Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
“Given the right incentive, I’m sure you could.” Reaching out, he lightly curls a lock of my hair around his finger. Worse, my treacherous insides seem to like him doing it. “You wouldn’t like the tabloids to get a hold of this. Billionaire banker’s sister caught in an illegal gambling den? It would be terrible if someone had footage, wouldn’t it?”
My eyes fly wide before they flick around the room. “You have cameras—in here?”
“Relax,” he says, taking my face in his hands. “I kind of wish I had because that was…” His cat-like eyes are the color of dark chocolate and bitter coffee, yet they burn so bright.
“How do I know you’re not lying?”
“I guess you don’t.” His lips brush my cheek before he releases me. “I’m a lot of things, but I’m not a liar.”
“That’s exactly what a liar would say,” I murmur, trying to swallow back my panic.
“That’s probably also true.”
“People go to prison these days for revenge porn, you know.” Rather than a warning or a threat, I just sound worried. Really worried.
Because I am.
“As they should,” he says, taking a step back. He folds his arms across his chest. “That kind of lowlife deserves to be locked up.”
Right, so, no recording of… that. Please, God. The tabloids would love to get their hands on any story that might blacken Whit.
Sex Acts Swap for Gambling Debt!
Billionaire Banker’s Sister Caught in Blows for Debt!
While I’m sure plenty women would take one look at Deveraux and decide it was a fair exchange, I’m not about to let my personal currency be ruined. I don’t want my name or my business dragged through the mud. I couldn’t bear for all that old shit to be dragged up again.
I knew it wouldn’t be long before she was up to her old tricks.
Causing trouble. Drinking. Making rash decisions…
And worse.
We can’t really blame her. Lavender has always had poor impulse control.
My mother would fuss and wring her hands, and my siblings would tsk and take the piss, all the while congratulating themselves that they knew the old Lavender would be back at some point. It was only a matter of time until I returned to my old antics.
Worse, it would bring Whit breathing down my neck.
He might pull his support. I could lose the gallery.
Panic flares hot and sharp inside me.
Take a breath. This isn’t a catastrophe. Not yet.
“People also go to prison for blackmail,” I say.
“Would that be before or after the news broke?”
I’m not going to dignify that. Or start asking about cameras again.
“Not that we need to go down either of those paths just yet. I’m sure we could come to some agreement.”
“But you just said…” Not sex. I shiver like someone is dancing on my grave. Probably the slut police because, even after all he’s said, I might still be considering it. “You mean, like a payment plan?” Hands behind my back, I childishly cross my fingers. But he’s already shaking his head.
“I want you to do something for me.”
I quirk a brow, my gaze flicking tellingly down. So maybe this is where he wants me to reciprocate. Such a pity I feel less inclined now.
“Not that.” His lips seem to fight a smile.
“Like what? Rob a bank?”
“I need a favor.”
“It’s not really a favor if it’s being extorted, is it?”
“A three-hundred-thousand kind of favor,” he says, his voice turning hard.
I fold my arms, fighting the craving to bite my fingernails. “What do you want?”
A clock ticks, then chimes, as my mind races and my stomach cramps. I could lose it all—go back to being that troubled girl again. The one with issues and attitude. Such entertaining gossip fodder.
And then he speaks, though I find I can’t trust my ears when I hear him say:
“What I want you to do is marry me.”
4
LAVENDER
“I’m sorry, what?”
I give my head a tiny shake, then rub my finger over the sudden ache between my brows. One minute, I’m considering selling sex to the hot man with the magic tongue, and now I’m hearing things.
Should I blame the orgasm or the champagne?
“It’s a little unorthodox, I know.”
“Oh. Good.” I nod. Not that I’m agreeing. “At least I know I’m not hearing things.”
“Unorthodox, as I said.”
“Or completely bonkers. Crazy. See also: stark raving.” I bark out an empty-sounding laugh. “You think the way to get your money back is with wife duties at sex worker’s prices? Really expensive sex worker prices, but still.”
I wonder how many sexual encounters three hundred grand buys you?
“This is a business proposal, not a romantic entanglement. I would be paying you for your time. Not your—”
“Blow job skills? Good, because I’m not sure I could compete. Some might argue I should be paying you.” I want to slap my hand across my mouth. Why the hell am I paying him compliments?