Shopping for a Billionaire 3 (9 page)

He shrugs. “You insisted.”

“Why?”

“Why did you insist?”

“No. I mean, why all this?” I throw my hands up. “This. You didn’t need to do this for me.”

“I didn’t need to. I want to.”

“Why?”

“For the same reason you’re here.”

Letting go of this nagging “why me” voice is harder than I thought. I imagine Chuckles looking at me with disapproval, shaking his head. The man just made love to me in a limo, for goodness’ sake. Of course he wants me. Of course he likes me. At the rate I’m going, I’ll ruin this, so—

Let

It

Go

Great. Now I have the theme song from
Frozen
stuck in my head forever. Yeah. Sure. Try making love with that pinging through your brain.
Disney characters are only aphrodisiacs for people who troll FetLife.
 

Declan’s eyes have narrowed and he’s watching me. “You really do wear your emotions on your face.”

“And in my hands,” I add, flailing them.
He’s been wearing his suit jacket this whole time—even when we were doing the nasty back in the limo—and now he slips out of it, stretching the fabric across the back of a cloth-covered dining chair that’s primly tied with a neat bow.
 

His shoulder muscles ripple with movement under his shirt and I realize I’ve never seen him naked. Never even seen him shirtless. My breath comes in sudden halts as it hits me that I’m really here. Mr. Grey Suit is in front of me in an intimate, romantic setting he created for me, and this is my real life.

He unbuttons the cuffs of his shi
r
t and rolls them up. I’m hypnotized. I can’t stop watching as his deft fingers go through the motions like a performance, his eyes tilted down and watching what he’s doing, making himself comfortable.

He’s spent so much time thinking about my comfort. Focused on me. My eyes eat him up, enjoying not just the view but the intimacy of this moment. So simple. So ordinary. Just a man on a date
in
a new relationship, rolling up his sleeves after a long day at the office, waiting to sink into a lovely dinner and some nice sexy time.

Except he’s flow
n
across countless time zones, interrupted my pseudo-date with my ignorant ex, had his way with me in a limo, flown me in a helicopter to a remote island, and now he has me (voluntarily) trapped on a remote island where anything could happen.

So
not ordinary.

“
Enjoying yourself?” His voice is warm milk and burnt sugar and rum-soaked ladyfingers with hot fudge sauce and an invitation to spend a weekend on Martha’s Vineyard on the beach without clothes or other people.
 

“I really like what I see.” It helps that I just felt his abs underneath me and they roll like
B
en
W
a balls, sleek, sexy and hypnotically solid.

“Me, too.” He reaches for my hand and takes a long, slow sip of his wine. My own gulp earlier is kicking in, loosening me, making me want to run my legs against silk sheets and the soft strands of his leg hair, imagining his naked body and his own happy trail leading down…

I
don’t have to imagine it, though, do I? I’m about to live it.

Without comment or affect, Declan lifts the covers off our plates, revealing lobster and steak. “I hope you’re not allergic to shellfish,” he says dryly.

“No, thank God. I love lobster.” We smile at each other, and something’s different. I face it head on.

“Speaking of allergies, thank you. I didn’t know about your brother.”

“Of course you didn’t. But now you do.” He picks up his sil
v
erware with hands that are steady. Mine are shaking like a four-year-old with a pogo stick on Christmas morning.

“Good for me, then, that you came prepared.”

He pauses mid-bite. “Yes,” is all he says, then continues eating. The lights a
b
ove us go round and round, giving the room a hypnotic glow.

“How does Andrew handle it?” I take a bite and let my words hang there. Declan’s quiet, finishing his food, and I get the sense that he doesn’t want to talk about this, but I do. There’s no way I’m going to act like it never happened.

“Handle being so allergic?”

“No, handle being the Green Lantern.”

He smiles. “Touch
é
. Okay, he handles it by carefully orchestrating a life where he’s never near a
wasp
.”

I laugh. Declan pours another glass of wine for me. I nod my thanks and he sets the bottle down, conspicuously not filling his own glass.

