Taming the Billionaire

by Dani Wade

  “Yes.” Sincerity showed through Ivy’s tears. “I just don’t know what to do. If he wanted me, wouldn’t he have said so by now?”

  “Who knows what men think,” Auntie said. Though her one husband was long deceased, she spoke with a note of experience.

  Jasmine nodded. “They’re supposed to be the less emotional sex, but their actions don’t always make logical sense.”

  All people were influenced by their pasts, as Willow well knew. “The best thing for now is to get you out of that office before he gets back. Don’t turn in your resignation yet. Just request time off through HR.”

  Willow knew Ivy had plenty of vacation time to cover a two-weeks’ notice. The important thing was not to alert her boss that she was leaving before absolutely necessary.

  She continued, “We’ll worry about everything else later. Let me see what I can find at Sabatini House before we make any further decisions.” Willow’s mission had just turned from interesting to urgent.

  “Thank you,” Ivy said.

  Then Willow saw her sister’s normally porcelain skin take on a literal green tinge before she rushed for the powder room in the hall. Jasmine quickly followed.

  Willow watched them go, momentarily grateful she’d swallowed that little pill.

  Nine

  Filled with determination after learning of her sister’s plight, Willow didn’t waste any time in searching Sabatini House further once she got back—only waiting long enough for Tate to get good and settled in his suite.

  As she picked her way down the hall, she carefully avoided the areas of the floor she’d learned were creaky in an effort to make as little noise as possible.

  The keys she had slid in her pocket when Tate had discovered her earlier now rested in her clasp. But as she approached the door to the third floor, she felt the pull of the nursery once more.

  She justified her return by telling herself she could look for clues that she’d missed before—lame as that might be. The dual sets of toys and furniture still fascinated her, but she forced herself past them to the bureaus in the second part of the room. The miniature flashlight she used to get around the house at night helped her find and go through the drawers.

  The first bureau held only clothes. The second was more interesting, though not helpful in her mission.

  An entire drawer held loose photos of the twins—their mischievous grins and black curls making her heart ache. They all seemed to be professional shots rather than candid photos. And if she guessed right, the woman in the photos when the boys were babies wasn’t their mother...she was too young. Maybe a nanny?

  Willow slipped one of the pictures of the boys as teens into her pocket without thought.

  The next drawer was filled to the brim with books—everything from picture books to Hardy Boys mysteries. Unlike the uniform hardbacks on the shelves, these were mostly paperback, tattered and worn. Had Tate’s love of the written word started young? Had it served as an escape for him? For his twin?

  A book in one of the right-hand stacks drew her eye. Willow picked it up and flipped through. It looked like a pictorial history of the Kingston family. Obviously handmade. Willow didn’t take Tate’s parents for artsy-craftsy types. Maybe the nanny had made this?

  Unable to resist, Willow sank to the carpet and opened the book properly for a closer look. There weren’t pictures in the front, but a story written in graceful, curvy lettering that described a pirate who came to the island, staked his claim and built Sabatini House—just as Tate had said.

  It was the whitewashed version, of course. Whoever had written the book to teach the little ones their family history had kept the audience in mind.

  Willow could relate. She remembered discovering their own family was descended from pirates. As children, she and her sisters would dress in long, oversize raincoats their mother had bought at the thrift store, tied with sashes, and spend long days pretending to fight with swords and walk the plank.

  Their father had relayed stories of how their ancestor had established himself as a good man, stressing the importance of pride and respectability in their family.

  Willow’s research had born those stories out—theirs was a legacy of integrity for generations. She refused to believe those values had failed enough to allow her great-grandfather to burn down that ship.

  But what about Tate’s?

  When Willow got to the part of the book with the actual photographs of Tate’s ancestors, she could actually see some of the qualities he’d mentioned.

  She was used to studying historical photos for her own research purposes—personal and professional. The progression of the camera and photo development technology was a familiar concept to her, but these images went beyond simply having to hold still for a long exposure.

  Both the men and women were stern-looking, almost dour in most cases. But it was more about the look in their eyes—the hard way their gazes were trained on the camera. Aggressive, almost forcefully suspicious.

  In the group shots, she could see the same manner in the children, who were always held by servants rather than a relative, giving the impression of a hands-off, impersonal form of childrearing.

  Willow found herself holding her breath as she turned the pages, hoping to be surprised by a portrait with a more familial casual arrangement. But it never came.

  There were only more stiff suits and strong postures and direct stares. Definitely not the friendliest group, even as the cameras had improved over time enough to not require the more somber expressions.

  Which left Willow even more curious as to whether those unfeeling looks translated into the ruthless way of life Tate had described.

  Had they feuded with the other local shipping barons? Had they settled one of those feuds with death and destruction? Murdoch had hinted that might be the case.

  The chime of the grandfather clock in the upper hall jarred her. Time to move on. Willow dropped the book back into the drawer and gathered the flashlight. Back at the door to the third floor, she juggled the flashlight while trying to jiggle the key in the uncooperative lock.

