The Billionaire's Embrace (The Silver Cross Club)

by Bec Linder

  It was a good sign, then, that my mother was taking an interest; but I wished she had opened with a different question.

  Regan, poor thing, looked like the proverbial deer in the headlights. “Well, um,” she said, and took a hasty sip of her wine. “I was—we met at my job.”

  “Yes, dear, and what was that?” my mother asked blandly. Surely she saw how uncomfortable Regan was.

  Regan straightened her spine and looked my mother straight in the eye. “I was working as a cocktail waitress,” she said. “Carter was one of my customers.”

  “I see,” my mother said. “And are you still employed in that... profession?”

  “No, I quit that job. Now I’m working as a legal secretary,” Regan said.

  “A secretary,” my mother repeated. “Well, I suppose that’s a step up from a cocktail waitress, heaven forbid. We’ll have to find you more suitable employment. A mere secretary is no match for my son.”

  I set down my fork, preparing to step in. I was angry that my mother had made such a pretense of being humble and welcoming, and yet was being just as unkind to Regan as she had before. Regan was my guest, and my girlfriend; I wouldn’t tolerate her being spoken to like that.

  But before I could open my mouth, Regan spoke. “Look, Angie,” she said, hot color in her cheeks, “I know you don’t like me, and that I’m not the person you would have chosen for Carter. But it’s not up to you, and you don’t get to treat me like crap just because you wish I would fall off the face of the earth. So please knock it off with the condescension. I’m not as dumb as you think, and I am in fact aware of when you’re insulting me.”

  I stared at her, surprised and impressed. I hadn’t thought she would stand up to my mother like that—but it wasn’t the first time that Regan had surprised me, and I doubted it would be the last. It was part of what I loved about her.

  “Well,” my mother said. She set down her napkin and gave Regan a considering look. I was prepared for her to give Regan a thorough dressing-down, and for me to have to swoop into action and end the evening prematurely; but instead, she said, “I suppose I was wrong about you. I told Carter that you didn’t have any fire, but it seems that you do.”

  Regan looked as startled as I felt. She must have been expecting my mother’s wrath as well. “Oh,” she said. “Is that a good thing?”

  My mother looked at Regan down the length of her nose. “Of course it is,” she said. “How can you be a politician’s wife with no fire?”

  This again. I leaned my head against one hand and said, “Mother. Regan isn’t my wife. And I’m not going to be a politician.”

  “Yes, we’ll see,” my mother said, with the smug look of a woman who was accustomed to getting her way. She turned back to Regan. “A woman needs backbone to get by in life. Are you interested in the law, then? Criminal justice? We’ll have to get you some type of formal certification. A paralegal is far more respectable. Have you considered further schooling?”

  “I was thinking about maybe being a lawyer,” Regan said.

  My mother’s eyes lit up. “You don’t say.”

  I groaned and buried my head in my hands.

  “None of that, Carter,” my mother said. “Eat your food in silence like a good boy. Regan and I have many things to discuss.”

  Amused, I did as I was told, and finished my dinner while my mother grilled Regan about her current job, her previous experience working in a law office, her night classes, her boss, and her career ambitions. Poor Regan would be enrolled in law school by the end of the evening. In a way, I was glad that my mother was pushing her. Regan had too little faith in her own abilities, and I didn’t feel that it was my place to hassle her about her long-term career goals. Maybe Regan would respond well to my mother’s nagging. Stranger things had happened.

  After our plates were taken away in preparation for dessert, Regan excused herself. As soon as she had left the room, my mother turned to me and said, “You’ve made up your mind, then.”

  I knew what she was asking me. “Yes.”

  “Very well,” my mother said, and sighed. “It’s true that she isn’t the girl I would have chosen for you. But if this is what you want, I’ll do my best to like her.”

  I rose from my chair and leaned across the table to give my mother a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you,” I said.

  “Just promise me that you won’t let her talk you into moving to some horrid outer borough,” my mother said.

