Shopping for a Billionaire 4 (16 page)

Our glasses crash together, retreat, and then we empty them.

“
He
never accused me of killing someone,” I say viciously.

“Is that the baseline for being a good enough parent?” James fingers the rim of his glass. “If so, I’ve failed.” Standing, he pulls off the white jacket and rips off his bow tie. Fit and trim, like Declan, his stomach is flat, shirt a bit askance after his partial undressing. Shrewd eyes meet mine as he raises one hand and a waiter attends to us instantly. 

I cover my glass with my hand and shake my head ‘no.’

James smiles, baring teeth. He’s just wolfish enough to scare me. Not in a sexual predator kind of way.

Just a plain old predator. He’s dangerous. Any man who would blame his own son for—

“I regret it. I never should have said that to Declan, and even now, ten years later, I find I can’t help myself. It slips out. I’m really angry at me. Not him.”

The confession feels insincere.

“You don’t believe that.” I pull a piece of bread bigger than my head from the basket and take a bite. The crust is so hard you could use it to stone rape victims in backwards countries with misogynistic laws. I think I just cracked a tooth. Good thing I have whisky to help with the pain.

“What do I believe, Shannon?” 

“You’re pissed at your wife.”

“Because she chose to save Andrew? What kind of a father would feel that? I’m not a monster.”

“No, not because of that. Because she died. Period. You’re just pissed. Anyone would be. It’s human. You’re allowed to be human.”

He sighs slowly and looks angry.

“And so is Declan,” I add.

“If I’d been there, I might have—” 

“What? Been racked with guilt like Declan?” I shake my head. “It’s a freak accident. They happen. In fact, if Declan hadn’t done exactly what his mom told him to do, you might have lost Andrew, too.”

“I know.”

“And you told Declan to stop dating me because I’m too similar to his mother,” I mutter, making the connection.

The booming laugh that greets my statement rattles my teeth. “You? Similar to Elena? No.”

“But we have the same affliction.”

“Yes.”

James worries the glass in front of him and glances at the ice bar, where Andrew’s back in place, this time in a suit and tie, talking with what looks like a manager.

“Do you have any idea what it’s like to have a child or a wife or a loved one with a severe, anaphylactic allergy like this, Shannon?”

I point to my heart. “Ummm....”

“No.” He sighs. “I am absolutely not trivializing what you live with, day in and day out, but no. It’s not the same as loving someone who has it.”

I frown. Where’s he going with this?

“When we learned Elena was severely allergic we went to the best specialists. Took all the preventive measures. Trained the boys and had them tested. I took every damn precaution known to man, mitigated risk as much as possible, and—” He spreads his hands out in a gesture of supplication. “Look what happened.”

“You can’t live in a bubble,” I say, helpless.

“Do you understand,” he says through gritted teeth, “what it is like to live in constant, vigilant fear that the person you love can, through the simple, random accident of brushing up against a bee or a wasp, be taken from you? To twitch every spring and to sigh with relief every fall at the first frost? To live in that state incurs a kind of madness.”

I really don’t know what to say, so I finish my drink and eat more bread.

“Trust me,” he says, his eyes searching for and finding Andrew, who is polishing glasses at the bar. James returns his attention to me, his eyes red-rimmed, the loose skin of an old man making him seem even sadder. “That’s no way to live your life.”

“Neither is cutting off your nose to spite your face.”

Resentful eyes meet mine. “Ah, if only life were so simple.”

I stand, my appetite long gone, legs wobbly but mind very, very clear. “You make it more complex than it needs to be, and you are teaching your sons all the wrong things. What about love? You loved your wife, didn’t you?”

He leaps to his feet. We’re making a scene. So much for professional standards. At this point, the ruse that I’m mystery shopping anything other than my own freaking life is over.

“Of course I loved her. More than life itself.”

“People say that, but it’s not true.”

He just stares at me, red-faced and angry.

“If you love anything more than life itself, that means you’d rather be dead. And you’re not. You chose to live after her passing.”

“That wasn’t an easy decision.”

“And now you are emotionally crippling your sons!”

“I don’t need you to play armchair psychologist with me, Shannon,” he spits out.

