He took a deep breath, smoothing out his features until only his flashing green eyes and high color gave any sign of his anger.
“You will not contact Samira,” he continued. “Nor will your horrible friends. You will not refer to Samira in your social media, or stalk her or trouble her in any way. Ever. And if you do, you will answer to me. Understood?”
Without waiting for any response, he opened the door again.
Daphne lunged to her feet, grabbed her purse and stalked out on those mile-high legs.
“Fuck you and your ugly bitch, Baptiste,” she said as she went.
Baptiste’s voice shook with fury. “Samira is a million times more beautiful than you could ever hope to be. Inside or out.”
He slammed the door after her, turned the bolt and went back to the bar, his strides long and angry. But instead of pouring another drink, he planted his hands on the counter and leaned into it.
An enraged Samira, meanwhile, resisted the overwhelming urge to flip the coffee table and rampage around the suite like the villain tearing up the city in one of the Transformers movies.
The “ugly” comment in particular really stung. Not because Samira thought she was ugly; she knew she was very pretty. It was the fact that the long-legged, good-haired and fair-skinned Daphnes were considered conventional beauties by a good portion of the western world.
Samira and her dark-skinned sisters? Not so much.
Times were changing. But not fast enough.
“Say something,” he finally said, glancing over his shoulder at her. “I know it was hard for you to sit quietly like that.”
“You don’t know anything about me,” she snarled.
He snorted out a humorless laugh and muttered something in French. Then,
“I’m sorry she appeared and upset you. That’s the last thing I ever wanted.”
Samira squared her shoulders and pretended she was a much stronger person. “I’m a grown woman. I’m not going to let some woman I don’t even know show up and upset me.”
There. That sounded plausible, didn’t it?
Evidently not, based on the disbelieving look Baptiste shot her.
“Fine,” Samira snapped, dropping the reins of her temper and letting it run free. “You want to know what I’m thinking? I’m trying to decide whether I want to kick her ass for being such a crazy bitch, your ass for getting involved with her in the first place or my ass for subjecting myself to this bullshit!”
“Thank you,” he said tiredly, straightening and turning to face her. “I knew the real Samira was in there somewhere. Why don’t you start with me?”
“I think I will.” She lunged to her feet and got in his face, the better to siphon off some of this pent-up energy. “Her? Really? Are you crazy?”
He crossed his arms. “I think I’m waking up from crazy, yes.”
“Was she crazy before you met her, or did being with you do that to her?”
“I don’t drive women crazy,” he cried, looking affronted.
“That remains to be seen,” she muttered. “Great to size up my competition.”
“You don’t have any competition.” A glimmer of amusement lit his eyes. “But I’m grateful to hear you’ve put yourself on the playing field.”
Samira ignored that and frowned at him, determined not to make another unforced error.
“And how do you know she’s really not pregnant, pray tell?”
The implication made him scowl.
“I’ve been fucking women for over twenty years. The countryside is not littered with my children. I think I can work a condom.”
“Condoms aren’t a hundred percent.”
“I’m comfortable with my odds.”
Smug bastard, she thought, even as she felt a wild swoop of relief so powerful it almost made her dizzy. The thought of some scheming ho pregnant with Baptiste’s child…
No, scratch that.
The thought of any other woman pregnant with Baptiste’s child…
Was that jealousy she’d felt way back when the ex before Terrance cheated on her? It seemed like a sunny, margarita-filled day in paradise compared to the overwhelming hostility she felt now.
Don’t go there, girl. Think of something else.
She thought back to Daphne’s killer body, so different from Samira’s, and the fuming continued.
“So was the sex that good?” she demanded.
Offhand shrug. “The sex was mindless.”
“Mindless?”
“She was there. She was convenient. I wanted sex and no attachments. She wanted sex and my money.” Another shrug. “It was what it was. There’s nothing to puzzle over.”
“I suppose there are dozens of other Daphnes out there in the world, just waiting to crawl out of the woodwork like cockroaches,” she said acidly.
He scrunched his eyes shut and roughly rubbed his hands over his face. When he opened them again, he looked exhausted. Infinitely sad.
“They are past Daphnes. Not current Daphnes.”
Samira considered that in silence as some of her anger leached away, trying not to let that detail—actually, it was only an alleged detail, wasn’t it? —sidetrack her.
“And there are confidentiality agreements now, so hopefully not,” he added.
The reminder flared her back up again. “Oh, right, the confidentiality agreements. That’s normal. And probably easier than having a relationship with someone you can trust.”
“Would you trust Daphne?” he asked, incredulous.
“I sure the hell would not.”
He rubbed his face again, threatening to annihilate his features.
“So I guess you want my lawyer’s information, right? So you can send over the confidentiality agreement for me to sign?”
“What?” He dropped his hands, his face now red and splotchy. “Of course not.”
“Oh, so you trust me?”
“Yes, actually,” he said, staring her in the face. “So if that’s a mistake, then tell me now.”
She felt insulted he’d even ask. “I would rather eat broken glass than humiliate myself like that”—she pointed after the departed Daphne— “over a man.”
