Shopping for a Billionaire 3 Read online

And that’s okay. Really. Because I can love my dad but want a man for myself who is completely different.

  “We’re almost there,” Declan says, pointing through the window at the scattered lights below. I’m so deep in my thoughts that somehow I manage to forget to look outside, to see the show unfolding beneath us. Complete darkness has descended over the city; it’s a moonless night, so up here in the sky, the air has a whiff of intrigue to it. Without the bright white orb in the sky to shepherd us, the chopper’s movements feel more than a little surreal, like riding Space Mountain at Disney, except there is no enclosed building, no track, no line.

  We move down, more of the city rolling out before our eyes. A long patch of nothingness spills into view suddenly. The copter shifts downward and we’re flying fast over water. Declan kisses my ear and I see the white caps of waves cresting, my body drained. I’m tired and spent, yet wired and excited. It’s not from the copter ride.

  It’s from knowing there’re so much more to come.

  Joel says a bunch of numbers and phrases again, then suddenly we’re hovering a few feet above the ground on a tiny island, a tall building brightly lit right next to us. The flight itself was fast, so fast we must be on one of the Boston Harbor islands. I can’t tell which one. The tall, lit building is a lighthouse, the old kind. The lighthouse’s beacon faces out to sea and a small golf cart is parked next to the structure.

  “Powering down,” Joel explains. I sit in place, the copter’s vibrations making my skin tingle. I’m parched, and just as the last snick sound from the blades’ rotation makes its final sigh, my stomach growls louder than a zombie bear that stumbled across a bunch of fresh raccoon brains.

  “Hungry?”

  “Starving.”

  Declan has a satisfied look on his face, as if he’s hiding something he’s quite proud of. “Good. You’ll like what’s coming next.”

  As long as it’s me, I think. He gives me a look that says he’s read my mind.

  I’m about as graceful as a three-legged elephant with arthritis as I climb out of the helicopter, managing somehow to step on Declan’s foot and elbow him in the abs as he helps me down. Joel gives us a thumbs-up and walks away as Declan takes my elbow and escorts me to a small door at the base of the lighthouse.

  “I assume we’re still in the United States?” I ask. “Because I left my passport at home.”

  “Glad to hear you have one,” he says as he opens the tattered wood door, the paint worn down, the old dark oak underneath poking through under white paint as faded as old bones left out in the sun for too many summers. A narrow set of stairs, all made of concrete from a time when I imagine puritans hand-mixed it, curls up to the sky in a dizzying spiral. I inhale the scent of sea salt and centuries.

  His words warm me, though. Where could we go? Where would he take me? Not that it matters, as long as I’m with him. He hinted about New Zealand last week, but I thought he’d been joking.

  I guess not. My neck hurts from staring straight up, the lighthouse’s peak blocked by a ceiling.

  “What is this place?” I ask. I can see the stairs curve up at the top and stop.

  “I wanted to take you somewhere you’ve never been. Finding a restaurant that a mystery shopper has never eaten in or evaluated is a daunting task. But I think I’ve risen to the occasion.” His hand on the small of my back pushes gently so that I go inside, my shoes scraping against old stone.

  The main door clicks shut and echoes up, the sound carrying to the heavens.

  “I think you’ve succeeded,” I whisper. My voice reverberates. I shiver involuntarily, and Declan’s arm is around me instantly, pulling me to his warmth.

  “You scared?” He’s amused.

  “No,” I protest. “It’s just a little cold. And dark.” Flickering gas lamps dot the path upwards, like something out of a Gothic novel. Declan clearly has a thing for these sorts of places. The walls remind me of a mausoleum without the names and dates etched in the front-facing stones.

  “Don’t worry,” he says, pulling back and gesturing for me to go first up the stairs. “The manacles on the torture chamber are lined with a nice, thick sherpa fleece.”

  Chapter Seven

  I halt so fast his front slams into my ass. I can feel exactly how he’s risen to the occasion.

  “Huh?”

  “That was a joke.”

  I turn and face him. His lips are twitching around a poorly contained look of amusement.

