Beauty & Her Billionaire Boss

by Barbara Wallace

  “He was blind.”

  Piper blinked. “How?” It explained a lot.

  “Retinitis pigmentosa is hereditary.”

  And Frederic, as the lucky heir, was doing his best to handle the disease differently than his father, was that it? Was that why he flew off the handle at what was a minor gesture of kindness? “I’m—” With a shake of her head, she cut the apology off. No way Frederic would want to hear her tell him she was sorry. Not now. So she said nothing.

  “Let’s talk about something else,” Frederic said, breaking her thoughts. “I don’t want to spoil the evening being maudlin. Tell me what you think about the wine.”

  Not wanting to spoil the evening either, Piper complied.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  FREDERIC LISTENED AS Piper talked about how she could never tell the difference between an oak sauvignon blanc and a dry sauvignon blanc. “You’d think I could, being a cook and all, but wine is a whole different science,” she said.

  For the second time this week, he appreciated how she knew when not to push. Perhaps because of her own touchy childhood subjects, she understood when a conversation stepped too close to a nerve. Whatever the reason, he was grateful she decided to let the news about his father’s blindness go by without comment.

  Why he brought up the subject in the first place was beyond him. He certainly didn’t intend to. His childhood was something he never discussed. Sharing the past—sharing anything personal—implied intimacy, which could lead a person to believe the relationship had a future. The last thing he wanted to do was mislead someone like Piper.

  But then, he thought about all the secrets she’d shared about her childhood, and he started to feel as if he owed her some measure of equality. A secret for a secret. And so he shared his.

  Now he wished he hadn’t, because the memory was alive in his head. His father’s voice, broken and slurred, the ice in his tumbler rattling. I need you. I can’t do it on my own. “It” being so many things. Generations of being waited on by servants left their mark. His father had been left incapable of doing for himself. As a result, his neediness knew no bounds.

  Frederic, on the other hand... He might have inherited his father’s fortune, but his life taught him how not to need. And so he forced the conversation back to superficial, happy conversation, and Piper, bless her heart, played along.

  It helped that dinner turned out to be delicious. “See?” he said, setting his fork down. “I was right to trust your judgment. I enjoyed my fowl.”

  “It wasn’t bad,” she replied. “Though I would have cut back on the thyme.”

  “Would that make the dish thyme-less?”

  The tinkle of her laugh left him wanting to hear more. It was disturbing how easy he found her company. She was fun, she was smart. And, her kisses aroused him in a way he hadn’t felt since his teenage years.

  A hollow feeling started to spread behind his breastbone, causing him to squeeze his hand into a fist. Ninety-nine days out of one hundred, he accepted his future without complaint. Every so often, however, he would feel the ache for what he would miss. Unless he decided to be as selfish as his father...

  I need you, Patrice. His father’s constant mantra.

  Frederic would not need. Would never need.

  He could, however, want, and at the moment, he wanted the woman seated across from him very much.

  Piper gave a soft cough. She knew he was studying her. “I was cursing the poor lighting,” he said. “I want to be able to see you better.” Her cheeks were no doubt turning as crimson as the roses they passed on their walk. Would the color spread to other parts of her body?

  He reached across the table for her hand, feeling a victorious thrill when she met him halfway. “Do you still want your pudding?” he asked, playing with her fingers.

  “I didn’t see it listed on the menu.”

  “What a shame. I would hate for you to miss out on dessert.”

  “I’m sure I’ll find something that will tempt me.” She leaned closer and added, “On the menu.”

  The little minx. Two could play that game. “You should know,” he said, leaning as well, “that when we’re finished here, I plan to kiss you senseless. Then I’m going to kiss you again.”

  He might not be able to see her face clearly in the shadows, but he definitely heard her breathing quicken.

  “Now that I think about it,” she said, “I don’t have to have the cheesecake.”