Unmistakable admiration gleamed in his eyes, although he didn’t smile.
“Why do you think I trust you?”
Once again, she refused to let herself be mollified by his pretty words. She had too many unanswered questions churning in her brain.
“I’m really trying to understand you,” she said. “Are you telling me that that’s all you wanted from your life? Superficial relationships? Leeches disguised as arm candy?”
He turned away, running his hands over the top of his head until his hair stood on end.
“The lifestyle served its purpose at the time.”
“But…” She struggled with her words, not wanting to hurt his feelings. And it wasn’t like she had a psychology degree. “You’re such a great guy as far as I can tell. You don’t need to buy anyone’s affection. You shouldn’t have to wonder if people want you for your money or not.”
“When you’re the wealthiest person in the room, people expect you to pay.”
“I see. And do you want real relationships or an entourage?”
He faced her after a long pause, his expression wary and vaguely shell-shocked.
His nostrils flared.
“You see way too much sometimes, Samira. You’re like Daniel.”
“I’m just trying to understand you. That’s what you wanted? A woman who expects you to pay for her apartment for the pleasure of screwing her?”
Without warning, his face contracted into a snarl.
“It’s what I knew!” he shouted.
She blinked. Ran that back and thought it over until a lightbulb went off in her mind.
“Because of your mother?” she asked gently.
“I don’t know.” He leaned back against the bar again, crossing his arms and ankles as he shrank in on himself. He seemed exhausted suddenly, like
a little boy up way past his bedtime. “Maybe.”
She watched him, her remaining anger dissipating, and tried not to drown in her ambivalence.
God, he pulled on her heartstrings.
“Daphne’s a viper inside the body of a goddess, Baptiste,” she said on a renewed surge of frustration. “Even if you and I don’t work out in the end, you deserve someone so much better than that.”
“I’m not sure I do.” He stared at her, his stormy eyes more brown than green now. “I’m sure I don’t deserve you.”
Her tender heart absolutely could not take this. Not the way a light clicked on in his face when he looked at her like that, or the way her lungs refused to inflate completely whenever she thought he might mean what he said.
They watched each other in the silence.
It’s too soon, Samira told herself over and over again. You don’t need this drama. You barely know this man.
But as her eyes skimmed over his expression, so warm and open now... the sleek lines of his cheekbones, no longer hard with anger... the lush mouth...
Another voice in her head (or maybe it was her heart speaking) quietly told her that maybe she did know the most important things about this man.
“Are my chances ruined now?” he asked. “Please tell me they’re not.”
That required some thought.
“I don’t know,” she said helplessly. “Why are things so complicated? Every time I turn around, I see another red flag about you.”
He stared at her, aghast.
“Why do you persist in thinking you’re the only one who can be hurt here? I also have red flags.”
Whatever she’d expected him to say, it wasn’t that.
“Excuse me?”
“Terrance spoke to me at the bonfire.”
“Terrance?”
“He’s jealous, but he’s trying to get used to the idea of another man in your life. He’s also very protective.”
The news about Terrance surprised her a little, but she and Baptiste had covered this ground before and she didn’t see why they needed to do it again.
“Try to pay attention. He’s gay.”
“But maybe you still love him. Maybe he still has an emotional hold on you. Maybe you can’t let him go just yet.”
What the—?
“Why are you spinning fairy tales out of thin air?” she demanded, incredulous. “I already told you that that part of my life is over. It doesn’t matter what he says or wants. All that matters is what I’m doing.”
“Ah.” Baptiste gave her a pointed look. “So you’re saying I should trust your word. Have a little faith. Makes sense. I should probably do that.”
A wave of heat engulfed her head.
Caught, she did the only thing she could do, which was to ignore the point he’d just won and fortify her position.
“Maybe we’d both be foolish to ignore all these red flags.”
A touch of a smile softened his mouth.
“Or maybe we’d both be foolish not to fight for our new relationship, ma reine. Especially when it promises to be so extraordinary.”
She opened her mouth. Shut her mouth.
So…
Had they reached an accord, then?
Were they on the same page and moving in the same direction?
“I’m not a Daphne,” she warned. “Not in any way.”
“Good. I don’t want casual from you. And you didn’t ask, but I want to be clear: I never promised her exclusivity. As I recall, it took about thirty seconds for me to offer it to you. So there’s another way that you and I are different from me and Daphne.” He paused. “Or me and anyone else.”
A trio of overwhelming feelings hit her:
Relief. Gratitude. Renewed hope.
Even so, her self-protective instincts wouldn’t let her shut up just yet.
“I don’t look like her. I don’t think like her. I don’t want the same things. If that’s what you want? Even a little bit?” She waggled her fingers at him. “Boy, bye.”
“I’m not saying good-bye to you,” he said flatly.
“Well, I’m the opposite of Daphne. So you’d better get your mind around that.”
“My mind is all the way around it. I assure you.” His glittering gaze held hers. She went very still, undone by the look in his eyes. “Why do you think I’m so determined not to let you get away?”
