Rosabel And The Billionaire Beast (Billionaire Bachelor Mountain Cove Book 6)

by Catelyn Meadows

  They’d held a grudge against him for three years until Mother reached out again. If he declared his love for Rosabel now, at the party, without any warning, it could be a proverbial bloodbath. He couldn’t do that to Rosabel.

  But he also couldn’t take anything back, including his declared intentions to tell everyone how he felt about her. He’d just gotten Rosie to trust him. He couldn’t act indifferent to her in front of them. What kind of message would that send to Rosie? If he pulled back now … She would too.

  He had to go through with it. He couldn’t let Rosabel down, come what may.

  * * *

  The Crystal Bridges Museum was a castle of concrete. A cement crown marked the entrance, along a circular, swooping drive where a single school bus waited. Bikers decked out in their spandex gear, helmets in place, lined up to experience the world-class trails Rosabel had heard were nearby.

  She’d also read of the art collection featured at Crystal Bridges. The compilation varied from portraiture of early American heroes to pioneer landscapes of a previous time to more modern displays of paintings and sculpture. There was even a Frank Lloyd Wright house nestled there.

  Intrigued, she hoped she and Duncan would have time to explore the artwork. That would depend on his grandma’s party, though. They might not be able to slip away. Still, she hoped they could.

  Supposedly, among the museum’s cylindrical concrete structures, the expansive glass panels connecting them together, and the dripping ivy, lay the event center. She and Duncan would have to wander a bit to find that, wouldn’t they? Not that they had all the time in the world to do so, but she might catch a glimpse of a few art pieces.

  Duncan either didn’t care that they were late or didn’t realize how late they were. Though Clive had parked behind the row of mountain bikers waiting at the Crystal Bridges’ entrance, Duncan didn’t move. Instead, he stared at the rounded hat box in his lap.

  Rosabel rested a hand on his arm. “What’s the matter?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing.”

  “It’s the house, isn’t it?” She’d thought of his original intended gift many times, wondering if he was going to whip out his ninja investor skills and make another attempt at schmoozing the owner, the way he would have done with any other deal. As far as she knew, he’d simply let it go, and that wasn’t like him.

  A line formed between his brows. He patted the circular box. “I’m sure she’ll love the hat we picked out for her, but there’s something … well, I just …”

  Rosabel wasn’t sure what he was getting at. Was there some other problem between him and his family? Or between him and his grandma? “It’s not the gift you wanted to give her?” Rosabel guessed.

  Duncan lifted his head and pressed his lips into an unconvincing smile. What was bothering him? He didn’t elaborate, and she didn’t ask. The nagging suspicion that it had something to do with her wouldn’t leave her alone, but after the moment they’d shared at the bottom of the stairs, she didn’t want anything to ruin that.

  He’d told her he loved her. And she believed him.

  “We’re late,” she said. “Are you ready?”

  He pulled in a long breath and released it. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  They stepped out of the car. The sunny morning had turned overcast and shrouded by gray clouds. The air had cooled, though not chilly enough to be cold. If anything, it added a pleasant degree of calmness to her overheated skin.

  Duncan left instructions with Clive—along with a museum pass—and together, he and Rosabel entered the museum. The event room was at the end of a long, cylindrical corridor with glass windows down the complete interior length of the hall. A plunging view of draping vines snaked along the cement outside, along with footpaths, artistic structures, and more of the trees the Ozarks were becoming more and more famous for.

  Unease became a third party between them during their silent progress through the museum. Rosabel’s heels were the only sound. She couldn’t figure out what was pestering him, but she didn’t like the apprehensive anxiety coursing in her because of it. Before, when he’d gotten like this, he would snap at a partner or employee for failing his or her part with something.

  She wanted to believe his promise that he would remain the open, kinder version she’d seen while they’d been here, but she wasn’t stupid. She wasn’t naïve enough to believe a man could change himself completely at the snap of her fingers. Change took time—real change.