  “Good.” Not bothering to signal for the bill, he took out his wallet and tossed down a stack of notes thick enough to cover ten dinners and grabbed her hand. “Let’s go.”

  Amazingly, he made it the entire walk back without pulling her into his arms. Safety first, he reasoned. Kissing her would obliterate his concentration.

  He also took masochistic pleasure in pushing the anticipation to its peak. He tortured himself by holding only her hand on the walk, and when they climbed the stairs to their rooms, he walked a step behind so that her that her vanilla scent filled his nostrils.

  When they reached the top of the staircase, he finally broke and put his hands on her waist. From the trembling beneath his fingers, he knew he was not the only one who had been tortured. “I believe I promised you something,” he said, turning her around.

  Cupping her cheeks, Frederic focused all his attention on her lips. Last night was but an appetizer. Tonight, he would take his time. Savor. He kissed one corner of her mouth, then the other. Her quickened breath was his reward. When he finally lowered his mouth to hers, she let out a whimper. Relief.

  “My room or yours?” he whispered when they broke to breathe.

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  She was right. It didn’t. He reached for a door.

  * * *

  “There you are. I’ve been knocking on your door for ten minutes.”

  Piper looked up from the French press she’d been timing. Frederic stood barefoot in the dining room doorway, his shirt untucked and buttoned incorrectly. He looked the picture of a man who had just rolled out of bed. Which, of course, he had. Piper knew because up until an hour ago, she’d been in bed with him.

  Thinking about what they did there made her flush.

  “Mrs. Lester and I were talking about breakfast recipes,” she replied, her voice overly bright. Could she sound any more like she was trying to be in control? “I gave her the recipe for huevos rancheros and she’s going to give me hers for bangers and mash.”

  “The least I can do after all your help,” Mrs. Lester replied. The innkeeper swiped back an errant red curl. “Guests aren’t supposed to be allowed in the kitchen, but hard to say no to a real chef.”

  “I might have done a little of the prep work while we were talking,” Piper added, sheepishly. She needed something to burn off her nervous energy. Speaking of...she checked to see if the grounds had brewed long enough. “Would you like some coffee?”

  “I’m surprised you’re awake so early,” Frederic said. Leaning forward, he added in a voice only she could hear, “I wasn’t expecting to find your side of the bed empty.”

  Piper shivered as his voice tickled her ear. “You were asleep,” she told him. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

  And okay, maybe she might have wanted to avoid any potential morning-after awkwardness. Last night had been amazing, with a capital A, but she knew as well as anyone that night and morning were two vastly different times of day, and what seemed like a good idea after a couple glasses of wine might look like a disaster in the daylight. She was afraid to face the regret in Frederic’s eyes.

  It wasn’t regret she was seeing right now, however. The expression looking down on her was as predatory as ever. “My ego is hurt,” he said. “Usually when I am with a woman, it’s the other way around. I must be losing my touch.”

 
No, he definitely wasn’t losing that. Piper’s insides melted from simply thinking about the things his hands could do. She looked over her shoulder to see if Mrs. Lester had heard. The innkeeper had her head in the oven, checking on pans of bread dough.

  “I’m sorry. I started thinking about this morning’s meeting and couldn’t fall back asleep.” It wasn’t a complete lie. She did think about the meeting in passing. “I decided to come down here for a cup of coffee, and that’s when I ran into Mrs. Lester.”

  “Who put you to work making your huevos ranchos. Come back to bed.”

  “Huevos rancheros,” she corrected automatically, “and I wasn’t just giving her the recipe. I was making breakfast potatoes.”

  “Come back to bed.” His lips moved to her ear again despite Mrs. Lester being a room away. “I want to show you what you missed by leaving early.”

  Piper’s knees buckled. “Is—is it all right if we take the coffee upstairs?” she asked Mrs. Lester.

  “Sure thing,” Mrs. Lester replied. “Leave the press in your room, and I’ll have the cleaning girl bring it down. Thank you, too, for your help this morning. First time I ever have had a guest who made breakfast potatoes better than me.”

