Shopping for a Billionaire's Wife (8 page)

“I figured. She’s here. Along with a camera crew?”

Khaleesi’s here on her dragon, only surprise!—instead it’s Mom and Geraldo Rivera.

Oh, God. He wasn’t
really
with her, was he? 

“The camera crew’s not here anymore. I had the news people removed.” I don’t ask about Geraldo Rivera, because my brain cells are currently occupied in their imitation of a tuning fork being hammered against a table saw. 

He stands up and stretches, on tiptoes, his fingertips touching the ceiling. It is a riveting display of sinew and bone, of skin and muscle stretched with coordinated symphony across the same basic parts we all have.

Only his taste better.

“I ordered security to kick out the cable channel. Marie gets a hotel room as far away from us as possible, and under no circumstances is she to know our exact room number.” 

I snort. “She’ll find us within two hours. You know how bloodhounds can track escaped convicts?” I don’t even have to finish that thought. 

“Like hell she will!” Emphatic and pissed, he turns away, the view of his carved ass making up for the giant pain in my temples. I hear him in the bathroom, then a flush, then running water. He comes out wearing boxer briefs and a frown that makes him look like Chuckles, my cat. 

Tap tap tap.

“She’s here!” I scream, ducking behind a Morris chair upholstered in a Picasso print, cowering like Elphaba is here to steal my soul. 

She already stole my
wedding
, so my concern is not that far out of bounds.

“She is
not
here,” he says, answering the door in his underwear. He does that. I don’t get it. The man has a body that matches up against David Beckham or David Gandy or any other hot underwear model (are they all named David? Is that a requirement to be paid to parade around at photo shoots wearing tightie whities)? 

But the way he casually walks around his apartment or hotel rooms unclothed in front of staff is a quirk I haven’t gotten used to quite yet.

In walks a man who is so sophisticated he smells like Italy. I have never been to Italy, but I imagine that if I ever go there, it will smell just like the man who wheels in an entire rack of clothing consisting of nothing but men’s suits, dress shirts, and five pairs of wingtip shoes.

Followed by another man who smells like Italy and Old Spice, wheeling in a set of clothing so colorful it could be a box of jelly beans.

“Fabulous.” Declan frowns. “It looks like there are no women’s shoes here.” 

Marcello scowls at his assistant, rapid-fire Italian sounding like Star Wars sound effects.

He turns to Declan and gives a stiff bow. “We will be back momentarily with a delightful array of choices for Mrs. McCormick.”

“Thank you, Marcello.” Declan’s voice is friendly and amused. 

Marcello bows to me and leaves, taking his assistant with him.

“You ordered clothes?” I snap. The role of Captain Obvious will now transfer from Declan’s brother, Andrew, to me, by virtue of osmosis. And bloodhounds. 

“You don’t have to like them. Would it help if I lied and said I had my staff go to a church rummage sale and buy them, and that the rummage sale proceeds will go to buy goats for remote villages in Africa?”

“You would actually do that?”

“No. But would it help?”

I flip through the clothes on the rack. I vaguely remember Mom nattering on about how bright colors are popular this year. I see a lot of clothing with Chanel labels. The underwear is familiar: La Perla, of course. Victoria’s Secret would be more my style, but... 

“You sent Marcello to La Perla?”

“He was quite pleased with that task.”

“He’s straight?” 

“How would I know, and why would you ask that?”

“Because he’s Italian and he works in fashion. I’m surprised he’s—”

“Shannon.” There’s a tone of disappointment and warning in his voice. “That borders on stereotyping. You sound like Marie.”

Ouch.

My expression must be pretty bad, because he crosses the room and apologizes immediately. “I’m sorry. That was low.”

“Yes. It was.”

“How about we start over?”

Tap tap tap.

“Khaleesi!” I scream.

His Crazy Mother-in-Law Sigh comes out. I’m starting to think it’s not just for Mom.

A room service waiter, complete with a white jacket and bow tie, wheels a cart loaded with covered dishes and the Golden Snitch into the suite.

Er, I mean, a coffee pot. Thank God. 

Before the poor waiter can even adjust the table to turn it into a full circle and open the wings, I grab the coffee pot, a cup, and the pitcher of cream and am mainlining like we’re in the caffeinated version of
Boogie Nights
.

