The Billionaire's Embrace (The Silver Cross Club)

by Bec Linder

  “You can wear anything you want,” I said, oddly charmed. “Shorts, pants, nothing at all...”

  She covered her smile with one hand. “Maybe not that.”

  “We have to eat first, anyway,” I said, leading her toward the kitchen. “I cooked.”

  “It smells incredible,” she said. “It smells sort of like—”

  “Kaldereta,” I said. “It is. This is my version of wearing fancy clothes, I guess.”

  “Wow,” she said. She stood in the doorway of the kitchen while I checked on the stew. “My mom used to make this all the time. I haven’t eaten it in years.”

  “It looks like it still needs to cook a bit more,” I said. “Maybe half an hour. Why don’t we have some wine while we wait?”

  “I’d like that,” she said.

  We sat on the sofa, Regan with her legs curled beneath her, hair shining in the lamplight. Now that she was here, sitting in my apartment like she had never left, I didn’t know where to begin.

  “You’ve made some changes to the apartment,” she said. “I like the houseplants.”

  “Sadie,” I said succinctly.

  Regan gave me a quizzical look. “What do you mean?”

  “She didn’t tell you?” I asked. “She gave me a shopping list. Go look at that picture near the bookshelf.”

  Brow furrowed, Regan stood up and went over to the photograph hanging on the wall. She leaned in, and I saw the exact moment she realized what it was. “This is in California,” she said.

  “It is indeed,” I said. “Now go into the kitchen and look in the first upper cabinet on the left.”

  She vanished into the kitchen. I couldn’t see her from where I sat on the sofa, but I heard the cabinet door open, and then she said, “You got the tea I like? And granola bars...” She came back into the living room, frowning, and stood at the end of the sofa, looking down at me. “And you’re making kaldereta... What did Sadie tell you?”

  “Well, in retrospect, I think she was trying to make me prove my honorable intentions,” I said. “My apartment is now Regan-proofed.”

  “I’m not a toddler!” she said. She touched my cheek. “Thank you. I feel kind of, um. You did all of these nice things for me, and all I did was dump you over the phone like a jerk. Sadie shouldn’t have made you do anything. Your honorable intentions were never in question. I should be trying to win you back.”

  “Well, you have a lot to make up to me, then,” I said with a wink.

  She smiled and looked down at her feet. “I guess I’ll have to try.”

  “Sit down,” I said. “Talk to me. Tell me what happened. You said you got scared. Why aren’t you scared now?”

  “Yeah,” she said. She sunk onto the sofa again. “I was scared. You’re an important person, Carter, and I’m nobody. I know you don’t think about it in those terms, but other people do. I could see your mother thinking it when we had dinner with her, how I’m not good enough for you, and she’s right.” She held up one hand, staving off my protest. “I can’t support your ambitions in the way you need me to. I just can’t. You were raised from birth to know how to talk to people and say the right thing, and I won’t ever know how to do it. So there was that, a lot. And sometimes I felt like you were pretty oblivious to how weird it was for me, the way you can just waltz in and get a table at any restaurant in the city. It’s weird. And it made me think that you wouldn’t ever be able to understand me.”

  That stung. I took a sip of my wine and kept my expression carefully neutral. “Maybe you didn’t think so, but I did make an effort. Do you remember when we went to the art museum? I could have asked them to keep it open after hours, just for us, and we could have had the entire museum to ourselves. They would have done that for me. But I didn’t ask, because I thought it would make you uncomfortable.”

  Regan looked down at her glass. “That didn’t occur to me,” she said quietly. “Anyway, I’m not saying that’s what I think now. But that’s what I thought at the time, and that’s why I broke up with you.”

  “So what do you think now?” I asked. “What changed?”

  “Me,” she said simply. “I did. I was so afraid of changing, but I had to. I decided I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life being screwed up. My childhood wasn’t the greatest, but it’s over now, you know? I don’t want to be afraid of my father forever. And so—this is embarrassing, but. I started going to therapy.”

