The Billionaire's Wife (15 page)

What we got was exactly dick-all. Anton's house was clean of
anything that might implicate a past. The only thing I found of interest was
the grand piano in the fourth-floor parlor, covered in dust and complicated
sheet music, and the bookshelves in the master bedroom, lined with an eclectic
mix of volumes so diverse that I first suspected he had simply ordered the most
visually pleasing arrangement arrayed against the white shelves. Most of the
volumes were well-worn, however, and I found his hand writing in several of
them: the
Illiad,
a copy of Kurt Vonnegut's
Breakfast of Champions,
and
a book called
Waiting for the Barbarians
all had his distinct, spiky
print scrawled over the pages, though the notes made little sense to me. A
well-thumbed copy of
The Thornbirds
rested atop the Illiad, as though
recently read.

Other than that, it was a beautiful house that seemed to be
perfectly set up for a real estate showing, except for the fact that the
basement was locked. Probably for the best. If Anton did have a sex dungeon, I
was certain he wouldn't want Sadie to know about it.

Sadie did not share this opinion. “Ugh,” she said, tugging on the
handle to the basement door. “This guy is
weird.
And
creepy.
Who
doesn't have personal touches in their house? And why is this door locked? This
is like that fucked up fairytale where the girl marries this dude and he's got
all the mangled bodies of his other wives locked behind a door and he's all,
'don't check out this door!' like a douche.”

“Bluebeard,” I said. “Or maybe the Robber Bridegroom.”

“Whatever.” She gave the door a kick of disgust. “It's getting
close to seven. You should probably get ready.”

“Right,” I said. I'd been avoiding thinking about it. Was I going
to be the target of hidden cameras tonight? And what was I going to talk to
Anton about? And was I actually interested in him? The thought was too
uncomfortable to even examine, so I'd shoved it down after Sadie had suggested
it, but like a dead body it kept bobbing to the surface. Dinner was suddenly
seeming like a really bad idea.

To my surprise, Sadie put an awkward hand on my shoulder. “Come
on, it's not going to be
that
bad,” she said. “What's the worst that
could happen?”

“He chops me up and puts me in the basement with his other
wives?”

She smiled. “Relax. You're probably more fun alive than dead.”

“Not helpful!” I told her as, behind us, the vestibule door
opened and Anton Waters stepped inside.

Silence fell over us as we all stared at each other, and I
realized, after a moment, that Anton and Sadie had never met and that
I
was
the one who should be introducing them. “Oh!” I said. “Uh. Anton, this is my
friend—and personal assistant—Sadie MacElroy. Sadie, this is Anton Waters,
my... husband.”

God, that still felt awkward to say.

Anton stepped forward, extending a hand and a smile. “I'm glad to
meet you, Miss MacElroy. Let me give you my personal assistant's number and you
two can talk compensation.”

“Nuh-uh,” Sadie said. “I'm talking to you. Tomorrow. At your
office.”

Anton paused, but recovered quickly. “Very well.” He reached into
his impeccable suit jacket, extracted a business card, and handed it to her.
“Call first thing in the morning and we'll work you in.”

“Good.” She plucked the card from his fingers and extended her
hand. They shook, and then she turned back to me and gave me a hug.

“See you tomorrow, Lis,” she said.

“Hurgle,” I said, too mortified to respond properly. She ignored
me and swept through the gallery, turning once to give Anton the
I've-got-my-eye-on-you
gesture, which, thankfully, his back was turned for. Then she bolted out
the front door and was gone, and we were alone again.

Anton stared at the hand she had shaken. “I think she sprained
one of my fingers,” he said. “I may regret hiring her.”

“I won't,” I said, “and since she's
my
assistant, I'm the
one that matters.” It came out far more vitriolic than I meant for it to.

He turned to me in surprise. “Have I done something to offend
you, Felicia?” he asked.

I pressed a hand to my forehead and forced myself to relax. “No,”
I said after a moment. “No, I'm sorry, I'm just on edge. Sadie said I'm all
over the internet, and we're going out tonight, and... I don't know. I don't
know what to talk about with you. We haven't even been on a date and we're...
married.”

