The Billionaire's Marriage: A Romance Novel

by Marshall, Marnie

  "Daddy…"

  I startle, pulled from deep thought when the towel wrapped about my hips is tugged loose, by insistent little hands, and I react hastily to cover myself.

  Ryan's tearful face looks up at me, unashamed of my nakedness as I drop my razor into the sink, fumbling to get the towel wrapped around again. I drop to a knee. "What's wrong, Ryan-bear?"

  "I wa- aaa-" he fails to articulate, his mouth wide and nose running. I grab a hand towel from the rack and, wiping his face, manage to lift him into my arms as well. His head drops to my shoulder and continues to whimper.

  "Did you have a bad dream, baby boy?" I rub my hand over his flannel-covered back and rock him side to side, and, taking advantage of his quieting, pick up the razor and swipe it over the remaining unshaven tracks along my cheek. One must multitask or perish when children arrive.

  "All better?" I ask once he's stopped whining. He lifts his head to look at me. I kiss his cheek and sensing the reason for his distress, carry him to his room to change him.

  Faint, purple light has appeared along the horizon through the bay window above the sailboat bed. The color and scattered fog looks rather promising, and an idea dawns on me. Grabbing Mr. Leo from Ryan's bed and a jacket from his closet, I carry my son back into the blue bedroom and plop him onto the bed, ensuring he's fully engaged with his favorite toy before de-toweling myself and dragging on pants and a shirt. Then, lifting Ryan into my arms, I carry him to the east-facing second-floor patio and we settle into a deck lounge. The only thing I'm missing is an espresso, but considering the worth of present company, such triviality can wait.

  "Ryan, in a minute the sun is going to come up right over there," I point, directing his gaze. It's mercifully hazy so the glare won't be blinding, but the experience should be reflectively spectacular for him. "Do you know what that means?"

  He rolls his head back to look at me, and I'm not sure he understands what I'm asking, but devotedly waits for my answer.

  "It means a new day will be here. Whatever wrong you've done yesterday, you can make right. Because you're here. You're being given a second chance to fix it." Or third, fourth, eleventh… in my case.

  He accepts my words as law and settles back against my chest, watching through the wrought-iron railing. The railing Krissy insisted we keep, as part of the house's original charm. I think back to the renovation, to her insistence that the structure be kept, to be nurtured and treated as a home, even as the back wall was torn down and the gardens uprooted. She wanted it as she wanted me, something broken and incomplete, and nursed it back to health. It wouldn't be a home without her loving touch. It wouldn't be our home.

  And I still have no idea how to apologize. But I hope, through my mistakes, I can instill the spirit of my good intentions into the perfect little boy in my lap, staring wondrously into the orange-hued heavens.

  ~ KRISSY ~

  He didn't come home last night.

  Taylor said he'd be along in a while, but his side of the bed had been cold, sheets pulled tight, pillows pristine and without scent. His toothbrush, unused; clothes hamper, empty. He must still be so angry with me. I'm angry enough with myself for the both of us.

  "Good morning, Mrs. King. What would you like for breakfast?"

  "Good morning, Gail. Um, scrambled eggs and wheat toast would be wonderful." I bend to kiss Ryan on top of his head, and he largely ignores me in favor of sliced banana and strawberry and bits of toast, most of which covers his face. Mr. Leo sits stuffed against his left side, begging to be laundered immediately.

  "Mr. King and Ryan watched the sunrise this morning from the east patio; I'm told it was spectacular," Gail's attempt to make conversation isn't lost on me. She seems to get where my mind is in the morning.

  "Oh?" So he did come home after all, despite evidence to the contrary. I should have checked his office on the way to the kitchen.

  "He left about fifteen minutes ago; asked me to wish you good morning and to say that he'll call later," she answers my unspoken question. I stem the mounting disappointment, choosing instead to focus on Ryan for comfort. Something about his sweet temperance manages to cheer me up, no matter what. "You were up early, weren't you?" I press my lips to his cheek, blowing raspberries. He giggles and shoves at my face with sticky fingers.

