BILLIONAIRE (Part 6) by Juliette Jones Read Free Book Online Page B

“You are incredibly beautiful,” he
said.
    I
glared at him, suddenly wary.
    He
immediately backtracked, smiling apologetically.  “I’m sorry.  That was out of
line, maybe.  It’s just that … you are.  I couldn’t help noticing.  I’ll try not to notice, if it offends you.  So, how about that drink?  Will you join me?  My
treat.  I hate eating alone.”
    “Sure,”
I said, mindful of my empty wallet, my nonexistent bank account and my craving
for another glass of champagne.  I was destitute, unemployed, at least
temporarily estranged from my perfect, obsessive billionaire boyfriend.  What I
felt like doing was getting wasted.  To forget about Alexander for a few
hours.  I wasn’t a big drinker, after watching my mother slowly wither away and
die from her disease, but I knew I was nothing like her.  I didn’t just want to
forget my troubles, I wanted to have fun .  Right now.  Mick O’Neil
seemed like a festive, upright sort of a guy.  And he was paying.
    He
started walking and I followed, falling into step beside him.  “You haven’t
told me your name,” he said.  “You don’t have to, of course, but since we’ll be
having dinner together, I’ll need to call you something.  Just in case I need
to say something like, ‘Pass the butter, Miss Ridiculously Sexy’ or ‘Can I
offer you another glass of wine, Gorgeous?’  See, I don’t want to offend you
again.”
    “Lila.”
    He
was a congenial guy with a sense of humor that might have appealed to me if I
hadn’t had the day I’d had.  Make that the month I’d had.  I was used to
Alexander’s lofty, almost-arrogant steadiness.  I’d liked that about him, how
we didn’t feel the need for constant, banal conversation to fill the gaps; we’d
been as comfortable with silence as we had with words.  Our personalities had
fit together, somehow.  His idiosyncrasies and flaws had meshed with my own.
    Until
he went and fucked everything up.
    We
entered the restaurant, which was glinting with modernistic chrome and shiny
glass.  Mick took my coat and hung it on a nearby hook.  His jaw visibly
dropped as he took in the sight of my clinging mini-dress, but he caught
himself, forcing his gaze elsewhere.  It was a dress Alexander had bought for
me in Paris, to wear, he’d said at the time, in private.  You’re a goddess ,
he’d said when I tried it on.  I can’t believe you’re real.  And you’re
mine.
    Efficient
staff offered us a table, filled water glasses, gave us menus, recited
specials, took drink orders.
    I
sipped champagne and listened to Mick O’Neil’s chatter, wondering if Alexander
knew yet of my desertion.  I looked at my watch, the gold one he gave me.  In
Paris.  I was surprised to see that almost two hours had passed since I’d left
Alexander’s apartment.  He’d probably answered his emails by now.  I pictured
him returning to his bedroom, finding me gone.  The thread of satisfaction I
felt, knowing he’d be frantic – no, crazed – when he found me missing,
was laced with guilt, and sadness.  I wanted him to worry, yes, but I also
wanted to comfort him.  To reassure him.  To explain to him that he couldn’t
act like that.  Like a dictator who held the only key.  I couldn’t handle that
kind of treatment.  I didn’t want to be trapped, or locked up.  It scared me. 
It scared me to the depths of my lonely, broken soul.
    I
wanted to forgive him.  I wished I could.  He must have had a reason for doing
what he’d done, even after I’d tried to explain to him.  Maybe I hadn’t
explained well enough.  My thoughts felt muddled and hazed by the effects of my
turmoil and the alcohol I’d consumed.
    “Lila?”
    Someone
was speaking to me.  Mick O’Neil.
    “Here,
have the last of it,” he said, topping up my glass.  “I can order another
bottle if you want.”
    Oh,
God, I’d drunk the whole bottle, while stewing over Alexander, feigning
interest in Mick O’Neil’s stories about