He tilted his head. “Yes,” he said, “we are. Is that what is
bothering you?”

Lots of things were bothering me. “Where are your baby pictures?”
I blurted.

He stared at me.

Good,
I thought.
Very smooth, Felicia. That won't tip
him off that you know about his basement full of severed limbs
at all.

“I'm sorry?” he said.

Well, I might as well go whole hog. I waved my arms, indicating
his house. “What's with this place?” I said. “Where are all the pictures? Where
are the... I don't know, the overdue library books and the stray receipts from
the grocery store and the junk drawer with little bits of lint and a pair of
broken scissors in it? Do you even
live
here?”

To my relief, Anton didn't look angry that I'd been snooping
around—although I suppose, technically, he had invited me to do so by telling
me to make myself at home. Instead he looked amused. “Well,” he said. “I
suppose I live at the office more than I do here.” He glanced around himself as
though taking in his own house for the first time. “Perhaps it
is
a bit
spare on the personal touches.”

I blinked. I hadn't expected him to say that. “And the baby
pictures?” I said.

“Who keeps baby pictures of themselves around?” he asked me.

I stomped my foot. “You know what I mean,” I said. “Where are
pictures of your family? And friends? You
have
family and friends,
right?”

For a long moment he regarded me intently. “I see,” he said at
last. “We're at this portion of the program now, are we?”

I stiffened. “What do you mean?”

He stood very still. “You said you wanted to know more about me.
That's fair enough. Unlike you, I don't have a blog that you can check.” I knew
I should have deleted that thing. “But I want things from you in return.”

Licking my lips, I forced myself to look him in the eye. “I never
thought it would be otherwise.”

He glanced at the door behind me. “Have you been trying to get
into the basement?” he wondered.

“I thought you might have a sex dungeon down there.”

That
caught him off guard, and he laughed. I noticed that
when he laughed, he always looked shocked, as though I had somehow inspired
something foreign and strange in him. Visibly choking it down, he shook his
head. “No,” he said. “No, there's no sex dungeon here.”

I noted that he didn't say there wasn't a sex dungeon
at all
,
but I let that lie for now. “So what's down there?”

He shook his head. “Nothing of import.” Stepping forward, he put
his hands on my arms, wrapping them in the warmth of his palms. A shiver raced
across my skin at the contact.

“Perhaps,” he said, “you would like a glass of wine? And we can
talk?”

Yes,
I thought.
God, yes. Anything to take the edge
off.
But out loud all I could do was say, “That sounds great.”

He gestured toward the kitchen. I slipped past him and the heat
radiating from his body made my mouth go dry. He was like an overclocked machine.
A sex machine.

Man, I should have been a poet.

In the kitchen, Anton opened the refrigerator and withdrew a
bottle of white wine. I stood awkwardly by the sink as he popped the cork and
poured out two glasses. Handing me one, he lifted it in a little salute. I did
the same and swallowed half of it in one gulp.

Anton watched me. “I don't mean to make you nervous,” he said at
last.

“You don't,” I said automatically. Which was a total lie and he
knew it, so I just shrugged. “You kind of terrify me more than make me
nervous.”

He raised his brows. “Do I? Why is that?”

“Oh...
you
know...” I said.

He shook his head.

I sighed and swallowed the rest of my wine, letting its
bitterness curl over my tongue while I tried to form a complete thought.
Without asking, Anton poured me another glass.

“That,” I said.

“What?”

“You're a business guy. You make me nervous because you act like
you own me.” As I said it, I realized it was true. For the same reason I hated
men like my father, Anton's intensity, his possessiveness, made me on edge, for
more reasons than one. His touch branded me, but a brand is not a fence. On one
level, being
his
was attractive, delicious, overwhelmingly submissive.
On another, I couldn't help but feel he was slowly ensnaring me in a web,
building a cage around me from which I could not escape.

Sadie told me to get over my parents, but how could I when I was
suddenly in the same situation?

“I don't mean to act that way,” Anton said, cutting through my
thoughts. “You are my wife. It is my pleasure to pour a glass of wine for you.”

