Shopping for a Billionaire 3 Read online

  Shopping for a Billionaire 3

  by Julia Kent

  I don’t turn every date into a medical emergency, but when I do, I nearly castrate my man…

  Shannon and Declan’s first real date ends with an ambulance trip and yet another test of their madcap relationship. Ex-boyfriend Steve insists on dinner with Shannon while Declan is overseas on business, but a surprise return leads to plenty of romance as Declan whisks her away for a ride over Boston (in more ways than one…). Just as life and love look good, a misunderstanding takes on a sinister tone as a conspiracy brews to keep them apart. Julia Kent’s hilarious Shopping series continues.

  Part 3 of a 4-part series.

  Copyright © 2014 by Julia Kent

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.

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  Chapter One

  The state park he chooses is really close to my apartment, but might as well be a world away. Large tracts of land dot the landscape as we tear down winding roads, bittersweet vines choking off large oak trees, the road dictated by old-growth trees as wide as cars. Omnipresent pines fill in the spaces between the oaks and maples, and the ground is covered with ivies ranging from the poisonous to the benign, invasively taking over much of the land.

  An insect buzzes by and I jump. Not a bee. Whew.

  Cracked trees still bear scars from the massive ice storm that hit this area nearly six years ago, the orange and beige colors dotting the view as we get out of the SUV and look around. The parking lot is small, bordered by large rocks that a few little kids are climbing on. A park sign and map aren’t important to us, because Declan seems to know the way.

  “How have I lived here for a year and not come here?” I wonder aloud. Three tree stumps sit side by side. The middle one is taller and has a rustic chess board hammered onto it, the outer stumps serving as stools.

  “Maybe you need to take more risks and try new things,” he says with a smile.

  It’s not quite dusk, so the sky still lights up the woods, but an ethereal quality infuses the air. Declan pops the trunk and it opens electronically, a slow ascent that seems too measured.

  He pulls out a small backpack, a thick plaid blanket with waterproofing on one side, and another backpack, this one with a flat bottom. I grab my purse and sling it around my neck and under my arm, reaching for one of his cases.

  “I’ve got them,” he says.

  “Let me carry something.” He shrugs and I take the blanket. There is one wide path to the left, splitting the woods. It looks like an old road, but there is no sign of asphalt. The pale grey sky is a broad stripe above us on the walkway. The path curves up ahead, like a rolling strip of dirt ribbon.

  “You come here often?” I ask as we start the walk.

  “Now there’s a pickup line.”

  I laugh, the air filling my lungs and making me chuckle far longer than I need to. I’m nervous. I should be. He reaches for my hand and his skin is warm and dry. He interlaces our fingers and we fit. Our bodies are aligned just so. We shift quietly into a walking pattern and he tips his head up to admire the sky.

  “I don’t think I need to find icebreakers with you,” I say, turning to admire him. He looks back at me with a smile that lights my world.

  His face goes serious, dimples gone, eyes searching. “That’s what I like about you, Shannon. I don’t need to find anything when I’m with you. You just are. And being with you feels like living in real time. Moment by moment. Like I…” He dips his head down. Our shoulders are touching, and the strap from one of the backpacks slips a little.

  The pause feels eternal.

  “Go on,” I say, giving him a gentle nudge. His hand in mine feels like a lifeline. Men don’t talk about me this way. Men don’t talk to me this way.

  I want more.

  He stops right in the middle of the trail and sets down the slipping backpack. His hand never leaves mine. Dusk is peeking through the clouds, the air a hair cooler than it was even a few minutes ago. The sound of the little kids playing at the parking lot fades, followed by the distant thumps of car doors closing. An engine starts.

  Those green eyes look so genuine. Young and eager, nothing like the shut-off, shut-down man who argued with his father earlier this week, or who turned cold at our first business meeting the day we met. Declan opens himself up to me right here, right now, and I can’t stop meeting his eyes. What I see in them is such a mirror of what I feel deep in my core that I go still with the possibility that everything I’ve tried to convince myself was impossible exists.

  That makes Declan a dangerous man.

  But I can’t stop looking.

  “Dating is so ridiculous,” he says, his neck tight as he swallows. I can tell he’s trying to hide his emotions, and a part of me screams inside for him to keep the curtain pulled back. To call off the masons he’s mustering to quickly rebuild that wall that separates him from the rest of the world.

  The rest of the world includes me, and right now I want to be next to him, holding hands like this, hearts beating together and bodies relaxing with the relief of not having to be on guard.

  “Yes.” The less I say, the better.

  He takes my other hand, and now we face each other, hands clasped. He’s a head above me and I have no high heels, no oak-paneled walls, no dimly lit hallway as a refuge or a prop. We’re a guy and a girl in the woods trying to figure each other out.

  Trying to figure ourselves out.

  “Women want to date me because I have money. Because I’m a McCormick. Because they can get something out of me, or gain some social or career advantage.” His eyes flash and his voice goes bitter, but he never strays from my gaze. I will myself to maintain the look now, because I don’t want to make him think I’m one of those women. I’m not. He could be a street musician who busks for a living and who has twenty-seven different recipes for ramen noodles and I’d fall for him like this.