  Reluctantly, her guard slipped into place. She needed to make sure he understood. If he was going to make some snide comment about his loss of the Painted Lady being her fault, she wasn’t going to stand for it. “Is there anything you want to say before we go in?” The question came out sharper than she intended.

  His eyes narrowed. “Why would I want to say anything?”

  His defenses were up? What did he have to get defensive for, other than a guilty conscience? “So it’s going to be like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like—your attitude.” She hated sounding like a petulant nagging mother, but avoiding any kind of scene in front of his family was preferable. “Admit it. You’re still mad at me about that house.”

  Hat box in hand, Duncan stared at her if she’d just slapped him. “What?”

  Rosabel didn’t like the shame welling inside of her. She hurried to justify it. “What else am I supposed to think? You’re so distant all of a sudden.”

  “So instantly you think it’s your fault?”

  “Isn’t it?”

  He shook his head, reminding her of a schoolboy hugging his books to his chest. “I don’t believe this.” After several more steps, he stopped and faced her. “Rosie, I told you I loved you. I’m about to tell my family that I’m in love with you.”

  “And that’s a bad thing?” Confusion bent her forehead. Why should that trouble him so much?

  “You don’t get it. Your dad doesn’t care if you’re dating someone, but my family has always had standards about who I—”

  “You mean because my dad isn’t all there.” She knew she shouldn’t be offended, but his statement was another brick on her stack of irritation. Something about this entire situation was off.

  Duncan’s nostrils flared. “Just forget it, okay? I don’t want to ruin anything with you.”

  “I still don’t understand what the problem is.”

  His lids closed, too long to be a blink. His tone held the calm, serene cues of a man trying to stay in control of himself. “Rosabel. Please let it go. It’s not you I have a problem with.”

  She could count on one hand the number of times he’d used that tone. She released a breath. He was right. She was nitpicking a situation that didn’t need to be agitated further. “Okay. Sorry.”

  “Me too,” he said. He tucked the hat box beneath his arm and looped his fingers through hers, placing a kiss on the back of her hand. “Come on. Let’s go celebrate.”

  At the end of the long corridor, glass doors offered an enticing view of forest paths, luscious trees, and metal artwork too grand to be kept indoors. To the right, an event room offered a sweeping, breathtaking view of the pond they’d seen along the corridor. Colorful bulbs of blown glass bobbed here and there in the water, and vines dripped down the concrete building’s sides.

  Men and women in elegant dress clustered within, and music played softly from the room’s opening. Rosabel sensed Duncan’s nervousness, but she gave his hand a gentle squeeze and accompanied him in. She found she needed the comfort of his touch, too.

  Tables draped with white tablecloths stood every several feet throughout the honeycomb-shaped room. Each was topped with a gorgeous spread of fresh flowers.

  “Lily and Rose delivered,” Duncan said, sounding impressed.

  “Now I know what ninety-five bouquets of lilies and gardenias look like,” Rosabel agreed, remembering the order she’d placed after they’d met his family. She’d been bugged about their request at first, but now she was
grateful to have been able to help in some way. Maybe this would help smooth things over with them.

  The room’s glass windows provided the feel that they were celebrating outdoors without being outside. Servers, dressed in black from head to toe, sauntered among the guests, offering trays to those already seated.

  A piano sat near the left-hand corner, and a woman with slanted eyes and dark hair pulled in a bun concentrated on the keys as she provided the source of the soft, soothing jazz. Guests were dressed to the nines, the men in tuxes like Duncan’s and the women each competing for finest gown.

  The grandeur of such an event wasn’t lost on her. Her family had thrown her grandparents birthday parties, but those parties were usually held in someone’s backyard, with lawn chairs and little kids running around, covered in dirt. Root beer was the sparkiest thing served, and people lounged around in shorts and tank tops. Something told Rosabel that if half-burned cheeseburgers were served here, fresh off the grill, Duncan’s grandma would lose her teeth.

  Her skin began to prickle, and an intuitive feeling made her senses heighten. Duncan was used to gatherings like this, and sure, she’d attended plenty as his assistant, even going a step or two behind him while he’d brought beautiful dates along. She’d never been a guest.

