Playing the Billionaire's Game - Pippa Roscoe Page 0,59
flying to see the Sheikh. It wasn’t supposed to be you.’
‘But it was,’ she said simply. ‘So my question, the one you promised to answer truthfully...’ she said, piercing him with a look, warning him, begging him, and he felt it call to his very soul. ‘Was it worth it?’
He flinched.
‘Stealing the painting and all that it resulted in. Was it worth it?’
He reached for her then, crushing his lips to hers in a kiss that would brand them both. For a blissful moment she unfurled beneath his touch until he felt it, the second she regained her hurt about her like a shield and pushed him away.
‘Was it worth it?’ Sia demanded, her voice hoarse with pain. She looked at him, breathing just as hard as him, the look in his eyes unfathomable.
‘Yes—but not because of the painting,’ he rushed to add. But it was too late. His words had done the damage she knew they would.
‘Sia, listen to me. It was worth it because it brought you to me.’
‘And you expect me to believe that?’ she cried harshly.
‘You have to trust me,’ he begged.
‘I can’t!’ she yelled. ‘I can’t trust you at all. This whole thing has been a game to you. A con. An elaborate, incredible fantasy, but ultimately a ruse. When does it end? How will I ever know if you really do care about me or if you’re just trying to get away with it?’
‘Sia, I care you about you so much that I’m willing to let this go and that scares me so damn much. Everything I’ve risked, that other people have risked for this? I would give it all up in a heartbeat if you ask me to.’ A part of her didn’t want to believe him. In his eyes all she could read was sincerity, but could she really take such a gamble? ‘But you won’t. Because you’re too scared,’ he accused.
‘I’m not scared of you,’ she insisted.
‘No, but you are scared of yourself. Terrified to reach for the things that you want, that make you unique and incredible. And until you realise that, until you face what it is you truly want, accept it and pursue it, you won’t stop being scared.’
‘And I suppose you think that what I want is you? Is that what your words are shaped to make me feel? To make me think?’ she said, the way his words had hit home making her mean. ‘I was so worried about passion, about falling into the hysterical love that consumed my mother that I missed the one real likeness we share. That you’re just like my father. The forger, the con-artist.’ For the first time that evening she felt a clarity descend over her—as if the ice around her heart was crystal-clear and on the point of breaking.
‘But the biggest con you’ve pulled is on yourself, Sebastian. Because it’s not me who can’t trust myself and my wants, is it?’ His eyes flashed a warning but she pressed on, her heart raging in her chest, aching for both herself and him.
‘You say you would give it up if I asked, but it’s not that simple, is it?’ she demanded.
His eyes darkened, gone were the golden flecks she loved so much, gone was the gentle tease to soften the blow.
‘To give it up, to give me the painting, you’d need my surrender.’
‘No, it’s not—’
‘Is that not what you’re asking? For me to tell you that I love you? For me to leave Bonnaire’s, to give up my career, leave London and hang on your arm? Follow you around the world while you visit your hotel empire?’
‘Would that be so terrible?’ he asked, his tone halfway between sincere and teasing.
‘Yes, if you were just playing some game, getting me to go along with what you wanted to get away with your revenge. And if I asked the same of you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘If I asked you to give me the painting, to have your surrender before mine, would you?’
He held her gaze and this time the silence spoke volumes.
‘You can’t give me the painting until I tell you that I love you,’ she said, her voice breaking on the last words. She felt his palm at her cheek, raised her eyes to his and gently leaned into his hand.
‘And you can’t tell me that you love me until I give you the painting,’ he returned, the sorrow in his eyes finally matching hers.
Her heart raged in her chest, crying out