Girl Meets Billionaire

by Brenna Aubrey et al.

  “C’mon. Spill it, Drake. How long have you been reading?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know, a year or so.”

  “A year?”

  He nodded while gazing at the ceiling. “Yeah. Something like that.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

  “Because you were already freaked out enough when you found out who I was. I wasn’t going to add fuel to that fire.”

  “Shit. Then you know a whole lot more about me than I know about you. You asked me questions like you didn’t.”

  “How else was I going to get you to open up?”

  “And here I thought you were just interested in opening me up in another way.”

  At that precise moment, the sommelier appeared to pour us more wine. I blushed crimson, horrified, knowing he’d heard what I said. Adam laced his hands together in front of his face, suppressing his laughter behind them. I shot him a dirty look, which only served to increase his amusement. My eyes narrowed.

  “Very funny.” I said, once he left.

  He pulled his hands away from his mouth. “Yes, it was, actually. I couldn’t care less about his reaction, but the mortification on your face was hilarious.”

  “It’s your turn now. Cough it all up.”

  His brows knit. “Cough what up?”

  “The goods. Come on. I signed the NDA. It’s not going on the front page.”

  He took a deep draught of his wine—the same glass he’d been nursing all night. “What do you want to know?”

  I asked him what I’d been wondering earlier. “Why’d you quit college?”

  He seemed surprised that I knew that. It was on his Wikipedia page, after all. He’d dropped out after his first year at Caltech. “I wasn’t learning anything new.”

  Well, well. He was a boy genius, after all. Had I expected any other kind of answer? He cleared his throat and continued. “Sony offered me a lot of money to work for them.”

  “They couldn’t wait a few years?”

  “Apparently not. I didn’t work for them long, anyway. I quickly learned that the only boss I cared to answer to was me.”

  I studied him. So he had issues with authority—professors, bosses. But he’d been a model citizen, no records of arrests or juvenile delinquency. He’d likely had a strong family to guide him.

  “Where were you born? Where did you grow up? Did you have a big family?”

  He grinned. “That’s a lot of questions.”

  I shot him a sweet smile. “We don’t have a lot of time.”

  “True enough. I was born in Pasadena. I lived in Washington State until my early teens, then came back to California to live with my uncle in OC.”

  The article on him in Wikipedia had provided scant information about his childhood. He’d already divulged way more than I’d learned by scouring Google. And it was not lost on me that he hadn’t answered the question about his family. Fair enough, I really didn’t want to talk about mine, either. All two of us.

  I tried another tack. “What does your dad do?”

  “He died when I was four. He was a professor at Caltech.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t remember him at all.”

  Another thing we had in common, then. We never knew our fathers. But at least his father had wanted him. Hadn’t handed a wad of cash to his mother with the curt order to “get rid of the problem.”

  I cleared my throat and coughed. “Okay, so more speed-dating questions…What’s your favorite color? What is your astrological sign? Where does the Golden Mountain quest chain start? What’s your favorite book?”

  His eyes narrowed with suspicion but he could not mask the smile curving at the corner of his mouth. “Blue. Aries. Not gonna tell you in a million years. The Art of War.”

  “Crap,” I grumped and then we both burst into laughter.

  Dinner continued like that. I learned that he loved Mexican and Chinese. Didn’t care much for Thai. I told him about my absolute obsession with the perfect pizza—New York-style Zito’s in Old Towne Orange. He told me he’d had the authentic stuff and refused to eat New York-style anywhere outside of New York.

  He was astonished to discover that I actually preferred the Special Edition version of the original Star Wars trilogy.

  He shook his head, eyes widened in mock horror. “I can’t even—”

  “Oh, c’mon. Three words: better special effects.”

  His expression grew dead serious. “Three words: Greedo shoots first.”

  I grimaced. “Okay, you have a point there, but I’m not going to change my mind just because of that one little thing—”

  “One little thing?!” His mouth dropped. “That one moment changed the entire characterization of Han Solo.”

