Billionaire Bachelors: Gray

by Anne Marie Winston

  Catherine shook her head. “No. I really need to, though.”

  “Why don’t you run over there now?” her mother-in-law suggested. She gestured to Michael, who was lying on the sofa singing along with a children’s musical video. “He’ll be fine and I promise I won’t let him out of my sight.”

  “I know you won’t.” But still she hesitated, smiling wryly. “Rationally, I understand that he’ll be fine. But my irrational side isn’t reassured by that, unfortunately.”

  Patsy smiled. “I understand. His daddy fell out of a tree when he was nine and knocked the stars out of his head, just like Michael. Fifteen stitches. It took a while before I let him go out alone again.”

  “All right.” Oddly, the story, which she’d never heard before, reassured her. “I’ll only be gone a little while.”

  She went straight out the back door and along the path to the cottage. It was a beautiful summer day, and as she approached, she saw that Gray had the windows open in the living room. The white curtains were billowing out and lazily floating on the slight breeze.

  As she passed them, she glanced in—and then stopped and looked again.

  Gray lay on the couch, sound asleep. He lay on his back, bare-chested, with his shirt wadded up in one fist and clutched to his chest as if he’d grown hot and slipped it off just moments ago. His face was turned toward her and her heart turned over at the sight of his beloved features. I love you, she told him silently.

  Then, with a jolt of clarity, she saw that she didn’t have to say it silently anymore. He’d said he wanted to marry her, brushed aside her silly worries about the money issues, and he’d been right. It was their life together that was important. Who cared what anyone else said or thought?

  She’d hurt him deeply, she knew. Now all she could do was try to fix it and pray that he still cared enough to forgive her.

  She crossed to the door and tried the knob, pleased when it opened easily. Silently, she crept across the floor and knelt on the floor beside him. His T-shirt lay across his upper chest but she could see the ridged plates of muscle across his abdomen, and she raised a hand and leisurely drew a finger across him there, just above the top of his jeans. His stomach muscles contracted and she smiled, repeating the gesture, playing with the crisp arrow of hair that disappeared beneath his jeans.

  She bent her head and placed a kiss on the forearm across his chest, then propped her chin there and waited until his brilliant blue eyes opened.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “For the other day. For—everything.”

  He was silent. His gaze was steady on her face. Finally, just when she was about to begin babbling, he said, “I believe you.”

  That was it? The small bubble of hope she’d allowed to build inside her slowly deflated. Still…she had to try. She swallowed. “Gray, I love you. If you still want to marry me, I’ll feel like the luckiest woman in the world.”

  Slowly, a smile began to curl at the edges of his lips. His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Oh, I still love you,” he assured her. “And there’s nothing I’d like better.”

  Her heart doubled its rhythm. She wanted to leap up and kiss him, but she restrained herself, aware that they needed to air all the issues between them. “I didn’t,” she said slowly, “want you to ever wonder if I married you for financial security.”

  “Believe me,” he said, “I’ve never thought you needed me for financial security. And now that I know the truth about what happened after Mike died, I’m certain you don’t need me. You managed to avoid financial ruin by being very, very careful.” He snorted. “And I don’t have any hang-ups about having a working wife.”

  “Mike did. We had some terrible fights because I wanted to work.” The memory sobered her. “I feel disloyal for even saying it. I loved my husband. But he was very content to have me be a housewife with my days full of society events and volunteer work.” She made a face. “It doesn’t take much to manage a house when you’ve got a housekeeper, a maid and a gardener. I was going crazy trying to fit into the mold.” She spread her hands. “Mike’s role model was Patsy, whom he perceived as the greatest homemaker ever. I’m very different from Patsy. Not better, just different. I need challenges.”

  “Perhaps his view of his mother was a bit narrow as well,” Gray said quietly. “Patsy’s painting was her challenge.” He paused. “And possibly her escape.”

