No Dreams Allowed: A Billionaire Romance

by Sonora Seldon

  Dave kissed the top of my head, reassured me he wasn’t going anywhere, and encouraged me to watch him while he walked a few feet away, so I could be sure he wasn’t disappearing on me like everything else in my world just had.

  His back to me, he talked to somebody, somewhere – I had no idea who he knew or could call, or what good they could do when the world had imploded and all, but I let him talk. It didn’t feel important anyway.

  Back at my side a few minutes later, he tried to hand the phone back to me. I shook my head and I managed only two words this time: “Keep it.” No one who’d call me – banks, the landlord, beverage suppliers and bill collectors, the usual dregs of society – had anything to say that I wanted to hear.

  No one I wanted to talk to was still alive. Sorry I got your dream blown up, Mom and Dad.

  A ratcheting thunder that sounded like every war movie ever dropped down on us from the sky, somewhere around three in the morning, or maybe earlier, or much later – all I knew was that it was still dark, and I was still utterly lost. Lights splayed down on us from above, the small crowd that had gathered to watch my life blow up oohed and aahed, and then a honking huge white and blue helicopter thumped down onto the road right in front of us, like a visitor from another world.

  Dave squeezed my shoulder, he leaned down to talk right into my ear, and I could barely hear his voice over the rhythmic hammering of the rotor blades. “Our ride’s here, c’mon.”

  I let him lead me over to the helicopter. I followed him as we stepped up into the cabin and were greeted by some guy in an official-looking jumpsuit, and together we sat down in the closest pair of seats.

  I shivered. I leaned forward and wrapped my arms around my knees, I stared at the floor, and I felt it vibrating through the soles of my sneakers as the helicopter powered up for takeoff. None of it seemed real, and even with Dave’s powerful arms around me and his voice murmuring in my ear, I knew all of this had to be a dream.

  Kansas dropped away beneath us a few minutes later, and I never saw my home again.

  The logical, dealing-with-reality part of my brain clawed its way back into control as we landed … somewhere.

  “Dave, where are we?” The view out the nearest window showed rows of hangars stretching away into the night, lines upon lines of planes arranged on the tarmac beneath floodlights, and more fuel trucks, support vehicles, and mile-long runways than I’d ever seen before.

  This was not Kansas.

  “Welcome back, boss – and right now, we’re at Lambert Field in St. Louis, catching a flight back home. It’s a lucky break that the helicopter and its crew were already here for the air show, but to get all the way back to Chicago, we have to transfer to –”

  “I’m not going to the corner store until I hear an explanation of how a broke and currently unemployed homeless man can summon some sleek bitch of a helicopter out of the darkness and then wave his wand and put us on a flight to a huge and expensive city hundreds of miles away, and all without having so much as a wallet on him, much less a credit card or any ID.”

  Running lights sliced through the helicopter’s dimly lit cabin, and I turned from glaring at my provisional boyfriend to see a gleaming private jet rolling to a stop outside, parallel to the helicopter and only fifty feet away.

  Well, of course. Next, I figured Bill Gates would show up in his private rocket ship to fly us to the moon, while Channing Tatum fed me peeled grapes and Ryan Gosling gave me a hot-oil massage.

  Jumpsuit Man emerged from the helicopter’s flight deck. “Sir, I’m told the Gulfstream is ready for takeoff – and as always, it’s been a pleasure to fly with you.”

  “Gotcha, Bob, and thanks, you’re the best.” Dave stood up, shook the man’s hand, and added, “Sorry to get you out of bed in the middle of the night to haul us from Point A to Point B, but the past few hours have been crazy like you wouldn’t believe.”

  “I figured that out when I landed next to a pillar of fire and all those emergency vehicles – but ferrying you across the Midwest by moonlight beats taking the old man on a cross-town hop every time, particularly when he’s in one of his moods.”

  Dave rolled his eyes. “Tell me about it – that old bastard was born in a mood, right?”