  Oh, Regan. I wanted to put my arms around her and never let go. “There’s nothing embarrassing about that,” I said. “I spent several months in therapy after my fiancée left me, and I found it to be an incredibly useful experience.”

  “You had a fiancée?” she asked.

  “Yes, I was engaged to be married,” I said. “About five years ago. A few months before the wedding, I found out that she was sleeping with another man. When I confronted her, she told me that she was only marrying me for my money. That she didn’t love me at all.”

  “You never told me,” Regan said.

  “You didn’t tell me about your high school boyfriend,” I said.

  Regan winced. “Sadie told you about him?” she asked.

  I nodded. “Not in any detail. She mentioned that he existed.”

  She was quiet for a moment, and then said, “I think there are a lot of things we haven’t told each other.”

  “We’ll have to make up for lost time,” I said, and she smiled at me like the sun breaking over the horizon. “I missed you,” I said, showing my full hand. “I still haven’t completely forgiven you, but I think I can. I would like to. I want to try again.”

  “Oh God,” she said, and covered her mouth with the hand that wasn’t holding her wine glass. “Really? I thought—well, I hoped, but I didn’t think you would want to, I thought you would be mad at me forever, and.” She took a deep breath. “I really, really want to try again.”

  I couldn’t stop myself. I set down my wine glass, took hers from her hand, and kissed her.

  Everything about it was so familiar, like coming home after being away for far too long. I slid my hand into her hair and held her in place, kissing her gently and carefully—slow, exploratory kisses, reminding her of how perfectly our bodies fit together.

  She made a soft noise and pressed closer to me, her hands settling on my shoulders, and everything, in that moment, was perfect.

  I pulled away: quitting while I was ahead. “We should probably eat,” I said.

  She blinked her eyes open, her lips slightly parted. “Oh. Food,” she said. “Right. Okay. We should do that.”

  I made her sit at the table with her wine, and then brought out plates and silverware, and finally the stockpot full of stew, and a platter of rice. I served both of us, and said, “Eat up. I hope it tastes okay.”

  “It smells incredible,” she said. She scooped up some rice and stew and took a bite. “Hot,” she said, covering her mouth. “Too hot.”

  I laughed. “Don’t you see it steaming? Give it a few minutes to cool down. I’ll open another bottle of wine.”

  She sucked air in and out, trying to cool her hot mouthful. “I’ll be too drunk to get home,” she said.

  “Then you’ll have to stay here with me,” I said, waggling my eyebrows in an exaggerated manner, hoping to make her smile; and she did. Even with her mouth covered, I could see the way her eyes crinkled.

  “It’s really good,” she said. “Even though it’s hot. It tastes just like my mom’s. Did you make the liver paste yourself? How did you find the recipe?”

  “I hired a woman,” I confessed. “She owns a restaurant. I had her give me a cooking lesson. This is her recipe.”

  “No wonder it’s good,” Regan said. “I guess I should yell at you for spending money on cooking lessons when you can get recipes off the internet, but it seems like too much effort. I just have to accept that we have different ideas about money. And the food’s really good. So thank you for going to that much trouble, just to make me some dinner.”


  “It’s the sentiment that counts, right?” I asked. “Just like with horrible Christmas presents.”

  “Novelty socks,” Regan said. “Six-packs of underwear.”

  “Hey now, my mother still gives me underwear every birthday and Christmas,” I said, and Regan laughed.

  Then her face settled into solemn lines, and she said, “Carter, I want you to know. I’m not using you for your money. I’m—I really care about you a lot. That’s been the worst thing, these last few months. Knowing that I hurt you.”

  Somehow she knew exactly what I needed to hear. The words were a sweet balm for my soul, easing the ache of abandonment. I reached across the table to take one of her hands in mine. “I want you to be honest with me. If something bothers you, tell me. Don’t wait until it’s too much to handle.”

  “I will,” she said. “I’ll probably still screw up, but I’m going to try.”

