The Billionaire's Christmas Bride (Big Bad Billionaires #3) - L. Steele Page 0,122

me...go." I cough, swipe at his arm with my spatula. He grabs it, wrenches it from my hold, then throws it at Weston, who steps aside in a move so graceful that I blink. The man can move...and not just in bed. If I get out of this alive, I am going to sit on him, in said bed, and ensure that we not leave that space for weeks.

Weston glances at me, "You okay?" His voice is toneless. His features are hard. Gone is the kinky doctor, the demanding lover, the son who cares for his mother... In its place, is a man far more lethal than the intruder who has me in his grasp.

"Amelie?" Weston snaps, "Answer me."

"Yes." I squeak, then clear my throat. "I am fine."

He turns his gaze to the man who holds me captive.

"What do you want?" he asks. "If it's money, let me get to my wallet—" He takes a step forward.

The man swoops out his hand, grabs a knife from the rack next to the cooking range. He presses its edge to my neck and the blood drains from my face. No, no, no, this can't be happening. My pulse rate ratchets up, my heart hammering so hard in my chest, I am sure it’s going to jump out. My head spins. No, I will not faint, no way. I bite down on the inside of my cheek, draw in a breath, then another. The silence stretches. A beat, another.

The ticking of the countdown clock fills the space. Weston's gaze darts to the egg timer—his face pales. A nerve throbs at his temple, beating in tandem with the stupid tick-tock of the timer. Ugh, why did I have to wind it up? Because I could? Because I thought I was alone. Because I was being spiteful... Gah! Death by kitchen timer... Nooo, that's like a terrible B-grade screamer movie. I am not going out this way, not without a fight. I raise my hand and the intruder presses the knife deeper. Pinpricks of pain spark out from the cut and I feel a drop of blood trickling down my throat. The ball of emotion in my chest seems to expand. I try to swallow, but find my mouth is too dry. Hell, do something, anything.

I stare at Weston, at the sweat that glistens on his forehead. Look at me, look at me, I urge him in my mind. Please baby, tear your gaze away from that stupid egg timer—if we get out of this, I promise I'll throw away every single, stupid timer in the house... I'll switch to those silent ones, the newer digital ones even—I cringe. Okay, so they are not my favorite, but no choice. Needs must, and all that. The intruder grips my arm, urges me to take a step forward.

Weston doesn't move—the muscles of his massive shoulders lock and his chest planes could be hewn out of rock. Everything within him seems riveted by that horrible timer. OMFG, what the hell am I going to do now?

The intruder nudges me and I move forward, closer...closer to where Weston stands, rooted to the spot. His jaw tics and the tendons of his throat bulge. His arms are locked into his sides—frozen in the moment that he'd spotted the timer.

How long did I set it for? Ten minutes? Five? Oh God, please let it be for five or less. Why did I have to touch that stupid thing? Can I rewind back this morning...to the time in bed, when he had reached for me and tickled me until I couldn't stop laughing? Had it been just this morning? And why hadn't I thrown my arms and legs around him, clung to him and not let him leave? We could have still been in bed, all toasty and warm, and fucked each other until we'd collapsed again. Yes, that's what I want when this is over—an entire non-stop marathon of make-up sex. Weston, darling, please hold on, just a few more minutes, just a— The intruder shoves me forward, I stumble, slip on some of the remnants of the apple pie that are still on the ground. My legs slide out from under me, and I scream.

There's a blur of action. I sense Weston move—he swoops down, grabs the egg-timer, hurls it toward me.

49

Weston

The egg-timer rings as it sails through the air. It grazes the forehead of the intruder—who's wearing a mask. Of course, he is. Motherfucker! And my aim with my