  But this time, she wasn’t only a guest. She was Duncan’s date.

  Uncertainty washed from an open floodgate within her. Based on their conversation in the hall, he was worried what her family would think of her. What was she doing here?

  “You don’t have to,” she blurted, slowing her steps and tugging his arm to keep him at her new pace.

  “Have to what?”

  “Tell them anything,” she said. “It’s okay. Just don’t say anything. About us.” She peered hungrily at the exit and attempted to pull him to a stop.

  Duncan tightened his grip on her hand. He brought their joined hands to his lips, kissed the back of hers, and smiled more genuinely than he had since they left the mountain cove. “Yes,” he said, “I do.”

  Rosabel wanted to dig in her heels, to make a break for the exit and get lost in the museum’s mountain paths outside. He didn’t owe her this. This was no crusade. He was no knight on a charger saving a maiden from a proverbial dragon. If anything, he was about to rip out the dragon’s teeth and then laugh in its face.

  Sheesh. They’d only just started dating, and she was already comparing Duncan’s mother to a dragon. This was not going to go well.

  Before Rosabel could further protest, they arrived at the table nearest the far-right corner of the room. Mrs. Hawthorne stood with a flute of champagne in her hand. She lifted the glass in greeting, and Duncan inclined his head toward her. “Hello, Mother.”

  “Duncan. I wondered if you were going to make it at all. And Miss Smith, how …” Her gaze slid down, first taking in the hat box in Duncan’s hand and then Rosabel’s hand in his other. Gradually, as if moving with the turning of a crank, the corners of Mrs. Hawthorne’s eyes narrowed. “… lovely … to see you again,” she finished.

  Rosabel was ready to retreat. She couldn’t help the suspicions building a wall between her and Duncan in this moment. Did he really mean his earlier profession of love for Rosabel, or was he using her to prove something to his stingy family? If so, he would have had to fake the tender moments they’d shared. He wasn’t that good of an actor, was he?

  She didn’t like the doubt that began creeping in, but she couldn’t help it. She leaned into him, hoping his closeness would be enough to dispel this uncertainty.

  “Does Miss Smith need your help, Duncan?” his mom inquired. “Is that why you won’t release her hand?”

  “Where’s Grandmother?” Duncan asked, tightening his grip on Rosabel’s. She welcomed the pressure and the reassurance his touch offered. Why should it feel like they were committing a crime?

  His mom folded her arms. “You didn’t answer my question. I haven’t failed to notice the way you’re holding your assistant’s hand. Is there something you haven’t told the rest of us? You aren’t planning on conducting business here of all places.”

  Duncan cleared his throat. “I’d really like to wait until Grandmother opens her gift, if you don’t mind.”

  “There you are.” Rosabel recognized the older woman’s voice. Grandma Hawthorne was dressed in a purple gown. Fat white pearls hung from her neck. With the help of her cane, she shuffled toward the table.

  Duncan released Rosabel’s hand long enough to place the hat box containing their gift on the table and offered his grandma help as she eased herself into the black chair. “Happy birthday, Grandmother,” Duncan said, placing a kiss on his grandma’s white hair.

  “What’s this?” She gestured to the box in front of where Rosabel stood.

  Rosabel screwed in her smile. Dad had taught her to leave every place better than she found it, and she cared about Duncan. If he was willing to try, so was she. “Duncan and I got you something,” Rosabel said, retrieving the box before Duncan managed to.

  Mrs. Hawthorne strode over to stand beside her mother-in-law. She pegged Rosabel with a glower that closely resembled her son’s. “You say that as though the two of you have something to do with one another.”

  “Rose helped me pick out Grandmother’s gift,” Duncan said, his tone careful.

  Rose. He was really doing this. How could she leave him now? He loved her. He’d meant it. He was trying. Her courage surged.

  “Rose? I thought her name was Rosabel,” his grandma argued.