  “Look here, buddy,” I say, poking my finger against his perfect chest. “This isn’t like one of those books where the billionaire steals the poor, underpaid intern away from her horrible life and they discover a mutually beneficial BDSM lifestyle, m’kay?”

  He pretends to be crestfallen. “Oh. Okay. Then I’ll just call Joel and we’ll take you home.” He reaches into his back pocket for his phone and fake dials. I can see he’s actually on ESPN and checking scores. The Red Sox are playing at Fenway right now. In know that because we flew over them, and that fact makes the entire night seem so surreal.

  Seem? It is surreal. Magical. A little too perfect.

  My stomach growls in protest. “What about dinner?” I ignore him and start walking up the stairs. There’s no railing, so I cling to the stones with splayed palms, thanking God I’m not wearing high heels.

  “Nice view,” he says, suspiciously close behind me. A warm hand slides up between my thighs. “Here, let me lend you a hand.”

  “That hand isn’t helping.” His fingers slide under my already-soaked panties and he gives me the slightest touch against my wetness. We pause and I cling to the wall with even weaker legs.

  “Really?” he murmurs against the back of my neck. “It seems to be making things much…smoother.”

  “You’re slick.”

  “Actually,” he says, “you’re the one who’s slick.” As tantalizing as being felt up on the stairs is, there’s a very real danger that we will roll down the stone steps and end up in the hospital again and I, for one, cannot emotionally handle two dates in a row ending with an Explanation of Benefits form and an ER co-pay.

  “Let’s get upstairs and see what you have for me.”

  He takes my hand and puts it on his fly.

  “That’s not quite what I meant, Declan.”

  He glides past me, making sure to press every inch of his chiseled self against my own soft curves, taking the steps up carefully until his ass is in my face. It’s a fabulous view.

  “Normally I’d say ‘ladies first,’ but right now you’re procrastinating, so—”

  “You’re groping me on the stairs and making it so I can’t even walk! How is that procrastinating?” I’m talking to air, though, because by the time I say that, he’s halfway to the top, bounding up like this is part of The Amazing Race and he’s on the annoying team that’s always way ahead of everyone else because they’re in good shape and all that unfair crap.

  So I trek my way up, one frightening stair at a time. My hand brushes against something soft on the stones and I scream.

  “What’s wrong?” he calls down.

  If I confess, he’ll just make fun of me. Or, worse, come back here and drive me wild with those fingers and we’ll tumble down the stairs to our deaths. No one would find us for days. We would be the lead story on New England Cable News for weeks.

  Billionaire Meets Death with Klutzy Woman. News at eleven.

  I force myself to take the stairs at a faster clip. By the time I climb the equivalent of three stories, my quads are screaming.

  Screaming to be wrapped around his hips.

  The most delicious scent tickles my nose as I make the final turn up to the top of the stairs, Declan standing there, holding open a small door. I have to duck to enter. Oregano and rosemary and something else fill the air, and as I come to a full standing position I’m greeted by a scene out of a dream.

  Tall, sculpted windows arch high toward a flat ceiling, with the ocean surrounding us in a 360-degree spin that is beyond br
eathtaking. The room is just beneath what I assume is the lighthouse’s warning light, because an arch of glow comes from above at regular intervals, making this room ethereal and supernatural, as if Declan had conjured it with magic.

  The actual room has a small soapstone stove with a fire burning in it, which helps, because the air is chilled this high up and far out into the harbor. Two large L-shaped sofas ring the wood stove, and a series of blown-glass lamps dangle from the ceiling in muted earth tones and adobe. Thick Persian rugs cover the well-worn wood of the floor, wide pine flooring hearkening back to a very different time.

  And a small table for two with candles in large crab buckets filled with seashells is the source of the incredible smell that makes my mouth water and my stomach beg for mercy.

  Declan has that effect on me, too, but right now I am all about the meal. I need some calories. Sustenance. Protein, because one of those sofas is so big and covered with a small Matterhorn of pillows, and the entire room is like a woman’s idea of the perfect sex den.

  Which it is.