  “That’s sweet of you to say. We’ll be back down—” Frederic was pushing her toward the stairwell. “You didn’t let me finish,” she said to him.

  “I don’t care,” he replied. “Do you have any idea how many downstairs rooms I looked in before I found you?”

  “There are only three.”

  “Three too many. Now, back to our room with you, young lady. The door is unlocked.”

  Our room. The words gave Piper as big a thrill as Frederic’s intentions. With his hands holding her waist, Piper climbed the stairs.

  A couple hours later, they were back in the dining room, showered and ready for the day.

  Mrs. Lester greeted them with a knowing smile that had Piper blushing again. “Sit anywhere you’d like. You’re the last ones for the day.

  “By the way,” she added, “Your driver arrived while you were upstairs.” Gregory sat at a corner table reading the paper. He too gave them a smile and a nod.

  “The whole room knows what we were doing,” she whispered to Frederic.

  “You mean Gregory, and I don’t think he’s surprised. If anything, he is jealous. I know I would be in his shoes.”

  All it took was a trace of his finger running down her forearm and Piper melted again.

  “Do you do this often?” she asked him.

  “Steal away to England with a beautiful woman?” When she didn’t take the bait, he grew more serious. “My bedpost doesn’t have too many notches, if that is what you’re asking.”

  That was exactly what she was asking. Now that he had answered, Piper realized that he rarely stayed away all night. He had guests in his house even less. Off the top of her head, she remembered one, possibly two, and they had both gone home before breakfast.

  “I’m glad.” Based on the way his eyes widened, her honesty surprised him. “No woman wants to think she is one in a long line.” Knowing there were but a few women made her less mundane, to steal one of Chef Despelteau’s words. More in keeping with what Frederic meant to her.

  Mrs. Lester appeared, pot of coffee in hand, to end the conversation. “Piper tells me you’re meetin’ with John Allen this morning. About a painting.”

  “We are,” Frederic replied. “Do you know him?”

  “A bit. Comes in here for tea now and again. A queer little fella, he is—I don’t mean that in the politically insensitive way or nothing. He’s just quirky.”

  “Quirky, how?” Piper asked. They were heading to the man’s house. If he was a crazy person, she’d like to know.

  “Little things really. Like he always insists on bringing his own pastries when he comes here. Richest man in town and he won’t pay for a bloody scone, but then leaves a one hundred and fifty percent tip.”

  “Sounds like he’s very particular,” Frederic said over his coffee cup.

  “Particular is a good word for it. I’ve got one last basket of breads. Do you folks want it?”

  “Yes, please,” Piper replied. Once Mrs. Lester was out of earshot, she looked back in Frederic’s direction. “Is particular good or bad, do you think?” It sounded suspiciously like Bernard’s selectivity, if you asked her.

  The Frenchman shrugged. “Hard to say. Art collectors are a bit like snowflakes. No two are the same.”

  “Maybe I’ll get lucky, and Ana’s story will break his heart to the point he wants her to have the painting.”

  “Or your friend Stuart will write enough zeroes that he can’t refuse.”

  “He’s not my friend—he’s Ana’s great-nephew. And hopefully Patience’s—”

  “Friend?” he finished with a smirk to rival Mrs. Lester’s. He dragged the word out, long and with plenty of subtext.

  “When you say it that way, Stuart is definitely not my friend.” Piper reached for her coffee. She wasn’t forgetting that friend was also how he described their relationship.

  His lips were wet with coffee as he smiled from across the table. “I’m glad. I don’t like sharing.”

  He didn’t like to share and he didn’t like to think about tomorrow. Kind of put her in limbo, didn’t it?

