Beating Ruby by Camilla Monk

Author:Camilla Monk
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Montlake Romance
Published: 2016-01-25T16:00:00+00:00

EIGHTEEN

The Tea

“He will destroy me like he destroyed all the other girls who ended up in his playroom. Yet I know I’ll sign his contract. Because it’s the only way this gorgeous, dark billionaire will be mine. I look him in the eyes, my jaw set. “‘We need to clarify a few terms.’”

“He crosses his arms over his $50,000 silk suit.

“I point at the first page. ‘What do you mean by teabagging?’”

—P. G. Edwards, Roped and Broken

I’m not proud of myself—when I finally cracked an eye open to stare at the ceiling, it was past noon. Way to go when the clock was ticking and we couldn’t afford to waste any time. I did feel better, and I hadn’t thrown up in spite of the nausea that often came as a bonus with my migraines. So, apart from the burning shame of waking up in March’s bed at lunchtime, things were great. I pushed aside his plain white comforter to sit up, and I looked around the sparsely furnished mezzanine overlooking the living room. I gathered that this was the fifteenth floor’s penthouse, right above his office. On the wall across from the mezzanine were the same type of windows I had seen downstairs, bathing the place in a dull light and showcasing the silhouettes of Central Park’s trees.

I carefully slid out of the bed. My feet grazed something soft on the wooden floor. There was a pair of white terry hotel slippers waiting for me next to my ballet flats, which he had removed—and cleaned, it seemed. I fought a smile. Housekeeping level: over 9000.

After some lengthy stretching, I padded down the stairs. Under the mezzanine was one of those sleek gray modern kitchens that look like it’s forbidden to eat in them. No sign of life on the stone counters; a long teak table; one chair—this particular detail tugged at my heart a little.

Across the room, and forming what I understood to be the bulk of March’s furniture, were a dark upholstered leather couch facing away from the kitchen and a couple of wooden shelves where he seemed to store books and an intriguing collection of colorful African tin cars. Other than that, I was more or less standing in the middle of two thousand square feet of nothing. Plain walls, no rugs, no photos, no paintings, not even a TV.

“Are you feeling better?”

I jumped at the sound of March’s voice behind me. I turned to find him standing in the penthouse’s doorway—which meant he had somehow known I was awake. I shuddered at the idea that the place might be riddled with cameras and he had seen me scratch my butt when getting up.

I gave him a thumbs-up and yawned. “Peachy.”

He held a paper bag in his hands. “You missed dinner, but I kept your blueberry muffin.”

Guarded, secretive, but ever thoughtful—March in a nutshell. My eyes performed a quick scan of his body. Clean jeans and a white shirt had replaced the clothes he had ruined during his fall from the tram.

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