The crowd parted as they made their way to the door. Half the people in the room looked disgusted. Some were in shock. A few more looked worried, probably concerned that their dark secret might be the next exposed by Maverick. There were only a few people in the room who looked at all concerned about Cecelia herself, and that made him almost as angry as he was with the blackmailing bastard that started this mess.
That was the problem with this town—the cliquish bullshit was ridiculous. It was just as bad in high school as it was now. It made him glad that he’d decided to leave Royal instead of staying in this toxic environment.
The problem was that most of the people in the town were in the clique, so they didn’t see the issue. It was only the outsiders who suffered by their viper-pit mentality. Deacon had always been an outsider, and money and prestige hadn’t changed that, not really. He’d gotten through the doors of the club tonight, but he still didn’t fit in. And he didn’t want to.
Yet if he had to bet money on Maverick’s identity, he’d put it on another outsider. Whoever it was was just kicking the hornet’s nest for fun, watching TCC members turn on each other so they would know what it felt like to be him.
Cecelia didn’t need to be around for the fallout. This entire situation was out of her control, and she would be the one to suffer unnecessarily for it. Brent and Tilly should be here, taking on their share of the club’s disgust for forcing her to live this lie to begin with. If they’d been honest about adopting Cecelia, there would’ve been nothing for Maverick to hold over her head.
He shoved the heavy oak door open with his foot and carried her out to the end of the portico. There, he settled her back on her feet. “Are you okay to stand?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, sniffing and wiping the streams of mascara from her flush cheeks.
“I’m going to go get my car. Will you be okay?”
She nodded. Deacon reached into his pocket to get his keys, but before he could step into the parking lot, a figure stumbled out of the dark bushes nearby. He didn’t recognize the man, but he didn’t like the looks of him, either. He was thin with stringy hair and bugged-out eyes. Even without the stink of alcohol and the stumble in his steps, Deacon could tell this was a guy on the edge. Maybe even the kind of guy who would blackmail the whole town.
“Cecelia Wood?” he asked, with a lopsided smile that revealed a mess of teeth inside. “Shoulda seen that one coming, right? Nobody is that perfect. Even a princess like you needs to be knocked off their high horse every now and then, right?”
Deacon stepped protectively between him and Cecelia. “Who the hell is this guy?” he asked.
“Adam Haskell,” she whispered over his shoulder. “He has a small ranch on the edge of town. I’m surprised he hasn’t lost it to the banks yet. All he does is drink anymore.”
The name sounded familiar from Deacon’s childhood, but the man in front of him had lived too many rough years to be recognizable. “Why don’t you call a cab and sleep that booze off, Adam?”
The drunk didn’t even seem to hear him. He was focused entirely on Cecelia. “You had it coming, you know. You can only go through life treating people like dirt for so long before karma comes back and slaps you across the face. Now you’re getting a taste of your own medicine.”
“Now, that’s enough,” Deacon said more forcefully. This time he got Adam’s attention.
“Look at Deacon Chase all grow-w-wn up,” he slurred. “You should hate her as much as I do. She treated you worse than anyone else. Used you and spit you out when she didn’t need you anymore.”
“Adam!” A man’s sharp voice came from the doorway of the club. A lanky but solid man with short blond hair stepped outside with a redhead at his side.
“Mac and Violet McCallum!” Adam said as he turned his attention to them, nearly losing his drunken footing and falling over. “You’re just in time. I was telling Deacon here how he’s made a mistake trying to protect her. She’s made her bed, it’s time for her to lie in it, don’t you think?”
Deacon’s hands curled into fists of rage at his sides. He was getting tired of this guy’s mouth. If he couldn’t get his hands on Maverick, Mr. Haskell would do in a pinch.
“All right, Adam, you know you’re not supposed to be here on the property if you’re not a member of the club. They’ll call the sheriff on you again. You can’t afford the bail.”
“Best sleep I ever get is in the drunk tank,” he declared proudly, then belched.
