The Billionaire and the Runaway Bride

by Nadia Lee

  Or gamble. Or do drugs. But I keep that to myself. Declan already looks upset enough. “Benedict says I should get you a new instructor.”

  “Can you find one right now?” He runs a hand roughly through his hair, mussing it. “I need to be comfortable with the moves before Friday.”

  “I don’t know. I might not be able to find someone who can fit you in right now.” I really miss Ms. Kim. If she were here, she’d have a new dance instructor for Declan in the next two seconds.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” He looks around, clearly at a loss.

  His reaction is making me feel like a failure, even though I’m not the one in jail for being an idiot. I purse my lips. Almost anything can be learned by watching YouTube videos. But he’s acting like he has to have in-person instruction.

  I inhale. Come on, Yuna. You can do this!

  “What kind of dance is this? Ballet?” That’s the only thing I can think of that would require some serious time with a teacher, although it’s unrealistic to learn ballet in five days.

  “No. Waltzing.”

  “Waltzing?” He’s worried over a waltz?

  “I’m supposed to dance one in a scene in a movie. Well, when I’m cast, I’m supposed to dance it.” He says it with confidence, like he’s pretty certain he’ll be cast.

  Guess he’s just worried about not being able to dance. But then, a leading man has to be good at everything. Otherwise he wouldn’t be the leading man, but a secondary dude who’s there to make the leading man look good.

  “Don’t they teach you how to do things like that after you’re cast?” I ask.

  “This director’s peculiar. He likes to work with actors who require the least effort. Says it creates better movies.”

  “Ah. Like Michelangelo. Do you know he supposedly looked for the perfect hunk of marble first, then cut out the unnecessary bits until he was left with only what he wanted? Like the David. Or the Pietà. Although I wonder about the Pietà because that’s a big, complicated chunk of marble, if you ask me.”

  Declan looks at me like he isn’t sure what to make of my explanation. “Yeah, um…okay. So, the waltz instructor?”

  “If you want, I can teach you,” I say.

  “You?” Both his eyebrows jump up.

  “Don’t look so shocked. I know how to do some simple dances, like waltzes, the cha-cha-cha, foxtrot and tango. I had lots and lots of lessons.” Mom made sure so I don’t stand around like an idiot at parties. “Did the director say anything about the kind of waltz? Do you need to do the Viennese or the slow version?”

  Declan looks a bit lost. “I don’t know. My agent didn’t say.”

  Of course not. That would’ve been too easy. “Do you know where the movie takes place?”

  “In the States and Europe.”

  I sigh. That doesn’t help much, does it? “Let’s do both, just to be safe.”

  “Do we have enough time?”

  “Sure. You can master both by Friday. They aren’t hard. Once we do the slow one, we can tackle the Viennese. And I’ll have you know I’m an excellent teacher.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Declan

  Yuna winks, her lips curving into a grin. And all the irritation I’ve been feeling melts away like a snow cone in summer.

  But this does mean a minor adjustment to my plan. Last night I was thinking about having Nancy teach both Yuna and I how to waltz, so I could practice with my hands on her. I could lead smoothly and dazzle her.

  Well. The dazzling won’t be happening, since Yuna’s obviously better at this stuff than I am…but the dancing together will. I’ll settle for that.

  “We can do a regular waltz today and tomorrow and try the Viennese after that. Once you get the hang of the main one-two-three, one-two-three rhythm, it’s super easy,” she says, coming toward me.

  I wait for her to put her hands all over me, to show me how to lead and move. It should be fun. Maybe it’s just luck—or a fortunate alignment of the stars—that Nancy ended up in jail.

  Yuna’s hands are slim, but her fingers are long and oh-so supple. I’ve been getting turned on watching her play the piano. Anticipation sizzles at the idea of those clever fingers wrapping around my hand and stroking my back.

  But instead of taking my hand or having me put my arm around her, Yuna pulls me to the wide area in the living room, stands next to me and starts showing me how to do a basic box step.

  Seriously?

