My Billionaire Protector

by R. R. Banks

“You’re fantastic, Shelly,” I say. “Thank you.”

  “Yeah, I really am.”

  I dig into my wallet and push a few hundred dollars bills into her hand. “Take Chad out for dinner. On me,” I say. “Go. Have a good time.”

  “You really don't have to do that,” she says.

  “I know I don't, but I insist,” I say.

  I turn and hustle out of the closet, and hurry through my bedroom. Pulling my cellphone out of my pocket, I call down to the garage.

  “I need you to bring the car around, Roger,” I say. “I'm running a little bit late and need to make up some time.”

  * * *

  “I was surprised you were on time,” she says. “The Carter I knew was always running late.”

  I shrug and laugh it off. Good thing Roger knew some quick shortcuts as he navigated us through and around the city, or I would have been late. Thankfully, because of Roger's slick navigating, we'd pulled up to Darby's place at seven on the button.

  “I've turned over a new leaf, Darby,” I say. “And I'm hoping we can too.”

  “Pump the brakes there, cowboy,” she says. “I told you dinner with no promises of anything else. Like I said, I'm just here for the free food.”

  “I'm not asking you to make me a promise about anything,” I reply. “I'm just stating my hope.”

  Her smile is warm and genuine, and I see color flare in her cheeks. In a simple green vintage-style dress – one that happens to match my tie, thank you Shelly – that accentuates her curves and shows off a slight hint of her amazing cleavage, Darby is every bit as radiant today as she was a decade ago. I can't seem to take my eyes off her.

  I'm so enamored with her, that I can even ignore the stupid holiday music and decorations all around us. That has to say something, right?

  We're at a small, intimate cafe called Havana's – home to some of the best Cuban food anywhere outside of Cuba. It's not a fancy place, but it has a homey vibe to it. The aromas coming out of the kitchen will make your mouth water, and the staff treats you like family, rather than just a customer. I've been coming here for – I don't even know how long, honestly.

  “I'm surprised you didn't try to impress me with some trendy, five-star restaurant,” she says, looking around at the restaurant. “I figured you being who you are, you would have booked us a table at some chic place uptown.”

  Some call it a hole in the wall. There is no valet service, no stiff-necked, uptight staff, or overpriced meals. It's nice enough, I mean, it's not dirty or anything like that. Old black and white pictures of Cuba line the walls, the interior is decorated in a riot of garish colors – only made more gaudy by the influx of holiday decorations – and authentic music from Cuban musicians play over the restaurant's speakers. Christmas music, of course. But, whatever. Tis the season and all that garbage. All that matters right now is the woman sitting across from me.

  “Would a fancier place have impressed you?” I ask and give her a grin. “Because, if you'd prefer, we can go somewhere that has white linen tablecloths, expensive champagne –”

  She holds up a hand and laughs. “No,” she says. “This is actually pretty great. You know I'm not a high maintenance girl. I prefer cozy places like this.”

  “Good to see some things haven't changed.”

  The waitress comes back and drops off our mojitos. She greets me with a cackle of a laugh and a kiss on the cheek.

  “Mr. Carter,” she says, her voice deliciously thick with her native accent. “Good to see you again. It's been what, a week?”

  I laugh. “Yeah, about that,” I say. “It's nice to see you too, Maria. As always.”

  She turns to Darby and gives her an equally warm greeting. “And who is this?” she asks.

  “This is Darby,” I say. “Darby, this is Maria. She's the owner of this fine establishment.”

  Maria gives Darby a wink. “Mr. Carter never brings a woman here with him,” she says. “You must be very special.”

  I feel my stomach lurch and an unexpected rush of heat to my cheeks. Darby's smile is uncertain, but there's a twinkle in her eye that’s undeniable. She quickly looks away from me and down at the menu in front of her.

  Maria, not missing a thing, slaps me on the shoulder and laughs, saying something in her native tongue that I can't even begin to decipher.