  “Here.” Rosabel attempted to ignore the discomfort swimming around them. Were they really that bothered by the sight of her? Box in hand, she wove around the chair situated between her and Duncan and his grandma. Her heel caught on its leg. She lost her balance, tumbled forward, and sent the package flying—right in Duncan’s grandma’s direction.

  “Oh,” Duncan said, lunging to keep the box from clocking his grandma in the face. He caught it just in time, but not before knocking into her. Chairs scraped. Grandma’s cane clamored to the floor, and the pianist hit several wrong notes before yanking her hands from the keys. The room’s attention shifted to where they stood.

  Rosabel’s temperature skyrocketed as her stature plummeted. Suddenly, she was twelve years old again, standing in front of the lunchroom as Clarissa Whiteman slammed her tray to the floor and splattered ketchup on her new shoes. Her face was impossibly hot. She leaned closer into Duncan’s side, but too soon, she found herself roughly pushed away.

  “Sorry about that, Grandmother,” Duncan said, tilting toward her with his hands outstretched.

  Rosabel knew the feeling was irrational, but she couldn’t help the abandonment. Of course he would help his grandmother. Why, then, did she feel like he was choosing his family over her?

  He didn’t return his attention to Rosabel, didn’t offer a glance, an encouraging smile, or an apology for thrusting her away. The entirety of his focus was on his grandma, who shot a dark glare in Rosabel’s direction. “Are you this clumsy in everything you do, Miss Smith?”

  “I—I’m so sorry.” Rosabel felt more foolish by the minute. Worse yet, the woman had sounded exactly like Duncan used to, condescending and questioning of her sanity with nothing more than her tone.

  No wonder he behaved the way he did. The longer she stood there, the more she disliked his family. She felt put on the spot, and the insult “clumsy” wasn’t the only one being lashed in her direction. They didn’t need to give direct insults. Their snide comments and apparent dissatisfaction with her mere presence were enough.

  Back in junior high, after the lunch tray incident, Rosabel had left the room in tears and called her mom to be picked up. She couldn’t run crying from the room now. She wasn’t twelve anymore. But that didn’t mean she had to take their criticism either.

  “It was an accident,” Rosabel said. “My foot caught on the chair.”

  “See that your foot goes where it should next time. You nearly broke my nose.”


  Duncan knelt by his grandma’s chair. “She wouldn’t have broken your nose, Grandmother.”

  Grandma’s glower shifted to him. “I thought I told you to make something of your life, yet here I see you holding hands with your clumsy assistant. What do you mean by all of this? Are you trying to kill me too?”

  Rosabel’s mouth dropped.

  “Grandmother,” Duncan said with a plea.

  “You’re a disgrace to the family name,” his mom piped in.

  “You brought this young tot for the sole purpose of ruining my party,” Grandma went on, staring him down as he knelt by her side. “Such actions are petty and childish, Duncan. You’re acting like a boy instead of a man, bringing a woman here who only wants you for your money. Obviously, her competency can’t surpass her ability to order flowers.” Behind her, his mother staked her hands to her hips as if affirming the statements.

  Rosabel suspected Mrs. Hawthorne was just as focused on pleasing her mother-in-law as Duncan was, but the flower comment? That was low. She’d gotten the order right. What was the problem?

  Apparently, Grandma still had a set of standards that no one in her family could manage to meet, and they all danced around to please her. When she said jump, they said, “How high?” What kind of a family dynamic was that?

  Rosabel thought of her parents, of their approval of everything she attempted. Even when she’d joined the dance team only to discover she had as much coordination as a popsicle stick, they’d still been proud of her for trying. What must life have been like for Duncan growing up, never feeling like he was enough?

  She glanced around, looking for Duncan’s father. The quiet man was the only sane person in all of this. Maybe that was why he kept so silent.

  “I have made something of my life, Grandmother,” Duncan said, rising to his feet. “And since you all seem so curious, I wanted you to know that Rosabel isn’t just my assistant.”

  “You said she was,” his mother argued.