Shopping for a Billionaire 2 (6 page)

“Neo-Warhol post-modern art performance?” I gawk at Josh, who scowls and folds his arms across his chest.

“Shannon, sometimes you have to be hard to please.”

“Let me get the keys for you,” Greg says, turning back toward the main entrance. He seems looser, less tense. Who wouldn’t? He just got a big burden off his chest. And placed it squarely on us.

“I didn’t agree to drive that,” I hiss. My tone is more menacing than I want it to be. My head is splitting from caffeine deprivation, and all I can think about is driving around town in a car that looks like an ad for plumbers who unclog toilets the day after Superbowl Sunday.

Greg comes to a halt at the small picnic table under the oak tree in front of the building’s main entrance. Cigarette butts litter the ground around the metal bucket with sand in it. Bright red lipstick encircles every single filter. Louise, the receptionist for the wholesale lamp import firm above ours in the building, must be back to smoking.

“You can’t refuse,” he says in a calm voice. His eyes meet mine. There is no pleading. He’s stating a presumed fact.

“Yes, I can.”

“No, you can’t.”

“Is this a condition of my employment?” The idea of driving a turdmobile around town to do mystery shops, to perform my own personal errands, to shepherd my nephews around, makes my stomach turn into a pretzel.

“Besides,” I add, “it’s going to make us all huge targets when we do our shops. None of these cars is exactly nondescript.” I can’t hide the tone of triumph in my voice.

With one slow, drawn-out gesture, Greg points to my car. The paint on the roof and hood is flaking. The passenger-side door is bright red. The rest of the car is black.

“Your car isn’t exactly ‘nondescript’ either.”

“It doesn’t have a piece of fiberglass poop on top of it!”

My words carry on the light breeze that passes between us just as a long, sleek limousine pulls up in front of the building, not twenty feet from us. The rear window is open and—to my utter shock—the face of Declan McCormick emerges from the shadows.

He looks puzzled. Behind him sits his father with a horrified look on his face. Both men are dressed in suits, Declan’s arm reaching out the window to wave me over. Each step I take makes my body tingle. Once I’m close enough, I smell the heady scent of cologne and leather, pushed out by a blast of air-conditioned air.

“Hello, James.” I make eye contact and smile, just like I would in any professional setting. “Declan,” I add, as if an afterthought, then tear my eyes away from his father and give the younger man my full attention. My body has been giving him every molecule of awareness since the limo pulled into the parking lot. My eyes just need to catch up.

He shoots me a half-smile, the kind where one side of his mouth curls up with sultry amusement. The tingling turns into a full-blown blood blast, making my skin hover a quarter-inch from my body and pushing my sex to a dull throb that needs his touch to recede.

Decidedly unprofessional. But very authentic. My God, the man can set me atwitter with a look. What would a night in bed do?

“Ms. Jacoby,” Declan’s dad says. “Shannon,” he corrects himself, then gives Declan a side eye that I take to mean
What the hell are we doing here?
 

Greg comes over and gives an anemic wave. He’s clearly as puzzled as James is. Then, suddenly, both of them look at us. Or, at least, I think they look at us. All I know is that I’m looking at Declan and he’s staring right back and everyone else fades into a different world where they’re important.

But not urgent. The only urgent person in the world is making me his obsession with eyes that won’t cut away. I can’t breathe, and yet I become air. I can’t look away, and yet I see everything in his piercing look. I can’t move, and yet I feel connected to every single item in the world, as if I’m one with everyone and every thing.

James clears his throat and taps Declan’s shoulder. “The jet is waiting.” His words break the spell and Declan turns just enough to cut his eyes away from me. It’s like a dimmer switch on the sun has been spun a half-turn.

“The jet can wait longer.” Declan’s words are cold ice.

“No, son, it cannot. I need to make a series of meetings before yours.” James matches Declan’s tone. I feel a distinct chill in the air, and it’s not the car’s A/C.

The black door opens and Declan steps out. The man can wear a suit like an Armani model on a Milan runway. My mouth waters as he steps out, from classic wingtips on his feet to the heathered lavender tie that is loose around his neck. A crisp white shirt with sterling silver cuff links peeking out under an all-black suit sleeve makes me snap to attention, the top button at his neck undone, his body language tense but his overall look alluring and demanding.

