Tempting the Billionaire (19 page)

O
n Friday Crickitt was huddled over a pile of papers, fingers nested in her hair. Distracted by her scattered thoughts, she didn’t notice the woman in her office until she cleared her throat.

“Ms. LaRouche.”

Lori helped herself to a chair.

“Won’t you come in?” she said flatly.

“You’re spunky. I like that.”

Crickitt’s patience was wonton-wrapper thin, but she forced a smile. “What can I do for you?”

Lori slid a look over Crickitt’s wrinkled wardrobe before meeting her eyes. “You need a facial, darling.”

She couldn’t be offended since it was the truth. She left the office around ten last night, and considering how poorly she’d slept, may as well have stayed at her desk.

“I came to see Shane,” Lori said, “but I see he’s out. Will he be back soon?”

“I don’t know.”

Lori’s perceptive eyes narrowed. “You don’t know? But you’re his PA.”

“I know.” Crickitt sagged in her chair.

“When’s the last time you talked to him?”

She swallowed, remembering the moment under her porch light and winding his silken hair between her fingertips. “Monday.”

Lori shook her head, then stood, motioning to Crickitt. “Come on, kitten. I’m buying you a drink.”

Crickitt had never set foot in the swanky martini bar across the street until today. Lori was right at home, ordering “the usual” for herself and a glass of red wine for Crickitt.

“Iced tea,” Crickitt corrected, explaining to the waitress, “I have to get back to work.”

“Bring the wine,” Lori said, shooing the woman away and pinning Crickitt with a look. “Trust me, doll face. You’re gonna need it.”

Drinks in hand, they sipped in uncomfortable silence. Lori extracted a cigarette from her purse before scowling at it, muttering something about the no smoking laws, and setting it aside.

“I met Shane when he was twenty-two,” Lori said. “I was newly divorced and he was a hotshot hunk with a cocky attitude and a great ass.”

Crickitt reached for her wineglass. Lori wasn’t kidding. She was going to need it.

“I couldn’t have cared less if he had any talent at all, but turns out, he did. We imported these luscious silk scarves from Thailand, and he hooked me up with local retailers. He was grassroots all the way, baby. Working out of his apartment, driving a tin can on wheels.”

Her smile turned nostalgic. “I was terminally single, but I didn’t mind a little fun. Without boring you with details”—she waggled her eyebrows—“we’d been together a few months when he disappeared.”

Lori ate an olive from the glass skewer in her martini, chewing slowly and regarding Crickitt, her eyelids tight. “Probably wondering why I’m telling you this. It’s not like a new girlfriend ever wants to hang out with an old one.” She frowned. “Former girlfriend. Not old.” She waved the tiny ice pick. “Never old.”

Crickitt’s stomach clenched. “Okay, I’ll bite. Why are you telling me this?”

“Because he needs you.”

She wanted to believe that. Badly. All evidence suggested the opposite.

“He’s got a funny way of showing it.”

“Yes. He does.” Lori’s watched her for a second. “In an effort to help him in his budding business, I’d been introducing him around to some of my wealthier friends. It was going great until he stood up my good friend Norman Weaver.

Crickitt’s eyebrows jumped. “Weaver’s Ice Cream Stands?”

“Yep. At the time Norman had five. I thought it was a great opportunity for Shane to venture into the world of franchising. Norman and I waited at his office for an hour, and Shane didn’t show. I was so angry, I drove to the ratty hovel he called home and pounded on the door until he opened it. He looked awful. Sleep-deprived, pale, distant. I demanded he tell me what was going on. He wouldn’t. Until I threatened to call all of my friends and tell them to pull their business.” She crooked an eyebrow. “I’d have done it, too.”

Crickitt believed her.

“Has Shane ever talked to you about his parents?” Lori asked.

“Other than he owns his father’s clock and they’ve both passed?”

Lori let out a sound between a grunt and a laugh. Then her face grew serious. “He’s been through hell. Without telling you everything, just know that Shane blames himself for his mother’s death. He was being a bratty teenager the night she drove to pick him up before the cops did. The roads were icy. It was dark. She didn’t see the tree.”

Crickitt set her wineglass aside, feeling sick. “I had no idea.”

“She didn’t die at the scene. Lived the rest of her short life in a wheelchair. Shane’s father slipped into depression, and Shane took care of her since his father was never home. About a year later, Shane and his mother had an argument.” She shrugged. “Typical parent-kid stuff. He stormed out of the house but when he returned…” Lori shook her head.

Crickitt’s eyes beaded with tears. “What happened?”

“They think it was a seizure.”

She couldn’t imagine the guilt… Crickitt closed her eyes, swiping at the tears on her face.

“His father never missed an opportunity to lay blame squarely on Shane’s shoulders, I’ll tell you that. By the time he was dying and Shane took him in—”

“Took him in?” Crickitt asked.

Lori nodded. “Until he passed. Told you. Shane’s the best.”