“Even then.” Mac came up to Adam and put an arm around his shoulder. “How about we give you a ride home, Adam? You don’t need to be driving.”
Adam pouted in disappointment, but he didn’t fight Mac off. “Aw, I’m just having a little fun with her. Right, Cecelia? No harm done.”
Mac just shook his head. “Well, tonight’s not a good night for it. I’m pretty sure the party is over. If you stay around here any longer, it might be a fist and not the vodka that knocks you out tonight.”
Mac was right. Deacon was glad the couple had intervened when they had or he might’ve had to get physical with the scrawny drunk.
“I can take anyone,” Adam muttered.
“I’m sure you can,” Mac agreed and rolled his eyes. “But let’s not risk it tonight and ruin Isabelle’s party any more than it already has been.”
Mac led Adam toward his truck while Violet stayed behind with Deacon and Cecelia. “I’m so sorry, Cecelia,” she said. “This whole thing with Maverick is getting out of hand. I can’t imagine who would want to hurt everyone so badly. And the way people reacted...it’s not right.”
Cecelia came out from behind Deacon, still clinging to his arm. “Thank you, Violet.”
The redhead just nodded sadly and followed Mac and Adam out into the parking lot. Cecelia watched her go with a heavy sigh. “There goes one of the five people in town who hasn’t turned on me.”
He hated hearing that kind of defeat from her. Cecelia was his fighter. He wasn’t about to let Maverick beat her down. “You know what you need?” Deacon asked. “You need to get away from here.”
She nodded. “Yeah, I’d like to go home if you don’t mind.”
Home wouldn’t help. Word about her would just spread through town like wildfire, and soon everyone would know. Her parents would show up lamenting how embarrassing this was for them and making Cecelia feel even worse. Her friends would drop in to commiserate and reopen the wounds she was struggling to heal. No, she needed to get the hell out of Royal for a few days.
“I have another idea.” Deacon took her hand and led her to his car. After the scene with Adam, he was too worried to leave her alone in case a partygoer came out of the club and had something nasty to say. When they got to his car, he opened the door and helped her in. “You’re not going home.”
She looked at him in surprise. “I’m not? Where are we going, then? To your place?”
Deacon shook his head and closed her door. He climbed into his side and revved the engine. He had bigger, better plans than just hiding her away at his wood-and-stone sanctuary. “I guess you could look at it that way.”
He pulled out of the parking lot and picked up his phone. He dialed his private jet service and made all the necessary arrangements while Cecelia sat looking confused and beat down in the seat beside him.
Finally, he hung up and put the phone down. “It’s all handled.”
Cecelia turned in her seat to look at him. “You said we were going to your place, but that’s back the other way. Then you have some vague conversation about going home for a few days. That doesn’t make any sense. Where are we going, Deacon?”
He smiled, hoping this little mystery was enough to distract her from the miserable night. “Well, first we’re stopping at your place so you can pack a bag and grab your passport.”
He turned in time to se
e her silvery, gray eyes widen. “My passport? Why on earth...?”
Deacon grinned. This was a turn of events he hadn’t expected, but it was the perfect escape. She needed to get away, he wanted to show her his crown jewel...it all worked out. By the time they returned to Royal, perhaps some new gossip from Maverick would crop up and make everyone forget about Cecelia’s birth mother.
“Yes, and once you’re packed, we’re going to the airport where a private jet is waiting to take the two of us to one of my other properties, the Hotel de Rêve.”
Cecelia sat in shock beside him. It took a few moments before she could respond. “Deacon, your other hotel is in France.”
He pulled into her driveway and put the Corvette into Park. “Yes. Hence the need for your passport. Pack for the French Riviera in the spring.”
She shook her head, making her blond waves dance around her shoulders. Cecelia had really looked lovely tonight, in a beautiful and clingy gray lace dress that brought out the gray in her eyes, but he’d barely had time to appreciate it between the mingling and the drama.
