Always Mine (The Barrington Billionaires, Book 1) (12 page)

He walked over to the door of his office and hesitated before opening it. Emily was his, and the last two weeks had proven she was meant to be. She would have to understand there were parts of his life he didn’t want her involved in. He couldn’t take her with him; it was too dangerous. He also couldn’t say where he was going; any leak of information could get his people killed. He’d tell her he had urgent business to attend to, and she was welcome to stay in Paris until he returned.

That would have to be good enough.

‡

E
mily’s enjoyment of
her walk through the Parc Monceau, a public park she had first fallen in love with through the paintings of Claude Monet, was diminished by the memory of the conversation she’d had with Asher an hour earlier.

He had opened the door of his office and frowned when he’d seen her there. For a moment she’d thought he might accuse her of listening in, but he didn’t. Instead he said, “I’m flying out in less than an hour.”

“Where are you going?” she’d asked.

“It’s work related.”

“How long will you be gone?”

He pulled her into his arms and kissed her forehead. “I don’t know.”

Emily stood tensely in his embrace and tried to keep her voice calm. “Is there anything you can tell me?”

He ran his hands down her clothed back, past the hem of his shirt she was wearing, and up to cup her bare ass. “I don’t want to leave you,” he murmured against her cheek.

Emily fought the desire that welled within her. One touch from him and it was too easy to forget everything else. She had to keep her head. She ran a hand over the buttons on his shirt. “I could go with you.”

His hands ground her forward against his arousal. “If I could take you, I would.” He kissed her neck from ear to shoulder. “If I could delay my flight at all, I’d do that too.” He set her back from him with a groan. His eyes were burning with the same desire he’d lit within her. “I can’t.” He bent and gave her a brief kiss on the lips. “I have to leave—now.”

Emily pressed her lips together unhappily, then said, “What do you expect me to do? Sit around and wait to see if you come back?”

He’d pulled her roughly into his arms again and kissed her deeply until Emily clung to him. Usually she welcomed how his touch reduced her to a quivering mass of sexual need, but that was when she was confident her touch did the same to him. This time he was using it against her—to silence her—and although she was turned on, she was angry, too.

When he lifted his head, he grumbled, “I won’t be gone long, and I want you right here when I get back.” He ran a hand over her thigh and up between her legs to her bare sex. “This wet and this ready for me.”

Emily shook her head even as her eyes half closed with pleasure as he circled her clit with his middle finger. “Tell me where you’re going. You owe me that much.”

He slid a finger inside her and pumped it in and out. “I owe you nothing,” he whispered in her ear. “But you’ll be here when I return because you’re mine, Emily.” He worked his fingers magically back and forth over her aroused clit and in and out of her. “You’re angry with me, I know, but your body doesn’t care, does it? I wish I had time for more, but why don’t you come for me before I go, Emily? I want to hear that sound you make when you can’t hold back any more.”

A part of Emily wanted to fight the hold he had over her. She told herself she should pull away from him, tell him she deserved answers, and that she belonged to no one. The words never left her lips, though, because her traitorous body was humming beneath his touch, clenching and warming as he brought her closer and closer to climax.

He claimed her mouth again, and his passionate demands only made it sexier. With one hand he kneaded her ass, then came around to cup her breast. Their two weeks together had made him an expert on what she liked. He used his knowledge against her in a pleasurable assault that had her writhing against him and crying out into his mouth as she orgasmed.

She slumped after her release and he picked her up, carried her to his bed, and laid her down across it. His shirt was up around her waist, leaving her sex parted and exposed to him. “That’s what I want to return to.”

The man she’d spent the last two weeks with was gone and in his place was the arrogant wolf she’d first encountered. Emily sat partially up and pulled the shirt down to cover herself. “You can be a real bastard sometimes, Asher.”

If she’d expected him to deny it, she was disappointed. He’d leaned down, given her a quick kiss, and said, “If I wasn’t already late I’d spend the afternoon reminding you why you’re willing to overlook that about me. I have to go, though. Stay here. I’ll call you when things settle down.”

With that, he’d left.

Just like that.

Emily stopped and sat on a bench beside the classical colonnade that partially encircled a small pool of water.
Am I a fool to think he cares about me at all? How could two of the most amazing weeks of my life end with me wondering if I know him at all?

“I want you here, waiting for me, just like that.”

Of all the arrogant, sexist things to say. I should have told him what I thought of that comment as soon as he said it.

But no, I was too busy trying to gather my thoughts.

I should not let an orgasm, even a really, really amazing one like that, stop me from speaking my mind.

Emily sighed, stood, and began the walk back to Asher’s apartment.
He talks to me that way because I let him.

Emily blushed.
And because I think it’s hot.
She wrinkled her nose as she remembered the night he’d ordered her to strip for him, and she’d admitted to him that she couldn’t resist him when he spoke to her that way.
That’s what honesty in bed gets me. I had no idea, though, that I could be angry with him and still be that turned on.

Her complex mix of emotions made her wish she were back in her studio where she would have tried to capture that feeling in clay. Two women in one body: the wary warrior and the joyful lover, both equally strong, and equally capable of being wrong.

She waited for him to call her that night, but he didn’t. She picked up her phone again and again to check for a text message that never came. She went to bed, slept restlessly with her phone beside her, and woke angry. As she made her morning coffee, she thought:

He said he doesn’t owe me anything. Well, his actions exactly verify those words.

Maybe he’s somewhere where he can’t call me.

No, see, that’s the overly nice side of me that Celeste calls unrealistic. Wherever he is, he could send a text or contact me somehow—if he wanted to.

