Billionaire's Accidental Wife
Chapter 2

Chapter 2 Inside Alfonso's mansion, Chelsea held her composure until she had reached her private quarters on the mansion's second floor. Once inside, she leaned against the closed door and let her revulsion leak out of her in a shudder. At least she was getting better at the charade.

She doesn't have any choice but to play this game if she wants to know about the sudden death of her step-dad. Yes, the man was not perfect, but he raised her enough to know that he didn't just die for some unknown reason.

There was a time when she might have had to bite back a scream because the revulsion of Hermano touching her was too much. It had been a year since the old man's death, but still, she was at a loss of what really happened to him in Thailand, and she knew Hermano was the one to blame.

Her skin, however, crawled everywhere Hermano touched her. His strong fingers were still on her body, on her breast. His harsh smack to her backside wounded her dignity as much as it did her ass. She despised being paraded in front of his cronies as his personal show pony, made to look and act as if she belonged to a gang of lunatics. To be fair, he did, in many ways, own her. Her existence. Her liberty. Hermano possessed everything, regardless of how much she disliked him. He may have had her body as well if she hadn't persuaded him that taking that part of her would cost him the one thing he couldn't afford to lose. So far, the threat had kept her out of his reach, but she knew he'd been tempted to put her to the test. She simply hoped that if he tried, she wouldn't kill him. Because no matter how brilliant she pretended to be in dealing with Hermano, he always had one last, horrible card to play.

And she had no choice but to serve him as long as he held that over her head. She could never get away from him, not even in death. He'd made sure of it.

Chelsea knew better than to wait any longer. While he entertained his boot-licking pals in the big salon, he'd sent her away to retrieve the list of his associates. They were rejoicing over a hefty reward from a shipment of gold coins to the United States and the United Kingdom-a drug that ruined the minds of their own kind, the mob, turning them into blood-addicted monsters with just a small amount. They didn't care if their unexpected gain came at the expense of human and young lives. She had learnt a long time ago that Hermano's hunger knew no limitations. Neither did his rage. That her beauty had helped him amass his growing fortune, and the power that came with it, made Chelsea want to retch. How often had she thought about giving him a false name? False information? How many times had she dreaded that her help would one day prove useless? Not that seducing her enemies was difficult; after all, she was Helen of Troy's beauty rival.

But she hadn't deceived him, not once.

And, thankfully, her information had never been wrong. Either of those failings would come at the cost of innocent lives. Not her own, but the people she cared about most in the world. The only family she has left now

It was those precious lives she held close in her heart as she walked over to the cabinet across the room and retrieved the list Hermano would need downstairs. In reality, she was just biding her time, gathering information and evidence to take the bastard to his knees soon. She sighed and secretly took a picture from her phone, then left it in the bin for her accomplice, the cook, to take out later.

She cradled the folder in her palms and drew it out of the cabinet. Her face stared back at her in the reflection in the polished golden mirror - but that wasn't all. Behind her stood the ominous shape of someone else.

Aman

Tall, immense. An intruder dressed entirely in black tactical gear. Chelsea sucked in a startled breath.

Fear streaked through her, but before her shriek could rip up the back of her throat, a broad palm came up to cover her mouth. Oh, God.

The folder was out of her grasp, thudding onto the thick rug. Muscular arms caged her from behind, immobilising her. She stumbled in her high-heeled sandals, helpless against the heat of a very strong, very male body. This wasn't any of the other men gathered in the salon with him either, although there was no question that the male trapping her in his unbreakable hold was Breed. "Don't scream, Chelsea." He spoke right up against her ear. His growled command was spoken in a deep baritone that caressed her nerves.

He knew her name. How? Who the hell was he? Where had he come from?

She struggled and fought to break free, but he wouldn't let go. He was much too strong, and none of her squirming or resisting was getting her anywhere. All her grunts and cries for help were snuffed out by the hand that was still sealed firmly across her lips.

Trapped, she could only stand there, her breath rushing out of her nose in panicked gusts while terror wrapped around her heart like a vise.

"Be calm. I'm not going to hurt you."

Did he think she was a fool? She didn't believe him for a second, not when she could feel the lethal power radiating off his big body. Whoever this man was, he was beyond dangerous, and she did not doubt that his only business in the villa was death.

She groaned, trying futilely to pull away from him in another burst of desperation. Her heart was speeding, banging against her rib cage as if on the verge of exploding. Even though she was scared, she felt like she was starting to recognise something. She knew it was impossible, this strange feeling that this intruder was no stranger at all. Her

blood was still racing and cold with terror, but beneath the fear was a growing sense of familiarity.

A name skated across her memory, one she had tried for years to ban from her thoughts and her heart.

Dave?

No. It couldn't be him.

The beautiful, golden-haired bastard she had known all those years ago had been a scholar, an artist, not a soldier. He would have no business in a place like this, among thugs like the ones gathered downstairs. Then again, there was a time when she'd have said the same thing about herself. "I'm going to remove my hand from your mouth now," he murmured. As he spoke, his breath skimmed warmly against her cheek and along the side of her neck. She shivered from the feeling and was surprised to realise how much he still meant to her after all these years.1

Because, yes, she did know that low, velvet voice.

Just as she knew the scent that enveloped her as she stood immobilised in his arms. Heaven helps her, but she had carried the scent of him, the sound of his voice, in a private corner of her heart since she was a teenage girl. "Don't be afraid, Chelsea. I didn't come here to harm you. Nod your head if you understand." She nodded, and his grip on her relaxed. His palm fell away from her lips, leaving a coldness in its wake. Chelsea slowly turned around in his slack hold. "Oh, my God." The words leaked out of her with a disbelieving sigh. "What the hell, Dave?"

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