  I guess she wants to make sure I don’t step on her shoes, but still… I’m barefoot. It’s not like I’m not going to scuff her heels.

  She doesn’t seem to notice my disappointment. “All you have to do is count and imagine tracing the outer edge of the box. That way you aren’t thinking, ‘Should I use my left leg or right leg now?’”

  It isn’t hard at all, actually. Or maybe it’s because I’m paying extra attention to every word rolling off her perfect pink lips and the way her pretty little feet move on the floor.

  When I can do the step on my own without messing up for at least three minutes, she finally says, “Let’s take a little break.”

  “Okay,” I say, just to be agreeable and also because her cheeks are flushed. She might be a little tired. If I were in charge of pacing this lesson, we’d already be putting it together with her as my partner. But maybe there’s more I need to learn. I’ve never had dance lessons, and I’m sure there’s more to waltzing than just a box step. It looks a lot more complicated in historical films.

  Now I wish the other dance I needed to master was the tango. It’s a passionate dance with the man and woman all over each other. At least, the ones I’ve seen are.

  Thinking about it makes my blood hot. Maybe I should suggest to Melvin that a tango would be better in the other scene…

  “But first we need to make sure we have good music.” Yuna looks around. “You said you played. Do you know how to play ‘Chopsticks’?”

  “Sure. Everyone knows that one.”

  And it’s not something you’re likely to forget. But I don’t know why she wants to play it when she can just find some decent dance music online.

  “Perfect.” She smiles.

  She takes my hand and walks toward the piano. The skin-to-skin contact is surprising. She hasn’t touched me since the handshake on Sunday. It makes me tingle, and my fingertips twitch with the need to hold her hand in mine and pull her closer.

  I follow her to the piano, although I’m not sure what “Chopsticks” has to do with waltzing. Maybe she just wants an excuse to hold my hand. I stroke the center of her soft palm with my thumb and feel the tender flesh jerk a little. I’ve never felt anything so lovely and velvety before.

  Her cheeks slightly pinker than before, she opens the lid and sits down on the left side of the bench. She pats the right side like nothing happened. “Right here’s where you sit,” she says. “Let’s do this.”

  “We’re going to play ‘Chopsticks’ together?” I say, sitting next to her and making sure I’m positioned close enough to feel her flush against me. I love you, Steinway, for making this bench so short.

  “Yup. Do you know it can be turned into a duet piece for four hands?”

  “I didn’t know that. But don’t all duet pieces need four hands?”

  “Yes, but saying ‘a piece for four hands’ indicates you only need one piano, rather than two. Some require two, like Rachmaninoff’s ‘Tarantella.’ Anyway, we’re going to record this.” She picks up the iPad and sets up the app. Then she gets up to grab her own phone and starts it ticking regularly.

  “A metronome app,” she explains. “This is the correct tempo for the waltz. Ready?” She takes her spot again on the bench.

  We start, with me going first.

  It’s awkward at first. I’ve never played a piano with somebody like this, and I’ve never been this distracted before, either. Yuna’s a superb player, her hands playing chords I didn’t know went with the melody.

  She smells really good this close
, a hint of floral body wash over something that makes me think of ripe, juicy summer peaches. My mouth waters, and I lick my lips. I almost miss a note, and cringe. Focus, dumbass. It’d be embarrassing to mess up “Chopsticks.” I’m only using two fingers, while Yuna’s using at least six. Might as well not have any fingers if I’m going to screw this up.

  But the warmth from her body heats my blood every time our arms brush. My heart accelerates, and my skin feels tight. If it weren’t for the metronome app keeping me on track, I’d speed up to wrap up the duet.

  Especially since I keep thinking about what her lips might taste like, and my dick is starting to get hard.

  Who the hell gets excited over “Chopsticks”?

  The three minutes it takes to finish the piece at tempo seem to last much longer. When we hit the final notes, I let out a sigh and shift a little to hide my reaction.