  That certainty slams into my heart like someone dropped a brick on it.

  “But not you,” he adds. “You had no idea who I was when we met.” There’s a lift in his voice at the end, not quite a question, but not quite a flat statement, either.

  “No, I didn’t. And it wouldn’t have mattered.”

  He arches one eyebrow and takes a step closer. Our jeans rub together, thighs mingling. “Really?”

  “I’m having more fun right now than I ever did Monday night,” I reply, struggling to convey a feeling. It comes out wrong. When we just look at each other my intent is clearly communicated. Why do words have to make everything so complicated?

  “Then I have to remedy that, because I can think of quite a few moments on Monday night that were way more fun that anything we’ve done so far.” His grin has a lust-filled curl to it.

  “I…Declan?” I have to say this. Have to.

  “Yes?” He presses his forehead against mine. I look up.

  “I don’t want your money. I don’t care about your money. In fact, I’m worried you’re after mine.”

  He laughs.

  And then I add: “But before we go any further, I do have something I want to ask.”

  “Go on.”

  “Do you
have a toilet fetish?”

  “Now you’re just deflecting,” he murmurs against my neck, then steals my mouth for a kiss that makes the world go light and dark, all at once, entirely through the connection of our bodies.

  I break the kiss and look over his shoulder, back at the parking lot. “We’ve walked no more than a hundred yards.”

  “I guess we should actually hike on a hiking date.” He picks up the backpack and we walk at a reasonable pace, our legs synchronized. For a few minutes silence is all we need. The crunch of old leaves on the path makes the air seem to have a soundtrack. Chirping birds and woodland creatures add to the sounds.

  No one else is here.

  “There’s a clearing about half a mile ahead where we can set up,” he explains. The path right now is straight but it goes up an incline, jagged rocks dotting the ground. I have to use a little effort to walk, and we let go of each other’s hands to navigate.

  I haven’t felt this present, this in the moment, in…ever. With Steve there was always something to say, some mission to accomplish, some goal involved in whatever we did together. From going to the “right” movie to keep up on current trends to making sure we dined at a “fashionable” restaurant to be seen or to converse about the food at work parties, every minute we spent together had to be in service to some larger goal of helping him meet the next layer of life in the ladder of achievement.

  Here I am, walking up a rugged path with a guy who is so many levels higher in business success than Steve, and all we’re doing is walking among the trees to go sit and drink wine and eat strawberries under a meteor shower.

  Wow.

  And I wouldn’t be anywhere else right now. Even my mind grasps that. It’s leaving me alone, letting me soak in Declan and the sense of peace and greatness that comes from his attention.

  We walk quietly until a small trail leads off. Darkness is hinting now, dusk making its entrance, and the newly sprouting leaves in the tall trees cast more of a shadow than they did even fifteen minutes ago. I’m guessing we’re close to the trail. My legs don’t hurt, but they’re definitely noticing we’ve walked farther than the distance from my car to my office.

  It feels great.

  The trees clear quite rapidly until the full grey sky is open and brighter without the cover of tree limbs and buds. A wide stretch of matted weeds spreads out before us, clearly old farm land that hasn’t been used for that purpose in decades. Because it’s spring, the growth has a raggedy aspect to it, a mix of early yellow flowers, clover, and dead straw still hanging out from last year.

  “Here,” Declan declares. He stops just after we walk down a slight incline and reach a small spot of even ground. The optimal size for a big blanket. I’m tingling with anticipation and I take a second to remind myself to breathe. He’s so gorgeous, and being out here in nature in a scene out of a National Geographic special (and not the kind on the mating habits of the albino rhinoceros) gives me a kind of thrill I can’t quite describe.

  Something fiery and settled, exciting and comforting. Distracted, I open the blanket and shake it out, gently spreading the perfect square on the grass.

  A warm breeze hits us, belying the chilling air. “Make up your mind, New England,” I say. “Is it winter or spring?”

  He laughs. “And you say you’ve lived here your whole life? Remember the two feet of snow we got in ’97? Or the inch that came in May back in 2002? Watch out. Mother Nature may be playing a trick on us with this balmy fifty-seven degrees.”

  “Every school kid remembers the April Fools’ Day blizzard! That was awesome! No school for days!” My answer makes his smile deepen.

  “You were what—eight?” he asks, bending down to sit on the blanket, digging in one of the backpacks to pull out a bottle of Chardonnay and a small white container of what I assume are the strawberries. My mouth waters. Not at the food. At the sight of his strong, muscled legs stretched out before him as he works a corkscrew on the bottle.

  “Yep. That made you…” I do quick math. “Twelve?”

  “Eleven. My birthday is in August. Sixth grade.”

  “Third for me.”

  I reach for the container and open it. Yep. Strawberries.

  A loud POP announces the uncorking of the wine, and I rummage through the backpack to help find the wine glasses.

  “Here,” Declan says, reaching into the second pack.