  I tilted my head to the side. “You know, I think I’ve only seen the original version once before?”

  He blinked. “Your education is seriously lacking.”

  “Hey, last time I checked I was the one with a soon-to-be conferred degree and you weren’t.”

  His eyes glowed over his deepening smile. “Touché.” He jerked his chin toward me. “Now it’s your turn. Where’d you grow up? OC?”

  I shook my head. “I didn’t move there until college. Heath and I come from the tiniest backwater community in the high desert hills in California called Anza. Our only claim to fame is that the Pacific Crest Trail goes practically through the center of town. Only freaks and geeks come from Anza.”

  We talked for a long time, until after dessert. We’d shared a cherries jubilee flambé that had threatened to set the room on fire. At one point, we ended up using our spoons to fence for the last bite. He won, scooping up the last morsel in his spoon and then gallantly holding it out for me to eat.

  And just next door, for I had been listening to the strains of the orchestra for most of the night, was the dancing. He offered me an arm, like a gentleman out of a nineteenth-century period miniseries. Awkwardly, I took his arm and let him lead me toward the dance floor.

  “I don’t dance like this at all. Just sayin’ that I hope your shoes have metal tips for toe protection.”

  “Just follow my lead. It’s the foxtrot. The steps are easy. Slow. Slow. Quick, quick. I’ll lead you.”

  I frowned. “And how do you know how to dance like this? Did you time warp out of Downton Abbey?”

  He smiled. “My cousin danced ballroom dance for competition. She forced me to be her practice partner.”

  “Ah.” Though I had a very tough time picturing him being forced into anything by anyone.

  “Come,” he said. “Just follow my cues. I’ll guide you with the hand on your back.”

  And after a few minutes of fumbling, I eventually got the hang of it, though I was quite sure no one would ever mistake us for Johnny and Baby from Dirty Dancing.

  In this dress, with these glittery heels, in the arms of this man, the sensation of being outside of myself—of living in a waking dream—continued.

  After we’d danced a few dances in silence, he spoke softly. “You cold?”

  “Nah.”

  “You’re shaking.”

  Well, yes. Yes, I was. His smell was fantastic and doing indescribable things to me. And he was so close. One large hand clasped mine, the other rested just below my shoulder blade. On my bare back. The heat of him threatened to burn a hole right through me.

  I was having trouble remembering to breathe and he wanted to know why I was shaking.

  “You nervous about tonight?” he finally asked after a long pause.

  I looked up and met his scrutinizing gaze. “Perhaps.”

  But that wasn’t the truth. I wasn’t nervous. I was already dreading the drop into reality. The return to normalcy afterward. And the fact that I’d never see him again. How insane. I didn’t even know if this was something I’d enjoy yet. For all I knew, I’d hate every second of it. But that’s not what was on my mind at that moment. Instead, all I could think of was how much I
enjoyed being in his company, trading banter, smelling his smell.

  And I already knew that my plan to guzzle wine and lie back and think of medical school had gone up in smoke. I doubted this man would allow me to lie back and think of anything else but him.

  We danced only two more before he collected my wrap and the car came to take us back to the hotel.

  After all the joking and laughter earlier, the air between us had grown somber, tense. Weighted with the expectation of what was to come. My insides clenched, just below my navel. I was becoming aware of some new inner fire. It felt like a candle inside a lantern, glowing bright and hot. It was as if my body was already preparing me.

  The entire ride back—less than ten minutes, actually—Adam did not touch me or speak to me. He stared out the window, one hand resting on his knee. He was distant, tense and definitely not present in that limo.

  When we entered our suite, he placed a hand on the small of my back, guiding me inside. Every nerve in my body instantly jumped at the contact, as if he’d shocked me. The muscles beneath his touch tightened and my breathing rate jumped.

  The lights had been turned on and then down, to an ambient glow. A bottle of wine rested in the place of the champagne of earlier that evening. He pulled his hand away and went to it.

  “Wine?”