5
It was just after one that night when Samira heard the knock on the front door of the two-bedroom bungalow she rented. She stilled, listening hard, her heart thumping in her throat.
Only one person would show up out of the blue tonight.
She wasn’t prepared for another round with Baptiste just yet. Her emotions rode far too close to the surface after all the turmoil with Daphne earlier.
And the record already reflected the fact that Samira sucked at keeping Baptiste at arm’s length, even on a good day.
Still, she’d tried her best. Kept her defenses up and her self-protective rules firmly in place as they said their good-byes when she left his hotel, and for that she should be proud. Would be proud, if only her overwhelming sense of loneliness allowed room for another feeling in her body.
She’d come home. Showered the scent of wood smoke off her skin and out of her hair, replacing it with her favorite sandalwood scented lotion. Thrown on her Syracuse T-shirt. Stared at her bed and thought about the impossibility of sleep when her yearning for him pulsed in time to her heartbeat. Stared at her phone and resisted the powerful urge to call him.
Indecision held her in a stranglehold the whole time.
She hated indecision.
The Daphne thing didn’t bother her the way it should, and that bothered her. A smart woman with Samira’s troubled history with men shouldn’t be so willing to give one—especially a confirmed player like Baptiste—the benefit of the doubt. Shouldn’t be so eager to override her hard-earned lessons in favor of a pair of soulful eyes that looked at her like she was the queen of the universe.
But that was the funny thing about Baptiste. He had the power to make her believe in him, and the growing power to make her wonder if things between them might actually work.
As for him and Daphne?
If Baptiste said their relationship was over, maybe it really was over.
Maybe he really did want Samira.
God knew she really wanted him.
It wasn’t right to feel this growing obsession with him. She knew that.
But not being with him sure didn’t feel right either.
Her thought ran in an endless and maddening loop:
Trust him. Don’t trust him.
She’d been on her way back to the bedroom and a sleepless night of binge-watching her favorite home makeover show when she heard the first knock.
There it was again.
No point to wondering how he’d gotten her address (her credit card bill). No time to lament her makeup-free face or the haywire corkscrew curls that were only partially dry. And the idea of, say, turning off her porch light, double-checking the bolt and going to bed never crossed her mind.
She went to the front door guided only by a lamp in the living room and a tiny voice inside telling her it would be okay. Checked the peephole. Let him in and shut the door again, all without eye contact or a word. Waited while he slowly turned toward her in the shadowy confines of her small foyer.
He’d also showered and changed, she saw right away. His wet hair curled across his forehead and around his ears. He’d thrown on a leather jacket and had his hands deep in the pockets of his jeans.
He kept his head ducked, as though he wasn’t any more prepared to make eye contact than she was. Not when the air crackled with this kind of electricity.
Samira couldn’t breathe.
It was impossible to ignore how he filled the space. How he loomed over her, so much taller than she was without her heels. How his body’s unmistakable warmth threw off his fresh and sophisticated scent, filling her nostri
ls with it.
Don’t lose your head, Samira, she warned herself. Grow a spine.
She crossed her arms and studied her bare feet, trying to look formidable even though her acting skills were shaky at best. There were rules in place here. Boundaries. She normally didn’t do one-night stands, and she never did booty calls. They’d agreed to explore their relationship, yeah, but they needed to explore the nonsexual aspects a bit more for a while. A girl had to play it smart and command respect if she wanted to be treated right. Otherwise? She ended up like the Daphnes of the world.
“I thought we agreed we’d cool off for a day or two,” she reminded him. “Maybe get dinner Monday after work.”
“We did. And that seemed like a good idea at the time. But now…”
His voice turned all gravelly at the end. He cleared his throat.
She opened her mouth to stop him before he got started with the please baby, baby pleases. Looked up.
So did he.
The turbulence in his shifting expression made her gasp.
So many emotions, all right there for her to see.
Vulnerability. Frustration. Determination.
Adoration. Possibly even…worship.
“It’s not that…” He broke off. Shook his head. Looked to the ceiling. Pulled a hand out of his pocket and ran it across the top of his head, making a bird’s nest of his hair. Opened his mouth. Hesitated. “It’s not that I don’t respect your wishes. I can sleep on your sofa. I’m not proud.”
Oh, God.
“Baptiste—”
“I just…” He cleared his throat again and shoved that hand back into his pocket, a vivid flush sweeping over his face. “I just want to be under the same roof with you. And Monday is too long to wait to see you again.”
Samira couldn’t move, much less speak.
What was she supposed to do or say to that?
Accuse him of meaningless flattery? Throw him out?
Pretty words were one thing, but the look on his face was something else altogether.
“I told you you’re not getting inside my head,” she said, a sudden surge of emotion making her voice hoarse as her mantra ran through her head. Trust him; don’t trust him. If only he meant it. If only a man like this (sexy; sophisticated; endlessly fascinating) could truly want a woman like her (uncomplicated; ultimately unlovable, as evidenced by the defection of both her birth mother and her fiancé). “You should stop trying so hard.”
Beyond Ordinary Love_A Journey's End Billionaire Romance Page 7
