At the Billionaire’s Wedding

by Maya Rodale, Caroline Linden, Miranda Neville, Katharine Ashe

  He’d thought she was beautiful when she was wearing shapeless clothes and covered in dust. He could talk about English literature in the middle of the night, after sex, without rolling his eyes or falling asleep. And he’d given her the best vacation of her life without attaching any strings to it.

  “Piers, wait.”

  He halted and his rigid shoulders seemed to ease. He looked around at her.

  “I’m sorry,” was all she could manage.

  “Are you?”

  “About being a hypocrite. You’re right. I’m not being fair.” She was so nervous her words shook. “This…”

  He walked to her. “This?”

  “This has been the best time I’ve ever had too.”

  His mouth relaxed. He surrounded her waist with his hands and bent to touch his lips to her cheek. “It’s about to get even better.”

  This couldn’t be happening to her. Rebound sex, she silently repeated. Wedding hookup. Anything but this surge of real feelings inside.

  “Wear the dress tonight?” he asked as he cupped her elbow to guide her toward the big party tent where everybody was gathering for the rehearsal ceremony. “Then you can leave it on the floor of my room instead of the bed table.”

  She tried to ignore the pleasure of his touch, so unconscious for him, she thought, at once gentlemanly and possessive. It turned her insides out. Every time he touched her, it made her forget everything except how good he felt.

  She disengaged from his hand. “What if I don’t want to have sex with you again? What if I think you’ll say anything to get it?”

  “But you do want to have sex with me again. And you can never be sure I won’t say anything to get it.” He looked at her squarely. “You know everything now, California. It’s time to decide to trust me or not. It’s up to you.”

  “If I said I’d rather not have sex with you this weekend, what would you think?”

  “I’d think you were testing me.”

  Not him. She needed clarity now. This was about testing herself.

  “If I promised I wasn’t,” she said.

  “I would have to respect that. I wouldn’t like it. But I would respect it. And I’d know I was to blame for it anyway.”

  Throat thick, she nodded.

  He smiled, and this time it was a tentative smile. Uncertain. “Will you still wear the dress?”

  “Are you sure? It’s very sexy.”

  His smile broadened. “I deserve the torture.”

  Chapter Twelve

  State Rooms & Bedroom

  The right shoulder strap of her slinky little black dress kept slipping down. Every time it slipped, Piers’s gaze went there. It made her feel sexy. Desired. Wanted.

  Probably the same way her mother felt when she’d met the man she married.

  But her mom hadn’t been forewarned. Cali was. She could keep her feelings safe for a few more hours.

  Except for those brief, feverish glances at her shoulder, her unofficial date for the rehearsal dinner party was ideal. He brought her drinks when her hand was empty, but didn’t press them on her; clearly he wasn’t interested in getting her drunk. He made interesting conversation with everybody they talked to, always relaxed but attentive. And he stayed with her, not leaving her side. When at times she moved away from him, after a bit she would look for him and find him talking with whomever. But he always knew when she looked at him, and he would come to her again.

  When the dancing started, Ideal Date turned into Fantasy Date. First, he didn’t assume she would dance with him; he asked politely. Second, he danced like he’d been taking ballroom dancing lessons since he was five. Third, he held her in all the right places to help her look like she’d been dancing since she was five, too, and close enough that she could smell him and get crazy from it, but not so close that he could cop a feel unnoticed.

  He had to know he was a woman’s dream date. Still, when the party was winding down and he walked her to her room, he looked as uncertain as she’d ever seen him.

  Without touching her he said, “Would I be crossing the respect line if I asked for a kiss good night?”

  She felt like she was fifteen and on her first date again. “No.”

  A slight smile. “May I kiss you good night, California?”

  “Yes.”

  His lips brushed hers, and then briefly covered them. Too briefly. He backed away. “Good night.” His voice was husky.

  She reached out and grabbed the lapel of his coat. He took her into his arms and for the first time in her life Cali had an old-fashioned, necking-at-the-door good night kiss.

  It wasn’t enough. Not nearly.

  How dangerous could it be to indulge one last time? She knew the score now. He knew she knew it. They were both adults. She ran her hands under his jacket, over his ripped pecs.

  “I don’t want you to go,” she said.

  “Then don’t make me go.”

  She tugged him into her room.

  He stopped upon the threshold. “Is this because you trust me now?”

  “This is because the weekend isn’t over yet.”

  His gaze looked so intense, but not pleased.

  She shrugged and the strap of her dress slipped off her shoulder. “Can you be okay with that?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “For now.”

  Without speaking, he laid her back on the bed fully clothed and kissed her throat, her neck, and the valley between her breasts where the dress was cut out in a diamond shape, until she asked him to remove it and kiss everywhere else too. He ran his hands along her body from the hem of the dress to the tips of her fingers as the silk slipped off, and she lifted her hips then her back to allow it. Then she kicked off her panties over her black silk heels.

  “These are impressive,” he said, studying a stiletto and trailing his fingertips along her calf, ignoring her otherwise entirely naked body. He was playing with her. Cali wondered if he wanted to make her beg him to touch her, since she’d said she didn’t want to sleep with him.