  Yuna doesn’t seem to notice because she’s beaming as she checks the iPad, her cheeks a delicate shade of rose. “Perfect! Now we can totally do the next step.”

  She hits play. The Steinway re-creates what we just did together. Damn. It’s pretty good. I feel like I’m getting my money’s worth.

  She gestures at me to follow her, and we get up and stand in the living room again. “Ready?” she says.

  “We’re going to dance to ‘Chopsticks’?”

  “Yup. Didn’t you notice? It has a perfect beat for the waltz. One two three, one two three…”

  She’s right. How come I never noticed that? And the thing is, the tune is so ridiculous and fun that it’s impossible to feel anything but joy as I hold her hand and put my arm around her. We practice the basic steps, making a box on the floor.

  Our bodies are close, and I look into her happy eyes. I’ve held countless women in my arms—at parties or for photoshoots or acting roles. Many of them are known for beauty and charm, but they all pale compared to Yuna. None of them smell the way she does, or feel as sweet as when I hold her close. My heart pumps harder and faster, and hot chills spread over my skin, all the way to my scalp and the tips of toes.

  She isn’t talking, but her lips are set in a curve and her eyes have a faraway look, like she’s lost in thought. It annoys me that she’s not focused on me like I am on her. So I give her a little tug and a “pay attention to me” stare. Her gaze sharpens as she lets out a small sound of surprise.

  The sound makes me think of sex—the sound she might make.

  I put more distance between us without being too obvious. Pressing her against my erect cock on the first day of work probably isn’t the wisest move, even if I want to make her want me. Unless she was thinking about sex—with me, of course—when she got that dreamy look in her dark eyes, and was getting turned on.

  It’s unfair that God made it so women can hide their arousal so easily.

  After a couple more tries, she lifts her arms in a hooray gesture and moves away. And I hate it that the damned music is so short. Somebody needs to compose an hour-long waltz.

  “That was perfect,” she says. “Now we can add some turns and variations. Super easy, as long as you keep track of which way you’re supposed to turn. Otherwise you’re going to bump into other couples. There are other dancers in the scene, right?”

  “I think so,” I say, my pulse still unsteady.

  She grins.

  Can a woman grin like that when she’s turned on? I find that I don’t know. I never really paid that much attention.

  “So,” she says. “Let’s start.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Declan

  “What do you want for lunch?” I ask Yuna about half an hour before my regular lunchtime.

  “Whatever you’re having,” she says.

  Her cheeks are slightly flushed from the hours of waltzing we’ve put in. I’ve mastered all the ones she introduced, but I insisted on practicing, claiming to get anxious when I have to do an audition. “I might screw up if I don’t commit the entire thing to muscle memory.”

  Thankfully, she bought the bullshit and I got to hold her the entire morning. Which was awesome. Nancy’s permanently fired.

  “You don’t have a preference?”

  She shrugs. “You’re the boss.”

  “But you helped me with the waltz, and this is your first day. It’s a ‘thank you and welcome’ combo lunch. I do it for all my assistants.”

  I can hear Benedict screaming, What the fuuuuuck? in my head. But he isn’t here to protest.

  Her lips curve slowly into a smile. “Well… In that case…”

  “Go ahead. There’s no limit or budget or anything.”

  It’ll be fun to take her someplace fancy and indulge her. She’s from a rich family, so she’s probably used to wining and dining, even for lunch. Maybe that bistro at the Aylster or the restaurant at the Ritz… It’ll take the best part of an hour to drive into L.A., but it’ll be worth it. It isn’t like I have anything urgent to do this afternoon.

  “Mexican,” she says.

  “What?”

  “I want Mexican. Homey…filling… And oh-so delicious.”

  “But why?” I rack my brain for something at a top restaurant that could be labeled “homey.” “We could go to the Ritz. I really meant the no-limit thing.”

  “It isn’t about the budget. I can eat at the Ritz or other fancy places anytime. I’ve actually eaten there a few times when I was in town. It’s just that there are no authentic Mexican restaurants in Seoul. The food is lacking something like limes or cilantro or some spice I can’t put my finger on. Or it’s ridiculously fancy, like gold flakes and caviar burritos.”

