Redeeming the Billionaire Playboy

by Sierra Rose

  “I saw you were dubbed ‘King of Instagram’ last year with all those snaps of stunning women, white sand beaches, palm trees, and all those adventurous travel pics. My favorite one was when you were swimming with sharks.”

  He chuckled. “It was quite the adventure. But I’m afraid somebody new has stolen my crown now. And now that I met you, that’s the way I like it.”

  “You just might be growing up,” I said.

  He laughed. “I just might.”

  I took a sip of my drink. “But really. I should’ve known who you were. I’m sorry. I should’ve researched you more. Looked for a photo or something. Do you forgive me?”

  “Yes.”

  He was still smiling when the door opened again and a silver tray was set on the table before us, overflowing with plump, ripe strawberries and a silver gravy boat of melted chocolate.

  I looked down in surprise. Considering how formal the place was, I expected them to follow a certain order in meal service: appetizers, salads, soups, and entrées. I wondered about the lack of legendary English decorum.

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I asked them to bring out the strawberries first.” James dipped one ceremoniously in the molten chocolate, then held it in the air between us, offering a silent invitation with a twinkling smile. “I have a bit of a sweet tooth.”

  “Yeah, you kind of made that clear before,” I thought and couldn’t help but giggle as I recalled our pastry fight.

  Chapter 8

  THE REST OF DINNER really was like something out of a dream, a moonlit fantasy complete with twinkling stars painting the arching window in a silvery glow, while everything inside was the soft yellow haze of what seemed like a million tiny tealights. I was utterly bewitched, entranced, and completely overwhelmed with the magic of it all. Of course, it wasn’t just the staggering view, the mouth-watering food, or the champagne that had my head spinning. Mostly, it was the man sitting across the table.

  Every moment was perfection, every motion dipped in grace, every freeze-framed smile a work of art. I could count on one hand the number of times I’d actually seen the man, yet I could already tell that one of my favorite things in the world was the sound of James’s laugh.

  It just didn’t seem real, not at all possible that I, of all people, could be there with him. Out of all the girls in all the countries of the world, I was the one he was sitting across from. I was the one he was smiling at. Even better, as drunk as I was from the mere sight of him, the last thing James wanted was to talk about himself.

  “Tell me again about this librarian,” he said, his eyes sparkling with curiosity as he leaned across the table with a grin. “Mrs. Fletcher was her name, no?”

  I stifled a dramatic shudder and emptied my third glass of champagne. “Mrs. Filbert.”

  “Ah, Filbert. Like the nut?”

  I laughed again. “You got that right! That woman was a literary troll in her own right, but that’s not why I avoided the route past the library. It was more about that vicious mutt of hers. That was the real bitch.”

  I suddenly realized that James was one of those people who was good at drawing things out, at stirring up long-ago memories that seemed insignificant until he asked about them. I had no idea how strongly I felt about Mrs. Filbert and her pesky pooch, and speaking to him about it made me feel strangely indifferent when I told him the story aloud. That was how it always was with James.

  We talked about literally everything, focusing mostly on me. I regaled him with my woes about my third grade yearbook photos to my all-nighters with my nose in the books for business school to the time I was arrested for skinny-dipping in the town fountain after prom. By the end of our conversation, he knew my favorite snack foods—with Doritos at the top of the list, of course—the movies that scared me most, and the craziest friends I’d ever had. No stone was left unturned, no detail too small to share. Ultimately, I was fairly sure James knew more about me than my own mother did, but even more than that, he was actually interested, in little ol’ me, of all things.

  I was surprised that I was so willing to open up to him, as I’d never really liked talking about myself. In my twenty-odd years on the planet, I had made a habit of being the listener rather than the talker. I was always the shoulder to cry on, not the girl who would easily pout her heart and soul over a table of empty cocktail glasses. It was even rare for me to share so much with Madison, but it was flat-out unheard of that I would even attempt the same thing with a man. With James, though, I was an open book, a talking diary. I walked both of us down my version of Memory Lane, disclosing my struggles and hopes, dreams and nightmares, the good, the bad, and the ugly, with James all the while prompting me, offering a stream of unending questions.