He didn’t trust me enough to tell me where he was going.

He doesn’t care enough to call me. I should have trusted my instincts about him.

But then I wouldn’t have had these last two weeks.

Two spectacular weeks. Maybe nothing that good can last.

Emily took her coffee to the couch and sat down. The view of the Eiffel Tower only saddened her. She found her sketchpad and pencil and drew her most vivid memories of the trip. Every great artist found inspiration in both beauty and in pain. Emily tried to capture both in her sketches. She drew herself and Asher entwined in a lover’s embrace. She drew herself alone and captured the battle raging within her. Her grandfather had believed that joy was fleeting unless recorded by an artist in some fashion. She wanted to keep a piece of Paris with her forever.

One sketch led to another, until she was furiously putting her emotions down on paper. She drew the arrogant Asher. The tender Asher. She combined the two and saw the man she loved.

Love.

I’m in love with a man who won’t even call me his girlfriend.

Who am I kidding, he won’t even answer my phone calls.

Did I misread our time together? Was I so lost in the wonder of how it felt to me that I somehow missed it wasn’t the same for him?

She drew herself—full of love and tormented by questions—then shed a tear when she looked down into her own face. The tear smudged a part of the drawing as Emily wiped it away.

She was starting a new sketch when her cell phone rang. She answered it absently, “Hello?”

“Emily, it’s Sophie Barrington. I hope this is an okay time to call.”

Emily closed the sketchpad as if there were a chance Sophie could see it. “No. I mean, yes. I can talk now. You’re not interrupting anything.”

“When I didn’t hear back from you I was afraid my son had scared you off from our family.”

Emily pulled her feet up onto the couch and hugged her legs. “No. No. He was fine. I’ve just been busy with the museum.”

“How is that going?”

Emily closed her eyes briefly. She hated to lie so she didn’t. “It’s coming along.” She wasn’t ready to admit to herself that Asher could still be moving forward with the buyout of her property, but there was no way she would say anything to his mother.

“I hope you don’t think I’m sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong, but I’ve been thinking a lot about your museum. Do you have patrons?”

Sophie’s question hit another sore point. “I used to. It’s been difficult to get donations because . . . people look at the properties around mine and they worry I’ll sell or fail to make a profit when I open.” When they’d met, Emily had been truthful about the state of the surrounding properties since Asher’s company had bought them. She had described the now derelict buildings and the challenge of maintaining patrons in the face of the changing community. Emily refused to believe they were right back then and she refused to see it now, but there was no denying the situation was getting worse.

Sophie sounded concerned. “Oh, dear. The Barrington family is known for our philanthropy. We’ll gladly become one of your patrons.”

Although the money would have made an earlier opening possible, Emily couldn’t accept any from Asher’s mother. “No. Please. You’re very generous, but I could never accept money from you.”

“Well, then maybe you’ll consider an idea I’ve had. It’s genius, really. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner.”

Emily prepared herself to thank her and refuse whatever Sophie offered.

“I’ve been showing everyone the painting you gave me and telling them about your sculptures. My friends are all dying to meet you. I have an art auction planned for the second weekend in April. Each year we choose a different charity to donate the proceeds to. This year we’re giving to St. Jude Children’s Hospital. If you’d like to donate something to the auction, I would showcase it. Please say no if you feel this would be too much to ask, but if you’d trust me with some pieces, I would love to have a Harris Tactile Museum exhibit the night of the auction. Everyone who is anyone in Boston comes to my event. If your collection is as good as the piece you gave me, you’ll end the night with more patrons than you’d know what to do with. That’s what happens when people discover a project as important as the one you’re working on.”

Emily was temporarily too overcome with emotion to answer. She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye and tried to think of a reason she couldn’t say yes. Besides Asher. He’d left her with no idea of when he’d be back. He didn’t deserve to be factored into her decision.

Patrons would mean I don’t have to live off Ramen noodles while I pay for the audio tour narrator. I could open sooner. I could afford to advertise and reach beyond the ghost town around my property. This could be what makes everything I’ve worked so hard for possible.

“How would this work?” Emily asked, wanting to scream yes, but she knew being spontaneous had its rewards and its unpleasant revelations—like being left in Paris alone.

“I’ll handle the legal details and have the event planners I use contact you. Then it’s a matter of picking pieces you feel represent your museum best and having them packed and shipped. I know the perfect people to pack and deliver your pieces. They’ll handle everything from pickup, shipping, setup, to returning everything back exactly as you had it. These people are who the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston calls when they need to move six-century-old artifacts. They’re that good.”

“Sounds amazing.” Emily grimaced and added, “And too expensive for my budget right now.”

“Emily, what you’re building up in Welchton is beautiful, and I selfishly want to be a part of it. Let me do this for you.”

Breathe.
“Okay. Yes. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“If you give me your email address, I’ll have my lawyer send paperwork over to you today. I don’t want to rush you, but I’ll need your pieces as soon as we can get them here. We’ll need to build displays for them, photograph them for advertising the exhibit. We should probably have something written up for each piece.”

Emily started to get really excited about the idea. “With a Braille component to each sign. I was hoping to also have an audio tour, but it hasn’t come together yet.”

In a warm, almost maternal voice, Sophie asked, “Can I make a suggestion? Why don’t you come to Boston and help me plan this? That way it’s exactly the way you imagine it. I’d love to see you again and, honestly, this is the time of year when I need to focus on happy things. So, you’d actually be doing me a favor.”