THE BILLIONAIRE'S GIRLFRIEND

FIVE

Malora woke to what felt like the whole British Navy marching in her head. Her mouth tasted like something died in it, and her hair was tangled and badly needed a wash.

Rolling over on the cloud-like sheets on the bed, she groaned and combed a hand down her face.

By the time the plane finally touched down in the private airstrip in London, she'd been pissed out of her mind. A car had been waiting at the tarmac, Mr. Valentine the driver, and he'd driven her to One Hyde Park, the apartment where it'd all begun. After lugging her suitcases into the apartment, Mr. Valentine took his leave without a word.

Malora remembered thinking what the man thought of her before going to bed. The drink that seemed so wise yesterday tasted like death this morning. The man she'd gotten drunk for didn't even show up. She still wasn't sure how she felt about that.

Getting off the bed, she walked into the bathroom to brush her teeth. The place looked as if it was recently cleaned and was stocked to the brim with her favourite body wash, a new loofah, new toothbrush, a new toothpaste and several folded towels. There was even her favourite shampoo and conditioner there, both were also new.

Ignoring the little warmth she felt at the gesture, Malora did her business, took a quick shower and dried off with one of the white fluffy towels. After locating her suitcase by the closet door, she picked out a gray short and faded T-shirt. Then she worked out the tangle from her hair, which took her longer than usual with a healthy amount of pain.

Satisfied that she didn't look and smell like a road kill anymore, she left the room, barefoot, walked down the short hallway into the sitting area, then drew up short.

Her visitor rose to their feet, taking all the energy in the room with them.

The last time Malora saw this person, they'd parted on a hostile yet understanding ground. After both parties had agreed to what was offered, and their being here meant that Malora was either going to pay the money she took or get tossed out on her ear, then go into hiding again with a target painted on her back.

"Miss McCarran."

The words sounded soft and harmless, but she didn't miss the steel behind them. They made goosebumps rise on Malora's skin.

"Miss Grey," she replied in greeting, fingers catching onto the hem of her T-shirt and twisting it.

"Call me Meredith, please," she waved her hand in dismissal, green eyes sparkling. "I apologize for dropping by unannounced."

What did one say to the fiancée of the man who was going to screw you over, both figuratively and literally, about their dropping by unannounced at the house rented by their fiancé?

"Please, let's be seated."

Malora moved to the three-seater facing the single armchair Meredith now occupied, feeling like a slave summoned by their master. It was probably why the woman chose the chair. There was an unmistakable  balance of power, and it was obvious to both women who held it.

Meredith's lips—painted a bright crimson shade of red—lifted in the corners in what could be called a shark smile; that's if shark's could smile. Her finger nails, painted the same blood red as her lips, tapped against the white leather of the chair she sat on. She crossed one knee over the other one, which resulted in her dark pencil skirt riding up to expose creamy thighs that were free of blemishes.

Diamond choker glittered around her throat, the matching earring dangled from her earlobes. Her silver heeled-boots complimented her silk white lace blouse, displaying lots of creamy skin and cleavage, along with her white lacy bra.