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)
“So tell me, why are we in Gibraltar?”
“A quick marriage.”
Maybe she rolls her pretty blue eyes, but it’s a little too dark to tell. “Story checks out, but I meant why do you have a house here?”
“I have houses in lots of places.”
“Okay, so you have a house in Gibraltar… just in case you needed to get married in a hurry. Wait, have you done this before? Am I wife number eight, Raif?” She turns her head over her shoulder, glancing down at the rocky hillside. “Did wife number seven meet a nasty accident down there?”
“That would be number five. Number seven met a watery demise after a mysterious fall from my yacht in San Tropez.”
“That’s good to know,” she says with a nod. “Note to self, when Raif offers to take you aboard, bring arm floats.”
“I never repeat my crime. Where’s the art, the creation in that?”
“So… how are you going to deal with me?”
“Very carefully.”
She nods. “I think I like the sound of that.”
“What about me? How are you going to deal with me?”
“Oh, I think you should sleep with one eye open.”
I chuckle. I won’t be able to close them in case I miss one inch—one moment of her.
“You’ve got a funny accent. It’s American one minute and a little bit Spanish the next. And that language you were speaking before. What was that?”
“Llanito. It’s the language of Gibraltar. At least, it was.”
“Oh, so you’re from here?”
“I was born here.”
“In the club, you spoke a bit of Arabic.”
“Is that a question?”
“Are you a bit of a… what’s that word again?” She glances at the sky as though the answer might be written there. “Polyglot!” she announces happily.
“I speak Llanito because I grew up here. Same goes for Spanish.”
“Makes sense. They’re part of the same landmass.”
“I also speak Arabic and a little French.”
“Show-off.”
“Not really. They’re languages gifted to me. Ones I grew up with that took no effort to learn.”
“But Arabic isn’t spoken here, is it?”
“There’s a Moroccan community. My mother was part of it.”
“Wait, is that why the registrar said your name like he did? Have I been saying it wrong?”
I shake my head. “I like the way you say it.”
“How mortifying. Believe me, I know the pain of a name.” She scrunches her nose adorably. “If I’ve been mispronouncing—”
“I won’t be able to hear you say it any other way.”
“Oh. Sweet.” Her expression softens.
“Don’t tell anyone.”
“We wouldn’t want to spoil your reputation.”
“What reputation is that?” I ask smoothly.
“I’m not sure yet,” she says, her eyes falling very obviously to my shirt. Antonio’s shirt. Blue when mine was white. It’s not handmade and fits too tightly across my shoulders. “If I look up multicultural in a dictionary, will I find a picture of you?”
“If I look for trouble—”
“Then you’ve found it!”
“Hang on, what about your American accent? Your dad?” she tacks on.
“British. American high school and college.” Regardless of whether I wanted it or not. But I guess it was far away from him and his new life. As well as too far from my mother and my old life. At least the bastard left me some of his money. I hope he’s rolling in his grave at how I’ve used it. Multiplied, diversified.
“Is that why you live in London?”
“No. He’s dead. They both are. I don’t really live in one place…” Or at least, I didn’t until this year.
She opens her mouth, but I cut her off.
“My turn.”
“Fine,” she answers, though her tone makes it sound like the opposite.
“You’re too far away. Come closer.”
“Was that an order?”
“A request. Always a request.”
Her brow quirks haughtily. I stifle my smile. Fuck, this girl. My heart seems to beat in time with the beat of her heels until she’s standing in front of me.
“Closer.” My fingers reach for hers, and she steps between my legs. “Closer.”
“If I get any closer, I’ll be a broach or a pin.”
“I can cope with that.”
I put my hands on her hips, and she bends from the waist, her lips brushing mine. “You taste like whiskey and smoke,” she whispers.
“Disgusting habits.”
“I know. You make me sick.” Her words are just breath, her tongue caressing the seam of my lips.
“You make me hard.”
I tug, and she climbs. I hiss out a curse, her tits briefly in my face.
She drops into my lap, and I groan.
“Story checks out.” Her voice is husky, her hand curling around my nape. “Unless that’s a really large… knife you have in your pocket.”
I don’t answer her taunt—I can’t. The words I have in my mouth aren’t fit for her.
My hands slide up her mostly bare back, curling around her shoulders, holding her against me. There. There.
She hums, pressing her nose into my shoulder, when she shakes her head as though it’s distasteful. “This isn’t your shirt. It doesn’t smell like you.”