“No, Deacon, this is crazy talk. I can’t go to France tonight even if I wanted to. The Bellamy opens in two weeks. I have so much to do—”
“Your staff has things to do,” he interrupted, “and they know what those things are. You’re not carrying furniture and wiring lamps into the wall. You’re the designer, and most of your work is handled. Shane will oversee everything else, I promise. You and I are getting out of this town for a few days to let this whole mess blow over. End of discussion.”
The way Cecelia looked at him, he could tell it wasn’t the end of the discussion yet. “Couldn’t we just go to Houston or something to get away? Maybe New Orleans? No one would know where we were. We don’t have to go all the way to France, do we?”
Deacon disagreed. He turned off the car and got out, opening her door. “Yes, we do.”
“Why?” she persisted as she stood to look at him.
“Because I don’t own a hotel in New Orleans. Now get inside and pack that bag. The plane leaves for Cannes in an hour.”
Eight
Cecelia woke up in a nest of soft, luxury linens with bright light streaming through the panoramic hotel room windows. Wincing from the light, she pushed herself up in bed and looked around the suite for Deacon. She could see him on the balcony reading a newspaper and drinking his café au lait at a tiny bistro table there.
She wrapped the blanket around her naked body and padded barefoot to the sliding glass door. The view from the owner’s suite of the Hotel de Rêve was spectacular. The hotel was almost directly on the beach, with only the famous Boulevard de la Croisette separating his property from the golden sands that lined the Mediterranean Sea. To the left of the hotel was a marina filled with some the largest and most luxurious yachts she’d ever seen. To the right, beautiful, tan tourists had already taken up residence on the beach.
The sea was a deep turquoise against the bright robin’s-egg blue of the sky. There wasn’t a cloud, a blemish, a single thing to ruin the perfection. It was almost as if the place wasn’t real. When they’d first arrived the day before, Cecelia wasn’t entirely certain that this wasn’t a delusion brought on by jet lag. But after a quick nap, Cannes was just as pretty as it had been earlier. Of course, enjoying it with the handsome—and partially clothed—hotel owner hadn’t hurt, either.
“Bonjour, belle,” he greeted her. He was sitting in a pair of black silk pajama pants, and thankfully, he seemed to have misplaced the top. His golden tan and chiseled chest and arms were on display, and now she knew how he had gotten that dark. If she spent every morning enjoying the sun here, she might actually get a little color for her porcelain complexion, as well.
Cecelia didn’t know why she was surprised to find that he was fluent in French, considering Deacon had lived here for several years and had to interact with guests, locals and staff, alike. She supposed it just didn’t align with the Deacon she had once known—covered in motor oil or rinsing cafeteria trays—although it suited Deacon perfectly as he was now.
It made her wish she had kept up with her French studies after high school. She’d quickly lost most of her vocabulary and conjugation, really being able to function now only as a tourist asking for directions to the nearest restroom. “Bonjour,” she replied in her most practiced accent. “That’s about all the French I have for today.”
Deacon laughed and folded his paper, which was also in French. “That’s okay,” he said, leaning forward to give her a good-morning kiss. “Perhaps later we can crawl back into bed and practice a little more French.”
Cecelia couldn’t suppress the girlish giggle at his innuendo. Deacon was smart to bring her to Cannes. There was just something about being here, thousands of miles away from Royal and all her worries, that made her feel like a completely different person. She liked this person a hell of a lot more than the woman who had very nearly married Chip Ashford. Apparently most of Royal hadn’t liked her, either, judging by their reaction to her being knocked down a peg or two by Maverick’s gossip.
Cecelia sat down at the table next to him, and he poured her a cup of coffee, passing her the pitcher of milk to add as much as she would like. He followed it with a plate of flaky, fresh croissants and preserves.