“Yes,” I said, “but I'm your wife
despite
the fact that we
didn't go through the whole getting-to-know-you phase. That's... that's kind of
important, I think.”

He sipped his wine thoughtfully. “I hate that phase,” he said at
last. “It seems to me to have been prudent to skip it.”

He was really unbelievable. “Well, it can be awkward at times, I
guess,” I conceded, “but it's really fun.”

“Is it?”

I gulped more wine. “Falling in love? Yeah. It's fun.”

Anton shook his head. “No. I don't want to fall in love. That's
not...” He appeared to search for the right word. “That's not compatible with
my continued happiness. Too messy. Too much can go wrong. Like I said, cleaner
this way.”

I stared at him. “Wow,” I said at last. “And I thought I had
issues.”

He cocked a brow at me and took another sip of wine. “You do,” he
said. “I've read your blog, remember?”

“Yeah, but you just said you want a wife without the messy part
of loving her. You need a fucking therapist to help you with that, not an
arranged marriage.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “But Felicia, why
would I need a fucking therapist?” he asked me. “I already know how to fuck.”

That caught me off guard and I laughed, nearly spilling a
mouthful of wine down my shirt. I stared at him in amazement. “I didn't know
you knew how to joke,” I said. “Oh, whoops, we're getting to know each other
now. That's not good.”

His lashes fluttered as he leaned against the counter and took
another sip of wine. “It's fine,” he said. “For now.”

“How gracious of you.” I cast about for something to say, then
finally hit on the perfect conversation starter. “So how was work?”

“Full of headaches and triumphs,” he said. “Working on the
takeover of your father's company, actually.”

I had almost forgotten that was happening. In my mind, marrying
Anton meant only that my mother got medical attention. Thinking about my father
getting a second chance in life made me want to throw up, but I didn't dare.
The wine I was drinking probably cost as much as a new iPhone and it would be a
terrible waste to send it back down the drain before I'd absorbed its precious
alcohol.

“Oh,” I said. “Good.”

“You don't sound too thrilled that your family is avoiding total
financial ruin the likes of which has not been seen since 2008.”

I shrugged. “If you'd grown up with my dad, you wouldn't care
much what happened to him, either.”

“I still don't,” he said. “I just thought you might.”

“Uh-oh,” I said. “Learning something about me. That's dangerous.”

Anton did not seem amused by my sarcastic remarks. Carefully he
set his wineglass down, the clink of it on the marble counter top grating over
my wine-heightened nerves.

“Felicia,” he began, but I held up my hand.

“No,” I cut him off. “I'm sorry. I know you're a private person.
I didn't mean to imply that it wasn't okay. I'm just being an ass after a long
and stressful day. Two days. Week. Whatever.”

He still watched me. Then he closed his eyes and took a deep
breath, as though girding his loins. When he opened them again, he had a
determined set about his mouth.

“Is the sex not good enough for you? The money?” he asked.

He was so dense. But so was I. We were two peas in a pod, I
guess.

“It's not that,” I said. “I just worry about you.” And it was
true. He did not act like a rational human being. I should have been running in
the opposite direction like my ass was on fire. But I needed him. And... well,
I kind of liked him.

“You worry about me?” he said incredulously.

I shrugged. He wasn't the
total
asshole I'd thought he
was.

Anton stepped across the narrow space, closing the distance
between us. Reaching out, he stroked a finger over my cheek, a light, gentle
gesture that left me trembling, my lips parted, begging for something I
couldn't put a name to.

Bending his head, Anton slanted his lips against mine and kissed
me.

God, the man could kiss.

Our lips slid together, soft and sensual. He nibbled at me, as
though sampling delicate fruit. Then his tongue slipped from between his lips
and I was falling open to him, falling apart, begging him to come into me.

His arms went around me, his hands tangling in my hair as I
rubbed my hands up his chest. I felt his heart hammering beneath my palm as he
broke our kiss and moved his mouth to my ear. Hot breath whispered inside my
head, full of wordless answers I could never decipher.

I was putty in his hands, my whole body listing into him, as
though I were a sinking ship and he was the only thing keeping me afloat. If he
kissed me again, I knew I would drown.