  “Brooklyn’s fashionable now,” I said. “Haven’t you heard?”

  “Speak not these words!” my mother cried dramatically, clasping at her bosom.

  The rest of the evening went smoothly. My mother interrogated me about the company over dessert, and then claimed she was tired of discussing business matters and insisted we have another drink and look at her latest painting. Regan, bless her, commented very appropriately on the unusual use of color. I wondered if she had been reading up on art criticism. It seemed like the sort of thing she would do; I knew how fond she was of her library card.

  As we left, my mother shook Regan’s hand again and said, “I think we understand each other now. I intend for us to get along very nicely.”

  Regan, looking a bit bemused, said, “I think that can probably happen.”

  In the car on the way back to my apartment, I wrapped one arm around her shoulders and planted a kiss on top of her head. “I hope that wasn’t too awful for you.”

  “No, it was fine,” she said. “I can’t believe I told her off like that! I was just so mad, and I opened my mouth and heard myself saying all those things—oh, I just wanted to sink into the floor!”

  “It was glorious,” I said, and kissed her again. “I don’t think anyone’s spoken to my mother like that in at least a decade. It’s good for her. I was about to have some stern words with her if you hadn’t gotten there first.”

  “I was afraid you would be mad,” she said.

  “Never,” I said. “Yell at my mother as much as you want. I’ll revel in it. She’s impossible. I adore her, but I’m not blind to her faults.”

  “I hope I don’t have to yell at her ever again,” Regan said, looking worried. She leaned her head against my chest and said, “Carter, I need to tell you something.”

  My pulse quickened, and my mind leaped instantly to a hundred different terrible conclusions. “What’s that?” I asked, keeping my voice steady. Was the thought of dealing with my mother really so frightening that Regan would rather break up with me again? I told myself that I was being paranoid. Things had been going so well; Regan probably wanted to tell me that she had homework and couldn’t spend the night.

  “I love you,” she said.

  I wasn’t sure I had heard her correctly, over the sudden ringing in my ears. “What?”

  “I know it’s too soon,” she said, “and I know you’re probably still mad at me for breaking up with you, and I don’t blame you if you don’t trust me, but I can’t keep it to myself anymore. I love you so much, and I just—I thought you should know.”

  Oh, Regan. Here I had been, fretting over how to tell her, wanting to make it special, and she put me to shame with her bravery. She kept her face turned away, refusing to look up at me, until I tucked one finger beneath her chin and forced her to make eye contact with me.

  “Regan, I love you,” I said. “I’ve been trying to think of how to tell you. And I’m not angry with you, and I do trust you. I love you so much that I constantly feel like my heart is about to burst from my chest.”

  “I hope it doesn’t, because that sounds really gross,” she said, and then burst into tears.

  I turned and wrapped both of my arms around her, holding her against my chest. “What did I say?”

  “I’m happy,” she choked out. “Happy tears.”

  My Regan. I held her and kissed her forehead and knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she was the last woman I would ever love.

  Chapter 20

  The next month passed in a w
onderful, delirious blur of work and Regan. I woke up one morning and realized it was almost May. Regan and I spent the weekend out on the terrace, basking in the sunlight like oversized lizards. She tanned to a dark caramel color; I burned, and had to listen to her laugh at me while she rubbed aloe on my tender shoulders.

  “You just don’t understand the struggle of the white man,” I told her.

  She laughed. “I told you to put on more sunblock,” she said. “It’s not my fault you have an inadequate amount of melanin.”

  “God save me from your biology factoids,” I said. “Isn’t the semester over yet?”

  “Two more weeks,” she said. “Don’t forget that you promised me you’d help me study for my exam.”

  “The Golgi apparatus transduces cytoplasm from the vesicles!” I said.

  “Oh dear, I’m going to fail,” she said.

  Sunburn and biology classes aside, it was a glorious month. I was in love, and when I walked, my feet barely touched the pavement. I practically skipped into work in the mornings, and skipped out again in the evenings. Nothing could ruin the warm glow that had settled in around my breastbone and made a permanent home for itself.

