Babysitting the Billionaire (7 page)

“Sadie. How’s our man?”

“He’s a wreck.”

“Was afraid of that. Man, I had no idea. He’s nothing
like what Jane described.”

“I think I need to stay with him. Not come to work.”

“Agree. He’s not suicidal, right?”

“Mostly he’s just drunk, or sleeping off the last drunk.”
Well, that would have been true for her, May thought.

“Sounds about right. Another problem: Can you get him
here tomorrow around noon? Markus wants to meet him before the party.”

“They’ve never met?”

“We did the pitches over VoiP. So no, they’ve never been
in the same room together.”

“And you’re worried?”

“As long as we’re both there to deflect, it should go
well.”

“Should?”

“Well, we’ve kind of glossed over Markus’s political
opinions. And some other things.”

May sank onto the sofa and closed her eyes. “I think
I’ll need a long vacation after this assignment.”

“You and me both.”

Soon after, they were at the front of the hotel. The
taxi driver held the door, and May and Beau slid in. The weather had held
another day, high sun and low humidity. May wasn’t sure she wasn’t in some
parallel-universe DC, but she wasn’t complaining.

“National Gallery,” Beau told the driver.

“You like art?”

“Of course. I expect you’ve been there, though?”

“It’s as familiar as my living room. And it was my second
art library when I attended classes at the Corcoran.”

“Then you can show me all your favorites.”

The driver left them at the East Gallery. “It’s so
beautiful out. We should go to the sculpture garden, but first, this way.” She
took his hand without thinking. He twined his fingers among hers, locking their
hands together.

Through the doors and past security, May tugged him past
the stone garden and over to her favorite bronzed family portrait.

“This one.”

“The shapes, mathematical and also organic. How square
it is, and yet there is flow. And I love the squished dog.”

“What’s it called?”

“Capricorn.”

He leaned around the big sculpture. A wide man, a king,
made of squares and triangles, and a skinny queen, round and long. The king held
a talking stick in one hand, a small version of the queen in the other. That
arm rested on a sort of yappy dog, the roundest part of the bronze. “Max
Ernst.”

“The splatter-paint guy?”

She nodded. “I love his colors, but I also love that
this one is all one color.”

“Like your painting.”

Pain shot across her forehead. She frowned. “Not
really.”

He squeezed her hand. “Not at all. Do you want to go see
the paintings?”

“Not especially.” She tried to explain. “That feels like
work to me. But sculpture, or music, that’s just fun. And it gives me more ideas
for my work.”

He nodded, though she could tell he didn’t understand.
“It’s like this. You see a fantastic painting, a fantastic app, and it could
inspire you, but in another mood it could depress you. And then you see a
not-fantastic painting, like something the artist just tossed off, but because
he’s a famous artist they bought it, and here it is. And it’s crap! And you
think, ‘he’s taking up my space here; there’s no room for me.’ ”

He looked at her a moment. “You have a good imagination.
But there will always be space for genius. Space for you.”

She blushed, right there in her so-called professional
milieu.
From his mouth to God’s ears.

They walked under the great Calder mobile, and down the
stairs to the passageway between East and West wings so she could show him the
water feature. They emerged and exited immediately into the sculptures outside.

He pointed to a giant brown wheel with a metal gear
attached to it and metal phalanges caught forever in the act of flailing. “What
is that?”

“You’ve never seen one? It’s a typewriter eraser, only
really big. The brown is the eraser part, and the brush is to brush away the
erasings.”

“And that’s art?”

“Made you stop and think, didn’t it? Filled you with
wonder.”

“I’d swap that one out for one of your pieces any day.”

“Bad idea.” She smiled. “Mine aren’t so weatherproof.”

They admired the spider and bird, posed alongside the
hare aping the famous Thinker statue, and almost got in trouble for sitting in
Burton
’s Six-Part
Seating.

“Ready for a snack? There’s a little café there by the
Metro sign.”

They ordered, and he waited for the food while she went
to claim a table. She watched him move from the counter to the condiment shelf
and back. He held his shoulders like a gymnast would. In blue slacks and a
black golf shirt with a penguin logo instead of a polo player, he looked the
part of the tourist, but that stance gave him away. And nothing could disguise
the commanding look in his eyes. He was a power player.

“Checking out the merchandise?” He set their tray down.

“I didn’t know they made those pants in anything but tan
or khaki.”

“Blue’s not much of a stretch, but I did want to be a
bit different.”

“And still a white
Oxford
shirt, but at least it has those tiny red stripes. It almost looks pink at a
distance.”

“It does not look pink.”

“You’re pinking!”

“I do not pink. Drink your coffee, or I will.” She did,
and felt again the welcome space in her mind, that heavy sadness from the past
few months had loosened this morning. Part of it had simply slipped away. She
willed the rest of it to follow.

“Miss May?”

“Mr. Kurck?”

“You are grinning. Art agrees with you?”

“Life agrees with me. Again.”
At last.

His knee brushed hers, and then returned to stay. She
slid down in the metal chair, pressing more of her leg against him. He adjusted
himself in the seat, and her grin grew even wider.

“How about we hop across to the Hirschorn, and then grab
dinner at the Native American?”

“Eat at a museum?”

“It has the best food. It closes early, but that’s OK
because you have to be in bed so soon, right? Oh, and we have to go into the
office tomorrow noon.”

She felt him stiffen and move back in his seat, leaving
her. “Why?”

“Don’t you want to meet Markus Edmonson before the big
announcement? I would.”