  “Maria, can we start with some of your world-famous empanadas, please?”

  “Of course,” she says. “Anything for you, Mr. Carter.”

  Maria bustles away, leaving an awkward silence in her wake. I clear my throat and quickly recover though. She's not wrong. Darby is special. And because this is my place, I don't bring the women I date here. Most of them would look at it and turn their noses up at it anyway, thinking it was beneath them.

  But, Darby isn't like that.

  She's not pretentious in the least, and doesn’t look down on anyone. Unlike many of her contemporaries, Darby realizes her privileges and advantages in life, and takes nothing for granted.

  I raise my glass to her and Darby follows suit. “To new beginnings,” I say.

  A wry grin touches her lips. “To dinner,” she replies.

  “Well, it's the best I'm going to get for now, so I'll take it.”

  We clink glasses and take a drink. I watch her, still not quite believing she's actually sitting here across from me. After all these years, having Darby back in my life feels – amazing. Like a hole inside of me is in the process of slowly being filled.

  “Tell me something,” she says as she sets her glass down.

  “Anything.”

  “How in the hell did you find out all that information about me?” she asks. “I mean, that's some next level stalking.”

  I grin. “I'm a man with a particular set of skills.”

  “Great,” she replies. “Going Liam Neeson on me now?”

  I shake my head, chuckling softly. “No, I did a basic background check on you. Nothing too invasive. I just wanted to find out a little more about you.”

  “Definitely a stalker,” she says. “But, a basic background check wouldn't have told you I don’t have a boyfriend. Maybe that I wasn't married, but there's no way you could have known I was single from a basic background check.”

  “I actually didn't,” I say. “I was guessing. I took a stab and you confirmed it for me.”

  She laughs and shakes her head. “Great. I'm my own worst enemy. As usual.”

  “Come on,” I say. “Is that really so bad?”

  “Well, let's see,” she says. “You pester me until I agree to go out with you. Then, I find out you’ve been snooping into my private life, running background checks on me, and generally behaving like a stalker. Is it really so bad? You tell me.”

  “On the plus side, I was on time.”

  She tries to bite it back, but she can't stop the burst of laughter that erupts from her mouth. She's trying to make this hard on me – and rightly so. I know I deserve a lot of shit for what happened all those years ago. I hurt her, and it’s up to me to make it right.

  “Tell me something,” she says. “Why are you so persistent? You're good looking, have more money than you could spend, and can land almost any woman you want. Why are you chasing after me? I'm nothing special. I'm just a teacher. I'm not some underwear model, or Hollywood actress.”

  “That's where you're very wrong, Darby. You are special to me,” I say, and take a drink, before setting my glass down, my eyes never leaving hers. “And I don't want just any woman. I want you, Darby.”

  She shakes her head. “I'm nothing,” she says. “I've seen the pictures in the tabloids – those lingerie model blondes on your arm at this or that event. I don't compare to any of them.”

  “You're right,” I say. “You don't compare to them.”

  I see a shadow pass through her eyes as if my words had just harmed her.

  “The truth of the matter is, not one of the women in those pictures holds a candle to you.”

  She scoffs. “I find
that hard to believe.”

  “I don't,” I say simply. “Because it's true.”

  She looks at me, biting her bottom lip as her cool, cheeks flare with color once more.

  “Darby, I never stopped thinking about you,” I say. “All these years, you've been the woman I measure all the others by.”

  “But, you still walked away,” she sighs. “You gave me up.”

  “You know why I had to, though,” I say. “I didn't have much of a choice.”

  She shakes her head. “It doesn't make it any easier,” she says. “It doesn't make it right.”

  “You're right, it doesn't,” I reply. “But, given what we meant to each other, don't I deserve a second chance? Don't we deserve a second chance? I mean, is it coincidence that you've never married, and are single too?”

  “I don't know, Carter,” she says. “I really don't.”

  I nod. “I hate that I understand, but I do,” I say. “But, let me ask you a question, is there anything inside of you, any small part whatsoever, that wants to give me a second chance?”

