Beyond Ordinary Love_A Journey's End Billionaire Romance Page 10

  There it was again, he noted sourly. Her reinforced brick wall, which allowed him to get so close and no closer.

  It popped up at the most inopportune moments.

  For example, she still insisted on absolute secrecy about their relationship, which necessitated his parking his car down the street and darting in and out under cover of darkness. Plus, he was still pretending that they were no more than colleagues at work.

  As for a key to her house, or staying when she wasn’t there? Forget it.

  Prudent behavior for a single woman in the twenty-first century? Of course.

  But also an exhausting ongoing effort on his part.

  How long were they required to maintain this charade? Did she think that her little cuts didn’t wound, or that it was easy for him to keep such a tight leash on his growing feelings for her? Did she truly think the merger alone was responsible for his lingering stay in Journey’s End? Did she not realize that he had any number of employees who could handle what he purported to be doing at the winery every day?

  “Yeah, sure, that could work,” she said after a pause. “But then you’d still need to get your stuff later, wouldn’t you? Why don’t we each take care of our business and then meet back here in an hour and a half or so?”

  His heart sank.

  “Of course,” he said lightly.

  Too lightly, apparently, because she narrowed her eyes and gave him a closer look.

  “Hang on…Now that I think about it, you haven’t been to the hotel in several days, have you?”

  He shrugged, making a production out of washing his hands and getting a glass of the Zinfandel she’d left to breathe on the counter. Then he headed to the sofa.

  “Who can keep track of those things?”

  Like a cat on the scent of a mouse, she followed and sat beside him, all but tipping her nose up so she could smell the air.

  “Why are you being shady, Baptiste?”

  Shit.

  His laugh, much to his chagrin, sounded as though it belonged to a high-school student in his first acting class.

  “Why all the suspicion?” he said. “Perhaps I keep some things in the trunk.”

  More staring ensued.

  His belly squirmed with nerves as he sipped his wine, but, on the other hand, maybe this was the moment he’d been waiting and planning for. The prospect made his heart thump pleasantly faster.

  “Do you even still have the suite?” she demanded.

  He stared her in the face and prayed their fledgling relationship was now strong enough for a revelation of this magnitude.

  “I do not.”

  She looked stunned. “And when did you let it go?”

  “Eh.” He flapped a hand. “It’s been a bit.”

  “How long is a bit?”

  “The day after I spent the night here for the first time.”

  “What?”

  He shrugged.

  “I just…” She crossed her arms, working herself into exactly the sort of lather he’d anticipated. “So now we’re, what? Roommates?”

  He kept his tone level.

  “We’re lovers getting to know each other better. We spend our nights together here because you have a wonderful home and I love it. The suite is unnecessary. But if you prefer, I can get it back and we can spend our nights together there. Up to you.”

  “Up to me? If it were up to me, seems like I would have had some say before you moved in with me.”

  Had it not been for the faint flare of panic behind her eyes, he might have smiled because she was so predictable. He could have scripted this exact reaction for her.

  “What has changed from three seconds ago, other than your putting a label on it?” he asked quietly. “We’re happy together. We were about to enjoy another night together at home binge-watching home makeover shows. Where is the harm in that?”

  “But where is this going, Baptiste?”

  Just like that, another of those brick wall, so far and no farther moments rose up to clip his heel and make him stumble.

  Where was this going?

  To a place where he’d already structured his life around her, inciting panic with his beleaguered business manager back in France, who couldn’t understand why he kept postponing his return home and rescheduling important meetings.

  As far as Baptiste was concerned, this was going in whichever direction led to them being together permanently. Whether that meant on her continent or his. Actually, he much preferred her continent and his new existence in Journey’s End.

  But he damn well couldn’t tell her that when the lesser revelation that he’d given up his hotel suite made her face lose its color like this.

  “Where is this going?” He worked hard to keep his equilibrium when a knot of fear began throbbing in his belly. “Isn’t that what we’re figuring out, ma reine?”

  She took a deep breath. Frowned and thought it over. Looked back at him, her stern expression tempered by a glint of amusement.

  “You think you’re slick, don’t you? Have you also cleaned out one of my drawers? Are all your monogrammed shirts hanging somewhere in the back of my closet?”

  He exhaled and laughed, dizzy with relief.

  “No, but I will require my share of the amenities. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Is that right?” she cried with mock outrage. “Well, only people in good financial standing get amenities around here. And you, monsieur, are a deadbeat. So you can keep your luggage in your trunk, as far as I’m concerned. Your toothbrush, too.”

  There it was at last. The chance he’d been waiting for.

  Another tremendous wave of emotion hit him—satisfaction this time.

  He pulled something out of his wallet and gave it to her.

  She stared blankly down at it, then up at him. “What’s this?”

  “An American Express card.”

  “Why is my name on it? I didn’t apply for a card.”

  “I made you an authorized user on my account.”

  “What? When? I know, I know—a couple of weeks ago, right?”

  He bowed his head.

  She frowned down at the card.

  “Why is it black?”

