Billionaires In Love (Vol. 2): 5 Books Billionaire Romance Bundle

by Glenna Sinclair

  If only my heart would listen to my head.

  In spite of Devon’s betrayal, in spite of everything, there was still love in my heart for him. It was the most irritating thing in the world. I wished I could hate him for the script, for the interview with Kelly Kane, for Chaz’s manipulations. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t hate him because I was still in love with him.

  I tore through the boxes, eager to distract myself from my stupidity. Had I even packed these up? Nothing was familiar. There was a box of dishes that I had no idea what I’d been planning to do with. Another box contained baby clothes of mine that Nana had apparently saved. This was all trash, absolute junk. There was no reason I needed to maintain this storage unit. Part of me just wanted to drag everything outside the unit and put a sign on it telling people it was all free and just to do whatever with it. Take it home. Love it forever. Break it apart with an ax and use it for firewood. I didn’t care.

  But another box contained a folder I’d never seen before, nestled among some of the framed photos that Nana had so proudly displayed around the house. There was my graduation portrait that she’d insisted on buying from the price-gouging photographer who’d snapped shots during the ceremony. I opened the folder and my world shifted on its axis.

  Inside of the folder was my birth certificate and a sheaf of papers identifying my parents. There were adoption papers signed by all parties — Nana’s bold cursive standing out most of all. That was something about myself I’d never known, that Nana had actually adopted me. Were my biological parents’ failings that serious? I wondered how painful it was for Nana to take me away from her own daughter.

  For the first time, I wished I’d taken more of an interest in my own history. Nana had offered to tell me about it, the night before she’d died. If only I had taken her up on it. I’d lost the chance to ask her questions, to probe for insights about my parents.

  Instead, I’d looked like an ass on national television, a glorified talk show host more knowledgable about my genealogy than I was.

  I paused again. Within the folder were loose pictures, photos that should’ve been in frames but weren’t. There was a younger Nana seated beside the bed of a woman who didn’t look to be much more than a girl, her dark hair sweaty, clutching a tiny bundle almost defiantly. There was something in Nana’s eyes that I couldn’t quite place, a shimmering, dual-edged pride and despair. I slowly realized just what I was holding. It was a photo of my birth. I was that tiny bundle contained in my mother’s arms, and Nana was grimly making eye contact with whomever took the photo. Was it a kindly nurse or doctor? Was it my father?

  I studied the photo even more closely. None of the three of us were smiling. My lips were curled downward in what must have been a piercing howl. My mother looked resigned more than anything, but rebellious, too. She was so young. I didn’t know how young — Nana had never shared that fact with me, and I’d never asked for it. I looked at her face. Could she have been the woman who’d appeared on the screen during my interview with Kelly Kane?

  It was hard to tell. The photo wasn’t in perfect focus, and it had faded with time. I wondered what had possessed Nana to hide it away rather than have it out with the rest of her treasured frames, frozen memories of our happiest times.

  Was my birth not a happy time for Nana?

  I brushed over my birth certificate again. My parents’ names were on there, the same as the adoption papers — Amelia and Mike Clark.

  Kelly Kane at least had the names right, but that was public knowledge, after all.

  Public knowledge about myself that even I didn't know.

  I took the folder from the box and stuffed it in my purse before locking up the storage unit again. The rest of the belongings in there were going to have to wait. I’d need to understand just what was in this folder — and what I was going to do about it — before I could march on any farther.

  When I got out of the car in the hotel parking lot, however, the front entrance of the building was clogged with vehicles and people. There was even a police car at the scene, lights flashing, with a pair of officers looking confused and irritated. My first thought was that there had been a shooting or some other incident at the hotel. It wasn’t Dallas’ nicest, after all. But there were so many flashes from cameras going off that I realized it was something else. There was someone famous in there. I only wondered why Tony Romo was here instead of the nicer establishments.

  “There she is!” someone cried.

  “June! June Clark! Look here, June! Give us a big smile!”

  “Where you been, June?” another hollered before I finally realized just what was happening.

  Someone, somehow, had let the media know I was here. They’d amassed like parasites waiting for my arrival, looking to capture my image and sell it. I didn’t even have a baseball hat on.

  “Come here, June!” someone yelled even as they surged toward me.

  My first inclination was to turn and sprint away, but I knew exactly how that would play on the gossip websites. I imagined Kelly Kane doing a follow up piece of her dubious journalism on me, a loop of me running across the parking lot playing again and again on that giant screen behind her.

  I set my shoulders, clutching my purse to my chest, and charged through the crowd, bumping into photographer after photographer, my face set with a dead determination that I hoped didn’t betray how frightened I was.

  “Why the hurry, June?”

  “Sweetheart, over here, please.”

  “What’s in Dallas for you, June? A happy homecoming?”

  “Are you and Trina best friends?”

  “Is Devon here to ask you to marry him?”

  “Are you carrying Devon Ray’s love child?”

  “Is your secret ambition to ruin Devon’s career?”

  The comments around me got more and more ridiculous, but I burst through the doors to the hotel and out of the fray, finally.

