The Billionaire's Betrayal (Highest Bidder #3) - Carmen Falcone Page 0,67

him was so drawn to her, he couldn’t pass up the opportunity to bask in her beauty.

His chest squeezed. Damn it. He should be mad at her—she’d broken his heart when she’d decided not to fight for them. Hell, she didn’t even want to give him time to try. One inconvenience, and she’d abandoned ship. A current of resentment made tides inside him. Had he been wrong all along? Had their affair meant so little that she could act like nothing had ever happened? The Alexa behind the steering wheel reminded him of when he’d first met her—no-nonsense, focused and professional. “Why are you here?” he asked, chastising himself for doing so. He’d thought he was a stronger man, but even with everything going on, she was still his weakness.

She made a wide turn, then shot him a coy smile. “I have to be here. That woman came to me to say these things, and she risked her job and God knows what else. Wouldn’t be fair to just hand you the information without following through.”

“And you’re great at following through,” he said, his voice almost as bitter as his mood.

She didn’t reply, which only added to his frustration. Damn, the last week had been miserable. He’d missed her too much—her sexy voice, her warm smile, the one she flashed just for him. Or so he’d thought. What if he’d misread everything? Imagined them, because he’d wanted to see them so badly—wanted her so badly?

She drove through the streets of the old part of Vegas with grace and speed. When she parked in front of an old apartment complex and they slid out of the car in tandem, he decided not to throw jabs at her anymore. Whether she had her reasons or not, she was helping him, and he had to grow a pair and move on. Moving on from a woman like her was the toughest thing he’d ever do, but fuck it, he’d have to.

Moments later, he knocked on the apartment door. Adrenaline pumped in his blood. When the door opened, the flow of blood stopped in his veins, much differently than a second earlier.

In front of him, wearing shorts and a sweatshirt, stood Pamela, in flesh and blood. “Pamela?” he asked, needing to hear himself speak to make sure this was real.

Besides longer dirty blonde hair, she looked exactly like she had before. Maybe a few pounds lighter, but with the specks of challenge still in her dark eyes.

She popped her head out, glancing around before opening the door wider, silently inviting him in. As if in a trance, he entered the apartment, and Alexa followed behind him. A glance at Alexa showed the surprise in her eyes, too. She touched his shoulder, squeezing it with encouragement. He sighed, scanning the area—a well-appointed, if small, living room with a plasma TV and rugs on the floor.

“Why?” he asked, lifting his gaze to Pamela’s. Why had she faked her own death? Then he looked at her hands, her pinkie missing. She’d cut her own finger? “Why?” he repeated, raising his voice.

She shifted her weight from foot to foot, playing with the ends of her hair. A shade of red covered her cheeks for a moment, before she took a deep breath and faced him. “I wanted to become someone new.”

“Couldn’t you do that without faking your own death?” Restless, he paced the room, running his fingers through his hair to alleviate some of his edginess. “Hell, you could have told me you were going to do this.”

Pamela shook her head. “Why is Madam Alexa here?”

“She’s helping me. Don’t change the subject,” he snapped, gritting his teeth. Anger poured over him, the memories of all the nights he hadn’t been able to sleep because of the staggering guilt suffocating him. How he’d missed her—his little sister, the woman he’d seen grow up. They’d had their differences, especially after she’d become an adult, but he’d never stopped loving her. Disappointment zapped down his spine. None of it mattered, did it? The only member of his family he’d thought understood him had abandoned him.

Alexa stepped forward. “When I heard about what happened, I was worried about you. Kace isn’t known for being forgiving.”

“All of a sudden, everyone gives a crap.” Pamela walked past them, striding into a kitchen. She opened a cupboard and grabbed a bottle of Jose Cuervo and put it on the countertop. “It wasn’t personal, Brooks. I wanted to begin again, and I knew if I went