The Last Eligible Billionaire(54)

She’s what you’d get if Bella Hadid had a love child with Marilyn Monroe, except instead of being carried in a uterus, she was incubated inside the rarest rose and infused with the essence of phoenix wings and golden unicorn horns.

And she’s holding a hand out to Hayes as if she expects him to kiss it.

He could have this, and I asked him to have sex with me purely for the sake of helping me get back in the saddle.

No wonder he turned me down and has been avoiding talking to me about it ever since, except to kiss me when we have an audience to make it look like he wants to tear my clothes off.

And despite knowing he doesn’t actually want me, a very large, very angry green beast roars to life inside me.

“Hi!” I leap in front of him, take the goddess’s hand—and yes, I have to reach about as high as my nose to grab it—and jerk it down to waist-level to pump it. “I’m Begonia, and oh my god, I can’t believe I’m meeting Angelina Jolie. Hayes. Why didn’t you tell me Angie would be here? Can I call you Angie? Oh my god. Can we get a selfie?”

The woman extracts her hand from mine and glares down at me with a look that could melt a diamond.

Actually, I wonder if it has.

Someone should call the scientists.

“Did you just call me old?” she demands.

“What? No! Oh my gosh, Angie, you’re not old. You’re gorgeous. You’re timeless. Don’t let what any of those awful paparazzi say about you bother you. You’re above all that.” This woman, however, will never be on my good list for implying that Angelina Jolie will get old.

None of us are perfect, but Angie really is timeless to me.

“Begonia,” Hayes says gently, his voice slightly strangled, “this is my old friend Liliane Sussex-Williams. Liliane, this is Begonia. I quite adore her, and I marvel every day that she puts up with me.”

Keisha has disappeared, but there are strangled noises coming from a nearby room that I’d call muffled laughter if I wanted to take the time to analyze it, which I don’t, because Hayes claiming me is making me feel warm and fuzzy and a little horny, despite the fact that I know it’s for appearances only.

I have yet to actually see Mildred. Nikolay is showing the first signs of discomfort I’ve seen on him all day, and based on how his stomach sounded after lunch, I know it’s not the first time he’s actually been uncomfortable.

“Hayes and I are engaged,” Liliane informs me.

I clap my hands. “Oh my gosh, first I get to meet his second-grade wife, and now his fiancée! Is this like a rich people betrothed-at-birth sort of thing? That is adorable. Or are we testing out the next Razzle Dazzle plotline? Do you do that? Play-act plotlines to see which ones the unsuspecting guests don’t realize are plotlines?”

Superman has nothing on this woman. I’m pretty sure she’s slicing and dicing my spleen with that look.

And in the words of my dear sister after a particularly craptastic day, I have zero fucks left to give.

Hayes isn’t a freaking piece of meat, and I’d feel that way even if he hadn’t threatened to sue me if I didn’t pretend to be his doting girlfriend.

“We are not engaged,” Hayes murmurs.

She eyeballs me, makes a very obvious decision to not say whatever it is that would prove they’re engaged—ha! It’s totally an our parents want us to get married thing, I knew it—and instead turns to Hayes. “You should have her examined by the family doctor.”

She gives me one last look, her attention lingering on my mid-section, though I have no idea if she’s calling me chubby or if she’s trying to determine if I’m carrying his love child, before turning to sashay deeper into the house again, with a casual, “We know where this is going in the end, Hayes, and I’m a patient woman, but only so patient, and you’d best remember that,” tossed over her shoulder.

Marshmallow growls.

“Quiet,” Hayes orders. “For now.”

Marshmallow harumphs, but he sits back on his haunches.

These two.

It is utterly unfair that Hayes is allergic. They’re soulmates.

“Do you ever consider changing your name and moving to a cabin in the Alps where no one can find you?” I whisper to him.

“Every. Damn. Day.” He puts a hand to the small of my back again and gives a gentle push, but unlike every other time he’s steered me somewhere this past week, he keeps his hand on me as we make our way up the grand staircase.

And I do mean grand.

The stairs are marble. The banister is sleek polished wood, and the balusters are decorative cast iron, and the whole staircase sweeps a circle around the low-hanging crystal chandelier so that I can see that every bauble on the damn thing is free of dust as we reach the next floor.

I’m pretty sure a dust-free crystal—or diamond?—chandelier beneath an arched foyer ceiling is the ultimate sign of wealth.

If I had one like that, I wouldn’t even notice it needed dusting until the light couldn’t make it through the dirty crystals anymore, but there’s no mistaking that this one is spotless.

“Does everyone in your family follow you from house to house like this all the time?” I’m still whispering. I don’t know if the walls have ears, or what the acoustics are like here.

“Not usually. Exceptional times.” He pauses. “Except for Uncle Antonio. He adores me. Would’ve been in Maine except he hates seagulls.”