A Billionaire Between the Sheets (25 page)

“She realized that French Kiss wasn't her dream.”

There was a long pause. “Is it yours?”

It was a good question. A week ago he would've said yes. But that was before Paris. Before he'd started to dream about something else…someone else.

“I don't know,” he answered truthfully.

His father glanced at the window. “Can you fish in those waters?”

Deacon smiled, then flinched when pain shot through his jaw. “Yes.”

Donny John rubbed his hands together. “Well, what say we grab your brothers and some fishing poles and see what we can catch?”

There was nothing Deacon wanted to do more. Fishing had always cleared his head. Unfortunately, he still had some business to take care of. He glanced at his watch.

“We'll have to do that later, Dad. Right now I have a meeting I need to attend.” He swiveled in the chair. “Did you know that Francesca loved Michael?”

“I wouldn't say
love
. That woman is like a spider. She doesn't love as much as feed on men. She got it in her head she wanted to snare Michael, and when he wasn't interested, she got spiteful. Why? What does she have to do with the meeting?”

“Francesca claims her son is Michael's.”

Donny John tipped back his head and laughed. “Well, she can claim anything she likes—and Michael might've had sex with her. But I know for a fact that she didn't have his child.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Because Michael was sterile.”

O
livia was miserable. And whenever she was miserable, she became focused and extremely productive. She cleaned out every closet in her house, the flatware drawer, and the refrigerator and freezer, and then she went to Trader Joe's and stocked up on cheese and coffee, and she was now industriously working on the stained rug on the balcony. Jonathan Livingston Seagull watched her from his perch on the back of the rattan couch with what appeared to be a slight smirk on his long beak.

“It's not funny, you know,” she said as she brushed in the eco-friendly carpet cleaner. “How would you like it if I used your nest as a toilet? You wouldn't be laughing then, now would you?”

He sidestepped to the arm of the couch and leaned closer to the opened can of sardines she'd placed on the table. She didn't know if seagulls liked sardines. They were the only things she'd been able to think to buy at Trader Joe's. With eight cans now in her well-organized cupboard, she was relieved when Jonathan reached out his beak and snatched one from the can. The others followed in short order.

“I shouldn't be rewarding you for bad behavior.” She sprayed more carpet cleaner on the rug. “In fact I should've let Nash get rid of you when I had the chance. Now he's gone.” She brushed in the cleaner. “And so is Grayson.”

The Beaumont brothers had left that morning. She should've expected it. After all, they were Deacon's brothers—or at least half brothers. But that didn't explain why she got so teary-eyed when they'd said their goodbyes. Of course they'd said they would be back to visit. But she didn't believe it. Now that she wasn't part of Deacon's life anymore, she wouldn't be part of theirs. She would miss them. She would miss Nash's flirting and his bright smile. Miss Grayson's calming presence and inspiring talent. Now the house seemed so empty. So lonely. Maybe she should call Babette and invite her back. Even her snooty arrogance would be better than this silence.

She gave up on getting the stains out and sat back on her butt. “At least I have you, Jonathan—”

“Hammond!” Mrs. Huckabee's loud yell scared Jonathan, and in a flap of wings he took flight. His poop landed almost dead center on the spot Olivia had been cleaning.

“I'm busy, Doris!” Mr. Huckabee yelled back. “I'm sitting out here on the balcony listening to Britney talk to her new lover. Now that the two so-called cousins left, she's got some guy over there who goes by the name of Jonathan.”

Olivia rolled her eyes and got to her feet. Mr. Huckabee was sitting on his balcony holding a pair of binoculars that were directed straight at her. Not that he needed them when their houses were so close. She waved. “Hello, Mr. Huckabee. See anything interesting?”

He lowered the binoculars, not at all embarrassed that he'd been caught spying. “So you remembered to close the garage today when you left for the store.”

She didn't know how Nash had done it, but somehow he'd set up an alarm on her phone that went off when she pulled away from the house without closing the garage door. “Thank you for always keeping an eye on my house,” she said.

Mr. Huckabee nodded. “So where's this Jonathan?”

She could've explained, but she was coming to realize that Mr. Huckabee didn't want explanations as much as some excitement. Excitement that he could no longer get for himself.

“Passed out cold,” she said as she looked down at the empty couch. “He must've eaten too many of my magic brownies.”

Mr. Huckabee grinned. “That will do it.” He set the binoculars on the table. “You should try Mrs. Huckabee's some time. She has them down to a science—just enough buzz without the side effects of a gassy stomach.”