“You need someone to play psychologist, Dad,” says Guido, who has mysteriously appeared behind us. One look at his face, then James’ angry eyes, and it all clicks.

“Terrance,” I whisper. “You’re not Guido.”

He gives a twisted smile. “And you’re not an executive here for a night.”

“What is this?” I demand. “Why are you both and Andrew and Declan all pretending to be hotel employees?”

“Amanda told us—” James starts.

“Really? This was set up by Amanda?”

“She suggested we each take two hours to learn more about the inner life of our property.”

“And have you?”

“I’ve learned quite a bit, Shannon,” James says over his shoulder as he leaves. “More than I ever wanted to know.”

I take a few shaky steps and stumble. Terrance/Guido grabs my elbow.

“How many drinks did you have?” he asks in that deep voice. My panties are wet, though that might be from the melting bar stools from before.

“Enough to tell your father off.”

“That many? I’m impressed.” He helps me walk toward the elevator and asks for my floor number. I type in 14 and step back.

“Terrance,” I say simply.

“Call me Terry. Impressive,” he says, his eyes combing over me.

“You’re going to hit on me, too? I’m kind of done with that, thanks,” I sigh. Between Declan’s kiss and Pete’s thigh comments I think I’ll become a nun.

“No, just...Declan’s spoken so highly of you. Plus you have a really interesting vibrator. I’ve never seen one before that can fly and stop traffic like that.” Those words come out of his mouth just as an older couple comes to the bank of elevators and starts to press the buttons for their floor. The man halts in mid air, finger an inch from the numbers.

Mercifully, my elevator arrives and Terry escorts me on to it. The older couple doesn’t join us. We ride in quiet, the enclosed space spinning just a bit, my body warming up to him. Of Declan’s brothers he looks the most like him, and for as angry as I am at Declan, I want him, too.

Terry gets me to my room and says, “Nice meeting you, finally.” 

I snort. “Not that it matters. Declan dumped me. But nice meeting you, Guido.”

And with that, I key into my room, flop down on the bed and everything fades to black.

I took a chance on you.

* * *

Someone is knocking on my door. I sit up, disoriented. The wind’s blowing the curtains and moonlight streams into the dark room.

Darkness. Nighttime. When did that happen? I climbed onto the bed in the day time, and now...

A glance at the bedside clock tells me it’s 10:22 p.m.

What?

I sit up as the person outside the door knocks again, harder this time, like a man banging with the edge of his fist.

“Room service,” says a muffled man’s voice.

Room service? Did I order room service? I know I was supposed to as part of the mystery shop, but I don’t remember it.

I sit up, my mouth dry, and rub my eyes repeatedly. A deep inhale and I launch myself up. A gurgle, deep inside my belly, makes me realize I’m ravenous.

Maybe I did call and order dinner? If so, what the heck am I about to eat?

I open the door and there’s Declan, standing behind a room service cart loaded with covered dishes.

I close the door in his face.

Not
that
hungry.

Back pressed against the door, I fight my way to full wakefulness, heart slamming against my breastbone. I’m still mad at him, aren’t I? By all rights I should be. And yet as the details from my conversations earlier in the night come flooding in, a calm sense of equivocation fills me. I bite my lower lip, hard, trying to wake up. To shake some sense into me.

Tap tap tap.

“Shannon?” His voice is contrite. This is new. “Please? You need to eat. Andrew and Terry are worried about you.”

Worried?

“They said you were drinking quite a bit, something about a guy hitting on you in the bar, my dad being an asshole and...” His voice winds down into a frustrated snarl. “Just let me in. Take the food. I want to make sure you’re well.”

“What’s on the tray?” I ask through the door.

“Filet mignon. Mashed potatoes in a reduced fig and balsamic vinegar sauce. Mocha caramel cheesecake.”

I moan. Can’t help it.

“No white wine, though. Andrew insisted.” There’s a big question in his voice. I rub my cheek against the door and take a deep breath, deciding.

Cheesecake wins.

The click of the door sounds like a choice, and I open it, stepping back. Declan rolls the car in and gives me a half smile as he sets the car next to the desk and unloads the trays onto the bed.

“Eat.”