He looked at her shrewdly. “Would you?”

Now it was her turn to blush. “He’s kind of a bear, but
that’s because he’s passionate about his work. You’ve got to respect that.”

“I suppose. What is the plan? The schedule for the
expedition,” he said to her blank look.

“Don’t you know?”

“You tell me.”

“I don’t know the dates. It depends on the weather,
right? The plan is a big expedition, maybe a video, and some maps. I get to do
the maps.” She tried to sound enthusiastic.

“You wanted to do more?”

“More videos, a series. And why not animated films? Or
some animation, at least? Cartoons can appeal to adults, too. And, really, we
should be targeting kids, anyway, if we want the penguins’ lands protected for
many generations.” She heard the strident tones in her voice and stopped
talking.

“Sounds like someone else has some passion.” He reached
around and draped his arm on her shoulder, not looking at her. Together, they
looked out at the Metro sign, the multicolored tourists, the greens and browns
of early summer. May could have sat like this all day.

After a while, he stirred and started rubbing her
shoulders where they met her neck. “Ever considered curating?”

“Sure. Not much of a market for curators.”

“I’ve been thinking. Joki needs to be more involved with
the arts. Maybe create a gallery, not here of course. But the collector, she
could live anywhere, really.” He tugged the bottom of her ear, and she
shivered. “Know anyone?”

She laughed. “Very funny. Joki is shooting its wad at
the Antarctic already. I’d say wait until you have three more hit games under
your belt before you start up another money-soaking venture.”

He brushed her hair as he stood. “Money-soaking?” She
flashed panic that he’d go back on the expedition funding, but he was smiling
down at her. His teeth were perfect. He was perfect.

He held out a hand and helped her rise. They cleared the
table, and hands entwined, strolled off across the Mall.

By the time they got back to the hotel flat, May was
emotionally and physically spent. Beau looked to be, as well. But he still held
her hand as she went to put her leftovers in the fridge. She leaned against the
counter. She needed to.
 

“I don’t think I’ve wanted to go to bed at seven since I
was a baby.”

“It’s three a.m. in
Scandinavia
.
Maybe you’re going native.” He lifted their entwined hands and kissed her
knuckles. His eyes were warm and open, watching her. Wanting her.

Something had changed, between last night and now. She
could read him better, and he certainly could read her. Deliciously scary.

She wanted this. Sure, he’d be gone in three days, but
that just made it safer, right? Although it was a rather generous reading of
Sadie’s order to make him happy and get him to the party on time. She pulled
their hands closer and rested them on her shoulder. She watched his mouth, his
most expressive feature. It opened slightly, closed, and that dimple appeared
in the corner. He loosened his fingers from hers and spread them across her
shoulder. Tension she didn’t even know she was carrying flowed away.

She wanted more. She reached for his hip, and guided him
closer. He took the hint, putting his other hand on her hip. His touch pushed
waves of delicious warmth through her abdomen, waking up her sleeping libido.

She traced his lower lip with her index finger. It
wasn’t perfectly even, a shade wider on the left, but that just made it more
delectable. His breath hitched, and his mouth opened a little. Hers matched it
in anticipation.

Then it closed, as if in hesitation. She leaned in and
kissed the wider edge, pulling his lip to open it again.

It worked. He took her lips full-on, his kiss hungry.
She followed his lead, anticipated him, really, as if they’d been kissing for
years. His lips felt as velvety good as they looked. When his tongue flicked
hers, introducing itself, she melted. His hands, still on her shoulder and at
her side, clamped on tighter, as if he’d never let her go.
Good.

They had to come up for air. But instead of kissing her
again, like she wanted, like she needed, he spoke.

“May, beautiful, fragile May.” The tone was wrong.

“No, I want this.” She sounded desperate. Well, that’s
how she felt.

He pushed a strand of hair that had fallen in front of
her face. “It’s been a long day, and we’ve weathered some stormy seas. Remember
this morning?”

She frowned. She didn’t want to remember this morning.
“You helped me feel better.” Help me some more, she wanted to say, but that
would be needy.

“Don’t frown. It’s beautiful, but it hurts me.”

“You don’t want me?”

He groaned and pressed his forehead into hers. “How
could I not want you? Of course I do.”

“But.” She wouldn’t look into his eyes. She could still
see the sigh-smile grow across his lips. His underused lips.

“But I’m tired, and so are you. I want you to be sure,
not regret anything. I never want you to feel like it was a mistake.”

“You think I’m so fragile?”

“I think I am. What if I can’t perform? I want you to
think I’m perfect, but I can barely keep my eyes open. You don’t want that, do
you?”

She kind of did. He could read her face, his smile said.
He pressed his lips into hers again, too briefly.

“If we feel the same in the morning, look out.”

****

When May woke, rested but restless, the clock read just
short of five in the morning. Then she remembered. They’d gone to bed at eight
at night. She brushed her hair and teeth and wrapped herself in her terry robe
before emerging from her bedroom.

Beau was pacing, occasionally stopping in front of one
of the three touch screens arrayed together or the netbook they surrounded. He
was talking out loud, so he must be on a call. Although what he was saying
didn’t make much sense.

“They don’t. I know they don’t. Does no one even have a
laptop? Google the zoo!”

She tried to make no sound, but he saw her on the way to
the fridge and waved her over. She grabbed a glass of orange juice and joined
him.

He swiped an illustration of a bird off the netbook and
onto one of the bigger screens, enlarging it, and swept a different image onto
another screen. “Which one is better?”