  “Stay back, back,” the front desk staff chanted at the photographers surging outside, backed up by the pair of police officers.

  I wanted to throw myself down on the couch in the lobby and weep, but the flashes were still going off, telling me that everyone could still see me. I took the elevator up to my floor, panting as I worked my keycard into my door. I slammed it shut and let my purse drop to the floor, sliding down with my back against the door as if it were in danger of being kicked down. I was fine now. I was safe. They weren’t letting anyone inside the hotel.

  It struck me that I should check the window to see if the entire building was surrounded, planning my escape to some other location in town, but that’s when I realized I wasn’t alone inside of my hotel room.

  “We need to talk,” Devon said.

  Chapter 14

  Devon sat on one of the beds in the dimly lit room, watching me, his face impossible to decipher. For someone who was paid to emote, he’d certainly mastered the emotionless gaze. He could’ve been amused or angry or devastated. That was how placid his face was, how inscrutable.

  It struck me that I was the one who should be angry, if either of us was going to embrace that emotion. He was the one who’d somehow gotten into my hotel room.

  “What are you doing here, Devon?” I asked, feeling suddenly so tired that I didn’t even have the urge to get up off the carpeting to avoid looking like an idiot in front of him.

  “We have some things that we need to talk about immediately,” he said.

  “That doesn’t explain why you’re here in Dallas,” I told him.

  “Because you haven’t been answering my texts or calls.”

  I resisted the urge to check my phone, which had been stowed away in my purse for the entirety of the bus trip and my short time in Dallas. I hadn’t so much as thought about it. How many times had he called? What had his text messages said? I would’ve felt guilty, but there were still some unanswered questions.

  “That still doesn’t tell me anything about how you came to be in my hotel room,” I said.
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  “I told the front desk that we were staying here together,” he said. “And I took a selfie with all of them.”

  He was as cool as a cucumber, but I was angry. Angrier than I realized before, when he’d surprised me with his very presence.

  “We’re not staying here together,” I informed him. “You can’t just show up here, Devon. This is my own hotel room. I’d be within my rights to grab one of those cops downstairs and tell him that I have an intruder in my room.”

  “If that’s your prerogative, that’s your prerogative,” he said. His dark eyebrows didn’t even quirk a little closer together. I’d just threatened to do something to harm his precious reputation, his stainless image. Why wasn’t he pissed at me?

  “What is it that you want to talk about?” I asked, finally drawing myself up, crossing my arms on my chest. Devon remained seated on the bed.

  “There are several things,” he said. “But I guess we should start with the movie.”

  Had he really come all this way to apologize? Did I really mean that much to him?

  “Why were you snooping through the study?” he asked. “I would’ve told you about it, in time. Any angst you have about it is of your own making. That script is an early draft.”

  I scowled at him. “Really? Is this really why you came to Dallas? To tell me that me being angry about the movie is my own fault?”

  “You shouldn’t have been snooping,” he repeated. “That’s my personal property, June. Why would you do that? Were you looking for dirty laundry? Something to feed to the paparazzi?”

  “Why would I do that?” I demanded, the idea so distasteful to me that I laughed because there wasn’t anything else I could do. “That doesn’t make sense, Devon. Why would I think that would be a good idea? You know what I think about the paparazzi.”

  His intense gaze flickered a moment, and I knew I’d seen the first break in his armor. I didn’t know who’d put that idea in his head, but based on what Trina had told me about Chaz, I had a pretty good prediction as to the identity.

  “Why did you leave?” he asked. “Why didn’t you stay and talk to me about it, if it made you so upset in the first place?”

  “I met Trina,” I said. “Did she tell you? She called you while we were having a beer, put you on speakerphone. You didn't have any intention of talking to me about the movie.”

  Devon was quiet for a long time. “I think we just really need to be honest with each other right now,” he said. “There’s too much shit going on. Too much non-communication. Just lay it all out on the table right now, June. What are you upset about?”

  “I’m upset that you would even think you have to ask that question,” I said, my face going hot with anger. “Why do you think I’m upset? You used me. You used Nana. You only got to know us for some stupid movie, not because you actually care.”

  Devon looked like I’d slapped him in his face. “Why on earth would you think that?”

  “You just wanted to write, direct, and star in your own movie,” I said. “Even better that it’s about your life. That’s fine, Devon, congratulations. It’s an achievement. But leave me out of it. Better yet, leave Nana out of it. She can’t speak up for herself.”

  “I thought you’d like the movie.”

  “You thought wrong. I hate it. I hate everything about it. It’s a huge invasion of privacy. And it’s an even bigger betrayal of trust.”

  “I thought you would like it because it would be a tribute to Nana.”

  “Don’t say her name!” I shouted. “You can’t call her Nana. You can’t.” I was being unreasonable. I could feel the train that carted my reason around the tracks in my mind careening out of control, in real danger of derailing, but I couldn’t do anything about it. Nana was the one who’d asked Devon to call her Nana instead of something more formal. That had been her choice. I couldn’t speak for her now and revoke that privilege, but I was so angry. Too angry.