“Impossible.”

His eyebrows go up in mirth. “No, it’s quite possible. He has drivers who meet him in underground parking garages, flies only at night in the cooler temperatures for that twenty-foot walk on private tarmacs to the company jet, and exercises indoors.”

“He must be paler than a vampire.”
Then again, so’s my belly. It hasn’t seen sunlight since Kristen Stewart smiled.
 

“Tanning booths and vitamin D supplements cover that.”

I’m chewing a glorious piece of lobster as his words sink in. “You’re joking.”

He swallows his own bite and finishes his wine. “I’m completely serious.
I
t’s how he copes.”

I’m stunned. The allergists over the years have cautioned me to take measures that reduce my risk, but no one’s ever suggested such extremes. “Were his stings that bad?”

“
H
e’s only been stung once.”

“
O
nce?”

“And his throat closed up.”

“
O
of.
That’s really rare. You don’t normally have a reaction that bad for the first time you’re stung.
”

“Bad enough that he lost consciousness. We got him to the ER on time.” I can tell he really, really doesn’t want to talk about this, but it’s calming me. Centering me. Hearing him talk about his own experiences and his brother’s allergies makes me feel less like an oddity.

“Your mother and father must have freaked.”

“Mom was dead by then.” His face is a stone mask.
My heart squeezes.
 

“Oh.” What the hell can I say after that? Shoving a mouthful of perfectly done filet is the only way to respond. Declan pours himself another glass of wine, filling it within a half-inch of the rim, then empties the rest of the bottle into my glass.

Neither of us has to drive, so why not?

He studies me, taking liberal sips of his wine, then puts the glass down and reaches for my free hand. I’m slowing down, full o
f
delectable food, wired and aroused.

“You’re worried I can’t handle the bee thing.”
I
t’s not a question.
And he’s mostly right.
 

I take a moment to think about this before answe
r
ing. “No. Not quite.” He gives me a skeptical look. “It’s more that you handled it so well. Precisely perfect. The last time I was stung I was with Steve, who ran away in a panic
and screamed so much the EMTs who arrived after I called 911 thought
he
was the bee sting victim
.
Delayed my treatment.
”

Declan’s face goes tight and angry. “Not only is he an asshole, he’s a dangerous little shit. Leaving you in a medical crisis.” With a hand so tight I’m afraid he’ll shatter his wine goblet, he grabs the wine and drinks it all down in a series of fast gulps that make his neck stretch, muscles on display.

“You learn a lot about people in a crisis.”

My words hang there as he stares at me
a few beats longer than normal
. My heart is throbbing about two feet lower on my body, our eyes connecting for seconds longer than they should, the air warm and charged.

“
You learn everything you need to know
,” he declares.

“
Then you now know that I will turn you into a Viagra eater in a crisis.”
 

He wants to laugh
but doesn’t let himself. “I think, in a true emergency, that you click out of this insecure mode you live in and the core person inside picks up.”
 

I lean forward on my elbow, pushing my plate away, and reach for my wine. Two sips later and I ask, “Tell me more about this core.” My actual core pulses from down below, wanting him to touch it. I could give him GPS coordinat
e
s at this point.
Hell, I could take my leftover food on my plate and create a food sculpture map to help him.
 

“You first. Tell me what you think about me.” What guy does this? HUH?

“What I think about you? You’re
a
superman, Declan. You’re H
o
t Guy. I’m Toilet Girl. I’m wondering why”—I gesture around the room—“you picked me.”

“
Tsk tsk
,” he chides. “That’s not what I asked.”

“Okay, what I think about you.”

“What you think about me. Not what you think about ‘Declan McCormick.’”
Yes, he uses finger quotes.
“What you think about
me
.” His eyes are soulful. Serious. Contemplative and evaluative. He’s asking a very different question in those eyes than he’s saying with his mouth.

“You. Just…you. Not the image. The man.”

His lids close and he lets out a long sigh. “Yes.”