  One sunny afternoon in early May, I decided to go out for lunch, and ate a sandwich on a bench near the waterfront, enjoying the weather. When I returned to the office, Nancy was waiting for me.

  “You had a call while you were out,” she said, handing me a slip of paper. “A gentleman from the FBI. You haven’t done anything illegal, have you, sir?”

  I grinned. “No, not me,” I said. “Butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth.” It must have been Hernandez calling—maybe to tie up some loose ends about Hackett. I went into my office and called the number that Nancy had written down for me.

  “Hernandez,” a voice said.

  “This is Carter Sutton,” I said. “My secretary said that you called.”

  “Sutton! Yes, I did,” Hernandez said. “How’s it going? Business good?”

  “As always,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

  “Look, I’ll just cut to the chase,” Hernandez said. “We need you to testify before Congress.”

  I sat down at my desk, heart sinking. I knew all along that this had been a possibility, but I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to pass. “The investigation turned out well, I take it.”

  “Oh yeah,” Hernandez said. “That rabbit hole went pretty deep, it turns out. Hackett’s small fry. Once we started following the Mafia leads, well—let’s just say there are several state legislators and a Senator involved.”

  “Wow,” I said, unsure how else to respond.

  “Yeah,” Hernandez said. “It’s big. Anyway, we were planning to try this in the local courts, but now that a Congressman’s implicated, it’s at the national level. Congress is going to be hearing testimony later this week.”

  “And you want me to go down there,” I said.

  “If you can,” Hernandez said. “I know it’s an inconvenience, but you’re a credible witness, and frankly, we could use the celebrity factor. The press will eat it up. Wall Street taking out its own garbage, et cetera.”

  “Right,” I said, and sighed. “All right. I’ll do it. Email me the details and I’ll take the jet down. Tax-deductible, right?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Hernandez said, obviously not paying close attention to what he was agreeing to. I would have to be sure to get it in writing. “The hearing’s on Thursday. Thanks, Sutton. See you in a few days.”

  We hung up, and I closed my eyes for a few moments. It wouldn’t be so bad. I could take the jet down and come back the same day; and it wasn’t a criminal trial, so I doubted that Hackett would be there. But I hated D.C., and I hated talking to politicians, and I didn’t want to leave Regan.

  I was truly pathetic: reluctant to leave my girlfriend even for less than twenty-four hours.

  Somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to mind.

  Hernandez emailed me the information he’d promised, and I groaned when I read through the schedule. The hearing was set to take place first thing in the morning, so I would have to fly down the night before.

  There was no helping it. On Wednesday afternoon, I went directly to Teterboro from the office, and was in D.C. in time for a late dinner. I spent the evening in my hotel room, watching the news and texting Regan while I pretended to catch up on work. She was at Sadie’s watching a movie, and kept texting me things like This guy looks funny and ewwww he just kissed the slutty cheerleader! I had no idea what they were watching, but the lack of context only made her messages more amusing.

  I had seen her that morning, when we woke up in my bed and ate breakfast together before work, but I missed her already.

  In the morning, I woke up early and walked the half mile to the Capitol from my hotel near Union Station. It was a cool, foggy morning, and I used the walk to mentally review my testimony. I had notes, of course, but I preferred not to use them. I had found that people were more inclined to believe you if they thought you were speaking off the cuff; and I very much wanted to be believed. I didn’t want to waste the hard work of all the agents involved with this case.

  When I arrived at the Capitol, an aide directed me to a chamber where I waited until the Senate’s Permanent Subcommittee on Investigations was ready for me. I reviewed my notes and told myself that I wasn’t allowed to be nervous. Carter Sutton, CEO, billionaire, man about town, was never nervous. Fear was for lesser men. Testifying before Congress was old hat.