  “They’re dangerous,” she whispered, watching his face.

  “For a thunderstorm runner they would be,” he said with a smile. “Do you ever worry about twisting your ankle and falling?”

  “I worry about falling. Always.”

  His hand slipped beneath her knee. “Why do you chance it?”

  “There are three things I love. My sister, because she is the strongest person I know. Books, because”—she sucked in breath as his fingers traced the inside of her thigh—”because they never abandon you. And insanely high-heeled shoes, because the cautious daughter of a careless man needs at least one place to rebel.”

  He removed her shoes and placed them beside the bed. Then he bent to her mouth and kissed her until she wrapped her arms around his neck.

  “I lied,” she whispered.

  His mouth hovered over hers. “You lied?”

  “That’s not all I love.”

  A moment’s pause. “What else?”

  “The people I’ve met on the bookmobile routes. I love them. They make all the bad go away.” She trailed her fingertips along his jaw. “And I love Jane, and now Duke by association. And mocha lattes.” This man tasted even better. “And being picked up at an airport in a limousine, even if I’m not having sex with anyone in front of the sweet old driver.” She smiled against his lips.

  His hand curved over her hip. “I’m sure he appreciated your discretion.”

  “I have no discretion right now.”

  “You don’t need it with me.”

  “I need it with you most of all,” she confessed, foolishly. Then she swore off words for the remainder of the night.

  When he unfastened his belt, she helped him. When she caressed him, he kissed her as if his hunger for her was constant and could be satisfied only in deep kisses that left her shaking and raw. When she invited him into her, he touched her until she couldn’t bear to be empty for another moment, then he filled her.

  “You have a bea
utiful heart, California,” he said into the profound silence of their locked bodies. “I don’t suppose you would consider giving it to me?”

  “What?” she whispered.

  “Cali, I’m falling hard.”

  She gripped his arms. “Falling?”

  “Fallen.” He moved in her like he was savoring her, the powerful, steady rhythm of his body making hers reach for him. But this was wrong. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. She was supposed to be able to walk away on Sunday with a day-after smile and a memory of a fantastic fling that would cheer her up when life got especially hard. Sex in a garden—yes. Sex in a stairwell—heck yes. Not beautiful, overwhelming sex in a bed, with him saying unbelievable things. If he did this, it would ruin the fantasy. It would make everything false.

  “Don’t say that.” Her voice scraped.

  He brushed his lips across hers. “It’s the truth.”

  “You don’t know me. I don’t know you. We just met.” Like her parents, married after two weeks, madly in love and a tragic mistake.

  “We met months ago. We’ve spent every day together.”

  “No.”

  He surrounded her face with his hands. “Every street corner, every park, every building, every shop you’ve driven to. They’re my favorite places in the city. The people, my closest friends. You know me.”

  She knew his scenery. That was all. She knew only what he wanted her to know.

  Aloud, she didn’t argue it. She let him give her body what it needed, and she gave him pleasure in return. When it was over and he held her, she remained awake, gorging herself on his scent and heat. As soon as his breathing deepened, she disentangled her limbs, moved to the far edge of the bed, and turned her face away.

  When she awoke to sunlight he was gone and she exhaled a sigh of relief.

  She descended to discover the house abuzz with happy wedding day festivities, but no Piers anywhere. She appreciated having the time to settle more securely back into her own head, and sanity. But she wondered where he was. Probably at the gazebo, online, arranging other people’s lives like a chess master, and making them think it was what they wanted.

  Jane and Duke said their vows and kissed lovingly, and everyone erupted in cheers and applause. It was beautiful and romantic and perfect and Cali’s heart swelled with happiness for her friend.

  Piers still hadn’t appeared, which didn’t surprise her. He’d gone, obviously. She confirmed it with Mark.

  “He had a business emergency in the States. The call for him came outrageously early.” Mark smiled. “But I assumed you knew. I tracked him down in your room.”

  She’d slept through it. He’d let her.

  On Sunday morning Cali ran around the estate’s perimeter and, once again, ended at the gazebo. One of Duke’s tech girls was there with a laptop. Cali borrowed it to check e-mail.

  Work messages cluttered her inbox, including one with the subject heading “Back to Work” that Dick had sent yesterday morning.

  Cali,

  Now that the bookmobile project is dead, I’ll look forward to seeing you again in the main branch, Monday through Saturday. Two of those days will include evening hours. If you’re unable to accommodate this schedule adjustment, let me know after the staff meeting Monday and I’ll find someone else for your position. Two of the pages look promising.

  Dick B.

  Blind to the beautiful morning, and deaf to the tech girl’s “See you, California,” Cali walked back to the house. George had said they’d need to leave by ten. She wished she had another ride to the airport. But if she couldn’t sit for a few hours in the limo Piers had hired, she’d have a tough time living in a city where his name was in the news every week.