“You don’t have to worry about me, you know,” I insist, but as he pulls the top of the first tray up the scent of steak and spices makes my stomach scream the opposite of my words. 

He laughs.

“Just eat.”

After he sets the cover down he steps back and looks me up and down. “Nice nap?”

“No. I kept dreaming about a killer bee coming to get me in Antarctica. And a ferocious wolf.”

“What a mystery,” he deadpans. “No need to guess what your subconscious is struggling to get out.”

“What do you dream about, Declan?” I pick up a fresh strawberry from a fruit plate and eat it, grateful for something to fill my mouth after asking.

“You.”

“Nice,” I say, tipping my chin up, hurrying to swallow. “Really. Great line.”

“It’s not a line.” I take a bite of potato and then another, suddenly starving. Declan pulls the desk chair away from the keyboard tray and turns it backwards, straddling it.

Oh. So he’s staying. And we’re talking.

So that’s how it is.

I cut into the steak and take a bite. It’s like eating butter, just right, the perfect cut of tenderloin. “Tell me more about your dreams,” I insist as I eat, then I stop. “Would you like some?”

“I already ate.” His voice is raw. “I enjoy watching you.”

“Dreams,” I demand. “Dreams.”

Chapter Eighteen

“When I dream about you, it’s all sweetness and light. I don’t remember the dreams,” he confesses. “Not the way normal people do. I see pictures. Still images. Flashes.” 

“Not like a movie reel? That’s how my dreams work. The parts I remember,” I explain. The filet is the size of a silver dollar and I finish it in five bites, then move on to the potatoes, then some julienned vegetables. Our conversation is so...normal. Concrete.

Cradling his jaw in his palm, he leans his propped elbow against the back of the leather chair. “No. Even as a kid. I compared notes with Terry once and he ribbed me about it. Said I was weird for not having dreams like him and Andrew.” Declan shrugs, eyes a little too bright, throat tight. I pause my dinner and take a long, slow drink of water, enjoying the moment to look at him.

He’s nervous.

Nervous.

My soul starts to hope.

I unveil a piece of mocha caramel cheesecake that could feed a small village in Southeast Asia. Grabbing two forks, I hold one out to him like an olive branch.

“Have some with me.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Look at that! It’s a work of art. If you don’t want a single bite of it, then you’re not human,” I joke.

We simultaneously take a bite and groan together. Mutual mouthgasms. They’re rare, but when they happen, they’re unbelievable.

He gets to the cheesecake before me for a second bite.

“I thought you weren’t hungry,” I tease.

“God, I’ve missed you,” he says, vulnerable and watching me like I’m the only woman he’s ever seen. I swallow and stop, fork jabbed into the dessert, hanging in suspension. My shaking hand reaches for the water goblet and I finish it, Declan’s breath tortured, the air in the room singed with anticipation. 

“If you missed me,” I say in a hoarse voice that seems to come from a place nine inches away from my mouth, “why haven’t you called? Or texted? Or sent a bat signal?”

“Remember that whole idiot thing from earlier today? Yeah. That.”

“And then there’s your mom.”

This time, he doesn’t flinch. Just closes his eyes and sighs, then opens them, fighting for composure. I want to reach out, to touch him, to connect my skin to his but he has to make the first move. Simply knowing what happened ten years ago and making the connection doesn’t mean he’s here to reunite.

He has to be the one to say it.

Leaping to his feet, he begins to pace. There’s a nervous tension in him, like an animal that has been caged for so long it doesn’t know what to do when freed. Three times he traverses the small room, words pouring out.

“You know my mother died from that damn wasp sting. Andrew was stung. First time he had a full-blown anaphylaxis.” The medical term comes out in a robotic voice, but as he continues he becomes more emotional. “Mom kept pointing from the EpiPen to him. She fought me off when I tried to jab it in her leg. Fought me. She couldn’t speak by then. The words came out as grunts. Andrew was panicking and they were both dying.”

“I know.” I walk to him and stop him, reaching for both his hands. “I know.”

“That day when you were stung,” he says, eyes wild, pulse beating so hard I can see it in his neck, right under his earlobe. “When you were stung and your EpiPen came out my first thought was Thank God, only one person. Only one person who I am responsible for. The odds aren’t stacked against me.”