  I cleared my throat. “Anything stronger?” I joked. I actually rarely drank hard liquor, but his reaction to my light joke startled me more than anything else. He wore a dark scowl before his features went blank again.

  “They don’t stock anything hard when I’m here, I’m afraid,” he said in a neutral voice.

  So he didn’t approve of drinking. “But you drink wine and champagne.”

  “Yes. Sometimes. On special occasions. Or a glass with dinner when it’s called for.”

  I took the glass of deep plum Cabernet Sauvignon that he’d poured. “Sounds like it’s very personal to you,” I said, echoing his own words back to him.

  He took a small sip and settled the glass on the bar, leaning on the hand braced there. “It is. My mother is an alcoholic.”

  I nodded, instantly regretting the question. That would explain why he’d come to live with his cousins at such a young age. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  He shrugged. “I haven’t seen in her in years. She lives her life and I live mine.”

  “Are you afraid that if you drank the hard stuff, it would happen to you, too?”

  He looked up. “It’s a disease, and addiction has a genetic component to it.”

  Like cancer. I nodded, suddenly understanding him a whole lot more from the last few minutes than I had in the entire day we had just spent in one another’s presence.

  He picked up the glass and reached out a hand. I hesitantly placed mine in his. “Come. There’s something I want to show you.”

  I snorted. “Isn’t that someone’s cheesy line to get a girl into the bedroom?”

  He laughed. “Not mine.”

  He led me up the staircase and to a closed door just before the bedroom. I hadn’t noticed it before, when I’d come up this afternoon. He opened it and we were immediately on a rooftop terrace, looking out over one of the canals. Here on the top floor, we could see the roofs of Amsterdam and twinkling lights stretched out before us. The tiny cars in the distant square jockeyed for position around a complex traffic circle, their headlights glowing bright yellow and white.

  A chilly spring breeze danced about our hair and shoulders. I went to the rail and he moved behind me, adjusting my wrap over my shoulders. His hands lingered there long moments before slowly slipping down my arms. I suddenly forgot about the gorgeous view in front of me.

  He was touching me. Like he meant it. Like he wanted it. I gasped for breath and his hands fell away.

  “I remember the first time I saw this city,” he murmured, still behind me, gazing out at the view over my head. “I had just sold my first code. Took the summer to travel across Europe and started here. Still had about a year until college. I wasted a lot of time that year, but it was the most memorable of my life.”

  The display before us seemed otherworldly—all gold, silver and red, like Christmas in fairyland. I remembered the glass of wine in my hand and shakily downed the rest of it. Adam took the glass from me and set it down on a nearby table. When he returned, he stood behind me again, so close he almost touched his chest to my back.

  After a few more moments of awkward silence, I leaned backward into him, craving the contact. He exhaled in surprise but said nothing. I shook, feeling every nerve ending where my body touched his. And suddenly I was aching to have his arms around me. “I wanted to do study abroad when I was an undergrad, but the scholarship didn’t cover it. I’ve only been in Europe less than a day and already I’m falling in love with it.”

  “It’s easy to do. And you haven’t even seen France yet.”

  Paris. God, I’d love to see Paris. I closed my eyes and let my head fall back against him. No gasp of surprise this time. My shoulder blades pressed into his hard pecs. His head tipped down, his mouth pressing to my crown. Energy crackled right through me like a live electric tower. Fear was there, too, lurking in the background like a clammy mist.

  Then he reached up and tangled his fingers through my hair, pressing along my scalp. I tensed and jumped, instantly reminded of another man’s hands wound tightly there, pulling with all his strength, forcing my head down.

  Icy terror sliced through me. I gasped, my heart beating its way out of my throat in cold fear. I struggled, pushing away from him, my breath not coming fast enough.

  “Get away! Don’t—” The world twisted around me and I hit against the railing, holding my hands up to protect myself from him. He’d hit me—so many times—grabbed my long hair and wrapped it around his hands like rope, pulling so hard—so hard. I couldn’t breathe. I had to get away.