  By the time the waiters came round to collect our plates, I was actually a bit hoarse. Time had completely escaped me, and I had no idea how late it was till one of the servers whispered discreetly in James’s ear that it was almost closing time for the restaurant.

  I gathered my purse with a self-conscious flush as James slipped a large bill into the man’s hand and sent him on his way. Without another word, he pushed gracefully to his feet, circled around to my side of the table, and offered his arm. I took it with a shy smile, and together, the two of us made our way to the door.

  It wasn’t until he’d already pushed it open that James paused suddenly and glanced back, his dark eyes sweeping the room as if immortalizing it in his memory. “Thank you,” he said suddenly. When I looked up curiously, his eyes warmed with a quiet smile. “Thanks for coming out with me tonight and for telling me all those things. Truly. Thank you.”

  A hint of blushing warmed my cheeks, and I bowed my head quickly, spilling my hair casually between us so he couldn’t see my face. “I’m actually a bit embarrassed. I mean, we’ve been here for hours, and I did all the talking. I’m sorry. I’m not usually so—”

  Two fingers lifted my chin, interrupting me, and I found myself staring into a pair of sparkling, luminous eyes. “You have no idea how much I wanted that,” James said softly, “how much I needed it.” He caught himself quickly, then flashed a quick smile. “It’s always me.”

  We didn’t say another word as we headed downstairs and made our way back through the lavish ballroom. It was like getting a peek backstage, a behind-the-scenes glimpse of some brilliant production. The illustrious clientele was no more, and the tables were cluttered and messy, but I found that I loved The Dorchester more that way. The lingering staff stopped what they were doing and stood respectfully as we passed, but even they seemed more relaxed. One or two of them actually grinned at James or gave him parting waves as we headed by.

  “You know them too?” I commented as the front door finally shut behind us and we were out on the street once more.

  At that point, I shouldn’t have been surprised. James seemed to lack the social boundaries that kept the rest of us cloistered. Class mattered nothing to him, nor did wealth, privilege, or education. It was ironic, since he was obviously at the top of the game on every level.

  He glanced back at the towering monolith as we wandered down the sidewalk. “Of course I know them,” he said “I eat here often. As a matter of fact, Dad used to bring Rob and me every Sunday when we were kids. Our table was always there, right at the top.”

  A rush of surprise stopped me in my tracks, and I glanced back at the darkened windows where we’d been sitting. “When did that stop, your Sunday dinners?” I asked curiously.

  There was a hitch in his breath, and I was instantly terrified I’d gone too far, but he really didn’t seem to mind the question. He shrugged, wore a wistful smile, and answered, “When we went off to school, I suppose. We kept up the tradition for a while and met up with Dad when we came home for holidays, but eventually, we stopped doing that too.” There was a strange longing in his voice, a quiet kind of regret; that seemed like an oxymoron, coming from a man who obviously wasn’t prone to such things. The fact that his father was no longer well enough to lea
ve the house obviously weighed rather heavily on his mind.

  “I’m really sorry,” I said quietly. When he glanced over with a silent question, I lowered my eyes. “About your dad, I mean. I never met him, obviously, but I’ve studied him for as long as I can remember. He inspired me to apply to business school in the first place, a truly great man.”

  A deep pride seemed to warm James from the inside out, and I could tell, without a shadow of a doubt, that no compliment could have ever meant more.

  “Thanks,” he said softly, still smiling thoughtfully at the ground. A second later, he lifted his eyes and turned that smile on me, full force. “He’d certainly like you. You have what he’d affectionately call an ‘abundance of pluck.’”

  “Pluck?” I repeated with a laugh.

