Because He Owns Me (Because He Owns Me, Book One) (An Alpha Billionaire Romance) by Hannah Ford Page B

shook my head.   “That’s impossible.”
    His eyes darkened, and I saw something burn
deep within the depths of his irises.   He didn’t like me contradicting him.
    “Open your purse,” he commanded.
    I started to tell him that was absurd and
ridiculous, but something about the look on his smug face made me want to prove
him wrong.   So I opened my purse and
showed him what was inside.  
    A couple of dollars.  
    My license and debit card.
    A tube of red lipstick.
    A newly purchased subway card.
    And my tiny pink shell case.
    He reached in and pulled the shell case out of
my purse, cracked it open and glanced at the tiny pills.
    Then he flipped the case over and poured the
pills onto the ground, grinding them into a fine powder under the heel of his
expensive leather dress shoe.
    He handed the case back to me and then began to
walk back into the bar.
    My mouth dropped.
    Had he really just dumped my Ativan all over
the floor then ruined them with his stupid expensive shoe?   Indignation bloomed in my chest, pushing
out any of the anxiety I’d been feeling a moment ago.
    I followed the arrogant jerk back to his booth,
the red leather one that was situated in the corner of the club.   He sat down and calmly took a sip of his
drink, seltzer water with a fresh slice of lemon floating in it.
    “Hey!” I said.   “Hey, those pills were mine, you
know.   You can’t just go around
destroying people’s things.   It’s
against the law.”
    “So call the police.”
    “What?”
    “If you’re so concerned about laws and who’s
breaking them, then call the police.”   He took another sip of his drink, then glanced at
his watch, an expensive black and silver Rolex.   A thoughtful look passed over his face,
almost like he was trying to decide how much of his precious time he was
willing to devote to this conversation.  
    “No, I don’t…” I took a deep breath.   Something about him was flustering me.   Probably because he was so god damn good looking. “That’s not the point.”
    “What isn’t?”
    “The point isn’t that I want to call the
police.   The point is that you can’t
just go around wrecking people’s things.”
    “Trust me, sweetheart, I did you a favor.”
    “Don’t call me sweetheart.”
    “Then what should I call you?”
    “What?”
    He sighed in exasperation, like he couldn’t
believe he had to deal with the likes of me.   “What.   Is.   Your.   Name?”
    “Oh.”   I was thrown, not expecting that.   “Um, it’s Adriana.”  
    “Adriana,” he said, looking me in the eye for
the first time since he’d sat down.   I liked the way he said my name, slow, like he was turning over every
syllable, trying to figure out what they all meant.   Something flashed in the depths of his
irises, something intoxicating and unfamiliar, skepticism mixed with
trepidation mixed with surprise mixed with desire.
    “What’s your name?” I demanded, wanting
him to know that he wasn’t the only one who could ask questions and needing
something to distract myself from the rush of attraction that was pounding
through my body.
    “Callum.”
    “Callum?”
    “Yes.”
    I shook my head.   “That’s a made up name.”  
    “I’m hurt that you don’t trust me,” he said
sarcastically, like he actually couldn’t give a shit.   He reached for his drink and took
another long sip, the sleeve of his shirt slipping up to reveal a tan, muscular
forearm.
    “Trust needs to be earned,” I informed him.
    He laughed, like he couldn’t believe how naïve
I was.   Then he reached into his
pocket, pulled out a leather wallet with some expensive-looking designer logo
stamped on the front and slid out a crisp white business card.  
    He held it out to me, and I took it, my face
burning as our fingers brushed. I’d always been prone to blushing, and with my
fair complexion, it was almost impossible to hide.    I hoped he wouldn’t notice, but his
eyes were on my face, watching me