A Bad Boy is Good to Find - By Jennifer Lewis Page 0,8
the bedroom door behind her. Scrabbled to find the clothes she’d torn off in her embarrassing frenzy of lust. She struggled to tug up her tangled pantyhose as the door opened and Con emerged from the bedroom, shirt half-buttoned. Him catching her there, undignified in her underwear, her unlovely body exposed in the harsh fluorescent light, made her cringe with shame.
“Lizzie.”
Her heart leapt at the sound of her name on his lips. Her fingers fumbled with the nylon waistband. “Go away!”
He didn’t love her.
He just wanted her money.
She picked her rumpled dress off the floor and pulled it on over her head. When she emerged from the fabric their eyes met and a pang of emotion rocked her.
We’re getting married today.
No, we’re not.
The whirlwind four-week courtship that felt like a fairytale come true…was over.
Fake.
A scam.
She jerked her eyes from his gaze and they fell to a half empty champagne bottle in the ice bucket on the coffee table. She seized it by the neck, spilling cold champagne down her arm.
“What the—” He slumped to the floor as the bottle thunked against his head.
Lizzie snatched up her wallet and shoved her feet into her uncomfortable high heels. Why not more pain?
Without a backward glance at the body on the floor, she slammed her apartment door and took off down the fire stairs, banging her heels on the concrete as hard as she could.
Look out, world. The wheels have come off and I’m coming full speed ahead!
Chapter 3
Con parked his car outside the adobe walls of the Zen Mind Spa in Las Gordas, Arizona, and entered the front yard through a decorative wrought-iron gate. The forbidding desert stretched for countless miles outside, but lush grasses and bubbling fountains marked his arrival in an oasis of luxury.
“I’m here to see Lizzie Hathaway.” He addressed the aerobicized receptionist. Her blonde ponytail bobbed as she picked up the phone. Plinking samisen music fell around him like drops of water and confident people in workout clothes cruised through the lobby as he waited.
“I’m afraid she’s not picking up.” She turned and glanced at the wall of keys. “Would you like me to page her? What’s your name?”
He cocked his head. “I’m here for her birthday. It’s a surprise.”
He held her gaze ruthlessly.
“Oh.” She blinked several times.
“Would it be okay if I just went up there and knocked on the door? I have a present.” He lifted the gift bag he carried and the tissue paper inside it rustled.
“Of course.” She smiled and pushed her chest out. “It’s room sixteen. At the end of the corridor.”
He smiled. “Thanks.”
Polished wood doors with brass numbers lined the Saltillo-tiled hallway. Would she try to knock him unconscious again? Probably, and he couldn’t blame her. He still woke up at night, sweating at the memory of her question.
Did you ever, just for one moment, love me too?
And his chilling silence.
He still wondered what would have happened if he’d said yes. He’d fought that urge with every cell in his body and in his heart he knew he’d done the right thing. He’d let her off the hook.
What did he know about love? Everyone he’d ever loved was gone. He was all loved out for one lifetime.
He took a deep breath. He hadn’t seen her since that fateful night over a month ago and excitement mixed with apprehension as he raised his fist to knock.
Muffled music—Katy Perry?—crept out around the door frame. He knocked louder.
“No, thanks! My inner yogi is on vacation today,” came a rude shout from the other side of the door. Lizzie. His pulse picked up.
He knocked again. The music jerked off, and he heard feet clomp over tiles. The door flung open.
Then slammed shut.
“Lizzie.” He grabbed the handle. Was that really her?
“Get lost.”
“Please, let me in for one minute.” He needed to see her and reassure himself she was okay. He ached to hold her again, but he knew better than to get his hopes up.
“Go to hell.”
“I drove all the way from New York to see you.”
“You shouldn’t have bothered.” He heard something clatter to the floor.
“Can I at least get a look at you?” From what he’d glimpsed through the crack, an appeal to her pride might work.
He was right. The lock clicked and the door opened a crack.
“Look but don’t touch, buster.”
She pulled it open.
Joy roared through him at the sight of her—alive, whole, healthy. But the hardness in her eyes made his throat tighten. “You look different.”