  “I’d say so, sir.” Bob Somebody turned to me with a polite, professional smile. “Happy to be of service to you as well, Miss – you keep this young man on the straight and narrow, all right?”

  I forced a smile onto my face. “Sure thing, Bob – by the way, would you be willing to tell me what in the name of sanity is going on here?”

  His perfect smile never wavered. “I’m sure the gentleman will explain everything, Miss. Have a safe flight.”

  Dave got me out of the helicopter and onto the tarmac, but that was where I planted my feet and called a halt to the craziness.

  “Explanation time – why are we going to Chicago and what happens once we get there? And do you have any idea how many creditors are going to be howling for my blood once they realize I no longer have any income? By the way, my rent is due next week and I’ll be homeless the second the landlord finds out I can’t pay it, and the insurance won’t begin to cover what’s due on the bar, and –”

  And right about there, tears filled my eyes, my breathing got all hitchy and weird, and suddenly I was sobbing into Dave’s chest as he wrapped his arms around me.

  I felt his heart pounding as I buried my face against him. His ribs rose and fell beneath my arms, and I listened to the steady whisper of his breathing. He still carried a whiff of cheeseburger and deep fryers about him, and I felt traces of grease in his red Jayhawk Tavern t-shirt. I tried to hide in his scent and his warmth, hide from the world and life and whatever new nightmare was just around the corner.

  I breathed in the smell of grease and sweat, I listened to the low purr of the private jet’s engines, and then reality hit me.

  That smell of burgers and fries came from a kitchen and a life that were dead and gone, and also history. Those superbly tuned, state-of-the-art engines belonged to my future – a future in which all I had was this man I barely knew.

  My knees bobbled, I felt like the earth was spinning away from me, and I sagged against Dave in a fresh fit of bawling. What was I going to do?

  “Cassie?”

  “What, asshole?” I tried to put an angry spin on that, but it came out as a sniffly whine instead, and I hated sounding so weak.

  “Do you trust me?”

  “Two weeks ago, I took a chance and trusted a naked stranger – see where that got me?” I knew I wasn’t being entirely fair, but I was too tired and scared to give a shit.

  Dave didn’t object. He didn’t argue his innocence. Instead, he took a step back, moved his hands to my trembling shoulders, and looked down at me.

  “Cassie, you wouldn’t be standing in this spot right now if you’d done the smart thing and called the law on me, I know that. Want to hear what else I know?”

  I sniffed and coughed, and told myself not to let his overwhelming green eyes get to me. “Let me guess – you know I’m screwed?”

  “I know you’re the strongest person I’ve ever met. You’ve already survived things that would have knocked me right on my ass and you will survive this, I promise.”

  “I don’t see how.”

  “I do. You are so strong, Cassie – all I’m asking is just this once, let someone else be strong. Be strong enough to trust me one more time and let me make this right.”

  I wanted to do all those things. I wanted to let go, to fall back into his arms, and to hide there while he made all this go away, somehow.

  He brushed a curly strand of red hair away from my tear-streaked face. “Listen, it’s around five in the morning, and you’re exhausted and confused and dead on your feet. You need to sleep and be safe. I get that. All I’m asking right now is this – trust me to take you home to Chicago, and I’ll get you to where you can sleep for a day if you want, or two, or three. You’ll sleep, you’ll sh
ower and eat and then sleep some more, and you’ll be safe. Once you’ve done all that, once you’re rested and your head is clear, I’ll answer every last question you have for me – and then you, Cassie Hamilton, will decide what happens next. Sound good?”

  I listened to our breathing. I listened to the faint rumble of the Gulfstream’s engines. I listened to the night that was turning into an early morning, and to the sound of distant traffic

  I listened to my heart.

  Trusting him felt like stepping off a cliff.

  I did it anyway.

  “Take me home, Dave.”

  And he did.

  9

  Warm.

  Warm and close and safe, and soft as a cloud.

  Whatever this was, it felt amazing.

  I nestled deep into the softness. I pulled it close around me as I curled up into a ball and murmured like a purring kitten. Shadows held me safe, hiding me from … was I supposed to be hiding from something? Did it matter?

