Keeping His Promise (Year of the Billionaire Part 3)

Keeping His Promise

Year of the Billionaire Part 3

By

K.C. Falls

Copyright © 2012 by K.C. Falls

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously.

The material in this book is intended for adults only.

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One

My shoes felt like they were made of lead as I climbed the steps to our front door. I was suddenly utterly drained. Dazed by the ordeal of pushing a million dollars under a ferry seat, I numbly recognized that it wasn't over yet. Still, I wanted to go up to my childhood room and pull the covers over my head like I used to do when I was eight years old. Everyone knows nothing can harm you when the covers are pulled up all the way.

Tristan was waiting for me when I reached the top of the flight. He gathered me in
to his arms and I wept quietly onto his strong chest. In spite of everything, the warmth and the scent of him was as much of a homecoming as standing at my parents' door.

"It's okay, now. It's done. We won't have to wait long, I know it." His words sounded so sure
. As he enveloped me in his embrace, I wanted to believe him. More than anything I wanted to accept that if he said it, it must be so. He kissed my throbbing temples and pressed his lips to my forehead before we joined my father and the entourage of cops, plainclothes agents, bodyguards and private eyes all waiting for the safe return of my mother, Marjorie Harding, beloved wife and cherished mother.

Tristan was right, again and as usual. Mom trundled up the steps a few short minutes after I got home. I think everyone was a little surprised. They must have held her somewhere close to the house. I watched her fall into my father's arms to cry and be cradled much as I had done with Tristan just moments before. The similarity made me inexplicably sad.

I gave them a moment before I claimed my mother's hug and we both boo-hoo'ed with relief and release. "Mom, I was so worried. Are you okay? Did they treat you okay?"

My resilient mother smiled at me. "Raina, as kidnappings go, that was probably not a bad one." She turned to the group of men who had politely hung back to give her time with family before the barrage of questions came. "You all might as well hear what I have to say. I have to admit I'm a bit exhausted so I'd like to get this over with, if you don't mind."

Tristan guided me to the couch and sat down beside me. He reached onto my lap to clasp my hand in his. I hung on to the strength of it. I had no choice.

"Gentlemen, I was blindfolded and taken for a long ride. There were many, many turns. I could have been going around the block or I could have been taken anywhere within an hour's ride of here. I heard the sound of bridges underneath the car, and I heard lots of traffic some of the time and little at others. I don't think that the car I was in ever got on an expressway." George put a glass of water in front of her and she gratefully took a lo
ng draw from the glass.

"The men who took me didn't talk much at all along the way.
Until I reached the place they held me, I remained blindfolded. When the blindfold was removed, I was in a windowless room with a table and chair, a cot and a bathroom with a sink and toilet--no shower. A young lady took care of me while I was there. I calculate by the number of meals that it was three days." Several of her listeners nodded. "I can give you a detailed description of the girl later; I had plenty of chances to study her face. They fed me really good Italian food and the young lady was extremely polite. This morning, I was blindfolded once again, taken from the room and back into the car. And, again, I think we rode around for about an hour. If the route was the same, I don't know."

She turned and took my father's hand. "Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to take my husband upstairs where he is going to wait for me to take a long hot shower. Then I am going to get in my bed and rest in his arms until I feel up to answering your questions."

Mom didn't wait for a response. She led my father up the stairs, hand in hand, just like I had seen them a thousand times. Tristan squeezed my hand and leaned close to whisper in my ear. "We're going to go and do the same."

"Tristan, I
can't leave this house right now!"

"I think Marjorie deserves some time alone. There's no reason she and Don can't have a few hours of peace." He turned to the group of men now at loose ends. "I think you've gotten all the evidence from here that you're going to find. Leave the security to my
men and Archie will call you when Mrs. Harding is ready to talk in more detail." I think the cops were happy to take his suggestion. These were not men who enjoyed sitting around waiting.

He turned to Archie and the Laotian bodyguards. "Can you fellow make yourselves fairly invisible? You know what I mean." The men nodded. "Archie, call me when you hear from Mrs. Harding and we'll take it from there. Kwan, bring the car around."

"It's right outside the door, boss."

It wasn't lost on me that even in a group of tough NYPD officers, FBI agents, deadly bodyguards and a private eye, Tristan took control and no one questioned him.

He took my hand and guided me out the door and down the steps. I kept looking over my shoulder toward the door expecting to see my mother and father calling me back inside. But at that moment, the only person either of them was thinking about was the other. I understood.

"Your parents are so lucky to have one another," Tristan remarked as we settled into the back seat of the waiting car.

"They have a rare bond," I agreed. I wanted to talk about love. I wanted to talk about the decision I had made on the way back from the pier in the taxi. I wanted to suck up the guts to tell him that I couldn't be happy with him, not in the way I wanted to be happy. The kind of happy my parents had.

"I think
we
have a rare bond. Perhaps not the same kind of bond, but unique all the same." Tristan had a way of sensing my thoughts and setting up a pre-emptive argument. Usually, but not always that included an element of seduction. He knew exactly how to use the fact that I found him compellingly irresistible to move us to safer ground. Not that I found sex with him safe. Tristan had shown me time and again that he could get me to expose my most intimate self. He had also demonstrated a talent for taking me to daring heights I could not have anticipated.