  Little tails whip my legs as a multitude of finely groomed toenails skitter across the hardwood on their way to the back door. Smart little things, they've spotted an invader in their backyard, and with rose-shaped ears perked forward both pairs of glassy eyes turn to me. I see their training has been going well. There's a slight, anxious hesitation when I slide the handle aside to release the hounds, the memory of our little adventure still stinging the back of my mind, but they know better now that they've been gently zapped by Edward's high-tech invisible fence. I'm not sure I agree with such devices, but as intended, they remember instantly where not to cross, and so the correction is a rarity.

  And I love to watch them run. It reminds me of Sam.

  The doorbell sounds just as Gail sets my eggs at the breakfast table, and to my surprise, it's Taylor who appears from the hallway to answer it.

  My heart leaps into my throat. A police officer and badged suit stand on the threshold. Oh God… please don't let someone be hurt…

  "Mrs. King, are you all right?" Gail touches my arm, and I startle, nearly making her spill the juice glass she'd been about to place by my plate. I didn't realize I'd been gripping the table edge so hard.

  Taylor seems to be holding an ordinary conversation with them, so it can't be that bad, whatever it is. Right? "I'm… um… fine," I swallow, then lower my voice, nodding toward the visitors. "Do you know what that's about?"

  "No idea," she admits, "but I'm sure we'll find out."

  On cue, Taylor invites the pair inside, and then approaches me. "Mrs. King, I'm sorry to interrupt, but these officers would like a minute of your time. They want to make sure you're all right after yesterday; Mr. King had Seattle P.D. alerted to your absence."

  Thank goodness it isn't worse, I tell myself, sucking in a breath. "Of course." I stand, and on impulse, reach out to grasp Taylor at the elbow. "Stay with me, please?" I whisper conspiratorially. I'm not sure why, but cops kind of freak me out.

  "Absolutely, ma'am."

  The uniform regards me passively, the suit, with careful scrutiny. "Yes?"

  "Mrs. King, I presume?"

  "That's correct, can I help you?"

  "We're sorry to intrude on you this morning. I'm Detective Kane. Your husband contacted the police yesterday to report you missing, and then later, that you'd been found. Would it trouble you to show some identification? It's standard procedure."

  "Oh... um, no. Of course not." Then I remember… I don't have it; I'd left my purse behind in the restroom yesterday.

  "Mrs. Taylor placed your bag in your closet yesterday evening. We're still waiting for your Blackberry to be returned," Taylor interrupts, looking pointedly at the suit. I'm secretly glad he could read my expression so easily.

  "Right... I'll just go and get it," I stammer, turning away.

  I feel as though I've left my body behind, my legs carry me forward, floating toward the bedroom, and I find the designer monstrosity exactly where Taylor said it would be, on top of an ornate, locked chest in the closet. I keep forgetting to ask Edward what's in the trunk, but considering his probable mood, that's not going to happen anytime soon. I retrieve my driver's license and return to the hallway with as much queen-of-the-castledom as I can muster. Taylor positions himself in such a way that it almost feels he's standing between me and our guests, and it makes me feel a bit better about all this weirdness. I can't believe Edward called the cops! Oh wait, yes I can.

  The detective examines my card for a long moment, turning it over in his hands while I wait, arms crossed.

  "Well that appears to be in order," he hands it back to me. "Are you at liberty to discuss how you became separated from your party? For the official record, of c
ourse." He looks at me expectantly, but his brown eyes are piercing.

  "Um, I just got lost. It was an unfamiliar part of town, and my security got disoriented when my phone went out of range, they track it for safety reasons," I explain, attempting to excuse the paranoid measures of the security team.

  "I see. I imagine it must have been a very trying experience, and that you're glad to be safely home again."

  Is he getting at something? "Yes it was, and yes I am. Why wouldn't I be?"

  The suit exchanges a look with his partner. "We'll, we're sorry to have interrupted you; we'll let you get back to your morning. The department will be in touch if there's anything further." He presents his hand to me, and I cautiously take it. He shakes it gently, a little longer than is comfortable, all the while searching my expression. He releases me and exchanges a handshake with Taylor as well, and the two men state each other down, a silent contest brewing.

  "Did I miss something?" I blurt as Taylor closes the door. "He seemed really suspicious."

