Devotion - Billionaire Contemporary Romance Novel (14 page)

“Because he’s so grumpy!” Aidan cried out.

Both Aidan and Giselle slapped their foreheads and laughed like it was the most hysterical joke in the world. 

Tami glanced at Isabel, then gazed at Aidan and Giselle’s mugs. “Please tell me you didn’t give him any of the Vodka that was in there.”

“Nope, just silly juice,” Giselle giggled.

“Silly juice, Mommy!” Aidan exclaimed and burst out in laughter.

Isabel peered into his cup.  It was hot chocolate.

She glanced at Giselle; she peered back at her with earnest blue eyes, outlined with neon-blue eyeliner.  Her blonde flowing hair, blushing skin, and generous smile reminded Isabel of how young Giselle was. 

I was only a few years older when I got pregnant with Aidan
, she thought as she watched Aidan and Giselle drinking from their mugs, pretending to be kitty cats. 
Just a few years older
.

And yet, it wasn’t the years of stress of being a mother that made her feel so much older now; it was the premature sacrifice of her carefree youth.  In Phillip’s office, Isabel had experienced a flash of envy towards Giselle, fearing that somehow she was being favored by Phillip over her.  Now, Isabel realized it wasn’t she was envious of Giselle; she was envious of her gaiety and spontaneity—traits that Isabel had somehow lost in herself along the way.

“Giselle, would you like to come over to our house this evening for some babysitting?”  Isabel suddenly asked.  “It would also give us a chance to discuss the gala.  We have to map out a plan to make it happen by next Saturday.”

Giselle grinned at the offer. “Definitely,” she said with an enthusiasm that made Isabel remember a time when she would do anything to be included at the company.

“Great.” Isabel nodded, certain of her plan. “You can come to the house around six and join us for dinner.  We’ll order Aidan’s favorite—Hawaiian pizza.”

Chapter Nine

Isabel glanced at the wall clock in the hallway.  It was nine fifteen. 

It had been a good night.  Giselle had come over to the house on-time and had stayed for dinner.  They traded ideas back and forth about the gala while building Lego towers for Aidan to torpedo down with his Nerf football.  In three short hours, they had successfully created a wish list for the gala’s theme, décor, appetizers and spirits menu that they could pass off to Mario, their event coordinator, as well as a list of preferred vendors for Mario to call on Monday morning.  And in the end, Isabel knew the biggest challenge wouldn’t be the preparation of hosting a spectacular party; it would be the successful showcasing of Phillip’s development project to the City Hall politicians who had the power to grant or deny him the renovation permits.  Isabel had enough experience to know that she could spend thousands upon thousands of dollars on the most extravagant hors d’oeuvres and champagne fountains, but none of it mattered if the most influential aldermen in the city didn’t attend the event. 

Isabel glanced up at the wall clock again. Nine twenty.  She had called for a cab for Giselle, who had left just moments earlier.  Now, as she stopped in the hallway and listened to the sound of silence, Isabel finally felt confident Aidan was asleep.  Her attention shifted to her mother’s bedroom.  Mrs. Alvarez had retired upstairs the moment Giselle arrived and had not emerged from her bedroom since—not even for dinner.  Isabel knew her mother—and her anger.  They had barely exchanged words since this morning.  She knew she wouldn’t be able to leave again without telling her mother that she intended to be out late—possibly out the whole night—but she also knew that she didn’t feel obligated to tell her mother anything more than was absolutely necessary.

There was a faint knock at the front door.  Isabel paused and frowned. 
Did Giselle forget her purse?
Isabel quickly scanned the living room’s sofa before whisking open the front door. 

But it was not Giselle.  It was a driver, dressed in a black chauffeur’s uniform and a matching black cap, tilted downwards across his mirrored sunglasses.

“Miss Alvarez?”

“Yes?”

“I’m here to take you to your destination.”

The tone of his voice was deep and ominous, and she struggled to identify his foreign accent. 
Turkish?
 
Persian?
  Isabel glanced behind him and spotted the black stretch SUV limousine, idling along the curb of the street.  It was a bold, pretentious luxury limousine with a flashy chrome grill and glaring white headlights—certainly not a ride intended to carry her away quietly into the night.

“Monroe Harbor?” she asked.

“Yes, of course.”  The chauffeur nodded and extended his hand, clad in black leather.

“But I’m not even dressed…”

She glanced at her own image reflecting back in his sunglasses.  Ponytail and T-shirt.  She looked down at her torn jeans and flip-flops.  At least her toe nails were freshly painted pink.

