Free Caught in the Billionaire's Embrace by Elizabeth Bevarly

who’s expecting you to be someplace today?”
    She dropped her gaze at that. Pretty much the only reaction he needed. So there was indeed someone else in her life. Someone she’d have to answer to for any kind of prolonged absence.
    â€œIs it a husband?” he asked, amazed at how casual the question sounded, when he was suddenly feeling anything but.
    Her gaze snapped up to his, flashing with anger. Good. Anger was better than panic. Anger stemmed from passion, not fear. “I wouldn’t be here with you if I had a husband waiting for me.”
    Marcus had no idea why he liked that answer so much.
    â€œWhat about you?” she countered. “Is there a wife somewhere waiting for you? Or has she come to expect this kind of behavior from you?”
    He chuckled at that. “The day I have a wife waiting for me somewhere is the day they put me in a padded cell.” When she still didn’t seem satisfied by the answer—he couldn’t imagine why not—he told her bluntly, “I’m not married, Della.” Not sure why he bothered to add it, he said, “There’s no one waiting anywhere for me.” Then, after only a small hesitation, he added, “But there is someone who will be worried about you if you don’t come…home…today, isn’t there?” He deliberately paused before the word home, too, to let her know he’d noticed her own hesitation.
    She inhaled a deep breath and released it slowly, then dropped the curtain and curled both hands around the white china coffee cup. She gazed into its depths instead of at Marcus when she spoke. “Home is something of a fluid concept for me at the moment.”
    Fluid. Interesting word choice. “And by that you mean…?”
    Still staring at her coffee, she said, “I can’t really explain it to you.”
    â€œCan’t or won’t?”
    Now she did meet his gaze. But her expression was void of anything. No panic, no anger, nothing. “Both.”
    â€œWhy?”
    She only shook her head. She brought the cup to her mouth, blew softly on its surface and enjoyed a careful sip. Then she strode to the breakfast cart to inspect its choices. But he couldn’t help noting how she looked at the clock as she went, or how her eyes went wide in surprise when she saw the time. It wasn’t even eight o’clock yet. On a Sunday, no less. It seemed too early for anyone to have missed her if she had been able to surrender an entire night.
    â€œYou really did order a little of everything,” she said as she began lifting lids. “Pastries, bacon, sausage, eggs, fruit…”
    He thought about saying something about how they both needed to regain their strength after last night, but for some reason, it felt crass to make a comment like that. Another strange turn of events, since Marcus had never worried about being crass before. Besides, what else was there for the two of them to talk about after the kind of night they’d had? Their response to each other had been sexual from the get-go. They’d barely exchanged a dozen words between the time they left the club and awoke this morning—save the earthy, arousing ones they’d uttered about what they wanted done and were going to do to each other. Ninety percent of their time together had been spent copulating. Nine percent had been spent flirting and making known the fact that they wanted to copulate. What were they supposed to say to each other that didn’t involve sex? Other than, how do you take your coffee or what did you think of La Bohème? And they’d already covered both.
    She plucked a sticky pastry from the pile and set it on one of the empty plates. Then, after a small pause, she added another. Then a third. Then she added some strawberries and a couple of slices of cantaloupe. Guess she, too, thought they needed to rebuild their strength after the night they’d had. But, like him, she