  He hands me coffee travel mugs.

  “Huh?”

  “Look closely.” The tumblers are made of clear plastic with black tops, like coffee travel mugs. But when I look closely I see it—plastic pretend wine glasses built into the coffee mugs.

  My laughter fills the night. “These are perfect!”

  “Sippy cups for grownups. Grace highly recommends them.”

  “Then give Grace my thanks.”

  He unscrews the tops off the wine “glasses” and pours us each a healthy amount of white wine. Each movement is deliberate, careful, firmly in control. He puts the tops back on and hands me mine. We’re sitting together, hips touching, knees up and braced. I’m comfortable like this. March was an unusually wet month and April wasn’t much better for the first week. The ground is springy but not wet, the verdant greenery of the new plants poking out with sweet hope. A fly buzzes by my ear and I ignore it.

  The view is gorgeous, as farmland and fields roll with glacier-made hills and valleys before us. A ring of thick woods surrounds the view, and it’s a welcome relief from the chatter of the city just a few miles away. Route 9 is an endless string of mini-malls, regular malls, grocery stores, and chains, all buttressed by the city or Route 495 and its business belt. We’re sandwiched between the suburbs, the city, and massive interstates, but in this quiet, reflective spot we could be anyone, anywhere, at any time.

  I gulp the first half of my wine. A fruity flavor with just enough sweetness to make it easy to drink but dry enough to be enjoyable, I compliment him on the choice.

  “Grace, again, I must admit,” he confesses. No embarrassment. Just the gentlemanly acknowledgement.

  “Then to Grace,” I say, raising my tumbler for a toast.

  “To Toilet Girl,” he says with a playful smile.

  Chapter Two

  “To Hot Guy.” We drink. We kiss. We sigh. He reaches for my now nearly empty tumbler and picks up a giant strawberry covered in dark chocolate.

  “To first dates,” he says as he hands it to me. My mouth fills with the second-best-tasting thing this evening, the first being him.

  “This is our second date,” I say around a mouth full of divine fruit and chocolate.

  “It is?” He seems genuinely surprised. “I thought Monday was a business meeting.”

  He’s playing me. I swallow quickly and grab my wine to finish it off and clear my mouth.

  “If Monday was a ‘business meeting,’ I can only imagine how you define a ‘merger,’ Mr. McCormick.”

  “Is that a request for a demonstration, Ms. Jacoby?” His mouth is on mine before I can answer, tasting like fruit and happiness. His tongue parts my lips and this time he’s more insistent, the earnest sweetness swept aside by a familiarity that grows between us. His hands envelop my waist and pull me to him as he reclines back on the blanket.

  We’re lying down now, his legs stretched out along my own, one knee pushing between my thighs as his heat seeks mine. He smells so good and tastes even better as his tongue runs along the edges of my teeth, hands in my hair, then down my back, caressing me like he owns me.

  Or wants to.

  My own hands can’t get enough, and I shift, feeling his hardness against my belly. Knowing that he’s hard for me sends an electric zing through my entire body, making me wet and needy. I’ve never felt such all-consuming want for someone else, a lust that threatens to wipe clean my common sense, to eradicate my inhibitions, to make me move and react from a place of primal desire.

  His hand slides under the waistband of my jeans, hot skin against the small of my back, and I moan
, that small sound of pleasure driving him to explore. His other hand slips over my breast, cupping it, and I take his touch as permission to see what I can discover on him.

  This is a lovely game of I Spy. Except we’re using our hands.

  He fills his palms with my ass, his own throat letting a low growling sound that makes me wetter. The wind makes the field undulate as the sun peeks out from behind clouds, making a final, desperate attempt to shine before its day ends. All I can do is feel. My sex begins to throb, breasts swollen and plaintively wanting more of his body, his fingers, his touch.

  His wanting me is the most erotic turn-on ever. Knowing he’s hot for me, feeling his response to my presence, my mouth, my touch.

  Me.

  “Shannon,” he whispers. Just my name. I understand, because his name zooms through my mind a million times a minute right now, trying to embed itself in deep grooves, to make it the only word I can think even when my mind is completely gone and I am nothing but sensation.

  Declan.

  This feels so good. So achingly good to have our hands and skin and lips and tongues all working together to get acquainted. He kisses my neck and one hand runs a long, luscious line up from my ass over my ribs to cup a breast from underneath, his thumb tweaking one nipple until it’s rock hard.

  I gasp. I want so much more. The movement pulls my shirt out completely from my waistband and I wiggle, primed for him. In addition to throwing EpiPens in my purse, I’ve added a handful of condoms because you really never know. Splendor in the grass…

  “You are so lush,” he whispers as he pulls away, my mouth raw and burning from so much kissing. I like it.

  “You’re amazing,” I say as he pulls me on top of him, his erection pressing into my abs, my leg falling between his, thigh pinned between two powerhouses of muscled legs. I’m crushing him and he doesn’t care, his caresses insistent and making it very clear that this could go as far as we want it to, all the way, and the Shannon that normally would demur is most definitely not the one in charge right now.