The Gamble Read Online Donna Alam

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Billionaire Tags Authors:
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Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
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“It must take a lot of effort to maintain that level of contempt for the world.”

“Oh, it’s not for the world.” It’s very hard to maintain an air of superiority when I feel like I’m sitting on the floor. I try anyway.

“I guess that makes me special.” The corner of his mouth crooks wickedly.

He has the kind of bone structure that would make a young Ian Somerhalder sob. And those cat’s eyes. Creation was very generous to him, but while he might be driving Batman’s car, Raif seems more supervillain.

“Special, yes,” I say with a sigh. “Let’s go with that.”

The echo of his laughter resounds even as he closes the passenger door. As he rounds the car, I sit on my hands to stop myself from biting my thumbnail. He climbs into the driver’s seat and, with a deep, throaty purr I feel deep in my pelvis, the car springs to life.

The imposing gates open automatically and, as we reach the road, I notice a few straggling partygoers climbing into a black cab, mostly worse for wear.

“Where did Tod go?” I ask suddenly. Though he got me into this, I’d barely given him a second thought since I’d walked out of the room. After throwing my champagne glass at him.

Raif barely shrugs. “I guess he left.”

“How do I know you didn’t stuff him in a suitcase and chuck him in the Thames?”

“You’ll have to take my word for it.”

“How do I know you’re not going to do the same to me?”

“I guess you don’t.”

I harrumph, my mind turning back to Tod. He probably left with the first pair of open arms. Or legs, more likely. I don’t usually begrudge him, but then he doesn’t usually sell me to the highest bidder without a second thought.

“Maybe I should’ve let you use his head for a cocktail bowl,” I mutter.

“What was that?”

“I said it would be nice if I knew where we were going.”

“To get your passport.” He glances my way. “And an overnight bag.”

“What for?”

“You’ll see.”

“Lavender.”

The sun warms my bum deliciously as my handsome husband calls my name. Eyes still closed, I stretch, recognizing his scrumptous cologne, my tummy flipping as I anticipate the dark sheen of his hair and those smoky gray eyes. The white of his teeth as he sends me a knowing smile.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty. It’s time to wake up.”

A warm hand folds around my shoulder, golden sand ticking my legs as I nuzzle it and—

“We’re here, princess.”

I jerk awake with an inelegant snort to find my field of vision filled by, well, a vision. Black hair and a knowing smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. It wasn’t the sun roasting my bum but the car’s seat warmer. And the man whose smoky eyes dazzle me don’t belong to my husband.

At least, not yet.

Who the hell goes to sleep in the car of their pseudo kidnapper?

“I thought we agreed on fiancée.”

“Urgh!” I roll my eyes, mostly annoyed with myself for letting that out. “Potato, potahto,” I mutter. The man who was carrying a knife, for fluff’s sake!

“So… two potatoes?”

“Whatever,” I retort, attempting to deliver the word without breathing because my mouth tastes like the bottom of a budgie cage, which is a sure sign my breath smells of death.

“Why are you in my personal space?” I demand, pushing ineffectually at his chest.

“You have a little?” As he moves back, Raif tentatively touches the corner of his mouth.

With a scowl, I wipe the back of my hand across my lips. Great. Not only do I snort, have bad breath, and a bad temper but I also drool.

What a catch, right?

“We’re here. At your place.”

“Okay.” I reach for the handle. Of course, it’s not in the usual place. Stupid fancy car.

“Let me.”

“I can do it,” I protest, but Raif leans across me anyway, bringing with him the scent of warm skin and expensive cologne. Better than death and funky budgie cages. The door moves open, and I rock forward in the chair. This is not the easiest car to extract yourself from, though my dress—and the potential for nipple slippage—doesn’t help.

“Wait.”

I hear his door open.

“I don’t need help.” I rock harder, my heart skipping a beat at the thought of allowing him to help. To stare down my cleavage. “I can manage.”

Shoe leather scuffs, and then he’s there, in front of me. “I know that, but we’re both going the same way.”

“I wasn’t planning to invite you in,” I retort, putting my hand in his and ignoring the flash of paler skin on the underside of his wrist. He has long, elegant fingers—talented and dexterous, my insides recall. A strong wrist encircled by a plain-looking watch with a leather strap.

“Then it’s good I wasn’t about to wait on an invitation.” One jerk and I’m out. He doesn’t let go of my hand, sliding his fingers between mine.


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