  She hugged Jane good-bye, thanked Harry and Mark again for showing her the priceless copy of Pride and Prejudice, and climbed into the limousine. Soon familiar reality would be hers again. It was far past time.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Fifty-Eighth Floor

  Piers didn’t knock. Putting his hand to the knob, he opened the thick black door and strode into his grandfather’s office. Jacob Taylor Vaughan Prescott commanded the fifty-eighth floor of the Prescott building, alone at the top of his empire except for his secretary’s office, the boardroom, a party room, a private gymnasium, and a track that ran along half the building. Seventy-five and still fit, with silvery white hair and an arresting profile that J.T.—his intended heir—had inherited, he sat behind a desk topped with black granite before a flat-screen computer.

  Piers waited. His grandfather had taught him that silence was often more powerful than words. And he hadn’t yet managed to control his temper.

  Eyes on the screen, his grandfather said, “I assume you’ve had enough of this foolish little rebellion and are ready to return to work.”

  A shaft of icy chill went through Piers. His grandfather sounded remarkably like the emperor in Star Wars. How hadn’t he noticed that before?

  He didn’t answer.

  Finally his grandfather’s hands retreated from the keyboard, and he sat back in his chair. He lifted a brow. “Well?”

  “You shouldn’t have done it. It was petulant, the act of an angry child rather than a man of business. You’re already being criticized for it.”

  “When I care what the idiot liberals at the City Paper have to say about me, I will make certain to inform you. Now, if you have useful information to impart to me, do so. If not, leave me to my work.”

  “I’m leaving.”

  “Don’t be a fool.”

  “I’m leaving, Grandfather.” His sense of relief was so profound that for an instant he could only breathe in and out slowly, and deeper with each inhalation. Freedom. For the first time in a decade, he felt free. “I had hoped to go without bad feelings. But your recommendation to the foundation regarding the America’s Heroes exhibition convinced me that I don’t need to worry about your feelings. Or your scruples. Nevertheless, I wanted to tell you in person that I’m leaving. I’ll be gone from the building tonight. After she’s wrapped up some tasks, Mrs. Crowley will be leaving as well.”

  “To go where?” His grandfather spoke tightly. “Will you have one of the best assistants in the city ladling stew at a soup kitchen?”

  Piers laughed. He’d been through the worst already—thirty-six hours of nonstop meetings with board members, lawyers, journalists, and the library’s director. But he’d made it out the other side of this mess, and his grandfather hadn’t won.

  “Good-bye, Grandfather. If you can bear to dine with a family of failures, I’ll see you at Mom’s at Thanksgiving.”

  He left the office of the CEO of Prescott Global for the last time and went down to his office a floor below. He’d called his secretary in on a Sunday to help put things in order, and she’d greeted him more cheerfully than in years.

  “Mr. Prescott, your mother called and asked—”

  “Insisted.”

  “—that you come for dinner tonight. Your lawyer, Mr. Charlotte, called as well. The funds have been transferred from the account in the Netherlands and will be available for use at the start of the business day tomorrow through Deutsche Bank. And the reporter at the City Paper has several follow-up questions. I’ve forwarded those to you. Philadelphia in the Morning is requesting a ten-minute spot tomorrow. Should I accept or decline?”

  “Accept. Then let’s finish the Bingley Industries report so you can pack that away with the rest. And please tell my mother I’d very much like to see her, but later this week would work better.”

  “I’m sure she’ll understand, sir, given the circumstances.”

  “Mrs. Crowley, we’ve got a long night ahead of us here.”

  “But a good one, sir.”

  “I’m glad you’re happy with the change.”

  “Honestly, I’d gotten awfully impatient for it.” She shook her head and marched into the meeting room and the stacks of file boxes there, leaving him staring bemusedly. But he understood impatience w
ell enough. California’s plane was due to land in an hour.

  That battle wasn’t yet won. She had walls fifty miles high. But her family’s tragedies hadn’t made her cold or withdrawn. Instead, she poured her passion into service to others. And she’d shown him that even when he intended the best, he still operated just like his grandfather. She’d been right about him. But he could change. He’d changed already.

  If he could change, she could too. Just enough to let him through the wall. After that, life was going to get pretty damn good.

  Cali heaved her suitcase through the apartment door, thinking of Mark and the helpful staff at Brampton, then firmly archiving the memory. Dropping her stuff, she went into the kitchen and switched on the burner under the teakettle.

  “Zoe?” she called. No answer. Sleeping probably.

  She dragged the suitcase to her room, plugged in her dead phone, and returned to the kitchen to make tea. Leaving it to steep, she went to unpack.

  Her phone blinked to life. The text message bell trilled, and messages leaped onto the screen one after another. Below an unidentified number was a message with a time stamp from right before her plane landed: Crazy woman who doesn’t have an international plan. Hope your trip back was smooth. I want to see you tonight.

  An hour later: Call me, Cali.

  Then fifteen minutes ago: I’ll wait- Piers

  She scrolled through the list of calls she’d missed during the week: Work. Landlord. Medicaid rep. Zoe’s OT. At the end of the list was a message from Piers. Her finger hovered over the Play button. She clicked Delete.

  He didn’t get it. He didn’t get that she couldn’t even afford regular phone service. And he didn’t get that when he disappeared without explanation she would feel like someone had punched her repeatedly in the stomach. He didn’t get that she wasn’t the kind of woman he’d dated before. He was so completely in another world from her, he would never get it.