  She’d never thought of it that way before, and her mouth pursed into a thoughtful line. “You could be right about that. Still, if Mike were living I often wonder where we’d be today. Sooner or later he would have had to tell me about our financial situation.”

  “I’m sure he would have, given time.” Gray’s eyes held hers. “I’ve been thinking about what happened, and I don’t think he was trying to bamboozle you. I think he was trying to protect you. He knew what you’d been through with your father and he didn’t want you to worry. I’m sure he thought he’d have plenty of time to get things back on the right track. No one expects their life to end at thirty.”

  “You could be right about that.” And she imagined he was. It took some of the sting out of what she had perceived as Mike’s betrayal for so long.

  “Of course I could.” He grinned when she narrowed her eyes at him. She walked her fingers over his ribs, and he gave a deep rumble of protest. “Hey! If you want to let your fingers do the walking, how about I show you the path?”

  When she laughed, he caught her hand and splayed it flat on his abdomen, rubbing small circles. “Try that.”

  She smiled, moving her free hand to open the button of his jeans, then slowly tugged down the zipper. “Okay. How about this?”

  His only answer was a groan.

  Her breath came faster as she burrowed her fingers beneath the elastic edge of his briefs, then slipped her hand inside and wrapped her fingers around him. Above her head Gray made an agonized sound. “You’re killing me, sweet thing.”

  He moved restlessly and the T-shirt on his chest fell aside.

  And then she saw the scar. It was big. It was well-healed but clearly not ancient. “Dear Lord,” she said, putting up a hand to trace the length of it. “Gray, I had no idea…”

  But as she saw his face, her voice trailed off, and she knew. She knew.

  Gray heaved himself upright, fastening his pants in one quick motion and yanking the discarded shirt over his head. “Catherine—”

  “You have Mike’s heart, don’t you?” It was harsh and incredulous, and the words hung between them, demanding an answer.

  “Yes,” he said, his expression a study in guilt and anxiety. “I was going to tell you.”

  “When? After the wedding?” Her voice held a slightly hysterical edge.

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “You already knew who I was when you introduced yourself to me, didn’t you?” she demanded. Don’tthinkdon’tthinkdon’tthink.

  He hesitated.

  “Didn’t you?”

  “Yes.

  “How did you find me?”

  “I knew my donor was a young man from Baltimore. Mike’s obituary was the only one that fit that profile on the right date.” He took a deep breath. “You were in my head before we met. Your face, your voice—when I saw you, I knew right away who you were.”

  “Not possible.” She backed away from him on her knees, afraid to try her legs for fear they wouldn’t hold her.

  He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Don’t you think that’s what I thought?”

  “You’re lying,” she said fiercely. “Someone pointed me out to you. Does Patsy know or did you manipulate her, too?”

  “Of course she doesn’t know.” He looked honestly shocked. He sighed and reached out a hand to her. “Catherine—”

  “Don’t touch me.” Her teeth were chattering as the ugly truth sank in. “Don’t ever touch me again.” She managed to scramble to her feet and back toward the door. “I don’t care if your house isn’t finished, I want you to get out. Today.”r />
  “No,” he said. “Not until you listen to me.”

  “Get out!” It was hoarse and ragged, beyond her control. “I’ll call the hospital. I’ll call the police, tell them you’re harassing us.” She fumbled for the doorknob, barely able to see for the tears that filled her eyes.

  “I love you,” he said. “You can’t change that.”

  “You don’t know what love is,” she said bitterly. “You just want Mike’s family and Mike’s life. And Mike’s wife.”

  He flinched, but his eyes didn’t move from her face. “I do want you, Catherine. Not just now, but forever.”

  She shook her head, yanking open the door. “Never.”

  Later, she didn’t remember the rush back to the house. But as she entered the kitchen, Patsy stood there making a cup of tea.

  Her mother-in-law turned. “Michael’s napping—what’s wrong, dear?” A look of alarm crossing her face.