A quick glance at Mr. Walks Around in His Underwear in Front of Staff and maybe we are.

Declan signs something and the discreet waiter retreats, leaving us with a white-tablecloth-topped round cart covered with platters of bacon, mixed berry bowls, handmade whipped cream, coffee, and my undying love.

I fling the silver cover off the bacon and chow down. Bacon in one hand, coffee in the other.

Breakfast of Champions. Wheaties can suck it.

Declan grabs a bowl of berries and the little pitcher that is stuffed with whipped cream. Using his fork to scoop the cream, he spears a combo of strawberries and blueberries and digs in. We eat in silence, both of us starving. Ten minutes later, I’ve eaten four pieces of maple-smoked bacon, half a bowl of berries, an entire dish of whipped cream, two cups of coffee, and just as I think maybe—just maybe—I can relax and we can figure out our next step, we hear:

Tap tap tap.

I laugh at Declan, who frowns slightly, and jump up to answer it. “Must be my shoes, right?” I ask, sated by the lovely breakfast, comforted by the rack of clothes. I have the basics. And we successfully escaped. “Did you order me the four-inch heels or the five-inch heels?” I joke as I open the door. 

And come face to face with Satan.

Only this time, I don’t have Chuckles to throw at her.

But I do slam the door.

“It’s her,” I hiss, heart racing and flailing at the same time.

“Khaleesi?” he jokes.

“Worse. Mom.”

“Same thing.” He arches one eyebrow. “I’ll handle this.” Declan doesn’t give me a choice, pointing to the bed where I walk over and sit obediently, waiting for his next move.

He sits down at the room service tray and grabs a fork, digging in to the final bowl of berries.

There might as well be a Muzak soundtrack behind him.

“What are you doing?” If my hiss goes any higher it will initiate first contact with alien life. 

“Performing psychological torture.”

“On who? Mom, or me?”

Tap tap tap.

Her knock is surprisingly moderate, neither timid nor demanding. Maybe I was mistaken when I opened the door. Perhaps that’s not actually my mother out there, but is just a fashion assistant who
looks
like my mother. I close my eyes and bring forth the image. 

Nope. Fashion assistants don’t have red, glowing eyes.

Hmmm. Maybe that was actually Chuckles out there.

Tap tap tap.

“I know you’re in there, Shannon and Declan.”

I look at Declan, who might as well be humming “The Girl from Ipanema” and putting on sandals over his black calf socks—he’s moving
that
slowly.

“Why aren’t you
doing
anything?” I beg him.

“I am.”

“Eating your daily allotment of fiber and vitamin C does not count as doing something about the massive crisis with my mother!”

“Ah, but it does. This is the fine art of negotiation, Shannon.”

“What the hell do organic blueberries in New Zealand fresh cream have to do with negotiation?”

“Is she in our suite?”

I frown. “No.”

“Is Geraldo Rivera covering this on national television from the hallway?”

“No.”

“Have I been arrested by a federal agency for kidnapping you?”

“No.”

“Then we’re winning.” He takes a bite of black raspberry and munches, peacefully, as if Mom isn’t tapping again on the door.

“You’re killing me.”

“You’re making yourself suffer. I am eating a lovely, healthy breakfast.”

“Great. You’re loaded up with anti-oxidants and I have enough cortisol floating through my bloodstream to kill a pig.” 

“And that’s the difference between us, honey. As far as I’m concerned, emotion has nothing to do with your mother being on the other side of that door. This is all about tactics and strategy. We have a conflict. She thinks she’s going to get us to do what she wants. She will fail. It’s that simple.”

I’m about to marry a cyborg. Or the billionaire version of Sheldon Cooper from
Big Bang Theory
.

“How can you divorce emotion from, from—” Mom is knocking again on the door—“this?!?”

“How can you not? All my emotion is saved for you.” With that, he wipes his mouth on his cloth napkin, plants a kiss on the top of my head, and in only his boxer briefs—which are molded to his body like a latex suit—strides across the room and opens the door with a gesture of magnanimity and welcome that makes me shatter.

Mom is standing in the hall, eyes crazy, hair a combed-out half-mess. She’s wearing her mother-of-the-bride dress, the tartan sash crooked and filthy, and she’s alone.

