Billionaire Bad Boy's Fake Bride: BWWM Romance by Mia Caldwell Page A

reveled in the way he swung her into his arms, carrying her in a tender fashion as he pushed his way through the throng of reporters with the assistance of security guards from the hospital.
    She’d never been so glad to be in a car in all her life as she was when he placed her in the passenger seat of a black sedan less than five minutes after the ordeal had begun. It had been over in minutes, but felt like years had passed. He drove like he was on the race course as he sped away from the hospital, putting distance between them and the aggressive pack of reporters with their vicious lies.
    “What was all that?” she asked, rubbing her aching head.
    His expression was grim. “Someone clearly tipped them off about your injury, and I guess they jumped to the conclusion I had been the one to hit you.”
    She snorted. “Idiots. And who would tip them off?”
    He lifted a shoulder. “Perhaps someone at the hospital. We haven’t made an official announcement of the engagement, but since I was with you the whole time at the hospital, it wouldn’t take a genius to figure out you’re important to me. The ring on your finger adds another clue.”
    She looked down at it reflexively, having forgotten she was wearing it. It had been on her finger for almost a week now, and she was completely adjusted to it. That was disturbing for many reasons, and if she’d had the energy, she would have tried to pull it off. “Still, why would they assume it was you?”
    He shrugged. “I have no idea. I guess because I’m a celebrity.”
    She shook her head, and then groaned at the motion. “The hospital people would have known the truth though. So would anyone that was at the house, assuming it was one of Carly’s associates who called in the tip.”
    He sounded bitter when he said, “When does the paparazzi let a little thing like the truth stand in the way of a sensational story?”
    “True,” she conceded with a sigh. “Well, I’ll just issue a brief statement with a reputable newspaper, and this will all blow over.”
    He let out a sound that could have meant anything, but seemed to be one of skepticism. “I hope you’re right.”
    She was clinging to her optimism, but it rapidly faded as they approached her apartment building to find it surrounded by more reporters. He barely slowed down before driving on by. “Hey, I need to go home, Connor.”
    “You’ll stay at my place.”
    His inflexible tone struck her wrong. “No, I won’t. I’m not going to let a pack of cretins run me from my own home.”
    “They won’t leave once they see us go in together.”
    She frowned. “Then drop me off.”
    “No way. Dr. Whitaker said you have to be watched for the next forty-eight hours.” He barely glanced away from the road as he reminded her of that.
    She shrugged. “She’ll never know.”
    “I’ll know.” He shook his head. “I’m not risking your health when I have plenty of room in the penthouse. You’ve been there, so you know what it’s like.”
    Reluctantly, she nodded. “Well, okay. Thank you, Connor.”
    His lips twitched. “If that tone was any more grudging…” A hearty laugh burst from him.
    “Sorry. I’m just used to taking care of myself.”
    Connor looked at her for a moment, lifting her hand from her lap and squeezing it with his. “Let me take care of you for a bit. It will be a privilege.”
    She wanted to make light of his words, and she searched desperately for a hint that he was kidding or being mock-gallant. She saw nothing but sincerity in his expression, and that made her swallow a thick lump that unexpectedly lodged in her throat. “Well, thanks, I guess, Connor.”
    He released her hand a moment later. A few moments after that, they arrived at the building housing his apartment, and he cursed. Connor slapped his fist against the steering wheel before glaring at the press of reporters crowding the entrance to the private parking garage. By the stir in the horde, it was clear they had been