  Taking an advance against his stores of self-control for years into the future, Baptiste held back his smile. This was too delicious. If only he could pull out his phone and record this whole incident, this single brilliant encapsulation of why Samira was the right woman for him. If he’d given a card like this to Daphne, she’d have screeched with delight, posted a picture of it online and immediately used it to buy a Bentley so she could drive herself in style to the nearest Harry Winston store and buy one of everything.

  But Samira.

  A cloud drifted over his heart.

  Would she turn into a Daphne now that she had access to his money? Hadn’t every woman he’d ever dated been—or eventually become—a Daphne?

  And…now that he thought about it…hadn’t his mother been a Daphne?

  Or was it that Daphne and all the others had been his mother?

  Staring into Samira’s eyes, which were now vaguely suspicious, he knew that she wasn’t a Daphne. Not even a little bit around the edges.

  If she were, he’d never have been tempted to give her the card.

  Because she wasn’t, he’d happily give her the moon.

  That dark cloud continued on its way, leaving his heart basking in the sun.

  “Some of the cards are black.” He kept his voice as offhand as he could. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “I’ve never seen a black American Express card before,” she said severely. “I want to make sure this isn’t bootleg.”

  “Bootleg?”

  “Yes. These cards might be produced in some back alley in Paris, for all I know.”

  At that, his laughter broke through its restraints. There was no way to stop it.

  “I think you’ll find that this card is quite legal and works very well.”

  She
glared. “So…I can use it for groceries tomorrow?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Groceries usually run a couple hundred dollars,” she warned.

  “That should be fine,” he said gravely. “And if you wanted to…I don’t know, pay the utilities with it or buy yourself something as well, feel free.”

  Her frown deepened. “Like what?”

  “Clothes. Shoes. A bag. A watch. Whatever you want. Do you have your dress yet for the gala?”

  “No.” Her face fell. “I’ve been dreading that. What the heck do you wear for a black-tie gala for a winery merger? I know nothing about fancy gowns.”

  Baptiste thought of his mother’s favorite shops and couturiers in Paris, the kinds of establishments where they would produce a bottle of champagne and a plate of caviar for you to enjoy while you made your selections, then gladly swipe your card to the tune of five figures or more.

  “I might have a few recommendations.”

  “Well, thanks. That’s so sweet of you. I won’t get carried away, though,” she said earnestly. “I’ll check with you before I spend, say, five hundred dollars?”

  He meant to take her seriously. Honestly, he did. But he thought of his standing rule with his business manager, that Baptiste didn’t need to be notified for any routine expense of less than a hundred thousand Euros, and burst out laughing anyway.

  “What? Stop making fun of me!”

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He pulled her onto his lap, ignoring her struggles to break free. “But what do you expect?”

  “I don’t want you to ever think I’m assuming things or taking advantage of your generosity,” she said earnestly. “I don’t want to be that person. I don’t want to be like everyone else in your life.”

  She didn’t want to—?

  If only she knew.

  “You’re not like anyone else in my life.” He took her hand. Kissed it. “Well, except maybe Daniel.”

  “Oh, okay. Now you’re saying all black folks are alike.”

  He cringed and opened his mouth to apologize, but then he caught sight of her repressed dimple and had to laugh.

  “Don’t even try it.”

  “Do you see this uniform and this belt? I will elbow strike you into oblivion,” she said, cocking her arm and aiming for his neck.

  But he tickled her ribs and she laughed, and then somehow she was astride him on the sofa. Face-to-face and breathless now, all their amusement vanished and the heat rose between them, as it always did.

  “I have to go soon,” she said, shivering as he trailed his fingers up her thighs. “Don’t look at me like that.”

  She had no idea how easily he got lost in those bright eyes.

  “What makes you think I can help it?”

  She took a deep breath. Opened her mouth. Hesitated.

  “When I was little, my parents had a tough time making ends meet. They’d be doing fine, then a car would break down. One time my mom broke her arm and couldn’t work for a few weeks. They could just never get ahead.”

  He nodded, his jaw tightening as he thought of the contrast with his own frivolous parents, who’d jet-setted their way through life, forgetting they had a child whenever possible.

  “They had one credit card, which they rarely used because the interest rates were so high because of their bad credit. It was an endless cycle. One time they tried to get an AmEx card, but they didn’t qualify. I remember them huddled around the kitchen table discussing it. They were so worried. I think they might even have considered bankruptcy at one point. When they realized I was there, they laughed it off and said that they didn’t want it anyway because of the annual fee.”

  His cheeks burned with belated anger on their behalf.

  And with shame, because he certainly didn’t deserve his riches, and wouldn’t have them but for an accident of birth.

  “So when I grew up, I never got one for the longest time,” she continued. “Out of loyalty to them, I suppose. We were a happy family, but money was always an issue. So I just sort of trained myself to be frugal. I’m not a shopper. I don’t dream about shoes. I’m perfectly happy with my little used Mazda. Why buy a new car when I walk almost everywhere I need to go anyway? I do well with my job, and I can afford nicer things now, but I’m just not the girl who wants to spend the time or the money to get her hair and nails done every week. That’s not me.”