  Suddenly she heard a noise.

  Unable to place exactly what it was, Willow strained to listen. She quickly flicked off the flashlight. Standing stock-still, she studied the darkness of the hall over her shoulder. She did not want a repeat of the last time.

  When nothing happened, she turned back to the door. The decision had barely been made when the sound came again.

  This time she could clearly hear a person’s voice, though not what they were saying. Fear exploded inside her. A voice in the house could mean only one thing—Tate was awake.

  Backtracking, Willow rushed to get back near her room while she listened out for the source, because she had no doubt now that someone was there. No way would she make it to the third floor tonight.

  Sure enough, when she reached the door to Tate’s suite, she heard a muffled voice. Was he on the phone? Not good.

  At least he hadn’t caught her first. He wasn’t the type to retreat from a confrontation. So what was he doing? Unable to quell her curiosity, she dropped the key and flashlight in her room, then crept back in the dark to stand outside his bedroom door.

  She’d barely been there sixty seconds when she clearly heard a shout. She froze. It came again. Was he being attacked?

  Willow rushed inside before giving herself time to think. A quick sweep of her gaze over the deep shadows of the room indicated she and Tate were the only ones here. He thrashed on the bed, throwing off his covers as he called out. As she crossed to him, hot memories of the last time she’d been in this room flashed through her brain. She didn’t want to remember, didn’t want to ache to have Tate’s skin against hers once more. But the memories wouldn’t completely recede.

  She tried to focus on the present instead. The sadness and sympathy brought on by the combination o
f his earlier description of his parents and the pictures from the book pushed her forward until she could lay her hand on his brow.

  He didn’t have a fever, but she could feel the tremors that racked him in his sleep. Leaning forward, she started whispering nonsense the way she did to Rosie when she was sick.

  It took several minutes, but eventually he began to settle down. He seemed to be sleeping deeply despite the ruckus, so Willow slowly pulled her hand back. Retreating was harder than she’d anticipated. She fought her natural desire to help and her ache to be close to Tate when his guard was down. Still, she forced herself away from him. Back one step. Two.

  Just when she thought she’d get away undetected, she found herself grappled into a bear hug that cut off her breath and toppled her to the bed.

  * * *

  The nightmare slowly faded as Tate squeezed down hard on his pillow. Only his pillow felt flesh-firm and warm. The shaking he hadn’t experienced in years slowly dissipated as his nostrils filled with a sweet vanilla fragrance. The scent mingled with the heat beneath his cheek. It seemed to surround him, hotter at the base of his neck and along the side of his temple.

  He welcomed the invasion of sensation and scent. Anything would be better than reliving his brother’s death over and over, but this moment was especially sweet. Somehow he knew that if he could focus on it, then the nightmare would fully recede.

  Then he realized his pillow was moving...breathing.

  Willow.

  Her presence didn’t surprise him. He simply accepted it, welcomed it. He had just enough awareness to ask.

  “Willow?”

  “It’s okay, Tate.”

  A shudder ran through his body. He clenched his fists as desire washed over him like a wave. In this one thing, he needed to be sure. “You know what I want.”

  “Yes...” she murmured, “and I’m still here.”

  Then the forceful surge of need inside his body drowned out all the questions. No thinking. He simply twisted until she lay flat beneath him, then buried his face against her neck.

  It was the only bit of bare skin he could find—but it wasn’t nearly enough. He nuzzled, eager to taste what smelled so good. He sucked in the vanilla-scented air. Would she let him eat her up?

  The way she sunk her fingers into his hair seemed like an invitation. Tentatively he licked her. The taste was even better than he’d imagined. Warm sweetness. Musky woman. And something he could describe only as life.

  He indulged in a slow glide of his tongue from the ridge of her collarbone up to the tip of her chin. His entire body pressed into her as he moved, craving complete contact. Her pulse throbbed beneath his tongue, picking up speed until he lost count of the beats. Her moans filled the air around them.

  Never had he felt as alive as he did in this moment. Every stroke of his body against hers was both a relief and fuel for the fire. The blood pounded through him, his body demanding to take what it wanted. She arched into him as if she needed the same.

  Tate lost himself in the sensations. He’d never wanted anyone like this before...shouldn’t want her now. But logic seemed to have no influence over his body. He wanted her. He would have her.

  Again.

  Just as he moved to slip his fingers beneath the hem of her shirt, a deluge of emotions and anger washed over him. It was a realization that had propelled him through the last week of living with her. He couldn’t take her again. That would be the utmost in stupidity.

  But you have a box of condoms. Sure he did. He might have been convinced he would never have sex with Willow again, but he wasn’t stupid. He’d bought condoms when he’d bought the pill. No way was he risking impregnating her. If he hadn’t already...

  His body throbbed hard, as if telling him he should take her any way he could get her. It was that primal urge to show the world that this woman was his. Only she wasn’t. She could never be.