Crickitt stared through her wineglass. At fourteen, she was busy with her friends, discovering makeup, suffering through braces. Shane was mourning his mother, blaming himself for her death, and shouldering his father’s bitterness.

“I’d have left the bastard to die alone.” Lori finished the last olive and dropped the skewer into her empty glass. “He needs you. He doesn’t know it, won’t admit it, but I see it.” She spread her hands. “I see all.”

She thought back to her mother’s conversation, to what Lori told her now. Was it possible she wasn’t seeing the situation clearly? Did Shane need her? As much as she needed him?

“I don’t know where he is,” Crickitt said. Even if she did, would she go to him?

Yes.
I would.

“He only goes to work and home. Where else could he be?”

“I checked his house. I called his home office. I—” Then it hit her. “Tennessee.” The cabin. Of course. “He’s in Tennessee.”

S
hane stared into the thick forest behind the cabin, breathing in the air and trying not to think. He planned on staying for a day or two. That was three days ago. Or maybe four, he’d lost track.

He’d come here to take a levelheaded, sensible look at his and Crickitt’s relationship and come to a levelheaded, sensible decision. But he missed her so much he couldn’t think straight. Since desire was his reigning emotion, he refused to call her. He might blurt out he missed her. Or something much, much worse.

So he completed a jumbo crossword puzzle book and started a second, watched all four seasons of
The Tudors
on Netflix, and grew a beard.

Every time he started to open his e-mail or turn on his phone, he felt the same surge of panic as the day he left to come down here. Meaning the shallow breathing, shaking, and night sweats he’d experienced at home were caused by something other than a collection of cogs and gears hanging on his living room wall. It was almost funny. Except it wasn’t. So he’d transferred the blame for his physical reactions to other inanimate objects and left his phone turned off, his laptop in its case, and did his best to pretend neither had been invented yet.

It didn’t keep Crickitt from invading his thoughts, though. Just thinking of her made his chest hurt, his eyes burn. And he’d thought about her often. Too often.

He’d had girlfriends in the past. There was Lori, for starters. She was the one who got him thinking about family and marriage. Not because he wanted those things with her, but because
he didn’t
. When thoughts of family and kids led to memories of his mother, his complex feelings surrounding her death, he felt the palpable tug on the thin thread holding him together.

After he and Lori called it quits, Shane wrote a set of life rules. Number one was
Don’t get married.
He’d witnessed Fate’s ugly sense of humor firsthand when his mother passed. Thanks, but no thanks. Number two was
Rely on yourself
followed by
Earn enough money so you never need more.
And as far as he could tell, they’d all worked out well for him.

Until Crickitt came along. Then he’d taken his rules, bound and gagged them, and shoved them into a dark corner. Each time she’d pulled away from him, he pursued her. She wasn’t the one trying to snuggle into his life and get cozy, more like the other way around. He’d been the one to insist on an “official” date. He’d been the one to invite her parents out to dinner. And he was the one who cuddled closer to her in his bed and asked her to stay.

He thought if he gave himself some time away the fog would clear from his brain, but he may as well have been in the center of London Bridge during the rainy season for all the clarity he had.

A crunch of leaves called his attention and he turned, expecting to see a deer or squirrel or other curious woodland creature at the edge of the forest. She was a curious creature all right, but far from woodland, in a bright purple blouse and short white shorts.

“Crickitt.” His voice was tight, gravelly. And his heart gave a dangerous squeeze. Like before, his palms grew sweaty, his hands shaky.

Can you be glad and terrified to see someone at the same time?

“Hi,” she said carefully, stepping onto the stone patio.

Her expression said it all. She knew. And he’d bet dollars to dot-coms Lori had been the one to tell her.

“What are you doing here?” He couldn’t stop the edge from entering his voice.

“I called.” There was that doe-eyed look again, soaking in pity, dripping with compassion. “Lori told me,” she said.

He clenched his jaw.

“Shane, I—”

“Don’t,” he warned, holding out a hand. At least it wasn’t shaking. But the blood beneath his skin was racing, hot. “Don’t say you understand. Don’t say you’re sorry.” That was the worst. And he’d heard it plenty from friends and relatives over the years.

“I wasn’t going to say that.” She took another step, kneading her hands together.

His face started tingling, eyes blurring. Was he…
crying
? He ducked his head and backed to the sliding glass door before traitorous tears broke through his flimsy facade of composure.

“Leave, Crickitt,” he grated over his shoulder, holding it together with both hands. “I don’t want you here.”

That didn’t go well.

The door slammed, leaving Crickitt alone on the patio. Rather than follow him in, she took the seat he was in when she first saw him. He looked tired, haggard, and, because she missed him so very much, wonderful and handsome at the same time. She wanted to rush over and kiss his scruffy face. But the pain was so present in his eyes, eating away at him, it’d scared her a little. So she’d kept her distance.

She made the decision to come here and take care of him, regardless of his reaction. Lori said he needed her, and Crickitt chose to believe her. Only on the plane ride over Crickitt admitted to herself it was so much more than that.

