The Billionaire’s Marriage Of Deception

There was a moment of silence. The weight disappeared entirely from Amanda’s back, and she was being hauled up by a dark arm around her waist that was as thick around as Amanda’s calves. That solved the glass problem, but she wasn’t all too keen about being manhandled by someone she couldn’t see. “Let go!” she demanded, swatting at the arm.

Instead, she was bodily picked up and turned over before being deposited back on the carpet. “You’re not Sidibe.” The voice sounded baffled.

“I’m not a what?” Amanda looked up and finally got a view of the tree that had attacked her. And her jaw dropped.

The man was dressed in skin-tight black that showed off ridiculously broad shoulders and pecs that Amanda’s spread hand probably couldn’t cover. His utility belt had a sheathed knife in it, an empty gun holster, and as Amanda’s gaze trailed down the muscular arm that was twin to the one that had been hauling her around, she saw long fingers gripping a small, wicked-looking, black pistol. The man’s shoulder length black dreadlocks were held back with a bandana, and his dark skinned face had a scar running from the base of his eye to the middle of his cheek. Beneath all scariness of his rugged appearance, his honey gold eyes which stood out in the darkness of his face drew her eyes —and right now they were widening as they took in Amanda’s face.

“Um.” Amanda licked her lips. “Who are you?”

“I should be asking you that question,” the man in black returned.

Amanda frowned. “This is my cabin. Villa. Whatever. You’re the one who came in uninvited.”

The corners of the man’s wide mouth turned up. “I’m the one who saved you from a bullet.”

“Yeah, but you—” Amanda blinked. “Wait, what?”

“Don’t worry, it wasn’t meant for you,” he said dismissively. “That is, I shouldn’t assume, but you don’t look like you’re African.”

“No, I’m not,” Amanda said absently, “Well my ancestors were; by way of Dominican Republic I think but I’m an American. Now can you tell me who you are?”

“Oh, right.” The man started to extend his hand, then realized it was still holding a gun. “Sorry.” He held out his left hand instead. “Michael Deaton.”

Amanda automatically took Michael’s hand, noticing how it all but engulfed her. For some reason, that made part of her anatomy start to perk up, and she realized with a heat that not only was she still only wearing a bathrobe, it had loosened slightly in the excitement and she was in danger of exposing herself to this goliath on their first meeting. “Um, do you mind?” she asked, squirming a little and willing her inconveniently aware reaction to him to shut the hell up.

“What do you—” Michael’s leg pressed down for a second, and then his eyes went wide. “Oh! Um, sorry. Let me—”

He started to sit up, but Amanda grabbed at his shoulder to keep him from rising any farther and exposing her to the world. “Wait,” Amanda snapped. Their legs were entangled, and the skintight fabric covering Michael’s strong thighs did nothing to conceal his muscles. Amanda shivered at the touch on her bare legs as she reached between their bodies to pull the cotton fabric closer around her. The brush against her sensitive skin had her drawing in a breath, but she gritted her teeth and tightened the belt on the robe. “Okay,” she finally grumbled.

Michael sat back on his heels, still straddling Amanda’s legs, his broad forehead wrinkling in a frown. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. What is—”

“Why are you staying here? In this villa?”

Amanda glared at him. “Because I paid for it.”

Michael rolled his eyes. “Why here?” He pointed downward with the gun, and Amanda flinched. “Sorry,” Michael muttered, smoothly holstering the weapon.
Amanda bit her lip, not wanting to admit the whole sad story.

“There was a last-minute cancellation,” she finally said. “So they gave me this place instead.”
“Oh.” Michael’s face fell. A second later, he was lifting his fingers to his ear, and Amanda realized the click she had heard earlier was the activation of a tiny radio. “Demore, we have a problem.”