  No! God, no, I can’t tell her. But her heart sank as she realized that she was going to have to. “I just learned something that I didn’t know about Gray before.” She worked hard to keep her voice from cracking but it shook and she linked her fingers together, digging her fingernails into the backs of her hands. The small pain helped her focus. “Patsy…”

  “What is it?” The older woman clutched at Catherine’s hands.

  Catherine turned her palms up. “Gray needed a heart transplant a couple of years ago. He—he received Mike’s heart.”

  Patsy didn’t react, and for a moment she wondered if the words had sunk in. Then Patsy’s wrinkled face lit up with an incandescent joy Catherine wasn’t sure she’d ever seen before, even when Michael was born. “Dear Lord,” she whispered. “Thank you.” She squeezed Catherine’s hands so hard her grip hurt. “How utterly perfect! I’ve wanted so badly to meet the person who has my son’s heart and here it turns out to be Gray—” She stopped suddenly, and her eyes widened. “Meeting us wasn’t an accident, was it?” she asked, comprehension dawning.

  Catherine shook her head, unable to speak.

  “Oh, darling, I’m sure he had the best of motivations,” Patsy said. “Even though it must seem as if he deliberately betrayed your trust.”

  “He did,” Catherine said in a hard voice. “He lied by omission.” Just like Mike did when he didn’t tell me the truth about our finances.

  “Oh, but…” Patsy’s voice trailed off as she assessed the misery in Catherine’s expression, the grim set of her mouth. “Give it some time,” she finally suggested. “Don’t do anything hasty.”

  “I don’t,” said Catherine, “intend to do anything at all.” She turned and walked from the kitchen then, her throat aching with suppressed sobs that she knew were going to emerge any second.

  She alternated between never wanting to see him again and wanting to smack him for deceiving her. The mere fact that she was angry enough to consider hitting someone was a shock—she had never been a violent person. She didn’t like to allow herself to think too much about that morning, but bad dreams even invaded her sleep. She woke up with her jaw aching from grinding her teeth together while she slumbered.

  You were in my head before we met. He’d meant it literally, she was certain. And she was flooded with memories of a dozen small incidents, recalling moments of unease at the way he’d seemingly read her mind.

  He called Michael peanut—the day he fell. He knew my favorite flower, that I like butterscotch. He scratched my back. And on and on and on.

  “How can that be?” It was an agonized whisper, heard only by the walls of her bedroom.

  She wanted the whole thing never to have happened, wanted never to have seen that look—guilt mixed with fear—on his face. She wanted never to wonder if what he claimed was true. She wanted to go back to those perfect moments before his shirt had fallen aside.

  But she couldn’t.

  Patsy had been to see him, she knew, although they hadn’t discussed it. Her mother-in-law exuded a subtle glow of happiness that she couldn’t completely dim even when trying to be subdued around Catherine.

  And he still hadn’t moved out.

  She was too proud to ask Patsy about him. It had been eight days since she’d found out the truth, but she’d noticed his car still driving in and out the driveway and had seen lights on in the cottage. She’d asked him to leave. After what he’d done, he could have had the decency to grant her request.

  So what did he do that was so terrible? He got your husband’s heart—it isn’t as if he had much of a choice. And if what he says about the memories is true, then he would have had to have been made of steel to resist looking you up.

  He said he loves you. He wants to marry you. How terrible is that?

  But it wasn’t that easy, she thought angrily. And how did she know he was telling the truth? How did she know he hadn’t just snooped around and found out a bunch of personal information?

  She didn’t.

  But when she pulled her car into the garage after work on Wednesday, she got the chance to find out.

  She parked in the big central bay. But as she stepped out of the car, the sunlight that streamed in through the open garage door was blocked. She turned, expecting Aline or Patsy—but it was a bigger, broad-shouldered form that filled the space.

  “Catherine.”

  She stopped, unwilling to get any closer.

  “I imagine you have some questions for me.” His voice was quiet, neutral.

  “Why haven’t you left?” she said aggressively. “I asked you to leave.”