  It was possible that I was a little nervous. Or not nervous, precisely; public speaking had never caused me much anxiety, but I always felt a rush of adrenaline a few minutes before, my body’s fight-or-flight reflex kicking in. My heart beat faster. My hands shook a bit. That was all. Perfectly normal.

  The aide came back into the room. “They’re ready for you.”

  I took a deep breath and stood up. As my father always said, there was nothing to do but to do it.

  After, I couldn’t recall many details about the testimony. Regan, who watched it live on C-SPAN, told me that I was “super confident and relaxed,” but I had only vague impressions of the audience, the rich color of the carpet, the glass of water set in front of me. I spoke without referring to my notes, answered a few questions, and was finished within fifteen minutes. It was, all in all, about as painless an experience as I could imagine.

  When it was over, I went back to my hotel to pack my overnight bag, and then headed directly to the airport. I would be back in New York in time for lunch.

  I tried to work on the flight, but instead spent most of my time gazing out the window at the puffy cumulus clouds and thinking about Regan. I couldn’t wait to get home to her, to kiss her and tell her about the hearing and take her into my arms. She made everything in life better, simply by existing. Her presence transformed the most mundane tasks—making the bed, watering plants—into delightful adventures.

  I never wanted to be without her.

  I landed with enough time to make it to the office for a few hours of work, and so I went there first, and returned to my apartment after 6:00. I was weary; traveling always drained me in a way that other activities didn’t, and I was glad to step into the elevator, with the promise of home and comfort a few floors away.

  When the elevator doors slid open, Regan was there, smiling at me.

  I set down my suitcase and wrapped my arms around her, bending down to kiss her upturned face. “This is a surprise,” I said.

  “I missed you,” she said. “Are you hungry? I made dinner.”

  “Marry me,” I said.

  It wasn’t planned. I didn’t have a ring; I didn’t even know I had been thinking about it until I said the words. But as soon as they left my mouth, I knew that I meant it. I wanted Regan to be my wife. I wanted to wake up with her every morning, and fall asleep with her every night. I wanted to raise children with her, and argue about whose turn it was to do the laundry, and grow old together.

  She stared up at me, eyes wide.<
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  “I mean it,” I said. “Is this crazy? I don’t care. I love you. I want to be with you for the rest of my life. Say that you’ll marry me.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Oh my God. Do you mean it?”

  “I absolutely mean it,” I said. “So you will?”

  “Yes,” she said, “of course I will,” and started crying.

  “Don’t cry, little one,” I said, kissing the top of her head. “We’ll go shopping for a ring this weekend.”

  “I’m not crying,” she said, which was a blatant lie, but I let it pass. I was too happy to quibble.

  I held her and waited for the tears to pass. She quieted, finally, and wiped her eyes. “Sorry,” she said.

  “No need to apologize,” I said. “I understand the impulse. I feel a little like crying myself.”

  She gave a watery laugh and looked up at me. “Carter Sutton, crying? I don’t believe it.”

  “I’m full of surprises,” I said. I bent to kiss her, intending to provide comfort and nothing more, but she wrapped her arms around my neck and drew me down, deepening the kiss. It quickly grew heated. Regan pressed against me, her soft curves enticing even through the layers of our clothing, and I slid my hands down her body, skimming over her waist and hips. “What about dinner?” I asked, teasing her.

  “Dinner can wait,” she said. “I think we need to, you know. Make it official.”

  “Seal the deal, as it were,” I said, and kissed her again, sliding my tongue into her mouth, and feeling my cock begin to swell. If she wanted to skip dinner in favor of sex, that was more than fine with me.

  She was wearing a simple wool dress, her usual office attire. I reached behind her and tugged down the zipper, drawing it from the nape of her neck down to the curve of her ass, and slid the dress off her body. Then she stood before me in nothing but her bra and panties. Thank God that tights season was finally over. I trailed my fingers over the exposed curves of her breasts and watched her skin prickle. Her lips parted, her eyelids sank closed, and her nipples hardened with arousal, visible through the thin lace of her bra.