  His arm sweeping out in a welcoming gesture, he invites me to sit at the table. I see a plate full of chocolate-covered strawberries, cheese, and a bottle of white wine.

  “You know me well.”

  “I want to know you better.” Declan pulls out the chair and I sit, scooching in, my hand reaching for one of the strawberries without thinking. The bite is sweet and juicy, the chocolate smooth and creamy, and this time, there are no bees to ruin my mouthgasm.

  Declan sits across from me and leans back, his hands at his navel, eyes piercing. “You come here often?” he asks.

  “Nice pickup line,” I mumble through a mouth full of awesome. I swallow and look right back at him. “But you should know I’m a sure thing.”

  His throaty laugh makes me tingle in all the right places. Again? Again? Confession time: I’ve never had sex twice in one night with a guy. Given a blow job and had sex? Yes. But actual sex sex twice in the same night? Nope. I’m at a loss here, frankly. We, um, did the deed. Now we’re eating dinner. This sumptuous room is designed for nothing but rolling in the sheets.

  Or lack of sheets. Naked on that soft, velvety couch. Or the rug. Or just…naked. Anywhere. My eyes drift to the glass walls facing the ocean, the sound of waves lapping against the island’s shores like the blood pounding through me. Imagine making love while looking out into the expansiveness of—

  “You’re deep in thought.” Declan’s pouring two glasses of wine and I didn’t even notice him stand and uncork the bottle. It’s getting hot in here. I finish my strawberry and smile at him, reaching for the wine.

  Which I promptly drink in a series of gulps that would make any NBA player on a time-out proud.

  “This is unbelievable, Declan,” I say, looking around. “How did you find this? Is it a restaurant? It doesn’t look like one.”

  “It’s ours for tonight.”

  “That’s it? C’mon. Explain.”

  He smiles. “Okay. I donate money to a historical preservation society that works on buying and restoring lighthouses. This one isn’t in danger, but plenty of others are. I know someone who knows someone who sacrificed a few small animals to give me access to this place. It’s the only lighthouse within a short helicopter ride from Boston. I hired a few people to outfit the place to my specifications and…here we are.”

  “I think that’s the most you’ve ever said to me in one breath.”

  He shrugs. “You insisted.”

  “Why?”

  “Why did you insist?”

  “No. I mean, why all this?” I throw my hands up. “This. You didn’t need to do this for me.”

  “I didn’t need to. I want to.”

  “Why?”

  “For the same reason you’re here.”

  Letting go of this nagging “why me” voice is harder than I thought. I imagine Chuckles looking at me with disapproval, shaking his head. The man just made love to me in a limo, for goodness’ sake. Of course he wants me. Of course he likes me. At the rate I’m going, I’ll ruin this, so—

  Let

  It

  Go

  Great. Now I have the theme song from Frozen stuck in my head forever. Yeah. Sure. Try making love with that pinging through your brain. Disney characters are only aphrodisiacs for people who troll FetLife.

  Declan’s eyes have narrowed and he’s watching me. “You really do wear your emotions on your face.”

  “And in my hands,” I add, flailing them. He’s been wearing his suit jacket this whole time—even when we were doing the nasty back in the limo—and now he slips out of it, stretching the fabric across the back of a cloth-covered dining chair that’s primly tied with a neat bow.

  His shoulder muscles ripple with movement under his shirt and I realize I’ve never seen him naked. Never even seen him shirtless. My breath comes in sudden halts as it hits me that I’m really here. Mr. Grey Suit is in front of me in an intimate, romantic setting he created for me, and this is my real life.

  He unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt and rolls them up. I’m hypnotized. I can’t stop watching as his deft fingers go through the motions like a performance, his eyes tilted down and watching what he’s doing, making himself comfortable.

  He’s spent so much time thinking about my comfort. Focused on me. My eyes eat him up, enjoying not just the view but the intimacy of this moment. So simple. So ordinary. Just a man on a date in a new relationship, rolling up his sleeves after a long day at the office, waiting to sink into a lovely dinner and some nice sexy time.