  I yawned into a down pillow, and decided it most definitely did not matter. Nothing mattered but all this softness and the shadows and the warmth. I turned over, spent a few drifting seconds reliving a dream I’d had about soaring over clouds and earth like a bird, and then spun back down into a place where I could live forever, curled up safe and tight beneath endless layers of feather-soft satin comforters.

  Cassie?

  Go away, sensible voice.

  Cassie, you don’t own a down pillow.

  I’m asleep, come back later.

  You also do not own even one satin comforter.

  Not listening.

  A dream where you’re flying is one thing, but what about that weird one where you rode up about a kazillion floors in an elevator and then stumbled into a huge penthouse apartment, found a strange bedroom, and fell asleep in your clothes? Remember that dream?

  It took every drop of willpower I had to peel one eye open

  Acres of satin comforters and silk sheets covered me. They smelled like spring roses and shone in deep, soothing shades of blue and green and dove-grey in the light streaming in through the window.

  What window? I didn’t have any windows in my bedroom, just peeling wallpaper and framed pictures of Mom and Dad and … the bar.

  The bar.

  No.

  An explosion of white light and roaring flames and memories crashed down on me. I shrank myself into the smallest curled-up bundle of panic I could manage, and I pulled the sheets and comforters over my head.

  Hide, Cassie. Hide here in the shadows and never come out.

  But you can’t hide from memories, and I did come out.

  It took a while, though.

  Baby steps are the way to go when you’re waking up into a live-action nightmare, so first I just sat up. I sat up, I pulled the comforters around me like a shield, and I looked around at a vast, emperor-of-the-universe-size bed.

  My eyes informed me that I was alone in this ocean of a bed, and that the room beyond was bigger than my entire apartment. An antique oak dresser complete with a giant silvered mirror stood along one cream-colored wall, with what must be a bathroom door next to it. The entrance to a mile-wide walk-in closet occupied the opposite wall, accent tables huddled tastefully in the corners, and behind the bed? Behind the bed’s mahogany headboard was more than just a window – it was an entire floor-to-ceiling wall of glass.

  After a few minutes, I got it together enough to scooch over to the edge of the bed and plant both of my feet on the floor. My toes sank into the thick, caressing depths of a forest-green carpet that oozed luxury, and then I stood up and wandered blearily over to the giant glass window, rubbing sleep out of my eyes.

  I stumbled to a stop against the glass, yawned again and stretched, and then made the mistake of looking down.

  A canyon reeled away beneath me, a plunging depth of stone and steel and concrete and glass. I planted my hands flat against the glass for balance, closed my eyes and ordered myself not to be dizzy, and then opened my eyes and took another look down.

  Chicago spread out below me, like a vast fairy-tale kingdom. I’d never seen it in person, only pictures in the news and online, but there was no mistaking the ribbon of pulsing traffic that was Lakeshore Drive, or the dark, wind-churned sea of Lake Michigan beyond. An army of skyscrapers like this one marched along the shore, and a manic grid of hundreds of streets coursed between them before vanishing into the distance in every direction.

  I edged a few inches to one side, still staring at the titanic city hundreds of feet below – and then I felt something beneath my forehead, something stuck to the window.

  I pulled back, I looked, and it was a note. A single yellow Post-It note clung to the glass, and I recognized the ragged handwriting scrawled across it in a heartbeat:

  Sweet view, huh? Don’t look down!

  My provisional boyfriend had helpfully signed the note ‘Dave’ and added an arrow pointing to a smiley face with scribbled-in long hair.

  I sighed and reminded myself that I probably shouldn’t murder him until he told me what was going on.

  After a closer, more-awake look around at the bedroom, I found other notes.

  The folding doors that granted admission to the walk-in closet sported a yellow square of paper that announced:

  Clothes for you in here, hope the sizes are right. Wear something lacy and sinful underneath, just for me!