  “It was one of Dad’s favorite words to describe women,” he answered with a fond smile, not seeming to realize that when he was talking about his father, he was already subconsciously slipping into the past tense. “He said women are worlds better than all the rest of us.”

  “See? I told you he’s wise.” I laughed again, winding my arm through his and bracing myself against the chilly wind. “What makes you think I possess this magical pluck?”

  A look of mischief danced across James’s face as he lifted his shoulders in an innocent shrug. “Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps it’s just that you once egged the car of a lecherous professor. Pluck is inherent in certain girls who may or may not have taken off all their clothes to swim in the town pond.”

  His twinkly laughter rang out in the starry night as I let go of him and covered my face with both hands. “What the hell possibly possessed me to tell you all those things? Did you spike my champagne or something?”

  “No need.” A lock of dark hair blew past his eyes as he gazed down at me. “You are quite the talker when properly motivated.”

  I looked down with a grin, and we continued walking in silence for a moment, until I looked back up, my face now caught in a thoughtful frown. “I’m usually not, like I said.”

  James glanced down at me but didn’t say a word to that. He merely took off his jacket when the wind made me shiver and slipped it automatically around my bare shoulders. The great night of stories and conversation had finally come to an end, and it wasn’t until we stopped at a sudden fork in the road that either of us dared to break the silence.

  “This is me,” I said quietly, cocking my head toward the bridge.

  James followed my gaze before tilting his head the opposite direction. “And this is me.”

  A sudden surge of sadness caught me by surprise, paired with an equally strong surge of longing. The night doesn’t have to end already, does it?

  James seemed to be thinking the same thing, because his eyes fixed on my face, dilating with sudden intensity as he prepared to ask the question. Then, his gaze suddenly dropped a few inches lower, to a particular ruby pendant hanging around my neck. His lips parted in surprise before closing just as suddenly; he was rendered silent as a peculiar sort of transformation came over his face. One second, he was staring at me lustfully in the dark, and in the next, he was lifting his hand to snap his fingers in the air.

  Just like that, a sleek black limousine pulled out of nowhere. I had no idea we were being followed until it pulled discreetly out of the shadows to idle along the curb.

  “Frank,” James called quietly as the window rolled down, “will you please take Miss Jones home?”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  The driver circled around to the back of the car, pulled the door open, and waited, never losing the professionalism etched on his face. “Madam,” he said, “may I?”

  “Uh, I guess,” I stuttered, looking at James in confusion.

  “I had a great time tonight, Della,” James murmured, summoning my attention away from the mysterious car. “Thank you again for dinner and...everything.”

  I stared up in silent surprise, still trying to catch up with how quickly things had changed. Th-thank you,” I countered quickly. “Thank you for taking me, and... Well, thanks for everything before, with your brother, I mean. Also that Japanese deal.”

  A faint shadow passed over his face at the mention of Robert, but he was quick to eliminate it. “If it’s all right, I’d love to call you tomorrow.” A sudden flicker of nerves tightened his eyes, like he was worried I might say no. “If you’re too busy, I understand.”

  Shy? James fucking Cross gets cold feet? Do my ears deceive me?

  “No, I’d love that.” Without thinking, I stretched up on my toes and kissed him swiftly on the cheek. The feeling was electric, just like the first time we touched, sending a cascade of shivers running down my spine. “I have work, but call me anytime, anytime at all.”

  My eyes snapped shut in a momentary grimace, and I really wished I didn’t repeat the words, but James didn’t seem to notice my verbal stumbling. In fact, it seemed he tuned me out completely since the moment I leapt up and kissed him on the cheek. It wasn’t until his driver cleared his throat that he snapped back to the present. “Yeah, I-I’ll do that,” he said. His lips twitched up in a quirky smile before he headed swiftly off into the night. “Goodnight, Della.”

  “Wait!” I called after him, my eyes flickering between him and the waiting car. “Aren’t you coming? How will you get home?”

  Even halfway down the block, I could still see the way his eyes twinkled in the moonlight, the way his face lit up with a breathtaking smile as he answered, “I’ll walk.”