Why is he getting out of the limo?

The car door snaps shut with a resolute tone. Declan’s words do, too. “You go ahead, then. I’ll catch up.”

“How?” James is outraged. “I’m taking the jet.”

“Then I’ll fly commercial.” Declan pulls out his phone and taps into it for a few seconds. “Done. Grace is making arrangements.”

“Commercial?” James says the word as if Declan had just announced he’d drive a Flintstones car to London. “Why on earth would you do such a thing?” His expression is tight and he’s angry. Deeply furious.

Meanwhile, Declan is closed off. Aloof. Contained, controlled, and in full mastery of whatever emotions must be roiling inside him like a cyclone waiting to strike land.

This is no simple pissing contest. The argument over Declan’s detour here—to see me—has roots that go way back.

I’m riveted in place, my hands beginning to sweat. The Turdmobile is a distant memory. A horrid one, but nothing compared to the cataclysm of these two duking it out with every clipped word.

And the many that remain unspoken.

“Fine.” James rolls the window up and the limo speeds off.

Declan just shakes his head, eyes narrow and watching me, pointedly ignoring the disappearing car.

“What are you doing?” I ask. My voice is barely above a whisper. I don’t even need to turn around to see that Amanda, Josh, and Greg are gone. They’re eavesdropping, I’m sure. But they have the decency to give us some privacy.

“I’ll survive first class.” His face is serious, but I can tell he’s making a very dry joke.

I laugh without mirth. A very large, fluffy animal seems to have taken residence on my chest. My breathing slows, deliberate and careful. The wind lifts loose strands of my hair, and it catches the loose ends of his tie, which flap over his shoulder. He could be a model, like something in
GQ
or
Vogue
, exuding wealth, prestige, confidence, and something timeless. Ancient. Embedded in the way he walks toward me, how his gaze is single-minded and completely aimed at me.
 

The second his hand reaches for mine I shiver, a delicious stroke of connection that makes my shoulders square. I’m wearing a boring office-drone outfit, casual slacks with old black leather shoes and a long-sleeve cotton wrap shirt that matches his eyes. My hair is a crazy, windswept snarl, and whatever makeup I put on before I dashed out the door this morning has long faded.

“Hi,” is all I can think to say.

He leans in and gives me the sweetest kiss on the cheek I’ve ever received. “Hi. I couldn’t stay away.”

My heart stops for a few beats. A part of me feels like Carrie, on stage at the prom, seconds before the bucket of pig blood is about to be dumped on her.

This really is too good to be true.

“You’re willing to brave TSA agents for little old me?”

His answer is buried in the kiss he gives me, this time most definitely not on the cheek.

The tug of his fingers in my hair, the brush of early afternoon stubble against my lips, the feel of his warm, wet tongue against my teeth all make me moan, a little sound coming from my throat that I have never uttered. Declan clasps me to him harder, fueled by my reaction.

Then he breaks away and says in a voice that makes all the blood rush out of my head, “I knew this was a good idea. I can’t stop thinking about you. Friday is too far away and I have to be in New York for the next three days. This was my only chance.” His mouth takes mine again, my own hands clinging to him like I’ll blow away if I don’t hang on. Petals from the blossoms on the trees behind us float on the wind, making me feel like a fairy, as if this were part of an imagined world where magic is real.

Maybe it is.

He pulls back and presses his lips together with a smile that makes those damn hot dimples appear. “I’m willing to brave quite a lot for you, Shannon.”

Including the Turdmobile?

All I can do is smile back and keep my hands around his warm waist. His hands are on my shoulders and he’s looking me over, searching. Memorizing.

And, I hope, enjoying.

“I also hoped you could spare some time from work,” he adds, looking at the concrete block that pretends to be my office building. “All you need is razor wire around the top and it looks like you work in a prison.”

“
A day in the life of Shannon Denisovich,” I joke.
 

He nuzzles my neck. “A woman who knows her Russian literature,” he murmurs. “That’s hot.”