“Do you have anything in mind that you would like to do today?” he asked. “Yesterday we were too exhausted to do much more than change time zones, but I thought you might like to see a little bit of the town this afternoon. You haven’t been to Cannes if you haven’t strolled along la Croisette, sipped a beautiful rosé and watched the sunset. We could even take my yacht out for a spin.”
She took a large sip of her coffee and nodded into her delicate china teacup. “That sounds lovely. I’ve never been to the French Riviera, so I would be happy to see anything that you would like to show me. I mean,” she continued, “it’s not like this is a trip that I’ve planned for a long time. I basically just let you sweep me off my feet and I woke up in France. I would be perfectly content to just sit on this balcony and look out at the sea if that was all we had time to do.”
Deacon smiled. “Well, I figure there is no place on earth better suited to relax and forget about all your problems than the French Riviera. I’ve seen more than one tightly wound businessman completely transform in only a few days. After everything that has happened recently, I think it’s just what the doctor ordered, Miss Morgan.”
She couldn’t argue with that. He was absolutely right. Here, the drama of Maverick and the fallout of her exposed secret felt like a distant memory, or a dream that she’d nearly forgotten about as she’d awakened. She had gotten a couple texts from Simone and her mother yesterday morning after they’d landed, but Deacon had insisted she turn off her phone. Overage charges for international roaming were a good excuse, he’d said, and once again he had been right. She didn’t want talk to her mother or anyone else right now.
She just wanted to soak in the glorious rays of the sun, enjoy the beauty around her and relish her time alone with Deacon. They would return home soon enough to open the hotel, and she’d finally face everything she had been running from her whole life.
“I took the liberty of scheduling an appointment for you at our spa today. My talented ladies have been told to give you the works, so a massage, a mud bath, a facial... Whatever your little heart desires. That should take up a good chunk of your day, and then we can hit the shore later this afternoon, once you’ve been properly pampered.”
Cecelia could only shake her head and thank her lucky stars that she had Deacon here with her through all of this. How would she have coped alone? Just having him by her side would’ve been enough, but he always had to go the extra mile, and she appreciated it. She just wasn’t sure how she could ever repay him.
She idly slathered a bit of orange marmalade on a piece of croissant and popped it
into her mouth. “You’re too good to me, Deacon,” she said as she chewed thoughtfully. “I don’t deserve any of this VIP treatment. I’m beginning to think that maybe Adam Haskell was right, and all the negativity I’ve been breeding all these years was just coming back to haunt me. It had to eventually, right?”
“You’re too hard on yourself,” Deacon said. “The girl I fell in love with was sweet and caring and saw things in me that no one else saw. You might pretend now that you are a cold-as-ice businesswoman set to crush your competitors and anybody who gets in your way, but I don’t believe it for a second. That girl I know is still in there somewhere.”
Cecelia appreciated that he had so much faith in her, but she wasn’t the innocent girl he knew from back in school. That girl had been smothered the day her parents forced her to break up with Deacon and put her life back on track to the future that they wanted for her. She had become an unfortunate mix of both her parents—a cutthroat business owner, a perfection-seeking elitist and, more often than she would have liked, a plain old bitch. He hadn’t been around to see the changes in her, but she knew it was true. She was absolutely certain that most of the people in town were thrilled to see her taken down a notch. Maybe even a few of the people whom she’d once considered her friends.
“I’m glad you think so highly of me, Deacon, but I can’t help but wonder if you’re actually seeing me as I am, or as you want to see me.”
“I see you as you are, beneath the designer clothes, fancy makeup and social facade you’ve crafted. That girl hasn’t changed. She’s still in there, you just haven’t let her out in a long time.”
Cecelia felt tears start to well in her eyes as her cheeks burned with emotion. She really hoped that he was right, and that the good person he remembered was still here. It seemed like over the past decade she had lost touch with herself, if she had ever really known who she truly was. She’d spent her whole life trying to live up to her parents’ expectations, then Chip’s expectations...
Expecting the Billionaire's Baby Page 9