  “That’s all we can ask of each other,” I said. “Now let’s eat before dinner gets cold.”

  “Kaldereta should only be eaten hot,” Regan said very seriously, and picked up her spoon.

  We ate, and drank our wine, and Regan told me more about her new job: her kind boss, and her insane co-worker who was obsessed with some teenaged musician I had never heard of, and wallpapered her cubicle with posters of his adolescent face.

  “That doesn’t sound insane to me,” I said. “It’s very normal to be interested in teenaged heartthrobs.”

  “He’s sixteen! And she’s in her mid-forties,” Regan said. “But, I mean, that alone wouldn’t be so bad, but there’s also the Beanie Baby collection, and the way she re-heats fish in the break room microwave every day for lunch—”

  “Say no more,” I said. “That sounds like a firing offense to me. One should only microwave fish in the privacy of one’s own home.”

  Regan laughed, fingers curled around the stem of her wine glass, and for a moment I simply gazed at her, amazed that she was here, that she hadn’t, after all, walked out of my life forever.

  “I have something else to show you,” I said. “You’ll need to put your coat on. It’s outside.”

  She cocked her head at me. “You—got a dog?”

  I grinned. “No, although I’m considering it. I wouldn’t leave a dog outside in this weather, though. It would be indoors, curled up and snoozing on my pillow, spoiled as can be. You, on the other hand, can probably survive a few minutes outdoors. Let’s get your coat.”

  Regan gave me a bewildered look, but she got up from the table without arguing and put on her coat. I put on mine as well—we would only be outside very briefly, but I wanted to keep her guessing.

  We went outside onto the terrace. I intended to usher Regan directly to the second level and the repurposed shed, but she veered away from me and went to the wall, pushing up onto her toes to peer down at the streets below.

  She turned back to look at me. “This is really incredible.”

  “Didn’t you know I had this terrace?” I asked. This was hardly the first time she had been to my apartment.

  She shrugged. “I never really investigated. You can’t see much from inside. I thought maybe you had a few plants out here, but—this is like your own private garden.”

  “That’s the idea,” I said. “Why bother being rich if you can’t grow trees on your roof?”

  She smiled at me. “I bet it’s really nice out here when the weather gets warm.”

  “Stick with me until spring, and you can sunbathe out here as much as you want,” I said. “Sometimes, when it’s really hot, I break out the kiddie pool and the umbrella drinks.”

  “Oh, I hope there’s a heat wave, then,” Regan said.

  “You can wear a bikini and laze around in the pool, and I’ll watch you,” I said. “We’ll both be happy.” I rested one hand in the small of her back. “This isn’t why I wanted you to come out here.”

  She turned away from the wall, giving a last reluctant look over her shoulder, and followed me up the stairway to the second level of the terrace. I opened the door and said, “Close your eyes.”

  She did, and then covered them with her hands for good measure. I switched on the overhead light inside the shed, newly installed by my electrician, and then steered Regan inside, both of my hands on her shoulders, showing her where to go.

  “Okay. Now you can look,” I said.

  She opened her eyes.

  She didn’t say anything at first. She turned in a slow circle, looking at the armchair, the reading lamp, the hanging plant positioned in the window. She ran her fingers along the spines of the books arranged on the shelves—alphabetically, by last name—and turned her to head to the side to read the titles.

  “Carter,” she said.

  “Yes?” I asked.

  “Did you do this for me?” she asked.

  “I hope you like the books,” I said. “You may have read some of them already. I wasn’t sure.”

  “I’m going to cry,” she said, and did, her hands pressed against her face, shoulders shaking.

  “Regan,” I said, distressed, and took her into my arms. I hoped that she was crying from joy, but I hadn’t expected such a strong reaction. “Is it too much? I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “I’m not upset,” she said, voice muffled, mouth pressed against my shoulder. “It’s just that I think this is the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

  I kissed her hair, wordlessly holding her against me, feeling the shape of her body against mine. She fit against me so perfectly that it was hard to imagine ever letting go.