  And it wasn’t fair to lead her on just so he could satisfy his body’s urges.

  But this wasn’t just about his urges. Her racing pulse wasn’t the only clue as to how much she wanted him. Her gasps were enhanced by soft, sweet moans. Her hips lifted to cradle his. Her hands clutched at his forearms, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away.

  All he had to do was press his mouth over hers and it would happen. He’d be slow this time, thorough enough to learn every inch of her curvy body. An experience neither of them would forget...

  Which was why he forced his body back, pulled his mouth away from that delectable skin. He couldn’t do this to himself, and he wouldn’t do this to her. Words wouldn’t come. He simply rolled to his feet and stood with fists clenched in an effort not to change his mind.

  She lay frozen on the bed for a long moment. The only sound in the room was the two of them struggling for air. Was she confused? Afraid to provoke him? Working her way back to sanity right along with him? From the incredible response of her body to his, probably the latter.

  Please let it be the latter.

  Finally she propped herself up on her elbow. He could sense her gaze, even though he couldn’t see more than a faint outline in the darkness of the room. This wasn’t like the mainland. There wasn’t any ambient light to turn the shadows gray. It was pitch-black, especially when there was only a sliver of moon like tonight.

  “Are you okay now?” she asked.

  Like the instant a match meets its striker, anger flared. At himself...for caving in to weakness. For letting the nightmare in. At her...for being the very thing he needed. For being the very thing he shouldn’t have.

  “You shouldn’t have come in here,” he said, his voice low and gravelly. The desire that burned so close to the surface transformed easily into the aggression he needed to keep himself from taking her. He didn’t know how else to burn it off, so he let her be the object of his desire...and his rage.

  He wasn’t the only one who was angry. She shot up off the bed onto her feet. “I shouldn’t have come in here? When I heard you yelling behind a closed door? Excuse me for caring.”

  “Why would you?” While he said it as a challenge, part of him truly wanted to know. He was fully aware of how callously he treated her. The constant hot and cold. Why would she care about someone like him being in pain?

  “I have no idea.” Exhaustion seemed to weigh her down. But she tossed one more retort over her shoulder as she made for the door. “Next time I’ll just leave you to be strangled in your sleep.”

  “It would be better than the alternative.”

  She froze. His eyes had adjusted to the dark enough that he could see her stop, though he sensed the lack of movement more than anything. Her next words told him everything he couldn’t see in her expression. “I didn’t realize that being close to me was so repulsive. I’ll do my best to help you avoid this situation in the future.”

  Her deliberate misconstruction of his statement only added fuel to his temper. “That would be helpful,” he snarled. “It’s all your fault. If you hadn’t come here with all your questions and prying and stubbornness...”

  He dropped onto the edge of the bed, grateful the pitch-black hid the moisture that welled in his eyes. Still he rubbed his palms against them for good measure. “I miss him. I’d blocked it out for years, remembering only what I had to and now—” he pounded his fist against the mattress “—this. I haven’t had this nightmare in forever. Why did you have to come here?”

  Despite his accusations, she edged closer. “It shouldn’t stay locked away, Tate. He was your brother.”

  “He was my biggest mistake. Losing him should have marked the end of my life.”

  “No.”

  The pressure inside him reached explosive levels. “It has to,” he yelled. “I can’t live like this. With the memories and emotions and pain. I want to go back to being numb.”

  “But was that really living?”

/>   Ten

  I wonder what kind of mood His Highness is in today.

  Willow knew she had an attitude, but it was beyond her to do anything about it. Tate might have finally pushed her past her limits. Either that or she had the worst case of PMS known to the history of womankind.

  Still, the man was driving her nuts. As she climbed the stairs to collect the laundry from his dressing room, instances from the last few days played through her mind. Tate had literally skulked like a schoolboy after their last confrontation. Willow would know—she’d dealt with this type of behavior all the time in her freshman classes.

  Tate should have grown up by now, but the isolated lifestyle he’d set up for himself kept him from having to evolve his face-to-face communication skills.

  That was only her opinion, of course. Possibly influenced by her bad mood, but still justifiable based on his actions.

  Several times each day, she asked herself why she didn’t just leave. Or why he didn’t send her away. She couldn’t speak for him, but she still had things she needed to accomplish here. If she could just find the opportunity... Even though he spent so much time in his office, she was afraid to breach the third floor with him so close. She’d never been the person who got away with things. Somehow, she always ended up getting caught.

  She had explored the entirety of the first and second floor rooms, though. Her lack of findings told her that what she really needed, if any evidence remained at all, was hidden in the historical wealth stored on the third floor.

  She refused to let her sisters down. Willow had always been one to go the extra mile for others, even if she was too afraid to do something for herself. Maybe that’s why she stayed. Having seen the man behind the angry facade, some of the pain and fear Tate carried around with him on a daily basis, Willow didn’t feel comfortable simply walking away. Tate needed someone...even if he refused to admit it.