“She sounds like quite a cook.”

He craned his neck and called back into the house, “Doris! I'm going to invite Britney over for dinner.”

“Olivia!” Mrs. Huckabee yelled.

Mr. Huckabee didn't miss a beat. “Who is Olivia?”

Surprisingly, and fortunately, Mr. and Mrs. Huckabee dressed for dinner. Mrs. Huckabee wore a peasant blouse and long skirt, and Mr. Huckabee wore a tie-dyed T-shirt and ripped jeans. Mr. Huckabee was right. His wife was an excellent cook. Olivia had seconds of the vegetable couscous, but declined the brownie for dessert. Instead she had a glass of wine and listened to the couple relive their life together.

They had married right out of college and traveled the world. Africa. South America. India. After living in a commune in Arizona, they'd settled in San Francisco and opened a restaurant for vegans. By the end of the evening, it was plain to see that they had lived a long and adventurous life. One that made Olivia's life look dull by comparison. By the time the dinner was over and she'd walked back to her house, she was feeling more than a little morose. Not only because the Huckabees had experienced so much of life but also because they had done it together.

All Olivia had was her mother and a pooping seagull. She had wasted her adult life on a company…and on a man who hadn't even cared enough to tell her about his son. If Michael had told her, she would've understood his leaving the company to Deacon. And it would've saved her the last few weeks of hell. Of course not all of it had been hell. Most of it had been heaven. She had loved designing. Loved having Grayson and Nash around. Loved…Deacon.

Yes, she loved Deacon. The time away from him had allowed her to finally accept it. But it didn't change the fact that they could never be together. She would always remind him of the man who had stolen his mother's dream.

As she punched in the security code for the garage, she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. She whirled to find the lemon juicer salesman sneaking away from the side of her house. When he saw her, he dropped the empty flower containers, grabbed his roller suitcase, and made a run for it. She didn't know if it was the wine or her guilt about not thanking him sooner that had her chasing after him. She caught up to him after a block and grabbed the sleeve of his jacket. It was a surprisingly nice trench coat, the material an expensive nylon-and-polyester mix.

“Wait,” she said as she pulled him to a stop. “I just wanted to thank you.”

He stared down at his shoes. “You don't have to thank me,” he said in a gruff whisper.

“Of course I do. You've taken out my trash, swept my driveway, and planted those beautiful flowers in my garden. I really appreciate it, and I'd like to buy a lemon juicer.”

He quickly unzipped the roller bag and pulled a juicer out. It looked a little like a gun. There was a round chamber where the lemon went, a handle you squeezed, and a long barrel the juice came out of. He handed it to her.

“This is ingenious,” she said. “Did you design it?”

He nodded, continuing to stare at his shoes. “You don't have to pay me. I want you to have it.”

“Absolutely not.” She dug through her purse for her wallet and then pulled out a twenty. Although twenty didn't seem like enough for all that he had done for her. “Look,” she said, “I know this probably isn't any of my business, but do you have a place to sleep? I mean, I know how expensive this neighborhood is and—” She stopped when she realized how arrogant she sounded. “What I'm trying to say is…if you need a place to stay, I have an extra room.”

His head came up. “What? Are you crazy, Olivia Harrington?”

It wasn't just her name that had Olivia looking closer. It was the familiar voice that went with it. A voice she'd thought she would never hear again.

“Dad?”

Her father pointed a finger at her. “Don't you Dad me, young lady. What were you thinking asking some stranger to live in your house? Why, I could be some kind of lunatic who kills you in your sleep, for all you know.”

Olivia was struck speechless as she stared into her father's green eyes. Then she took Deacon's advice about letting your emotions out and got pissed. “What was I thinking? What were you thinking?” She pointed a finger at his finger. “You haven't contacted me once since I was nine, and then you show up at my house masquerading as a lemon juicer salesman? Urrgh! I hate men! All men!” She turned and strode back toward her house. Then stopped and came striding back. “How could you do that to me? How could you do it to Mom?”

She was yelling, but she didn't care. “For years we thought you were dead and here you are selling lemon juicers.” She pointed the juicer at him like a gun.

“Lower your voice, Livy,” he said as he glanced nervously around.

“No! I'm not nine years old anymore. And I won't take orders from a father who couldn't even call me to tell me he wasn't injured or sick.”