  * * *

  John Allen’s house was at the end of a long road tucked between two giant lavender fields. With nothing marking the turn, they drove past the place twice before locating the winding dirt road. Considering Allen was supposed to be a wealthy patron of the arts, Piper had been expecting someplace more upscale and artsy, or at the very least, someplace large, not this crooked cottage with a thatched roof. But then, maybe this was what passed for artsy and upscale out here. They were in the middle of nowhere. She looked for a car, but the only item with wheels was a bicycle propped by the garden shed.

  “Are you sure we have the right address?” she asked Gregory.

  “GPS says we do.”

  “Perhaps he is trying to discourage thieves,” Frederic said.

  That was one theory. Stepping out of the car, she was greeted by the smell of flowers and freshly tilled dirt.

  “It appears Monsieur Allen does not believe in landscaping,” Frederic remarked as he joined her. He had a point. Time and rain had cut deep ruts into the dirt driveway, turning the already-rough surface into a bumpy hazard. There were primroses that lined the walk leading to the door, and a container of annuals, but other than that, the outside of the cottage was bare. “Maybe he figures the lavender fields were enough.”

  “Perhaps.” Frederic took a deep breath. “The aroma certainly is pervasive.”

  “The better to hide bodies. A joke,” she said when he turned with a frown. She slipped her hand into his, stealing comfort from his grip. “I’m glad you are here.”

  Something she couldn’t read flickered across his face. “Thank you,” he said, squeezing her fingers. He looked about to say more when the cottage door flew open.

  “Helloo!” the newcomer greeted. “You must be Piper. It’s good to see you. I was worried you’d gone and got yourself lost.” With his thick accent, the last word sounded more like “loost.” “And you brought a friend. Hullo.” He smiled widely in Frederic’s direction.

  Mrs. Lester’s description suddenly made sense. Dressed from head to toe in white linen, John Allen looked like a miniature version of a 1920s English gentleman. The crown of his silver head barely reached Piper’s nose. How on earth could Bernard not remember meeting him?

  Piper introduced them, and he shook Frederic’s hand enthusiastically. “Call me John, please. Both of you.”

  “Thank you for meeting with us,” Piper said.

  “Well, I must admit you have me curious. I had no idea my impulse purchase had such
notoriety.”

  Frederic caught her attention and pointed a finger upward, letting her know where the price would be heading.

  Unlike the outside, which looked ignored, the inside was a modern showplace. John had knocked down several walls to open one large room with vaulted ceilings. There was a kitchen that could rival Frederic’s. Piper was half tempted to chuck looking at art so she could explore the appliances. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Frederic doing his best to take in details.

  Their host noticed as well. “Bought the place on the cheap at auction a few years ago, I did,” he replied when Frederic complimented him. “Had to completely gut the place, though. Didn’t hold up in the wet and got a bad case of rot. Place is climate-controlled now. Wouldn’t hang the canvases until it was installed.”

  “Sound thinking,” said Frederic.

  “I thought so. Seemed daft to spend a fortune and not see to it properly. The main collection is on the back wall.”

  “How many pieces do you have?” Piper asked.

  “Right now? Fifteen. A couple of the larger works are on loan in New York. Haven’t got the space here.”

  She could see why. The large back wall had half a dozen paintings already. Frederic was squinting at a watercolor of a woman tilling a garden. “Bergdahl?” he asked.

  “Good eye, Professor. Bought it from a gallery in New York around twenty years ago.”

  “His pieces seldom come on the market now.”

  “I heard a rumor one of his seascapes might be going up for sale next month. I’ve already let my man know I’m interested. Ana’s back here, in my dining room. Help yourself to tea and scones, by the way. I baked them myself.”

  Piper tugged on Frederic’s sleeve. “I hate to sound tacky, but how much would you pay for that painting? It was barely the size of a piece of copy paper.”

  “Trust me, you do not want to know.”

  John was waiting in the dining room doorway. “And here she is. Ana Reclining.”

  “Wow” was all Piper could say. Hard to believe the woman reclining on the settee was the same little old woman who popped in to say hello during one of their video chats.