Page 82 of Trapped

“Well, I do. So, can we skip to the part where you tell me what’s going on?”

Men in my line of work didn’t confide in their women. I took out my wallet from my back pocket.

“Do some shopping. That’ll take your mind off things.”

She glowered at me. “I don’t want your money.”

“My bank account begs to differ.”

Delilah flushed down to her neck, that gorgeous pink shade spreading everywhere. Her eyes widened as she tried to come up with an excuse, but I didn’t need to hear one.

“I don’t care that you only want money from me,” I ground out, the lie heating my chest. “As long as you’re with me.”

“Being used for money doesn’t bother you?”

Of course it does.

I kept my voice even. “You get what you want, and so do I.”

“It hardly seems worth the money.”

“I disagree. I have the most beautiful woman in the city right where I want her. And soon, we’ll have a family. You think I’d let that go just because it costs me?”

“Maybe I’ll start charging interest.”

“With the rates you’ll probably charge, I’ll be bankrupt before the wedding.”

She lifted a brow. “Assuming there will be a wedding.”

“There will.”

“I don’t know. I don’t exactly have a stellar track record when it comes to following through on those.”

My lips curved. “You’ll want to marry me.”

I said it like a certainty, but I wasn’t sure of anything. The nagging feeling that she would leave twisted in my gut.

“Oh yeah? How come?”

“Because I’ll deposit a quarter of a million dollars into your bank account once you’re pregnant. And you’ll get more once we’re married. Plus, jewelry and clothes. Whatever you want.”

Her eyes lit up. “Seriously?”

“I’ll write it in the prenup.”

I grew up poor. I understood the appeal of wealth better than anyone. Who wouldn’t want complete freedom? I’d fantasized about being rich. Not just comfortable butrich. Extravagant vacations. Custom-built houses. Luxury cars.

Delilah had grown up with a silver spoon in her mouth. She had a taste for expensive things. Few men could afford to keepDelilah. Marrying me should have been a no-brainer. Yet she seemed conflicted.

I needed her with me. Money wasn’t enough, but it was the only leverage I had. That was all I was to her. A walking bank account. A means to an end. The second she got what she wanted, she’d walk away.

“I can’t agree to marry you for money,” she muttered.

“What do you want, stock options?”

She glared at me, then got off the chair and parked her ass on my lap. She twined her arms around my neck. “I’m notonlyinterested in your money, you know.”

Sure, babe. “I was starting to think you need an itemized invoice to remind you why you’re with me.”