  But she pulled away at last and wiped her eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. Now I cried all over your nice coat.” She brushed futilely at the damp spots on the wool.

  “Don’t apologize,” I said. “We’re being honest with each other now, remember? You can cry as much as you need to.”

  She gave a watery laugh, tilting her face up to look at me. “I thought men hated crying women.”

  “Now where did you get that idea?” I asked. Even with her eyes swollen from crying, she was so lovely that I had to bend my head and kiss her.

  It started gentle, almost chaste, but quickly became something more as Regan wrapped her arms around my neck and made a small, breathy noise that set my senses aflame. The smell of her hair, the way she clung to me, the smallness of her body compared to mine—it all combined to create a powerful tenderness in me, an urge to keep her safe, but also an urge to take her to my bedroom and remind her that she belonged to me.

  Not yet. Not tonight.

  Tonight was about making her realize how much she had missed me.

  I slid my hands inside her unbuttoned coat, curling my palms around her waist, and then sliding lower to cup the lush curve of her ass. God, it had been too long. All of the anonymous sex I’d had in clubs, all of those women whose names I never knew: it had all been a failed attempt to get back to this feeling, the pure, incomparable chemistry I had with Regan that I had never experienced with anyone else.

  She kissed me back eagerly, her hands sliding up my chest, but I noticed her quivering against me, and not with desire: she was cold.

  With some effort, I pulled back. “You’re freezing,” I said. “Let’s go inside.”

  “No, I’m fine,” she said, but she bit out the words between chattering teeth, and I simply shook my head at her, took her by the hand, and led her back inside, where it was warm and bright, and where I could press her against the couch cushions and take my time.

  Actually getting to the sofa took some time. As soon as we entered the apartment, I lost control of myself and pressed her back against the French doors, pinning her there and kissing her, sliding her coat from her shoulders and exploring her body through her clothes. We stumbled into the living room, clumsily groping at each other, tripping over our own feet, kissing the whole time, laughing at every misstep.

  Kissing her, laughing with her: I had missed these things more than I had known.

 
At last, we came in range of the sofa, and I gently lowered her onto the cushions and lay down on top of her, our legs tangling together, her hair spreading out like a dark nimbus around her head.

  “Regan,” I said, my heart threatening to escape from my body, but she arched up and kissed me before I could say anything I might regret.

  We made out like teenagers, fumbling together on the couch, mouths moving together. She untucked my shirt from my trousers and slid her hands up my back, her fingers cool on my hot skin, and I kissed down her throat to the soft concavity between her collarbones, and pushed the neckline of her t-shirt aside to trace the lacy edge of her bra. She made a series of gratifying gasping noises and rolled her hips against me, her body, mute and articulate, begging me for more.

  I wouldn’t give it to her—not tonight. I wanted her wanting, hungry for my touch, deprived of what she needed most. I wanted her thinking of me, dreaming of me, imagining me against in her bed as she slept. I wouldn’t give her what she craved until she begged me for it.

  I would dream of her that night, I knew, alone in my own bed.

  I sat up and raked one hand through my hair. Regan was too much of a temptation, squirming around beneath me with her sweet-smelling skin and her perfect breasts. “It’s time for you to go home,” I said.

  She pushed up onto her elbows, pouting. “Already?”

  “Oh yes,” I said. “You stay here any longer and I won’t be responsible for my actions. Off with you. Henry will take you home, if you’d like.”

  “That would be nice,” she said. “Since you’re kicking me out, and everything.” She very theatrically rolled her eyes and tossed her hair to show me that she was joking.

  “Yes, I’m a very bad man,” I said. “If you want me to touch you, you’re going to have to earn it.”

  I watched the effect of my words: her mouth parted, her eyes darkened, and I knew she wanted me exactly as much as I wanted her. It was a heady feeling, knowing that I had her so much under my control, and that she had chosen to place herself there. That she wanted me to take charge.

  “Come over for dinner,” she said. “You cooked for me, so now I’ll cook for you.”