  Except he’s flown across countless time zones, interrupted my pseudo-date with my ignorant ex, had his way with me in a limo, flown me in a helicopter to a remote island, and now he has me (voluntarily) trapped on a remote island where anything could happen.

  So not ordinary.

  “Enjoying yourself?” His voice is warm milk and burnt sugar and rum-soaked ladyfingers with hot fudge sauce and an invitation to spend a weekend on Martha’s Vineyard on the beach without clothes or other people.

  “I really like what I see.” It helps that I just felt his abs underneath me and they roll like Ben Wa balls, sleek, sexy and hypnotically solid.

  “Me, too.” He reaches for my hand and takes a long, slow sip of his wine. My own gulp earlier is kicking in, loosening me, making me want to run my legs against silk sheets and the soft strands of his leg hair, imagining his naked body and his own happy trail leading down…

  I don’t have to imagine it, though, do I? I’m about to live it.

  Without comment or affect, Declan lifts the covers off our plates, revealing lobster and steak. “I hope you’re not allergic to shellfish,” he says dryly.

  “No, thank God. I love lobster.” We smile at each other, and something’s different. I face it head on.

  “Speaking of allergies, thank you. I didn’t know about your brother.”

  “Of course you didn’t. But now you do.” He picks up his silverware with hands that are steady. Mine are shaking like a four-year-old with a pogo stick on Christmas morning.

  “Good for me, then, that you came prepared.”

  He pauses mid-bite. “Yes,” is all he says, then continues eating. The lights above us go round and round, giving the room a hypnotic glow.

  “How does Andrew handle it?” I take a bite and let my words hang there. Declan’s quiet, finishing his food, and I get the sense that he doesn’t want to talk about this, but I do. There’s no way I’m going to act like it never happened.

  “Handle being so allergic?”

  “No, handle being the Green Lantern.”

  He smiles. “Touché. Okay, he handles it by carefully orchestrating a life where he’s never near a wasp.”

  I laugh. Declan pours another glass of wine for me. I nod my thanks and he sets the bottle down, conspicuously not filling his own glass.

  “Impossible.”

  His eyebrows go up in mirth. “No, it’s quite possible. He has drivers who meet
him in underground parking garages, flies only at night in the cooler temperatures for that twenty-foot walk on private tarmacs to the company jet, and exercises indoors.”

  “He must be paler than a vampire.” Then again, so’s my belly. It hasn’t seen sunlight since Kristen Stewart smiled.

  “Tanning booths and vitamin D supplements cover that.”

  I’m chewing a glorious piece of lobster as his words sink in. “You’re joking.”

  He swallows his own bite and finishes his wine. “I’m completely serious. It’s how he copes.”

  I’m stunned. The allergists over the years have cautioned me to take measures that reduce my risk, but no one’s ever suggested such extremes. “Were his stings that bad?”

  “He’s only been stung once.”

  “Once?”

  “And his throat closed up.”

  “Oof. That’s really rare. You don’t normally have a reaction that bad for the first time you’re stung.”

  “Bad enough that he lost consciousness. We got him to the ER on time.” I can tell he really, really doesn’t want to talk about this, but it’s calming me. Centering me. Hearing him talk about his own experiences and his brother’s allergies makes me feel less like an oddity.

  “Your mother and father must have freaked.”

  “Mom was dead by then.” His face is a stone mask. My heart squeezes.

  “Oh.” What the hell can I say after that? Shoving a mouthful of perfectly done filet is the only way to respond. Declan pours himself another glass of wine, filling it within a half-inch of the rim, then empties the rest of the bottle into my glass.

  Neither of us has to drive, so why not?

  He studies me, taking liberal sips of his wine, then puts the glass down and reaches for my free hand. I’m slowing down, full of delectable food, wired and aroused.

  “You’re worried I can’t handle the bee thing.” It’s not a question. And he’s mostly right.

  I take a moment to think about this before answering. “No. Not quite.” He gives me a skeptical look. “It’s more that you handled it so well. Precisely perfect. The last time I was stung I was with Steve, who ran away in a panic and screamed so much the EMTs who arrived after I called 911 thought he was the bee sting victim. Delayed my treatment.”