He stretched his legs out in front of him, cat-like, and placed a hand on mine. His skin glowed with our recent days in the sun, tawny as a Siamese. I was emotionally exhausted and the small gesture was comforting. The bond we shared had seen me through my mother's ordeal and I knew I should be grateful for having had Tristan beside me.

I closed my eyes and he held my hand on as Kwan meandered across the river and into the bustle of Manhattan. When we reached Tristan's apartment he offered me a hot bath.

"A good long soak will do you good. I'll pop out for a few moments and pick up some lunch." He practically forced me into his master bathroom and handed me a stack of fluffy towels. "After lunch, if you're up to it, I think we should talk."

Was he reading my mind? Did he know I was going to drop a bombshell on him as soon as I could suck up the courage to say what I had to say?

The steaming water swirled around me when I pressed the button for the Jacuzzi. The bubbles felt marvelous as they tickled away the tension of my morning.
I was sad, but in a resigned way. In the kind of way that finally admits the truth. I could--I had to--live without him for sanity's sake.

I slipped my head under the water and listened to the sound of the churning water. There was a part of me that wanted to just stay submerged forever. Suddenly life had become a lot heavier. In France, I had allowed myself to be swept into his world. It was a pretty carefree world, when you got right down to the nut. He immersed himself in pleasure and beauty and, as long as his back wasn't up against the wall, he was carefree.

Carefree didn't seem natural to me. I cared a great deal and about a great many things. I cared about family, about friends, about the direction of my life and, ultimately, I cared about finding the kind of love that walked up the stairs, hand in hand.

Fluffy, thick towels, marble bathtubs with champagne bubbled water, naked walks on foreign beaches,
foie gras
and leaf wrapped cheese weren't really part of my world. As I dried myself, I thought how much more I was about a grilled cheese sandwich on white bread and a stroll in Central Park. I was Marjorie and Don Harding's daughter, grounded and ordinary. I had let myself be swept away and I forgave myself, but it was time to get back in control.

Instead of putting on one of the pair of bathrobes that hung on a warming rack near the door, I dressed in my clothes again.
Tristan was far too practiced with robes, that much I knew. He was laying food out on the coffee table when I emerged from the bedroom.

"I've got killer sandwiches from Dean and Deluca. Are you starved?" He put a platter of goodies on the table. "I sure am."

"I am hungry. It looks delicious." Anything I had to say to him could wait until after we ate. Besides, I loved watching him eat. He took the same kind of sensual pleasure in his appetite for food as he did with his other appetites. When he consumed a meal, he was utterly committed to it. I loved the way he considered every morsel, savored all the flavors even in the simple things like a deli sandwich.

We had our lunch in quiet companionship. It was ironic to me that just as Tristan seemed to be getting more comfortable with
me; I was preparing to put the brakes on. At one point, he looked up at me over a bite of pastrami on rye.

"You're looking lost in thought."

"I have a lot to think about."

"I know. I've been doing some thinking too." He put his quarter sandwich down on the plate and continued. "First, your Dad's not out of the woods yet. Even though I believe, along with the FBI and Archie, that the union guys aren't responsible for Marjorie's kidnapping, they are still very much out there."

I hadn't really thought much about my father's assailants. I guess the relief of having Mom safe sort of pushed that ugly truth out of my mind.

"I think we may yet have to face a confrontation on that issue. I've got some folks working in the back rooms to see if there's a peaceful way to get them to back off that will satisfy your father and the unions."

Dear Tristan. He never stopped. "Thanks," I murmured.

"But there's another thing I know has to be weighing on you."

Will he actually bring it up? Is he going to finally broach the unmentionable--our relationship?

"We have utterly neglected the subject of your employment. I promised you when you went with me to France that I would make up for missing those interviews." Another thing that had been relegated to the cobweb infested corner of my mind. How could I have forgotten?

"Here's the thing," he went on. "I think the best course of action is for you to have your own business. Being your own boss is the only way for you to be free enough to . . . free enough for . . ."

"For what, Tristan?" I wanted to hear him say it.

"Free to be with me. Okay? I don't want you tied down to a nine to five situation. I want you to be able to close the door and walk away when I . . . when
we
want to get away."

"I see." I looked him square in those hazel forest eyes that threatened to tear my resolve into tiny pieces. "You want to find me a business that will allow me to be at your beck and call."

"I didn't say that. I thought we both wanted to be able to spend time together, that's all."

"I don't know. Is that what we both want?"

"What's gotten into you? You're awfully hostile all of a sudden."

I looked at him and softened. He wasn't
really a mind reader. He was trying to help my parents and help me find my way in a city that didn't give a lot of breaks. "I don't mean to be hostile, Tristan. It's just that you've never actually asked me what it is
I
want."

"Okay, I'm asking now."

I drew in a long courage-building breath. "I think it's easier for me to tell you what I don't want. I don't want to live only in the moment. I don't want to feel that asking you about where we're going is a criminal offense. I don't want to never be able to
expect
anything from you . . . from us. I don't want to be with a man whose past is forever kept behind a veil."

"Oh. I guess then it's my turn to say, 'I see'." He began to mechanically fold up the refuse from lunch. He shoved the last uneaten part of his sandwich viciously into the bag and stood up with the trash in his hands. Wordlessly, he walked to the kitchen and I heard the thump and thwack of the bag hitting the trash shute and the door slamming back in place.