  He nodded again, battling a fierce wave of protectiveness that demanded he stand between this precious woman and some of life’s rougher edges. He didn’t trust himself to say anything when his heart felt stuck in his throat and several too-soon promises crowded on the back of his tongue, just waiting to be said.

  For example?

  That neither she nor her parents would suffer through anxieties or humiliations like that, ever again. Not on his watch. That if there was something she wanted or needed, it was his duty—his honor—to get it for her. That he wanted her to feel free to ask him for anything, and certainly anything financial she ever needed.

  Most of all?

  That she aroused powerful instincts he’d never known he could feel.

  If he had his way? Samira wouldn’t suffer so much as a broken fingernail for the rest of her life.

  “And what would you want?” He stroked the hair at her temple while she ran her fingers through the hair at his forehead, smoothing it. “If you had the money for anything in the world?”

  She pursed her lips and thought it over.

  “Well, I wouldn’t say no to a Chanel bag. Don’t get me wrong.”

  Somehow he kept a straight face rather than pumping his fist with excitement. Here, finally, was something with which to lavish this woman. Plus, her birthday was coming up soon, so she couldn’t very well deny him the opportunity to buy her a present.

  A Chanel bag. Done.

  “But really I want to travel. I want to see everything everywhere. Eat everything. I want to see all the artwork in all the museums. I want to visit Machu Picchu and Everest and everything in between. That’s my big dream.”

  He felt another tremendous surge of satisfaction.

  Never in his life had he been so glad to own his own plane.

  His woman wanted to travel? By God, was she going to travel.

  “So you want experiences rather than things?”

  “Exactly.” She beamed at him. “You’re very insightful. This is why I keep you around.”

  “My insight?” He made a face. “I was hoping it was because of my charm and sexual prowess.”

  “Those are working for me too, I must admit,” she said, planting a lingering kiss on his forehead.

  He closed his eyes, immersing himself inside the moment’s peaceful perfection while he could. A hard day’s work. A bottle of wine. Samira in his arms, with her lips on his body and her scent in his nostrils. A place where he belonged and would continue to belong, even after his confession about the hotel suite.

  He sighed, loving her.

  Keeping his feelings a secret for fear of scaring her off.

  “Thank you for telling me,” he said, his voice gruff as he opened his eyes and looked up at her.

  “Thanks for the AmEx card.” Her eyes smiled at him. “I have to go.”

  “I know,” he said glumly.

  “I’m going to leave you here to make my dinner. I don’t want to come back and find a fire truck in front of my house.”

  He laughed and smacked her ass to get her going. “No promises.”

  She stood to let him up.

  “And I’ll give you my spare key. Since you continue to please me.”

  He somehow managed to keep his glee under control. “And my closet space…?”

  “Don’t push your luck,” she said, taking a swipe at his chin with one of the Krav Maga moves she’d shown him before.

  Laughing, he ducked and deflected, grabbed his wine and went back to the kitchen to get started on dinner, which might take a while since he had no idea what he was doing.


  “I hope I can find a video on cleaning fresh shrimp.”

  “I’m sure there is.” She sounded distracted now, and he glanced around to discover that she’d pulled out her phone. “Just let me check my e-mails first…”

  “I should have bought the ones with no shell already,” he said, heading for the refrigerator and pulling out the brown paper package, “but I don’t think that’s the way Julia Child would—”

  “Oh, my God,” Samira yelled behind him. “Why?”

  Alarmed, he looked around in time to see her cry out, cover her face with her hands and slump to the floor in front of the sofa.

  “Samira!”

  Years fell away from his life. He dropped the shrimp and ran to her, in stark terror that she’d somehow hurt herself. By the time he got there, she’d curled into a seated fetal position and had her arms around her legs and her head on her knees.

  She was sobbing her eyes out, her shoulders heaving.

  The sound of it ripped his guts out.

  “What happened?” he said, kneeling beside her.

  She hastily raised her head, swiped her eyes, looking embarrassed now, and passed the phone without a word.

  It was an e-mail, he saw, bewildered.

  Dear Samira:

  This is the hardest e-mail I’ve ever had to write. Thank you for reaching out to me. I’m so glad you’re doing well and wish you all the best on your new marriage. But please understand that there’s no place for my past in my current family. I’ve moved on and hope you’ll do the same. Please don’t reach out to me again.

  There was no ending salutation. No Love, Best, Sincerely or, God forbid, a string of Xs and Os to denote kisses and hugs. No nothing other than the woman’s name, Jana, Samira’s shuddering breath as she struggled to stop crying and his black rage at the birth mother who’d kept Samira on pins and needles for weeks before deigning to respond with a second rejection.

  He had absolutely no idea what to say.

  “Samira…” he began helplessly.

  “I don’t know why I’m surprised.” She turned to him, her eyes wet and her face wrecked. “What did I think would happen?”

  “It’s her loss,” he said fervently. “This has nothing to do with you.”

  “Nothing to do with me?” She laughed bitterly. “In case you haven’t noticed, no one wants me! Everyone always leaves me!”