I pinch myself, because now I know I’m dreaming. Either that, or Amanda’s secretly working for some low-rent cable reality television show where hot, successful businessmen make fun of fluffy women with inferiority complexes.

He looks behind me, over my shoulder, and one eyebrow rises high. “Do you have an exterminator in your building?”

That’s quite the topic change. From nuzzling my neck to thinking about bugs.

“No—why?” I turn and follow his gaze. Ah.

The Crabmobile.

“Then what…” He cocks his head.

Oh boy. How do I explain this?

“It’s a promotional thing some company is doing,” I say, staying as boring and nonchalant as I can as my fingers play with the rippled muscle of his torso. I could touch him all day. I can’t believe he’s letting me touch him.

Magic. Seriously.

“So—coffee?” He shrugs. “I don’t have a car. Can you drive?”

All the magic disappears in that sentence, replaced by the Eye of Sauron. Staring at me from atop one of the new cars.

“Uh…”

“You don’t have a car?”

I have two. Neither is acceptable for you to ride in.

“There’s a great local coffee shop next door,” I say, pointing toward a ubiquitous chain that everyone in the Boston area knows and that is about as far from “great” as I am from “slim.”

He laughs and laces his fingers in mine. “How about we just spend a few minutes together.”

“You have a plane to catch. Bags to check. Unwashed masses to share germ-laden air with. And you have to get that coveted middle seat between a sumo wrestler and a four-year-old who will insist on unlimited access to your smartphone.”

Just then, Greg, Amanda, and Josh all burst through the building’s double-doored entrance. All of them have keys in their hands. In rippling-fast motion, my brain processes three things:

1. Declan and I are holding hands in public.

2. I am going to have to take him for a ride in my screwdriver-ignited car.

3. Under no circumstances can I take him anywhere in the Turdmobile.

“Catch!” Greg says, tossing a set of keys at me. As I have the eye-hand coordination of a drunk frat boy going through basic training, I scream like a little girl and flinch.

With flawless precision, the hand Declan’s not currently touching me with snaps up and catches the keys.

“Nice,” Josh says. As his eyes take in the suited hottie before him, I realize he isn’t referring to the catch. Though I know Declan is straight, and I also know I could take Josh down in a cat fight (though he has no hair to grab), I still feel a massive plume of green mist take over my senses.

“Thanks. Declan McCormick,” he says, letting go of my hand to reach toward my coworker.

I want to growl.

Declan hands me the car keys. “These are yours?”

Josh’s eyes go wide with amusement, and if he could run upstairs to make a big old bowl of popcorn, he would. Explaining my car situation to Declan would have been amusing to me, too, if it weren’t, well…
me
.
 

“Yes.”

Declan’s green eyes are surveying my face, then glancing between Josh and the parking lot. “So you do have a car. Can we go for a drive together?”

I stuff the keys in my front pants pocket. “No.”

“Don’t worry, Shannon!” Greg says, trying not to laugh. “It’s fully insured. You can start driving it right now.”

I hate you.

“Company car?”

I nod, miserable. “Yes.”

“New cars today!” Amanda adds. She gives Declan a friendly little wave. She gives me a look that says,
You have to face this sometime
.
 

“I’m not really feeling very coffee-like right now,” I say.

“Are you ill?” my coworkers say in unison.

Declan leans in and whispers, “Am I intruding? Because I can leave.”

My grip on his arm tightens. “No! It’s just…the Turdmobile.”

“The
what
?”
 

I pull him by the arm toward the cars and point to my company car.

He reads the tag line. Takes in the car’s appearance, his eyes lingering over the roof’s distinctive…decoration, and finally says, “Is this an ad for civet coffee?”

“Civet what?”

“Civet coffee. it’s a delicacy from Indonesia. Collected from coffee berries that cats eat and then excrete.”

Josh walks closer and looks at Declan like he’s man candy. “Coffee from a cat’s ass?”
He nudges me and whispers, “Coffee gets everything moving.”
 

I punch his arm hard enough to make him squeak, then pretend I didn’t do it.

Declan nods, his face inscrutable. No affect, no crazy attention-seeking demeanor. He’s telling the facts. “It’s a delicacy. Sells for well into the hundreds of dollars per pound.”