“Marie! So good to see you!” Declan leans forward and gives her a peck on the cheek, as if there’s nothing bizarre about her having chased us down from Massachusetts, and as if he always stands on the threshold of a Las Vegas luxury hotel suite in his underwear and gives her a kiss.

“What?” Mom’s gasp makes all the tiny pieces of myself that are sprinkled around the edges of the known universe start to quiver. 

“Have you had breakfast? Would you like to join us? The chef’s crop of wild Maine blueberries is particularly fine this morning.”

“What?” Mom bleats. Declan steps back and sweeps his arm aside, welcoming her in like he’s showing her a prize on
Wheel of Fortune
and she could win it.

If she gets the answer just right.

“How’s Jason? He enjoying Vegas?” Declan’s words are so calm and casual that I begin to shake, the dissonance too much. I know what he’s doing. I’ve seen him do it before, and worse—I’ve been at the receiving end of this. It’s brilliant, really. Disarm your opponent with a neutrality, a banality that makes their own crazy come to a halt, like they’ve slammed into a stone wall and are coming to in a daze.

I hate being the target of it.

Normally, though, I love watching it in action.

This is too raw. Too painful. Too hard. Unlike Dec, I can’t divorce how I feel about a situation from how I act on it. I wish I could. Oh, how much easier life would be if I could. Limitations abound in all of us, and in this exact moment my emotions are overriding my logic, and I start to cry.

And rush across the room into my mother’s arms.

She clings to me like I’m that broken door on the
Titanic
and she’s Rose.

“Shannon,” she gasps.

“Mom,” I sob.

“It’s okay, honey,” she says, her body shaking as she cries, my own tears making my chest hitch and heave. I look over her shoulder to find Declan standing next to the room service cart, absentmindedly picking berries out of the bowl and shoveling them into his mouth, eyes rolling but a smile twitching in one corner of his mouth.

“I know,” Mom says as I nudge my nose against her shoulder, the tears pouring off me. She’s rubbing my back the same way she used to when I was little and hurt myself. “Let it all out. I know you’re sorry.”

I freeze.

Declan shoots me a look that says,
I had this. You blew it
.

“I am
not
sorry,” I say in a voice that can only be heard by playing a vinyl record at half speed. 

“Of course you are,” she says. “I raised you right. You, on the other hand,” she adds, pointing to Declan, who is currently eating smoked maple bacon like it’s an Olympic sport, “were raised by a sociopath who drinks the blood of virgin llamas for fun.”

“Am I supposed to be offended by that characterization of my dad? Because I’m not. It’s disturbingly close to the truth,” Declan replies.

Mom reddens. “I can’t believe that you stole my daughter from her own wedding!”

“He didn’t steal me—”

“It was my wedding, too—”

Palms with one-inch manicured tartan gel tips go up, facing us both. “I don’t care, frankly, what either of you has to say! You’re lucky I’m even speaking to you!” I look down at my own hands and see matching tartan. 

My own anger goes up a notch.

Declan takes a slow, steady sip of his coffee and looks at Mom with eyes as calm as the Dalai Lama’s.

“Speaking to
us?
” I scream, my own nuclear detonation imminent, compounded by Declan’s infuriatingly non-reactive status. If he doesn’t show emotion, then I’m going to end up channeling everything I feel and everything I imagine
he
feels into one big reactivity laser that will blast us all into the next galaxy.

Tap tap tap.

“Perfect timing for the shoes,” Declan says with a smile, making Mom do a double take. Walking across the room with a pinpoint perfection in his slow gait, Dec answers the door to find my father standing there, holding a tray of lattes, wearing his kilt tuxedo from yesterday and a weary smile.

“Mocha latte, anyone?”

“
I
am not speaking to
you
!” I inform Mom, marching across the room to give Dad a peck on the cheek and grabbing a latte. “You turned into a wretched, pretentious, emotionally-manipulative, depraved version of my mother. You took over my wedding and turned it into some warped version of your own. You invited hundreds of people I’ve never met, bought five thousand dollars worth of ribbon, invited my nemesis and my ex-boyfriend, and worst of all—you rickrolled me on national television!” 

Mom’s mouth is open and she’s ready to jump right in, but her eyebrows go down. “Rickroll?” She and Dad share a confused look.