The chauffeur smirked, as if he anticipated her question. “Everything will be taken care of,” he said, his gloved hand steady in its resolve to draw her out from the security of her home.

“Trust,” he suddenly said, like a secret password.

Isabel gazed at him, repeating the word in her mind. 
Trust
.  She touched her ears; she was still wearing the sapphire earrings, and hours ago, she had wedged the mysterious silver key snugly underneath the underwire of her bra cup—a physical reminder of her intention and commitment to reunite herself with him tonight, whatever the personal or professional cost.

She turned inwards into her hallway and quickly saw her mother, dressed in her nightgown.  She stood in the shadows of the staircase, gazing upon Isabel with her silent disapproval.

“You’re leaving again tonight,” Mrs. Alvarez stated in English.  It wasn’t a question, it was an accusation.

Isabel glanced back at the chauffeur, waiting to lead her into the unknown night.  Then, she met her mother’s embittered gaze—the same gaze that punished her with disappointment years ago when she confessed she was dropping out of college because she was pregnant.

Isabel flipped open the closet door and pulled out her trench coat, then rifled through her purse to ensure she had her wallet, cell phone, and keys. 

“I will be home before Aidan wakes up,” she replied, turning out the door to accept the chauffeur’s hand and her uncertain fate. “Goodbye, Mother.”

* * * *

Isabel entered the limousine and heard the chauffeur’s voice behind her. 

“We shall arrive to our destination in approximately twenty minutes, Miss. Alvarez.  The contents of the closet are yours to wear.”

He shut the door before she could answer him, sealing her up within the limousine’s dark interior.  Accents of lunar blue light glowed along the trim like a cosmic spacecraft.  She perched herself on the edge of the curving leather bench seats, taking in the beveled mirrored ceiling, a crystal wine bar, and high-definition television screens.  But it was a miniature aquarium with jellyfish that caught her attention. She had often taken Aidan to the Shedd Aquarium, deliberately stopping for their snack on the basement benches, where they could sit in front of the jellyfish exhibit and admire the translucent creatures, tumbling in slow-motion through the thick nectar of salt water. 
He knew about her private love of jellyfish,
she thought as she reached across the limousine to touch the aquarium’s sleek panel of impenetrable glass.  Their pulsing tentacles spun around in circles like wet strands of cotton candy.  Slowly, the blue lights dimmed within the limousine’s interior as she felt the vehicle pull away from the curb.

Twenty minutes
.  Isabel shifted her eyes onto the long, narrow closet door, camouflaged by its black reflective paneling that mimicked the surface of the adjacent mini-fridge and cocktail cabinet. She approached it and outlined its chrome keyhole, confirming it was just the right size.  Without hesitation, she unbuckled her trench coat and slipped out the key from underneath her T-shirt and bra cup and slid it into the keyhole—a direct match. 

A sudden sensation of anticipation filled her as she turned the key with a
click
.  Immediately, she paused and glanced around the limousine, wondering if she was being watched through cameras.  When her paranoia waned, she popped open the door and peered inside.

There, dangling from a pink satin hanger by its spaghetti straps, was a shimmering rhinestone-studded sequin cocktail dress.  The closet’s mirrored interior reflected its iridescent beading like sparkling diamonds.  Next to it, draped along a second hanger, was silver fox fur shawl.  Isabel stroked its luxury pelt and took comfort in its heavy weight. 
Protection from the marina’s evening breeze
.  There was nothing understated about the ensemble.  It was unapologetic in its sexy, abbreviated hemline and seductive cut-out back, and it immediately made Isabel forget everything about her day—up until now. 

She
slipped off her trench coat and slowly watched herself undress in the closet’s mirror, leaving everything about her ordinary self behind. She removed the sequin dress from its satin hanger before sliding her arms and torso through its silky stretch bodice that clung against her every curve.  Its hemline stopped just above her knees, and its plunging neckline settled like a whispering kiss between her bare breasts. 
No bra, no panties
—
that was the intention
.

Beneath the closet was a drawer with another key hole.  Isabel slipped out the key and tested it.  It popped open with a resistant
click
.  She slid open the drawer and spotted a pair of silver shoes with ankle straps and lacquered high heels—size nine and half. 
Exactly her size
.  She strapped them on and admired how they accentuated the long contour of her exposed legs.  Then, she slipped off the fox fur shawl from its hanger and draped it around her shoulders, tempering a shiver of anticipation.  She gazed at her image in the closet’s reflection, barely able to recognize the woman staring back at her.  She was no longer constrained by her own clothes and her own inhibitions.  She was now someone else—a provocative enchantress willing to assert the power of her sexuality and her right to claim and indulge in it.