  She sighs and sits back in her seat. I can see her conflicting emotions playing out on her face. Which tells me that some small part of her wants to give me a second chance. Good news for me. All I need to do is capitalize on it.

  “I really don't know right now, Carter,” she says. “If I'm being honest, then yes, a small part of me wants to give you a second chance.”

  “That's good then,” I say. “That's something I can work with.”

  “But, I can't trust you,” she says. “You walked away and hurt me once. Very badly. I honestly don't know if I can come back from that.”

  “Well, that's not as good,” I reply. “I believe we can come back from it though. In fact, I know we can.”

  “Why, Carter?” she asks. “Why are you working so hard to make this happen?”

  “Because it matters to me,” I say. “Because you matter to me.”

  “After all these years?” she asks. “Why?”

  I lean across the table, my eyes earnest, and fixed on hers.

  “Because you're mine, Darby,” I say. “And I'm yours. That's the way it was meant to be. And fate, or whatever you want to call it, is giving us another chance, and I'm not willing to let it go. Never again.”

  There's uncertainty on her face, but also something more – a deep, hidden yearning. She's trying to keep it in check, refusing to give herself over to it completely. She's fighting hard to keep her emotions locked down inside, but I can the struggle going on inside of her.

  But, it's there, all the same. I can see it. I know this isn’t going to be easy, and that she's going to be a tough nut to crack.

  Nevertheless, knowing that some small piece of her wants this – that believes we can come back from the past – is a start.

  12

  Darby

  My mind is a chaotic whirlwind of thought and emotion. On the one hand, I can't believe I'm sitting in the back of a car, enjoying an evening with Carter freaking Bishop. On the other hand, I'm appalled that I'm sitting in the back of a car, enjoying an evening with Carter freaking Bishop.

  He seems sincere about wanting to earn my trust and repair the damage from ten years ago. He seems sincere about wanting to be with me again. And I'd be lying if I said I didn't get a little bit of a thrill when he said – more than a few times – that I was his. That I belonged to him.

  There was a time when I wanted nothing more than to be his. To have him lay his claim to me. Possess me. Mostly because I knew it was a two-way street.

  But, that was a long time ago. A lot has happened over the last decade and so much has changed. Can we really just pick up where we'd left off? Could I carry on like nothing ever happened? More importantly, do I want to?

  Carter's changed a lot over the last ten years. He dresses a lot nicer. He obviously has a lot more money. He's a lot stronger today than he was back then. He no longer tries to hide his intelligence or forces himself to talk like an uneducated street kid. He's a lot more comfortable in his skin than he was back then.

  Yet, some things haven't changed. Not one bit. He's still fiery and has a take-no-shit attitude. That attitude seems even stronger than before. Maybe the fact that he presides over such a vast financial empire, and has more money than anything, has only fostered that feeling in him.

  He still makes me laugh like he always did, though. His irreverent sense of humor hasn't changed a bit. He still challenges me intellectually – a rarity among the men I've dated. He pushes me. And, he's sexy as hell.

  The fact remains, however, that he'd devastated me. He'd taken my young, fragile heart, and set it ablaze. And I don't know if I can ever move past that. A small part of me thinks I can. Another part of me says otherwise.

  “Where are we going now?” I ask.

  “You'll see.”

  As the car winds through the crowded city streets, my curiosity only deepens. We're heading into Brooklyn for some odd reason. After another twenty minutes or so, the car pulls to a stop at a curb in front of a small building. His driver opens the door and we slide out. Carter says a few words to the driver and then offers his arm to me. I take it, looking at the neighborhood around us.

  Big chunks of Brooklyn are being redeveloped as the hipsters move in, start nesting, and take over.

  The evening is cool, which is nice. One too many mojitos left my skin feeling a little warm by the time we left the restaurant, but as we step out of the vehicle, I feel the chill, and pull my cardigan around me a little tighter.