  Chapter 9

  I DIDN’T SEE ANY MORE of James Cross that night, except in my dreams. Needless to say, I didn’t stop thinking about him for a single second all night, and he was still on my mind when I arrived at work the next morning.

  Madison wasn’t home when I got there, so I assumed she was out with Caleb again. When I walked onto the sixtieth floor the next day, though, her eyes perked up immediately, swarming with questions and demands for kiss-and-tell stories. The client in her office gave her a questioning look, but she dismissed him with a wave of her hand and gestured me inside in the same motion.

  I deliberately ignored her plea and bypassed her office to head to my own instead. I didn’t want to talk about my dinner with James, and even someone as close to the fire as I was couldn’t fail to see the significance of that. I talked for hours about Robert, before I knew who he was, expounding, hypothesizing, and planning, but my dinner date with James was ours, not something I wanted to share with the general public. It was sacred ground, not something I wanted to analyze and dissect piece by piece. I simply wanted to enjoy it, cherish it, and secure a place for it forever in my memory, but Madison was obviously unwilling to comply with that.

  “Uh... Hi, loser!”

  I glanced up from my desk, hoping she would at least have the wherewithal to close the door before she started asking pointed questions as to whether or not I had fucked the boss’s son.

  “So, did you and James do the deed or what?”

  Nope. No such luck.

  “Uh, Madison, you want to close the door?” I asked wearily, rubbing my sleep-deprived eyes and offering a half-hearted grin. “And to answer your question, no. We didn’t... The only deal we closed yesterday was the one with Japan, if you must know.”

  “You didn’t?” she asked, looking at me as if I was speaking Latin or some language she didn’t understand. There was no recognition as she repeated the words back to me, and no little light came on above her head. For Madison, going out with a man was almost always synonymous with going to bed. “So if you didn’t have sex, what did you do?”

  A little smile wormed across my face as I mentally traveled back to the restaurant, picturing every minute detail in my mind, imagining each perfect moment as if they were happening all over again. “We...dated,” I offered, and that was all.

  There was a pause, followed by a confused frown, followed by an even longer pause as Madison tried to string the nonsensical words together. “You dated? What does that mean
exactly?”

  I stifled a smile, trying to pair it down into words she could comprehend. “We just went out to dinner and talked—you know, like normal people.”

  Processing, processing, processing, yet nothing is registering on that scrunched-up face of hers. If she doesn’t quit thinking so hard... Is that burning I smell?

  “I-I don’t understand.” She tossed her white-blonde hair back with a touch of impatience as she lowered her hands slowly onto the desk. “You only talked, nothing more? No seductive winks, footsie, hand-jobs under the table?”

  I shook my head. “Just nice dinner and conversation. Sorry to disappoint you.”

  She threw up her hands, completely exasperated. “Did he even bother to kiss you goodnight?”

  My mind flashed back to the moment, that exact moment when I was sure he would, that moment when I thought he was going to suggest doing far more than that. Suddenly, I recalled that everything stopped when his eyes locked on that ruby. “He asked if he could call me today,” I volunteered, hoping it would make up some of the difference. “He was super sweet, even gave me his jacket when the cold got to me.”

  “Ick,” Madison said, as if the thought of such sweetness gave her an instant cavity. She was, however, interested in the rest of what I said. “He asked for permission to call you?” she repeated, a slight frown creasing her lovely face. “Who does that nowadays?”

  Until she mentioned it, it never struck me as strange. A frown flickered across my face to mirror hers as I leaned forward in my chair, tapping my pencil pensively against my desk. “Yeah, he asked. Why? Is that weird or something?”

  “Something,” she said with a grin. “Della, by now, I shouldn’t have to tell you about him. You read up on him yourself. A man like James Cross doesn’t ask. Now, don’t get me wrong. He is super sweet, and I know he is not the type to cross lines he shouldn’t, but he doesn’t simply ask.”