  “I meant the movie as a love letter, June,” Devon said slowly, holding his hands palm up in his lap. “I thought it would be special to preserve our story. To share it. And I thought you’d want something of Nana’s — your grandmother’s — to remember her by.”

  “You think I’d forget about her?” I demanded. “You think that I would need some movie to remember her by? I think about her every single day, Devon. Your movie isn’t about her, and it’s not about me. It’s only about you. You know that. That’s why you hesitated to talk to me about it in the first place. I heard you. You told Trina it was because I had too much going on right now. You knew I’d be upset.”

  “I wanted to surprise you,” he said. “And Trina shouldn’t have had you on speakerphone.”

  “She shouldn’t have been there in the first place, at your house,” I said. “Chaz did that on purpose. He told her to go at a time he knew you weren’t going to be there to make her run into me.”

  Devon shook his head. “You had one beer with Trina. Don’t tell me that was all it took for her to poison your mind about Chaz. She just flat doesn’t like him, June. She’ll say anything to turn someone against him. She’s angry because she let him get to her. It ruined our relationship.”

  “Well, you don’t need any help from Chaz to ruin this relationship,” I informed him. “You’re doing just fine all by yourself.”

  Devon lowered his eyes. “Don’t say that.”

  “It’s already said. I … I love you, Devon, but this is just too hard. It got too hard way too fast.” I hesitated, trying to figure out just what it had cost to say those words out loud. They were true, all of them. I loved Devon helplessly. No matter what he did, movie included, I would love him for the gift of Hawaii, for being there for me through everything, for giving Nana a brightness to hold on to before she died. It took an incredibly special person to do that. But everything else about our relationship — the paparazzi, the interview, my parents apparently coming out of the woodwork, Chaz, and even Trina — that was impossible to deal with. There hadn’t been a way to deal with it. It was the reason I fled to Dallas, away from Devon. Because I didn’t know what I could do or say to make anything better or different.

  “Tell me,” I said. “Tell me this isn’t harder than it should be. Tell me our relationship isn’t difficult.”

  Devon rubbed his face with his hands. I noticed for the first time how exhausted he looked. His eyes were bloodshot, his jaws prickly with stubble.

  “It’s my job to be in the spotlight,” he said. “It wasn’t easy to adjust to, but I did it the best way I knew how. I leaned on people who knew better than I did. If you really want this to work, you’re going to have to trust me. Trust Chaz. Do the things we tell you to do. Let us help you in this. Do you want this, June? Do you want our relationship to work?”

  “I don’t know what I want, Devon.” I really didn’t. I felt as tired as he looked, tired of fleeing, tired of fighting. Maybe it would be easier to let him go. I wasn’t cut out for life in the spotlight. I hated the crush of paparazzi. I eschewed spotlights. I hated the necessity to hide, to put on a false front, a mask for the people to believe in while the rest of me roiled in feelings I was supposed to smother. It wasn’t fair for Devon to expect me to embrace that life. It wasn’t fair that he had to do it, himself.

  “June …” It was just my name coming from Devon’s lips, but it was raw with so many emotions — frustration, sadness, anger … and longing. That longing made me inhale sharply, made me lean forward, made me forget why I’d been so angry in the first place. I hadn’t been away from Devon for very long, but it felt like it had been whole weeks.

  I missed him. That was the crux of it. I’d left his house in anger and shock, unable to face all of my troubles with him, and I missed him, felt his absence acutely.

  I took two trembling steps toward him before he launched himself off the bed, grabbing me around my waist, burying his face in my chest.

  “Tell me you want this to work,” he said, pulling off my clothes even as I struggle
d to do the same with his. “Tell me you want us to work.”

  “I want it.” I just didn’t know whether it was possible. But that didn’t matter — not right now, anyway. What mattered was his hand on the small of my back, inching upward until he unhooked the clasp on my bra, the other hand, traveling downward, slipping beneath the elastic hem of my panties, lower still until he cupped my pussy, pushing against me, making me sigh and want him even more.

  If that was possible. I didn’t think I could want him any more than I already did. How had we drifted apart? How had I allowed people and circumstances to push us apart? I loved this man. I never wanted to be apart from him.

  He reclined on the bed and I sank down on him gratefully, the sensation of being filled driving out everything else. I started as slow as I could manage, willing my body to get used to his girth. How long had it been since we’d been together like this, and why? He grabbed my hips and urged me onward, faster, driving me past what I believed I was able to do.

  And when that wasn’t enough, he flipped me over, onto my back, his hips driving the piston of his cock into me over and over again. I was already moaning, but when he jerked my leg up and over his shoulder, I began screaming, afraid of how thin the walls were, afraid but apathetic. The only thing that mattered was the way I felt, the way he made me feel, the crash of climax, and the way he fell on top of me, covering my body completely with his, both of us breathing in perfect rhythm.

  “I love you, June Clark,” he said hoarsely into my ear. “I will do anything you tell me to do. I will do anything for you.”

  I fought to catch my breath. It must have been his grueling workouts that let him speak so soon after such strenuous sex. It was nice, anyway, to just lie there beneath him and struggle to breathe. It drove out every other need, every other thought. Devon withdrew from me at last and settled beside me before cradling my body against his.