  “Not until we talk about this.” His voice was inflexible. “I’ll make you a deal. You come talk to me and afterward, I’ll go.”

  “You’re not exactly in a position to bargain.”

  “I am if you want to get rid of me.”

  “Oh, all right,” she said, anger rising as hot and bitter as it had that first day. “Talk.”

  “Not here.” He turned and walked away from the garage, halting at a small gazebo nearby.

  Following, she took a seat on one of the stone benches. Despite the cauldron of feelings bubbling and roiling just beneath the surface of her emotions, a part of her noted the peaceful beauty of the shady little spot. Hostas spread their broad leaves along the path just outside, huge old oak trees kept the sun from invading at ground level, and astilbe and coral bells sent slender spears of color waving in the light breeze.

  “What do you want to know?” He propped one foot on the end of the bench and rested his elbow on the bent knee.

  “Nothing.” She hoped her face was as stony as her voice. Why did you need a heart transplant? When did you first begin to notice odd memories surfacing? What else do you recall—

  “I can’t believe you don’t have any questions,” he said conversationally.

  “The night we met, you were shocked when I told you about my son. Because you didn’t know.” The words blurted themselves out without her permission, the only coherent thing to emerge from the mass of fragmented ideas swirling in her head.

  Something flashed in his eyes. “‘Shocked’ is an understatement. I’d had you in my head for almost two years. But never a child.”

  “When did you first think something was unusual?”

  He shrugged. “In the first couple of months after my transplant—” He shot her an apologetic look. “—I kept having dreams about a woman’s face. Your face. And they weren’t just dreams. You’d pop into my head at the most unexpected times. Later, I began to see you doing specific things—arranging flowers, in a long black evening dress, even coming toward me with a smile on your face…but it wasn’t until my twenty-four-month checkup that it got more specific.”

  “What happened then?” She was interested despite herself.

  “I saw a file notation about my donor heart coming from Johns Hopkins. So I got online and looked through the Baltimore paper because I knew the person probably had lived there, and I’d already been told it came from a young man who died in an accident. Mike was easy t
o find.” He hesitated.

  “What?”

  “When I read your name in the obituary—” He raised blue eyes to her face and she could see the shock in them as if it had just happened. “—I knew as soon as I read your name that you were the woman.”

  “You assumed,” she corrected.

  “No.” He shook his head. “I knew.”

  “And that’s when you decided to invade our lives.”

  “No.” His voice was calm, but she sensed that he was fighting the urge to shake her. “I only ever intended to look you up and watch you, see who you were and if you matched the face in my head. But after I saw you at that dance…” He shrugged. “I had to meet you.”

  “You could be lying.” Her voice was shaking. “How do I know you didn’t just hire someone to snoop through my life for little tidbits you could use?”

  “If I’d done that, I’d have known about Michael,” he pointed out.

  His logic was irrefutable.

  “It wasn’t until after we met that I started to get a lot more specific information,” he said.

  “Such as?”

  “Sweet thing. That’s what he called you. I’ve never called a woman that before in my life.” His voice sounded as strained as her nerves felt, and despite herself, she couldn’t help thinking that if this was true and not just some crazy hoax, it couldn’t have been easy for him. “Your favorite color is a dusky shade of rose. He told you he wanted to marry you in the kitchen at the party the night you met.”

  Dear God. He wasn’t kidding. She’d never even told Patsy that. At the time, she’d laughed it off. It wasn’t until months later when Mike asked her again that she even remembered he’d done it. She swallowed. “How…?”

  “I saw it happen. You smiled and pretended he wasn’t serious.” He spread his hands when her mouth dropped open. “There’s a theory—”

  “Stop.” She held up her hand, and a silence fell between them. “I need a minute.”

  “I know the feeling.” His voice was very dry.

  She let her hand drop and simply sat for a moment, her mind spinning. The implications of what he wanted her to believe were staggering. Another day in the garden slipped into her mind. “The first time you saw Michael…”