His gaze settled on her. “But I am sick.”

Some of her anger drained away. “You're sick?”

He nodded. “That's why I didn't contact you. It was better if you thought I was dead.”

She tried to think of a disease that would keep you away from your daughter for twenty years. “Leprosy?”

A smile tipped the corners of his mouth. “I wish it was that simple.”

The front door of the house across the street opened, and an older woman in baggy pajamas and UGG slippers stepped out. “Is that man bothering you?” she yelled. “Because if he is, I'll call the cops.”

Olivia pulled her gaze away from her father long enough to answer the woman. “No, he's not bothering me, ma'am. But thank you for checking.”

“Are you sure? Or is he making you say that?” The woman held up her smartphone as if taking a picture.

Since Olivia didn't want to end up on Facebook or the front page, she took her father's arm and pulled him back toward her house. “Come on. I'll make you some coffee.”

She put in the code, and the garage door opened. And she was halfway to the door when she realized her father wasn't following her. Instead he stood in the driveway as if he couldn't bring himself to step over the line that divided the driveway from the garage.

“What's wrong?” she asked.

He paused before taking a hesitant step. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

Once inside her house, he became even more fidgety and nervous. He refused to let her take his coat and sat perched like Jonathan Livingston on her kitchen barstool—as if he were ready to take flight.

“I don't drink coffee,” he said. “It reacts badly with my medication.”

Since it was late and she probably shouldn't have any either, she put the empty carafe back in the coffee maker and sat down across from him. She studied him and wondered why she hadn't recognized him sooner. Despite the beard and a few extra wrinkles around his eyes, he looked the same. No signs of decaying skin or flesh-eating disease.

“So why?” she asked. “Why did you leave? And why didn't you ever contact me?”

He fidgeted with the buttonholes on his coat. “I wish it was easy to explain.” His gaze bounced around the room until it landed on a picture of her and Michael standing in front of a Christmas tree. “I wanted to be there.” His gaze returned to her. “But it was better for you that I wasn't.”

“Funny, it didn't feel better. I was devastated when you left. I thought it was my fault because I didn't do well in school—because I couldn't stay focused.”

“No!” He rose from the stool and shook his head. “It was never you, Livy.” He hit himself in the chest. “It was me. I was the one who couldn't live a normal life—who couldn't be the father that you deserved.”

He started to pace back and forth in front of the breakfast bar. “I wanted to be the perfect father. I did. But then the pressure at work became too much and your mother and I weren't getting along…and I couldn't keep it together.” He stopped and looked at her with sad eyes. “Not even for my most precious daughter.”

His shoulders sagged in defeat beneath the trench coat. “My condition isn't physical, Olivia. It's mental. One doctor thought I was schizophrenic, and another diagnosed me as bipolar. But none were exactly sure what caused my mental breakdown. After years of trying to figure it out, I think it boils down to one thing: Your father can't handle pressure of any kind without going nuts.”

It wasn't what she had been expecting. Not what she had been expecting at all. And all she could do was sit there while he continued to pace and fiddle with his buttonholes.

“Even now I can't stand being surrounded by walls. They seem like they're closing in on me.” He got a desperate look in his eyes. “Like they're squeezing me from all sides.”

Since it looked like he was about to have another mental breakdown, Olivia got up and hurried to the balcony door. As soon as she had it open, he pushed past her and stood at the railing, panting like he couldn't breathe. Not knowing what to do, she rubbed his back the way he used to do when she was a little girl and upset.

“It's okay,” she said in a soothing voice. “There are no walls. Just open sky and fresh air.” She pointed at the sky to distract him from his panic attack. “Look. Cassiopeia.”

He looked up, and his breathing slowly returned to normal. “Do you remember the story?”

Olivia knew it and all the stories he'd told her by heart. “Cassiopeia was a vain queen who bragged to the sea spirits that she and her daughter were much more beautiful than they were. They reported back to Poseidon, who sent a sea monster to destroy their city. The king, Cassiopeia's husband, decided that the only way to stop it was to sacrifice his daughter to the monster.”

Her father turned to her. “I couldn't sacrifice you or your mother to the monster that lives inside me. So I left. But I love you, Livy. You have to believe that.”

Olivia looked away. “I don't know what to believe anymore, Dad. Every man I've ever trusted with my love has abused it. And I don't understand any of it. Because if you love someone, you don't leave them without an explanation. Lie to them. Hurt them. That's not love.”