  I make a face. “Burritos stuffed with gold flakes and caviar? That sounds disgusting. Also, can you even digest gold?” Or does it come back out? I decide not to ask.

  “Not stuffed, just topped with gold and caviar.”

  “Still a big fat no from me.” Don’t need somebody breaking into my home to steal my shit. Literally.

  “Right?” She smiles. “I knew you had good taste.”

  “Okay, well… Is there a particular restaurant you like?”

  “How about Manny’s Tacos?”

  If she’s going to be this specific, we’re having Mexican. “Why don’t you call and see if we can get a table?”

  “Got it.”

  Yuna manages to score a private party room for us at Manny’s without dropping my name. I have to admit, I’m impressed.

  “How did you do that?” I ask.

  “The usual way—connections and networking.” She winks. “A friend of mine’s uncle owns the chain, actually. And nobody’s using the party room.”

  “Come on. Let’s go.”

  We go to the garage and climb into my green Lamborghini. Yuna regards the car without much interest, like she carries one in her purse or something. It’s a…different reaction. Most women tend to fawn. But I like it that she’s cool. Makes me feel like an actual person rather than a celeb to score so you can brag about it.

  “So where did you park?”

  She frowns. “Park?”

  “Yeah, park. Your car.”

  “Oh. Don’t have one.”

  “How come? No time to go buy one?”

  She’s only been in the city for a few days. She might not have had time to shop. Although with the kind of money her family has, why would she need more than a day to leave the lot with a Porsche or something?

  “Among other things.”

  “You need to get one soon. It’s hard to get around in the city without your own wheels.”

  “I know.” She smiles politely, but doesn’t elaborate.

  Maybe she’s one of those people who likes to spend a lot of time shopping. My stepmom Chantel is like that. To her, half the fun is looking around. I don’t get it, because isn’t it more efficient and sensible to just get what you want and get the hell away from pushy salespeople?

  The car is starting to take on Yuna’s aroma. The same hot-as-hell floral scent combined with warm, sweet woman. I inha
le deeply, then sigh over how addictive it is. She must’ve laced her body wash with opium. There’s no other explanation for why I not only want to inhale her but consume her. I can’t just ignore her and think about something else like I did with my exes. Her very presence puts my nervous system on full alert.

  I watch her surreptitiously to see if she’s checking me out. Her eyes shift my way a couple of times, but she doesn’t look like she’s really cataloging my assets. I even flex my arms a little, but—nothing.

  Well, whatever. It’s just the first day out of eight weeks we’re going to spend together, and my face and body are all the convincing that’s needed. She’s playing it cool now, but eventually she’ll crack.

  Forty minutes later, we pull into a garage with a few empty spaces and park the car. I slap on a pair of sunglasses, and we walk over to the restaurant.

  Manny’s Tacos is crowded, the cool air replete with the smell of Mexican food that starts making my mouth water. After Yuna speaks to the hostess, we’re taken to a private room in the back, where Yuna immediately orders the beef taco lunch that comes with a side salad and a Diet Coke. I order my favorite, the beef burrito special—no rice—and mineral water.

  Our server brings a generous basket of chips and salsa. Yuna immediately digs in.

  “Mexican food isn’t complete without chips and salsa, and I missed this salsa so much,” she says with a sigh. “Go ahead and have some.”

  “No thanks. I’m trying to stay away from carbs.”

  “Oh, right. You want to look good for the next photoshoot.”

  “Something like that.” I want to look good when I see Melvin on Friday. Unfortunately, too many tortilla chips will ruin the effect. So it’s best I don’t even start.

  She shrugs. “More for me.” She bites into another chip laden with salsa.

  It fascinates me how she can eat such normal food with gusto, when she looks like she might actually be more comfortable with those gold flakes and caviar.

  “So tell me something. Why do you want to work?”

  She gives me a look. “For the same reason everyone else does. To support myself.”