  That one had a leering smiley face, because of course. I walked around to the oak dresser that was as big as your average small car, peered at the equally huge mirror above it, and discovered another Post-It:

  Here’s where you can admire your gorgeous body, plus you can use the drawers to store all the sex toys we’ll go out and buy later!

  I refused to allow myself even the smallest smile. I rolled my eyes instead, walked over to the bathroom door, and found the final note:

  I knew you’d have to pee sooner or later! Shower up, think of me while you’re lathering your naughty bits, and then come out to the kitchen for food and answers! Or lots and lots of bone-melting sex, whichever!

  Dream on, goofball. I’m in a major life situation here, and I need to figure it out before engaging in any sweaty grappling.

  A shower, though – that sounded like a solid plan, and on the other side of that door I found a bathroom that was a shrine to the concept of clean. I saw gold and glass and silver and Italian marble everywhere, as well as one of those futuristic Japanese toilets featuring a dozen computerized settings for God knows what, and a whirlpool massage tub with adjustable water jets, mood lighting, and a 32-inch LED TV with floating remote control. Once I was done gawking, I spent what felt like forever soaking under a dozen needling sprays of sizzling hot water in a glass-walled steam shower big enough for ten of me After drying off with a deliciously thick and toasty Turkish towel I found draped over a heated brass towel rack, I decided that yes, even a no-nonsense girl like me could get used to this much decadence.

  More sinful excess waited in the walk-in closet, where I discovered that most of the clothes looked like they’d actually fit me, more or less. Outfits suitable for everything from a backyard barbecue to a party at the White House, shoes ranging from sneakers to designer heels that would send me sprawling onto my face if I tried to walk in them, and lots of lacy underthings that would definitely put Dave’s hormones into overdrive – having so many choices was overwhelming.

  I would have felt like a fraud in the fancier stuff, so I went with safe and practical instead. I eased into stretchy jeans, pulled on a crisp new Land’s End shirt, and stepped into a pair of Nike running shoes, so I’d be both comfortable and ready to sprint for my life – you know, in case more apocalyptic stuff happened.

  Now all I had to do was face the outside world and find out what was going on.

  Once I pulled the bedroom door closed behind me, finding Dave turned out to be easy – I followed the smell of syrup and pancakes and bacon, and the sound of … voices.

 
Voices, as in plural – as in Dave’s muffled voice a few rooms and halls away, and another voice, one that was laughing and female.

  Oh, hell and no – if you’re a girlfriend or a fuck buddy or some other kind of slut he’s been lying about, you are dead, lady. Very dead. Dead and buried and unmourned, with stray dogs lifting their legs on your tombstone and Dead Lying Cook Dave planted right next to you.

  Fists clenched and ready for murder, I marched through a maze of hallways, turned one last corner, and emerged into a combination kitchen and dining room that didn’t take up a bit more space than your average small country. Swirling designs in bone white and cream and grey spilled across the walls, a glass-topped table long enough to host an NFL team dominated the dining area, and the twists of copper and steel that surrounded the table and served as chairs were empty.

  The pancake action was taking place at the island counter that divided the kitchen from the dining area – there, Dave and a disgustingly tall and thin blonde I immediately slated for death sat across from each other, perched atop long-legged stools as they forked down buttery mouthfuls of pancakes and shared something that was apparently funny as hell.

  Convince me it’s funny, lady – just try, I’m begging you.

  Dave spotted me first. “Wow, my passionate monkey lover is showered and awake, sweet! Do you want to fuel up on buttermilk pancakes drowning in Canadian maple syrup first, or do we skip straight to the part where you wrap your legs around me and howl like a wild thing while we make mad love right here?”

  He smacked the flat of his left hand on the counter right next to his plate, indicating exactly where we would be getting all busy. He wolfed down two strips of bacon, chewed thoughtfully, and added, “I’m voting for the sex-right-now option – what do you say, boss?”

  He flashed that grin that could melt any straight woman alive into a randy puddle, but I ordered myself to stand firm and demand an explanation for –