“I think you’re an enigma because I don’t know you that well.” His eyes fly open. “And yet I feel like I’ve known your forever.” He reaches for my hand and I grasp his, hard.

“I feel the clo
sest
I’ve ever felt to being
myself
when I’m with you.
Whoever that is.
You don’t judge
me
. You don’t shame me or act like I’m the outsider in everything. You don’t use sarcasm like it’s a tool or a weapon, and you speak so plainly an
d
clearly it’s like you’ve invented a new langua
g
e.”

The room goes still. The lighthouse light stops. We’re lit by candle and
the flicker makes shadows shimmer across his face in a pattern that burns into my memory as it unfolds. I will never forget this moment until the day I die, which will hopefully be when we are in our nineties, in bed after making love, and holding hands.
 

“You’re this bad-boy billionaire—” He starts to protest and I hold up a hand, brushing my fingers against his lips. “That’s what your image says. Billionaire. You’re the jet-setting Boston Magazine society pages poster boy whose father built a crazy-massive empire. You’re one of the Bachelor Brothers everyone talks about. You and Andrew and Terrance are all over the local blogs, the free grocery-store newspapers, the
Boston Globe
, all the magazines. Women like Jessica Coffin want to marry you and have posh little babies and host Beacon Hill ballroom parties in your townhomes with the warped eighteenth century glass windows. The ones the rest of us only see from the outside in the summer when we can scrape together enough money to afford to take a long ride on a Duck Tour.”
 

He c
h
uckles against my hand, then kisses my palm, pressing it against his face.

“Go on.”

“You want more?”

“
Hell yes, I want more.”
 

“No.” His eyes widen a bit with surprise. I’ve challenged him. He doesn’t smile, but the eyes stay intrigued. “Your turn,” I add.

A
long pause. Too long. The room feels so small, so warm as I’m under his scrutiny, my request feeling like a gauntlet thrown on the ground too hard.

And then:

“You make me think about my life beyond the date, the kiss, the sex, the ride home.”

He stands abruptly, eyes filled with more emotion that I can’t interpret. In a flash, I’m
i
n his arms, his mouth on mine, the taste of wine on his lips, his tongue, making my head spin even more. My hands slip around his waist and untuck his shirt, reaching up to feel his bare skin.

Declan pulls back, our mouths an inch from each other. “When I look at you I can see my future roll out in one long laugh,
like a red carpet of fun and intelligence and hope
. A ripple of joy that stretches into the horizon until it disappears. Not because it ceases to exist, but because it’s infinite.”

My heart presses directly against his, and the two beat in sync. Our foreheads touch and his eyes blur as my vision goes hazy. I close my eyes, his word
s
, oh, those words…

“I know who I am in the world, Shannon. I don’t need you to define me. What I need from you is what I can’t find on my own. And right here”—he lifts my chin, his eyes loving and warm—“right here.” His hand slides between us and settles on my heart. “
I
s where you redefine me.”

He kisses me gently.

A slow shake of his head makes me blink over and over, signals confusing and overwhelming. My knees tingle and his arms are the only thing pinning me to earth. “I don’t talk like this with the women I date.
I’m not even quite sure where these words are coming from.” He smiles like he’s asking me to translate, but my heart is on edge, waiting for me. “My heart, I guess.”
 

Mine stands up like it’s doing the wave in a giant stadium filled with all the heartbreak I’ve experienced until now. And yes, it feels like it fills a stadium.

“
I don’t feel this way with the women I date. But you’re nothing like the typical women in my life, and this is anything but a typical relationship.”

Our kiss deepens and
I reach down, cupping his tight ass. Which buzzes suddenly. I jump and move my hand away.
 

H
e sighs. “I’ve been ignoring that for the past twenty minutes, but…”

I pull the phone out of his back pocket and give him an extra squeeze. He groans. I shrug. He looks at his phone and groans extra loud.

“Damn it. I have to call Grace.”  

“I understand. She’s the ‘Other Woman.’”
My turn to use finger quotes. They feel as stupid as they seem.
 

He cocks one eyebrow and
stares me down
.