  "I wouldn't worry, ma'am. Mr. King and I will address any future concerns they may have." He offers me a kind half-smile, but there's something behind his passive expression.

  "Why didn't you go to work with Edward today?"

  "Mr. King asked me to handle a few situations here at the house. Again, nothing to worry about. He has Ryan with him, if you're concerned for his safety."

  Situations? Like talking to cops, I imagine. Then something dawns on me. "He's… not going to let Ryan go, is he?"

  "Not that I'm aware, ma'am."

  "Oh." Now I'm stumped, in addition to frazzled. And hungry. And too frazzled to be hungry, but my growling stomach says otherwise.

  "Will that be all, ma'am?"

  "Right, of course. Thanks, Taylor."

  He nods and retreats to the control room, doubtless to call Edward. I have half a mind to follow him and listen in on that conversation.

  ~oOo~

  Before the last couple months happened, I hadn't put any serious thought into having kids. Now here I sit, watching a two year old, my two year old, kick a latex balloon around the backyard, the fifth one this morning. I have an entire bag of them in my pocket, and the little guy isn't stopping. Two blurs of lanky canine energy lope after him, nipping at his corduroys.

  I've brought a laptop from the library and settled on the deck steps, but somehow, the draw of watching my son is delightfully more fulfilling than exchanging emails with my new-old assistant. The me I was previously familiar with would have been immersed in the task at hand after only about a minute, in one of the padded deck chairs, oblivious to the simple pleasure of watching a toddler in action. Instead, I'm sprawled on the hardwood steps, giggling at his antics. This is the new me, a proud if sometimes confused mommy, and so here I sit, waiting for the inevitable.

  A clumsy kick and loud, snapping pop, and Ryan squeals with delight, hurrying back to me for a replacement.

  "Okay that's enough," I scold mildly. "We have to pick up the ruined ones first before I give you another, okay?" I take his outstretched hand, leading him back to the various crime scenes, and point out the multicolored shreds. He picks them up and hands them to me, one at a time. A rush of cool air swirls across my skin, and I close my eyes, relishing the beautiful albeit misty morning. When I open them, it's brighter, greener, the haze carried off by the breeze. I didn't have my eyes closed that long… how strange. Ryan races ahead, picking through the grass and runs back to me. In his hand is a small, painted egg.

  A pair of strong arms circle my waist, making me jump. It's Edward, and he nuzzles my neck. The relief I feel is palpable.

  "I was afraid you were still angry with me," I say.

  "Hmm... this is the only Easter egg I want to open," he breathes, hands running over my suddenly rounded belly...

  Oh, no.

  ~ EDWARD ~

  "King."

  "Sir, Krissy's just had another blackout. She seems fine, but she's pretty upset. She was out for less than a minute."

  Dear God. I'm on my feet and out the door in seconds. "Where was she? Did she fall?"

  "In the yard. Carter saw her go down, said it was a pretty soft landing. Gail has her settled in the living room with some tea. I was about to rewind the video feed."

  "I'm on my way." I click the phone off and shout for Ryan. God, I thought she was getting better. I assumed she'd continue to remain conscious through her lapses, though none of us knows about the one yesterday... but regardless, she was improving. What the fuck? When does her punishment end? What the fuck did she do to deserve this? Is she vicariously bearing the consequences of my actions? Fuck.

  Ryan seems to have recovered from this morning's verbal lashing. He probably didn't deserve most of it, as he'd precisely followed the protocols Taylor and I agreed upon years ago, but I don't care. Taking my frustrations out on an impassive being like Garrett Ryan made me feel slightly less reprehensible. He doesn't bat an eye when I demand the car keys, doesn't comment about the excessive speed. I ignore the incessant buzzing in my pocket, knowing that if it's news from home Taylor will route the call to Ryan next.

  She's tucked in the corner of the wide sofa, nursing a steaming mug, right where Taylor said she'd be. Her eyes find mine immediately, such sad, fearful eyes, and my heart breaks. I'm kneeling at her side in a second.

  "I got here as quickly as I could. Are you all right?" I search her face, my hands moving tentatively, hovering, unsure if she'll accept my touch after yesterday's scene.