This was about more than taking care of him, more than making love to him, even more than saving him. Crickitt wanted to be with him because he’d taken half her heart and held it hostage. Even as she sat here, part of her was in the house with him.

No going back now.

She stood from the chair and crossed to the back door, hoping Shane hadn’t flipped the lock behind him. She pulled on the handle, her hopes lifting as the door slid easily in the track. If only everything went as smoothly. The downstairs was dark, quiet, but she could hear the shower knobs turn and boards creak underfoot over her head.

Padding up the stairs, she set out to find her new temporary office. If this was the new home base for August Industries, so be it.

She wasn’t going anywhere.

Crickitt stretched her back and twisted in the hard oak chair. Her butt was numb from sitting, her bare legs sticking to the seat. She peeled them free, rubbing the backs of her thighs as she stood.

She’d found Shane’s laptop gathering dust in a corner. After hacking his simplistic password, she checked his incoming mail. Since then she’d weeded through some two hundred–odd e-mails. Even after throwing out the correspondence from herself, there had been several requiring immediate attention and a few requiring a bit of corporate butt-kissing.

Her stomach rumbled and she glanced at the clock, surprised it was after nine. She’d been at the kitchen table for hours. Pacing to the fridge, she pulled out the fixings for a sandwich, at the same time wondering if Shane had eaten yet. She hadn’t seen him since he vanished into his bedroom, where he still hid.

Crickitt made three sandwiches, unable to ignore Shane or his possible hunger, and piled them onto a plate. Grabbing a bag of unopened chips, she headed for his bedroom door and knocked. The television went quiet, but he didn’t answer. She tried the knob. Locked.

“Shane? Would you open the door?”

Nothing.

She’d lifted her fist to pound but the door swung aside. Shane was cleanly shaven, wearing a T-shirt and worn jeans that led down to tanned, bare feet. Dark circles decorated his eyes, and she wondered if between the two of them they’d managed one full night’s sleep all week.

“I made us sandwiches.”

His eyes went to the plate.

“You can eat yours in your room if you don’t—”

“Why are you here?” he asked.

“Because…”
I love you.
“I thought you’d be hungry.”

He gave her an impatient look. “Why are you in Tennessee?”

Same reason.

But he wasn’t ready to hear a profession, and she wasn’t stupid enough to give one. As much as she wanted to believe he’d pull her into his arms and repeat the sentiment, she knew he wouldn’t. And she’d been there before, not all that long ago. Sometimes love didn’t conquer all. Sometimes love wasn’t enough. Especially when it was one-sided.

He shoved his hands into his front pockets. “Sorry about earlier. I’m— You surprised me.”

She clenched the potato chips and heard the bag crinkle. If only this were a movie. Then she could drop their dinner and fling her arms around him, tell him she loved him while he kissed and held her and assured her everything would be all right.

“What’s going on?” He stepped past her and strode into the kitchen where his laptop sat open.

Crickitt deposited their food onto the table. “You haven’t checked your e-mail all week.”

He frowned at her, hand on the mouse. “And you thought you’d take it upon yourself?”

She could bring up the fact he’d all but abandoned his business for a week and a half. Or she could bring up the profits lost on two clients who fired them because they hadn’t heard back from Shane. “Did you know Henry’s having a launch party for Swept?” she said instead.

“When?” Shane asked, scanning the screen.

“Tomorrow afternoon. I received the e-mail on Wednesday. Investors, employers…everyone will be there.”

“Were you planning on telling me about this?” He growled.

She hated seeing him like this. Hated more that she was grieving the playful, smiling man who turned her heart inside out with a single brush of his talented lips. Would she ever see him like that again?

Don’t go there.

“You mean, like, call you?” she asked.

He looked away, chagrined. He should be. About something.

“Anyway, we’d have to fly,” she said.

Shane’s eyebrows slammed down. “No, we don’t.”

She used to think money meant freedom, but Shane had tons of it and had used it to build a padded room to hide in. And if he couldn’t risk something as simple as a two-hour flight, how could she hope he’d step outside of his comfort zone to be with her?

She shook her head, disappointed. “You’re afraid.”

His jaw clenched.

“But I’m not,” she said before he could argue. “I already booked a flight on a private jet for tomorrow afternoon. I’m going, but I refuse to spend the night riding down there.”

And have to see him sitting across from her, distant, untouchable after all they’d shared, after how much he meant to her. The ride would be unbearable.

“I have to go to Gusty’s to see Angel in the morning about my new accounts,” she said. “Then, I’m off.”

He stood. “Well, reschedule with her—you closed new accounts?”

“Three of them.”

“Wow.”

The pride in his eyes had her pulling back her shoulders. Couldn’t he see he could depend on her? Trust her?

“I can’t cancel, Shane.” Because that would be giving up. And she wasn’t going to give up. On her new accounts, on August Industries.

Or on the man who built it.