Dirty Pleasures (The Dirty Billionaire Trilogy #2)(38)

“Whoa. Are you okay? Shit. You don’t look so good.”

I don’t recognize the voice, and I don’t care. All I care about is trying to get enough oxygen into my body so I don’t pass out on this fancy floor.

The man barks out Creighton’s name. I don’t know how much time passes—it could be seconds or minutes or hours, but soon Creighton is crouching beside me, pressing my head between my knees, and saying softly, “Breathe, Holly. Just breathe. Slow down.”

I try to slow my breathing as he’s directed, trying to match him as he inhales and exhales. Eventually the clawing in my lungs subsides, and I raise my head slowly and stare into concerned brown eyes.

“Are you okay? What the hell happened?”

His soothing tone evaporates. His questions are sharp and demanding. My breathing picks up speed again.

“Oh shit. Calm down, Holly. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have . . . Let’s get you out of here.”

He reaches an arm behind my back, and I know he’s going to pick me up and carry me out of the museum. I’ll look like a complete idiot to everyone in attendance, and that’s not even including the pictures that will end up on the Internet. The next thing you know, TMZ will say I fainted because I’m pregnant, and I’ll be on baby-bump watch for the next six months.

I push his hand away. “I can walk.”

Creighton’s gaze narrows, but he holds out a hand and helps me to my feet.

“Are you sure?”

I nod. “Let’s go.”





I’ve barely gotten out of my dress and into a comfy T-shirt and pajama pants before Creighton knocks on the bedroom door.

The knocking throws me. He’s never done that before. The reason for it becomes apparent when the door swings open, and he walks in with a man I’ve never seen before.

I look sharply at Creighton. “Um . . . what’s going on?”

“This is Dr. Wylie. He’s my personal physician. I asked him to come check you out.”

Of course he did, and without even bothering to ask me if I need a doctor. Too bad Dr. Wylie made an unnecessary trip.

“I’m good, thanks.”

Creighton glances at the doctor and then back at me. “A moment, if you would.” Dr. Wylie nods and steps out of the room, and Creighton closes the door. “He’s checking you out, and I don’t care what arguments you give me.”

“It’s not necessary.”

Creighton shoves his hands through his dark hair. “You f*cking collapsed in the middle of MoMA. Don’t tell me it’s not necessary.”

“I’m fine.”

“You obviously aren’t fine. And if you can’t tell me what the f*ck happened, Dr. Wylie is checking you out.”

Tell him what happened? I don’t have a f*cking clue what happened, so it’s not like I can give Creighton the explanation he’s looking for. And I’m sure as hell not ready to tell him about my encounter with his other ex-wife. So I guess the doctor is checking me out.

“Fine. It’s not like anything I say is going to make a difference. You might as well send him in.”

I sit on the end of the bed, knowing I’m acting like a spoiled brat, but I want to get this over with so I can go to bed. I just need sleep and the dawn of a new day to see things clearly. I need to put some time and space between me and the things Annika said tonight. Her name burns on my tongue, and I’m dying to confront him.

Why didn’t he tell me about her? Was she the one who got away? I shake my head, trying unsuccessfully to dislodge the thoughts.

“What is going on, Holly? This isn’t like you at all.”

My head snaps up. “All of a sudden you know me so well?” Too bad I can’t say the same about him.

His face twists into a frustrated, bemused expression. It’s like he’s looking at me and there’s a sign above my head that says Unbalanced woman. Treat with more caution than homemade dynamite.

Just when I think he’s going to let my jab pass without comment, he says quietly, as if to himself and not to me, “I thought I did. Maybe I was wrong.”

I feel a pang in my chest, but refuse to acknowledge it.

“Send him in then. I just want to go to bed.”

Creighton’s dark gaze burns into me. “If that’s what you want. But don’t think that means this subject is closed for good. You scared the shit out of me.”

“And almost embarrassed you too,” I add.

He just shakes his head, brow furrowed. “I’ll send in Dr. Wylie. I’ve got some calls to make, so don’t wait up.”




Creighton apparently lied, because Dr. Wylie just left, and he’s hovering in the doorway. I can’t read him. I don’t want to read him. I just want to close my eyes and forget about everything that happened tonight, but that’s not in the cards.

Creighton crosses the room and sits on the edge of the bed. His suit jacket is gone, and his shirt is open at the collar, exposing his corded neck. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and his hands grip his knees.

He studies me for long moments before asking, “You want to tell me what the hell happened tonight?”

“Not particularly.”

“Then I’ll rephrase. Tell me what the f*ck happened tonight.”