  “You know, what I said at the gala was true,” Carter says. “About you being the one to open my eyes to everything, and teaching me to really see and appreciate art.”

  “Yeah?” I ask.

  He nods. “I meant every word I said.”

  “That's sweet, Carter.”

  “You've enriched my life in more ways than I can even begin to list,” he goes on. “It sounds trite, but you broadened my perspective in so many different ways, Darby. And there isn't a single day over the last decade that I didn't wish I could reach out and tell you that.”

  “I think you give me too much credit.”

  He shakes his head. “Actually, I don't think I give you enough,” he says. “Nobody has had a bigger influence or impact on my life – and on me personally – as you. Well, you and Pops, but for entirely different reasons, obviously.”

  I don't know what to say, but without thinking, I lay my head on his shoulder as we stroll. There is a sudden warmth spreading through me that has nothing to do with the mojitos from dinner. No, this warmth is something else entirely. It's something I know well. And something I know I should be terrified of, but for some reason, I’m not scared. Not at the moment, at least.

  No, at the moment, I'm enjoying being with Carter. Somehow, everything just feels… right. I want to hang on to this feeling as long as I can.

  “Here we are,” he says.

  I lift my head and look at the building standing before us. I slide my eyes over at Carter, feeling a smile spreading across my face.

  “I stumbled onto this place a while back and make a point of stopping by now and then,” Carter says. “There are some interesting pieces in there, but I think, walking around in there and taking it all in, somehow made me feel closer to you, like I was still connected to you. It sounds silly to say out loud, but it's true.”

  “It doesn't sound all that silly to me. It’s sweet, actually,” I say. “I've heard of this place. I haven’t had the time to check it out yet. I've always meant to.”

  “Well, no time like the present.”

  Carter escorts me to the door of Morton's Gallery of Modern Urban Art, and holds it open for me. He follows me inside and lets the door swing shut behind us. The inside of the gallery is neat and clean, every exhibit perfectly lit, and the variety of work is utterly amazing.

  “Carter,” comes a deep, booming voice. Good to see you, brotha.”

  “Harold,” Carter replies. “Go
od to see you too, man.”

  Carter turns and smiles, pulling a large, black man into a tight embrace. They pound on each other's backs like men do when they hug – as if that somehow makes it manlier and more acceptable or something. Carter isn't a small guy, but Harold practically dwarfs him. Six-foot-six and easily three hundred and fifty pounds – pretty much all muscle, from what I can tell. Harold’s hair is dark and shot through with gray, and he wears black-rimmed glasses, and a neatly-trimmed goatee.

  Carter steps back and motions to me. “Darby, this is Harold Allen,” he says. “He owns the gallery.”

  “Very nice to meet you, Harold,” I say.

  I hold out my hand and Harold takes it. My hand looks like the hand of a newborn infant in his giant paw, but his touch is surprisingly light and gentle.

  “Nice to meet you as well, Darby.”

  “Harold here used to play pro football,” Carter says. “He was a tight end with the Eagles for about a thousand years.”

  “Seven years,” he says. “I'm not Methuselah, kid.”

  Harold's laugh is good natured and infectious, and I find myself smiling.

  “I – I'm sorry,” I say. “I don't watch much football.”

  “That's okay, sweetheart,” he says. “The team I was on aren’t worth watching anyway.”

  “From pro football to urban art?” I ask. “That seems like quite a radical change.”

  He shrugs. “I've always enjoyed art,” he says. “Got a scholarship to play football, and a degree in art history from the very outstanding University of Michigan.”

  “Wow,” I remark. “That's amazing.”

  “Anyway, nice to see you both,” Harold says. “Please, take a look around and let me know if you have any questions.”

  “Thanks, man,” Carter says.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “Of course.”

  Harold gives us a smile and walks away, his massive frame disappearing among the displays. Carter puts his hand on the small of my back and starts to guide me through the gallery.

  “What turned you on to this place?” I ask.