  She nods quickly, but unbridled despair clouds her eyes. Her bottom lip quivers. Whatever control she's tried to muster swiftly breaks down and her eyes crinkle shut. I whisk the mug out of her grasp and pull her to me.

  "Hush, baby. I'm here." The sobs are quiet, silent even… and I realize that in trying desperately not to fall apart, she's holding her breath. My hands run vigorously over her back. "Breathe, Krissy. Please breathe."

  She sucks in a broken, staggering breath, and the first real sob breaks through, anguished and soul-battered. God, something is terribly wrong. Whatever happened, whatever she saw, it's destroying her. Over her shoulder, I see the Taylors beat a hasty retreat. I shift her against me, scooping her up so that she rests in my lap, and gently pull her head into my shoulder. She curls in tighter.

  "Krissy, I'm here. You're safe," I tell her, over and over. "I love you. I'm so sorry for yesterday, for everything I've put you through. Please, baby… talk to me."

  I'm fearfully desperate to know what she's seen. Was it the beating, finally? The confrontation with Leila? When I walked out on her? That fucker Hyde? It has to be one of those; nothing else since we met comes close to those events, could compare to the tortured despair gripping the gentle creature in my arms. God… when she returns to her senses, she'll hate me for sure, and I'll have little recourse… I warned her about the first, but the other two… oh, what I've put her through, what I've asked her to endure. I hold her to me, knowing that soon, she'll ask me to release her, never to hold her again.

  I think I hear a few words, warped through her tortured cries, but nothing I can discern. I continue to whisper reassurance, to tell her how much she means to me, how much I love her. It's ages before she begins to calm, but eventually, her sobs turn to shudders, cries to sniffles, and I reach beneath me for my handkerchief to mop her tear-stained cheeks. She barely turns her head to let me.

  "Talk to me, love. Please. I'm begging you."

  She closes her eyes, a few more tears dripping from her lashes, and I see that she's trying to breathe. Deeply, in and out, despite the shudders.

  "Krissy, love, what's brought you to this?"

  Her lashes flutter, revealing the blue eyes I love so much. Our son shares these beautiful eyes. She gazes at me, her eyes holding a thousand secrets, and in this moment, more burdens than I've ever held. It tears my heart from my chest.

  "Please baby, tell me…" my voice cracks.

  She opens her mouth, as though to speak, but makes
no sound. I've never needed Flynn's help so badly, not since the night Krissy told me I'd be a father. What I needed then, what I needed most of all was for someone to share my panic, my uncertainty, to lessen it through understanding. It's the least Krissy would do for me, the selfless creature she's always been.

  "My love, please… share it with me. Whatever it is, let me take part of it. I want to help lighten your burden… please, let me take it from you."

  "I… don't want you to," her voice is small, shaky, but rich with conviction. Her chest heaves with more unspoken words, bubbling scattered to the surface, and I can see she's trying to put them together. "I don't… I don't want you to take her from me."

  "What? Take who?"

  Her face crinkles again, not a precursor to more tears, but to fight off terrible pain. Her hands move to her waist, to her flat, empty belly…

  Oh, dear God. "No, Krissy… no, no, no… I won't take her memory from you. I won't ever do that. Oh darling, you remember… Krissy please breathe..."

  She sucks in a ragged breath, holding it again, her face contorted in agony. I remind her over and over again to breathe, and she does, taking short, staggering breaths. I help her to feel mine, feel my chest expand, calmly willing her to follow my lead, all the while burying my own sorrow. It's unbearable. So much worse than the things I'd imagined, and the one thing I can't reason, can't explain, can't save her from, because I can't even save myself from the aching soreness in my soul.

  The minutes tick slowly by, and I feed her small words, little assurances, promises of my devotion to her, whatever I can say, barely containing myself. So this is a mother's grief… the outpouring I'd dreaded facing when she woke up, before any of us knew she'd not remember. I'd expected her to mourn, but not like this. Not to this extreme; I'd expected her to internalize, to suffer in silence as she has in the past, much to my despair, but this is so much… a realization of misery so great that it spills over, and over, and over. Krissy has become so worked up, so desperately inconsolable, not unlike Ryan in one of his very rare tantrums, and I wish I had something, anything, that might soothe her.