  “Emilia—Mia!” Adam’s voice cut through the fuzzy haze of panic that clouded my thoughts. He approached me slowly, eyes wide with concern. Spots formed at the edge of my vision and I felt like I might faint. Breathe! Breathe! I couldn’t draw the air in fast enough.

  “Mia—My God, are you okay? What is it?”

  I put my face in my hands, shaking so fiercely I didn’t think I’d be able to talk. “Emilia…do you hear me?”

  I turned away from him and closed my eyes. I was safe, a distant voice tried to tell me. I wasn’t up on the Ridge, alone and begging Zack not to hit me again. I was with Adam. I was safe. I couldn’t stop shaking.

  “Mia,” he said again, quietly. He stood closer now.

  “I’m… fine…”

  “Like hell, you are.”

  “Please,” I said, putting an icy hand to my cheek. My heartbeat danced in my throat and I could hardly catch my next breath. I reached up and smoothed my hair. It was all still there. There was no blood. I was safe. There’s no way Adam could have known—hell, there was no way I would have known that him putting his hands in my hair would do this to me.

  “Emilia. Slow down. If you keep breathing like that you’re going to pass out.” He took my arm gently and turned me toward him. “Gently. Hold your breath. Close your mouth. Look at me. Look in my eyes.” The panic receded as I stared into his dark eyes. He held both my shoulders now. “You’re safe, Emilia. There, breathe in through your nose. Keep your mouth closed.”

  I shook my head, my eyes squeezed tight. “Just…” My voice faded, the cold fear dissipating slowly but leaving an oily trace in its wake. I took a deep breath and continued when I could. “It was just a bad memory. That’s all.”

  “You’re white as a sheet. What did I do wrong?”

  I shook again and he moved closer, quieting me while I shook in his arms. He pulled me to him and I pressed my face to his shoulder. “I’m sorry—so sorry.”

  “There is absolutely nothing to apologize for,” he murmured.

  “I just…I don’t like my hair pulled.”

  There was a long silence. “Okay. I
’m sorry.”

  I shrugged my quivering shoulders. “You didn’t know.”

  He cleared his throat. “We shouldn’t do this.”

  “No,” I pulled back from him and stared into his eyes again. “I’m fine. I’m just fine.” But doubt clouded his handsome features.

  “But if that happens again—”

  “It won’t. I took care of what I could think of in the paperwork. Except I didn’t think about fingers in my hair.” I shuddered at the memory of it.

  He paused. “Did someone hurt you? Do you want to talk about it?”

  I shook my head. I didn’t want to talk about it. I hoped he took the shake of my head to mean that someone hadn’t hurt me—hadn’t wound his hands into my hair, tearing chunks from my scalp as he forced his erection down my throat. I shivered again.

  He gently pulled me toward him again, as if expecting me to bolt over the rail at any moment. “Whoever did it deserves to have the shit beat out of him.”

  I leaned into him and his strong arms came around me, pulling me tightly to him. I was instantly soothed, but my heart was beating an even harsher staccato, pressed up against his sternum. His body felt so hard and powerful next to mine. The smooth material of his jacket caressed my cheek. I closed my eyes.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine now. Thanks,” I said, my voice sounding as if it came from a far-off place. From that dreamland I’d drifted to all throughout the previous day. Then I lifted my head and looked into his face and I asked him for the one thing I’d wanted all evening. “Will you kiss me?” I asked in a tiny voice.

  Without hesitation, his mouth descended slowly on mine, our lips meeting half the distance between us, both heads pressing in for an urgent taste of the other. His touch was gentle, at first, lips firm but closed. But I wanted more—I wanted a kiss like the one he’d left me with that day in my apartment.

  My tongue darted out to outline his lips. He expelled a sudden breath and lowered an arm to the small of my back, hooking my waist closer to him. He opened his mouth to my tongue. I deepened the exploration until he met me with his. Another tight gasp from deep within his chest and I was cinched so tightly to him that I detected every contour and ridge of the muscles beneath his shirt. I tilted my head back, eager for more. I locked my hands atop his shoulders, holding him to me.