn back to the woman who spoke.

"But do you love her?" A frown creases her forehead.

Next to me, Nadine tenses. I sense Isla watching me closely. Dorian leans forward on the balls of his feet. Even the dog has stopped panting. Every person in the room is watching me with rapt gazes.

I cross over to stand on the other side of Isla. I pull a box from my pocket, then open it.

The early evening sun slants through the window and reflects off the sapphire.

"Holy shit," Isla breathes. "Is that a—"

"Ring." I pull the ring out, then slide the box back into my pocket. "Isla, will you marry me?"

The tension in the room seems to multiply.

Isla’s gaze is caught on the diamond. It’s her turn to sway. Her mother wraps an arm about her waist and steadies her.

"Isla?" I frown. For some reason, sweat pools in my armpits. Which is crazy. This is a charade. I’m not really going to marry her. Well, I am going to marry her, but not in the way a man who loves a woman and wants to spend the rest of his life with her is going to. I’m doing it so I can fulfill the clause in my father’s will and ensure I have an heir to whom I can pass on my legacy.

That’s all this is about. So, why is my throat dry?

Why is my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth?

Why is there a hollow feeling in my chest?

And what if she refuses me? Nah, she won’t.

She needs this wedding as much as I do. So, why is she still hesitating?

"Isla?"

She doesn’t respond.

"Look at me." I lower my voice to a hush.

She blinks, then glances up at me.

I hold her gaze. I search her features, and her pupils dilate. Color flushes her cheeks. She bites down on her lower lip, then nods. "Yes. Yes, I will."

"Yes!" Dorian is the first to clap. The others follow.

I take Isla’s hand in mine, then slide the ring onto her ring finger. It’s a perfect fit. Naturally.

I tug her closer, and she comes without resistance. I press a kiss to her forehead. Her entire body is stiff. The muscles of her back and shoulders are so tight, I can feel the stress pouring off of her. "Relax," I murmur against her skin, "or else they’ll suspect something."

"Oh, I’ll give them something to suspect, all right." She tips up her chin, stands on her tiptoes and smashes her lips to mine.

Heat explodes under my skin. A current of electricity zips out from where our lips connect.

Adrenaline laces my blood. My fingers and toes tingle.

A yearning explodes deep inside and fights its way to the surface.

I grasp the curve of her waist and haul her even closer.

Her breasts push into my chest, and the slight roll of her belly fits into the concaveness of my stomach.

She’s soft where I’m not, her warmth a balm to the coldness I’ve carried around inside without even knowing it.

Her scent curls around my senses—seductive, evocative, a fragrance that stirs desires I’ve only called upon when I’m able to control them.

With her, it would be impassioned, intense, fierce, ardent.

With her, it would… It is different. I lean into her, tilt my head, and take control of the kiss.

She moans, then parts her lips, and I sweep my tongue in.

I kiss her, drink of her, draw from her so I can fill every cell of my being. I—

The pop of a cork from a champagne bottle cuts through my mind.

I tear my mouth from hers so suddenly she sways. I hold her about her waist for a second longer. Her features are pale, her lips swollen. She looks at me with the same expression of surprise and terror that I know must be reflected on mine.

I lean in, press my cheek to hers and whisper, "If I’d known you’d respond like that, I’d have kissed you sooner."

She makes a sound deep in her throat, and when I pull back, I notice her face is flushed. Her eyes glitter. Good. She’s angry. That makes this much easier.

I turn her to face the Lymington Knitting Club. "Does that answer your question?"

The same woman who’d asked the question earlier scowls. "You still haven’t answered it. Do you—"

She’s interrupted by the sound of paws hitting the wooden floor. I spot movement from the corner of my eye then turn in time to watch Tiny execute a perfect leap through the air. He grabs the bottle of champagne from a surprised Dorian, then upturns the bottle so its contents pour down his throat.

"Tiny, stop that." Dorian yanks on the bottle, but Tiny refuses to let go.

"This dog, you’d think he’d have learned by now not to drink, considering he always suffers a hangover the next morning."

Nadine strides toward the dog and catches his jaws.

It takes her and Dorian’s combined efforts to pull the bottle away from the pooch.

And even then, I suspect it’s because he’s already downed the contents of the bottle.

He wags his tail happily, and I swear, the Great Dane laughs as he staggers back to his mat.

"And that was the most expensive bottle of champagne in the wine shop," Dorian laments.

"No problem; I came prepared." A new voice says.

I glance over my shoulder to find my mother standing at the door. Behind her is a liveried butler with a tray of flutes filled with champagne.

"A dog with a drinking problem?" I smirk.

“Your mother arrived with her own catering van?" She scoffs.

"And you call him Tiny?"

"He was tiny when he arrived. We didn’t think he’d grow up to be so big."

"He’s a Great Dane," I point out as I swing the car onto the highway. That was the most entertaining few hours of my life, to be honest. Even if the same woman who asked me if I loved Isla hinted that she wasn’t happy that I hadn’t answered the question directly.

Luckily, people had been too distracted by my mother’s arrival, and the subsequent food and drinks that had been served to them, to press the matter further.

And Nadine seemed too overwhelmed by the events to notice otherwise.

Dorian, Isla’s brother had, however, shaken my hand, then leaned in close and warned me that he’d been her protector growing up, and if I did anything to upset Isla, he’d sic the Great Dane on me.

When I asked him who or what he had to protect her from, he looked at me with a funny expression on his face and suggested I ask Isla about it.

Then, he glanced at Tiny and back at me and assured me that Tiny could be a terror when necessary.

Looking at Tiny, who was snoring softly in the corner, I wasn’t sure he was capable of hurting a fly—unless it was by inadvertently squishing it— I wasn’t certain but decided never to test that theory.

What I still find hard to comprehend is the champagne. "Tiny really likes his booze?"

Isla raises a shoulder. "Only champagne. Nothing else tempts him. But every time we open a bottle of bubbles, he gets to it first. And it doesn’t seem to do him any harm. On occasion, he’s woken up with a hangover, but like most of us, it doesn’t seem to put him off the champers."

"What does a hangover look like on a dog?" I muse.

"As ugly as it does on us humans. Last time Tiny emptied a bottle of bubbles down his gullet, he was so sick the next morning, my ma threw him in the bathtub and hosed him down. Tiny was not happy, but he didn’t dare move from the tub. My ma can be fierce when she’s pissed off."

I glance sideways at her. "You’re kidding, right?"

"No." She meets my gaze and we both laugh.

The image of Nadine, who’s shorter than Isla, facing off with Tiny, the Great Dane looking properly cowed while being hosed down, is hilarious. Our gazes hold, and the laughter dies.

Just like that, a familiar heat ignites in my belly. My groin hardens. I clear my throat and glance forward, focusing on the road.

We drive for a few minutes in silence, then she says, "Thanks," and clears her throat. "But you needn’t have."

"Needn’t have what?"

"The ring. It wasn’t necessary."

"On the contrary, it’s important, so the press knows we’re genuine."

She fingers her ring, then glances at me. "It really is beautiful. How did you know sapphires are my favorite?"

"I didn’t, but they’re deep and mysterious, with a heart of passion locked at their core. It reminded me of your eyes." Where the hell did that come from? Now I’m waxing poetic about her eyes—when there isn’t even anyone around to hear me? Get it together, man.

She swallows. Her gorgeous eyes grow deeper until they seem almost indigo in color. Color flushes her cheeks. She opens her mouth to speak when her phone buzzes, as does mine. She glances at her screen, then squares her shoulders. "Speaking of, I hope you’re ready for what’s coming."