Dirty Billionaire (Page 30)

I pull out my phone to do some quick Google searching.

Bingo. Apparently Rudy’s Music is a New York fixture, and looks absolutely perfect. I check the distance, and realize it’s too far to walk. I have no idea how to get in touch with Creighton’s driver, so I decide that for the first time in my life, I’m going to catch a cab. It can’t be that hard.

I don’t even bother to shower or change my clothes before I’m out the door. After all, I’ve got songs to write, and for the first time in months, I can’t wait to dig in.

I’m riding high on the knowledge that I’ve just written the most epic song of my career to date. Granted, my official career has only spanned nine months, but I’ve been writing songs for much longer. Regardless, the song is epic. I’m as humble as the next girl, but even I know when I’ve struck gold.

I don’t even realize the time as I walk through the giant door into the lobby of Creighton’s building. For the last however many hours, I’ve been tucked into a corner at Rudy’s, losing myself in the music. The super-cool old dude finally asked me to leave an hour after he would have normally closed. I guess he was caught up in the music too, but was gracious and awesome, and promised to come to my show the next time I performed in the city.

I swipe the key card the doorman gave me as I left the building, hit the P button, and lean back against the mirrored walls of the elevator. Because Creighton owns the entire top floor, the elevator opens directly into a lobby that has only one door. I left it unlocked, assuming only someone with the key card could get back up here.

I can’t help but hum the melody of my new badass song to myself as I step into the darkened penthouse. Dropping my purse on the huge table in the entryway, I grip the notebook between my teeth as I tug off my boots. It’s cold as heck outside, and even during the short walk from the corner where the cab dropped me off, I think I slogged through some nasty stuff hiding in the snow that has been falling since this afternoon. Since I take better care of these boots than some people do their children—they’re one of very few extravagant purchases in my life—I whisper that I’ll be back to wipe them off in a hot second.

I’m crossing into the living area and heading toward the kitchen when a lamp clicks on. The pooling light reveals Creighton seated in the chair by the fireplace.

For a moment, I’m reminded of one of those movies where the teenager is sneaking into the house after curfew, and the mom or dad is waiting in the living room all quiet-like before flipping on the lights and surprising the kid. Considering I never had a mom who cared enough about me to set a curfew—let alone ever have a dad—I’ve always been a little envious during those moments in movies. Gran was amazing, but she was in bed by nine every night, and I respected her too much to stay out past midnight, which was my self-imposed curfew.

Creighton’s expression is dark, despite the crisp white light. “Where the fuck have you been?”

I stumble to a stop at the question. “Excuse me?”

“I said, where the fuck have you been?”

I’m taken aback by his tone. Creighton was the one who left within moments of depositing me in this penthouse, so if anyone has a right to be pissed, it would be me. And regardless of how nice a place it is, I’m not exactly the kind of girl who can sit idle. He never said anything about not being able to leave.

I try to interject some lightness into the mood. “It’s lovely to see you too, my dear husband.”

“Answer the question, Holly.”

Seriously, why is he so pissed?

“I was out. I needed a guitar, so I went and found one.”

“And you couldn’t answer your goddamn phone?”

I glance in the direction of my purse. I don’t remember it ringing, and I sure didn’t look at it after I found my way to Rudy’s. Then I look back to Creighton, a flare of guilt building inside me, but it’s quickly doused when he pushes out of the chair and stalks toward me.

“You don’t leave this building unless I know where you’re going.”

Say what now?

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“I didn’t realize I was a prisoner here.”

“You’re not a prisoner; you’re my wife.”

“Apparently that’s the same thing,” I mumble, dropping my gaze to the floor. Because I’m pretty sure if I look at him right now, I might incinerate him with the fire shooting from my eyes.

He lifts his hand, and I flinch before he cups my jaw and lifts my chin. I’m forced to meet his gaze, and open my mouth to spit that same fire, when he says, “Scared the hell out of me to come home to find you gone. I came up with a million different scenarios while I was sitting here, calling your phone over and over. Thought maybe you’d run.”

I blink, the intensity of his gaze unnerving me. “Run?”

“From me.”

I bite my lip. A hint of vulnerability creeps over his features before they harden once more.

“Not that it’d do you any good. I’d track you down. There’s nowhere you could hide from me.”

My eyes widen at his words, and heat rushes through me at the sheer possession in them. I should hate it, but I don’t. Being wanted is a feeling I’m not used to, and it’s seductive.

“I’m not done with you,” he finishes.

And the heat cools, because I can hear the unsaid “yet” floating in the air.

I clutch my notebook to my chest, trying to hide the pang that just jabbed at my heart. I shutter my expression, not wanting him to know that I feel the word he didn’t say. Not wanting him to know that I care. Because I don’t.