Slowly, something caught her eye; it glinted at the bottom of the drawer—another miniature silver key.  She flipped it on its side and read the engraving along its reflective surface—FORBIDDEN.

Suddenly, the momentum of the limousine came to a halt. 
They had arrived
. 

Isabel glanced out the tinted windows and cradled the key in her palm.  Even under the dark veil of night, she recognized the carousel of moored boats in the harbor, their furled sails bobbing up and down in alternating unison.  She looked inland and saw the rushing headlights of traffic along Lake Shore Drive and the magnificence of Buckingham Fountain exploding its streams of illuminated water into the night like aquatic fireworks. 

Her passenger door whisked opened and the chauffeur extended his gloved hand to her.  His strong grasp towed her out of the limousine.
Like royalty
, she thought, securing the protective pelt of fur over her shoulders while he escorted her towards their destination—a black luxury yacht concealed along the dark waters of the harbor, like a stealth protector offering an escape.  As they approached the vessel, Isabel spotted the scrolling white inscription of the ship’s name along its fiberglass hull—
THE DUCHESS
.

Two men, the yacht’s captain and his first officer, attentively stood at the edge of the boarding ramp.  They were dressed in formal uniforms and they greeted her with deferential nods of their sailor caps.  The chauffeur passed off her hand to the first officer, who embraced it and accompanied her up the boarding ramp.  Isabel glanced back at the skyline of skyscrapers, their towering shadows adorned by glowing antennas and white beacon lights. 
Was she really going to do this?
 
Yes…
She exhaled with certainty while silently bidding farewell to the city that defined all her routines and roles within her conventional daily life. 

The first officer supported her across the yacht’s threshold onto the promenade deck.  Isabel had the sensation of being watched.  She glanced up to the balcony of the upper deck.  Beyond its tinted windows along the steering bridge, a silhouette shifted deeper into the shadows as her gaze focused on the familiarity of its form. 
He was waiting for her
. 

With anticipation, she followed the first officer through an access hatch that led into a wooden-paneled passageway.  He stopped in front of a cabin door and whisked it open, allowing Isabel to pass directly inside. There were no words exchanged between them.  He simply nodded before closing the door, as if he was following a series of pre-designated orders to deliver her into the safety of the compartment before returning to the helm of the ship to shuttle her away into the open, unforgiving waters.

Isabel glanced around the stateroom, taking in its lustrous wooden paneling and elegant décor.  The soft sheen of a crystal chandelier reflected off the surface of the Baroque mahogany dressing table.  In its oval ornamental mirror, she watched herself remove her fur shawl and drape it across the French antique settee under the stateroom’s only porthole.  She approached it and peered out into the moonless night.  Without warning, the ship’s engines roared, propelling the vessel forward through the sleepy waters of the harbor into the crisp lapping waves of Lake Michigan.  She clenched the key against her heart as the yacht pulled her away from the luminous Chicago skyline—and away from everything that was familiar and certain.

Her attention shifted across the room to the antique walnut armoire, inlaid with mother-of-pearl ornamentation. She studied it carefully—and its tiny keyhole.  She closed her eyes, held the key in her palm, and concentrated on the furious beating of her own heart.  Whatever he expected from her tonight, she intended to grant it to him.  She turned back to the armoire, inserted her key in its keyhole, and swept open its double doors.  Hanging on pink satin hangers was her second wardrobe—a black corset gown, its tight strapless bodice and billowing tulle train hinting at the forbidden expectations of the night.  As if she was watching another woman—a stranger—in the dressing table’s oval mirror, she slowly removed the spaghetti straps of her sequined cocktail dress.  It fell to the floor like a casual goodbye.  Naked and vulnerable, she reached out for the black gown and unclipped its cinching hooks before stepping her heels through the open bodice and towing up the black tulle train over her exposed legs.  Its cascading folds settled just above her bare hips and backside. 
A noir bride preparing for her master
.  She fastened each metal loop along the corset’s front closure, sealing its stiff bone ribs of bondage along her torso before latching the final clasp—just below its lacy burlesque cups.  Isabel inhaled and exhaled, the constriction of each breath transforming her into another woman—a seductress with an hourglass figure, arcing cleavage, and long siren legs.

She gaze shifted onto an ornamental silver box, resting on the lower shelf within the armoire, and paused with an exhale before peeling open its hinges and discovering the familiar white calling card inside it: