Shopping for a Billionaire's Wife (4 page)

“Where are we going?” I ask. He pushes the doors open and stops, craning his neck slightly to take one final look at the quiet guy inside.

“Andrew says the jet’s ready. They’re fueling now.” Declan’s frowning. “I wonder if Amanda told Marie.” His eyes shift back and forth between the tarmac and that guy. 

“Why are you staring at that guy?”

“Because I know him. He’s friends with Jessica.” Declan narrows his eyes and looks around the asphalt-covered area surrounding the outside of the building, then puts his hand on the small of my back. “I couldn’t name him, but I’ve seen him at plenty of charity events, hanging on her like a leech.”

A mushroom cloud worthy of Los Alamos testing goes off in my chest.

“He
what
?”

“Whatever he’s seeing right now, he’s probably live-tweeting. And I don’t want your mother finding us—” 

“Forget about my mother finding us. Jessibitch Coughsalot is being fed information from that guy back there?” I spin on my heel and start to go back into the building, ready to rip the guy’s head off.

All the day’s guilt, all my worry and regret and general confusion, the sum total of all the overwhelm and fury that my mother triggered in me coalesces into a thing of horrible beauty.

And that guy in there is about to experience every ounce of wrath I have in me.

“No.” Declan’s arms encircle my waist, and not in a gentle, loving way. I feel like a seven-year-old being held back from her nineteenth time down the bouncy slide at the town fair by a parent who has run out of tickets. 

In fact, I think I’m having a flashback to a time Dad had to do exactly that...

“Let me go!”

“No.” His arms are bands of steel. His tone is even and while I can hear him breathing hard, he’s back to showing no emotion. The inflection that normal humans use in their voices is absent. 

I have narrowly escaped marrying a cyborg.

A Russian-speaking cyborg.

“If that asshole in there is documenting everything we do and feeding it to Jessica, then...then...I just escaped my own wedding for
nothing
!”

The arms around me loosen like Declan’s been teleported. Poof! Instantly free. I’ve been struggling against him and pulling so hard that the sudden lack of resistance makes me pitch forward, falling on my face, tipped over by the weight of my stupid dress.

Instead of turning over, I just rest my cheek against the pebbly ground.

“I give up,” I whisper.

In an instant, I’m in the air, my face pitched toward the sky, the blue expanse bouncing slightly as Declan picks me up off the ground and carries me away from the building. 

People in the distance clap. I don’t even struggle, because at this point I’ve gone pretty primal. It’s been a little more than an hour since we got on that helicopter. A little more than that since Amanda jumped into the pool to rescue the dog and Chuckles—and Andrew came speeding out of his hiding place behind the glass and rescued her right back. An hour and a half since I learned Mom invited Jessica Twatter...I mean, Twitterhead Coffin to come to my wedding.

And Steve!

“My mom invited my ex to my own wedding,” I groan into Declan’s pec. It doesn’t answer.

See? Cyborg.

Three hours ago I was putting on makeup and drinking giant lattes and trying not to throw up from a case of nerves so big they make my ass look small.

And now I am being carried away from the fanciest airport I’ve ever seen, a crowd behind us clapping and cheering.

I twist in Declan’s arms and see the plane he’s aimed for. I start to breathe rapidly, a deep hum inside me turning up volume, a sound only I can hear. Except, I can’t actually hear it. I
feel
it. It’s warm and burning, and as Declan’s thighs push up against my butt, I realize he’s walking up a set of stairs. A wall of white-painted steel flashes before me. Carpeting. Fabric. The muted silence of stepping out of a loud environment into a cocoon. 

I’m dumped, unceremoniously, on a soft surface, Dec’s body stretched out over mine like he has one job.

One job.

And he’s going to do it very well.

Bzzz.

Declan reaches between us, plucks his phone out of his sporran, and tosses it out the open plane door. As his mouth takes mine I hear shattering glass, then the murmur and shout of workers outside.

I reach under his kilt and he groans, the sound full of more
thank yous
than an Oscar acceptance speech. He might be shut down on the outside, rational and commanding, laser-focused and intimidating, but on the inside he’s falling apart in his own way.

And this bed? This bed will go a long way toward some much-needed centering. One part of him is centered over one part of me as he slides my layered skirts up, and
snap!
—there goes the tartan thong.

Soon my moan joins his groan and the
thank yous
passed between us are multiple. Wet and wild, welcome and frenzied, so hot and quick, our coupling is like doing a fireball shot. Declan bites my earlobe and plants an open-mouthed kiss on my neck as he slows, my own release so welcome. The few minutes of focusing on our bodies, on the rush of release and connection, feels like the best set of vows we could ever write. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, stroking my hair.

“For what?”

“That was...quick. And not befitting our wedding night.”

“That was
hot
. It’s not about how long something is. It’s about how good the shortness is.”

He smiles against my neck.

“Er, I mean—”

“You can quit while you’re ahead, Shannon. Let’s just leave it at ‘That was hot.’”

“And this isn’t our wedding night,” I add, trying desperately to make up for...something. “I’ll forgive the quickness if you make it up to me later,” I say, stroking his back, my fingers crawling under his jacket and shirt, finding skin. As my palm flattens against the coiled strength in the back muscles along his spine, I relax. Finally. I melt into the coverlet on what I now realize is a king-size bed on this airplane. 

Private
airplane.

“That’s right,” he says, shifting just enough to be on his side. I curl and turn to face him, my lips twitching with amusement as his green eyes glitter in the light. Too many emotions swirl in those misty irises. What was barren by choice moments ago is now a storm, cloudy and with purpose.

But he’s there. The Declan I know is there.

“What’s right?”

“We’re not married yet.” He picks up my ring finger and fondles the three-carat diamond set in platinum that he gave me nearly a year ago. His mother’s engagement ring. The one that could double as the camera on a colonoscope. “And you didn’t escape the wedding for nothing, like you said earlier. You walked away from a situation where you weren’t being respected.” 

The afterglow fades quickly as his words sink in.

“This isn’t over.” 

“Not by a long shot.”

I groan. It’s not a sound of passion. “I thought fleeing the wedding would solve our problems!”

Hot skin rubs against my shivering form as my blood reacts to the reality, Declan’s long, muscled body enveloping mine. The enormity of the situation sends ice water through me. The abyss of nuptial dysfunction that my mother has created is a cataclysmic Armageddon. It’s all too much. 

“I think escaping the wedding did solve one problem, but...” His voice trails off into skepticism. 

“But what?”

“I think we’ve underestimated Marie.” 

I sit up. “What?” That almost sounds complimentary, coming from Declan. 

“She’s tenacious.”

“Ya
think
?” 

He shrugs, one shoulder lifting, face impassive. A flicker of contemplation shines in his eyes. His jaw shifts slightly, muscles working hard as he becomes progressively tenser. “She’s really not going to give up.”

“And I’m never going to let you down, Declan,” I say, struggling to stay deadpan.

Chapter Four

His eyes dart to me, and suddenly I’m being tickled, Declan on top of me, pinned between his knees as he hisses, “Your mother can get away with rickrolling you, but you do it to me, and I’ll punish you.” 

Between gasps of laughter and the sensitive, almost-pukey feeling I get when tickled, I say, “Punish?
Obey
is bad enough and I won’t say it in the vows. But
punish
?”

“You look like a woman who could use a good spanking.”

“What about a
bad
spanking?” I rasp, one hand sliding up his thigh. 

His eyes go dark. “I’m so glad we have another fifty or so years to get to know each other.”

“Only fifty?” 

“Your mother is shortening my life. Stress will do that.”

“You feel stress?”

He gives me a look.

“You’d never guess. Your idea of stress seems to be going thirty-six hours without sex.”

“That is, most firmly, my idea of stress, Shannon.”

I seek out something else that’s most firm, Declan’s eyes smoldering, his hands working the buckle of his kilt. 

“We had quick. Time for slow.”

“Slow and bad?” I ask, perking up.

“Slow and very, very good.”

An intercom squawks. “Mr. McCormick? Your brother is trying to contact you. He says you need to answer your phone. Takeoff is in five minutes.” The woman’s voice is like smooth jazz and a perfect White Russian all rolled into one scent you savor. 

Declan’s nuzzling my neck now, frozen on top of me. He groans, the vibration digging deep into my hips. “Damn it,” he mutters, climbing off me, leaving me in a puddle of torn petticoats and tartan. He walks to the small bedroom door, then looks down, realizing he is pantless. Kiltless.

Half naked.

“That would be quite an entrance,” I say with a giggle.

“My plane. My body. My rules.”

I flick my wrist at him. “I know, I know, Mr. Nude Model. Whatever. If you want to couch your exhibitionism under some macho alpha-male billionaire posturing, go for it.”

His shoulders hunch and one hand reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose. Declan’s back is turned to me, but I still know that’s what he’s doing.

“I’m
so
punishing you when I come back,” he mutters under his breath as he snatches his kilt from the floor and twists the cloth in the barest of coverings, storming out of the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

It’s a playful slam.

Bzzzz.

Declan’s phone is outside, currently melting into the asphalt, so that must be me. It buzzes five times before I finally locate it, realizing it’s been buried in my bouquet, which has—yes, oh yes, it does—a special case for holding the bride’s smartphone. 

Why? I dunno. I guess in case you want to order dinner on your Chipotle app? Mom ordered the bouquets with these ridiculous features. For once, I’m grateful.

The screen says it’s Amanda.

“Hello?”

“OMIGOD SHANNON HELP US MARIE IS MAKING ANDREW FLY EVERYONE TO LAS VEGAS INCLUDING JOSH AND GREG AND I THINK SHE’S BRINGING HER YOGA CLASS AND THAT ELEPHANT WE TALKED HER OUT OF.”

Huh. I was wrong. It’s not Amanda. It’s the sound of shattered glass come to life.

Click.  

If I pretend that didn’t just happen, it didn’t happen. Right?

My heart hammers in my chest as the phone rings again. Once. Twice. I sigh, and answer it again, bracing myself for the onslaught of Amanda’s screech.

“Shannon? This is Andrew.”

“Andrew! So nice to hear from you. How are you?” I put the call on speakerphone and reach for a chocolate-covered strawberry the size of one of the dogs Amanda saved earlier today at the pool.

Silence.

“Shannon, you realize we just saw you ninety minutes ago, when you fled the wedding in the chopper Declan appropriated from Anterdec without my permission and left a thousand confused guests here to be terrorized by your mother?”

“Has it only been ninety minutes?” I say, juice dribbling down my chin. “Feels like years.” 

Declan walks back into the room. “They had Andrew on the line but lost him. Said he’s pissed and insists on talking to me before we take off. I told them he can go to hell and we’ll talk after we’re in Las Vegas.”

I look at my phone and flap my hands at him, pointing to the phone.

He pivots out of the layers of tartan wool he’s tied around his waist like a pashmina filled with pipe cleaners, and jumps me.

“AAAIIIIIEEEEE!” I scream, howling with laughter, my arm and face covered in strawberry juice, still trying to tell him about the call.

Declan sucks on my face and says, “You taste so sweet. I’ve been waiting to lick you like this.” He runs his tongue along a line of strawberry juice from my wrist to my elbow. “Now it’s time to punish you and give you that spanking you’ve been asking for.”

“Ahem.” Andrew’s disembodied voice sounds about as horrified as you’d imagine.

“Who the hell is that?” Declan bellows, scrambling off me, grabbing the first thing he can find and holding it above his head like a baseball bat. 

“It’s just me. Over here. In hell, where you put me.”

“Andrew?” Declan’s exceptional composure crumbles, his eyes wild and frantic as he protects me from the predators of the world with a one-liter green glass bottle of sparkling water that cost more than my last pair of shoes.

He’s such a caveman.

“Where the hell are you?” Declan demands.

I point to my phone.

“You had your phone this entire time?” He looks at my boobs. “Where?”

“In the bouquet.”

“SHANNON! YOUR MOM IS GIVING JESSICA EXCLUSIVE PHOTOS AND INTERVIEWS IN EXCHANGE FOR SOME GUY FOLLOWING YOU AT THE AIRPORT,” Amanda screeches. 

Apparently, my mother’s wedding voice volume has transferred to my best friend, like a parasite that wiggled out of Mom’s ear and invaded Amanda’s brain.

“Your bouquet had a
smartphone
holder?” Declan asks. 

“I know, right? Stupid feature.”

“Actually, no. That’s a great feature, and perfect for the weddings at Anterdec’s hotel chains. I need to get ahold of our director for events and—”