Exes (Billionaire Romance #3)

by Aria Hawthorne

  The underwater lights glinted off his blue eyes as he watched and waited, daring her to strip down in front of him.

  “For now, I think it might be a better idea if I just kept it on.” She gazed upwards at the grand gilt bronze wall clock. “It is getting late and I’m a working girl with a very important commission this morning.”

  “Work, work, work, work—” He drifted across the pool with a casual backstroke. “Why on earth would you want to work when you could just play hooky with me instead?”

  “Harvey,” she said, sitting down along the tiled ledge of the pool. “You know I can’t do that.”

  “Sure you can,” he retorted, gliding over toward her. “Who’s going to miss us?”

  “My father. And Jacques. And likely your beast witch of a real estate lawyer.”

  “Beast witch, huh?” He unexpectedly reached out to snag her hand. He was so much taller and stronger, and without much difficulty, he drew her into the pool and settled his lips against the hollow of her neck. “Well…she’s actually my date to the Anderson gala tonight, but I’d much rather take you.”

  “Exactly my point,” she said, her voice rising in pitch as the water saturated her skin through her robe. “I’m supposed to be going with Jacques. And if we don’t stop now, it’s going to create a huge conflict of interest.”

  Unwrapping her like a candy bar, he pulled off the robe and enveloped her into his arms. The sultry temperature of the water and the sleek, firm surface of his chest soothed her senses.

  “There’s already a huge conflict of interest. My dick wants you and you’re not cooperating.”

  He consumed her with lusty kisses, swordfighting her tongue with long swirling strokes, until she finally kissed him back. After an endless session of passion and desire, he bobbed their weightless bodies deeper into the water.

  “Don’t you want to make sure that neither one of us does something that we regret?”

  “No, the complete opposite,” he replied, rocking his swelling cock against her sex. “I’m an opportunistic egocentric billionaire. My entire net worth is built on actions that I regret. It’s what we billionaires do best.”

  “No, you billionaires excel at world domination. The rest of us are just left to regret it.”

  He carried her to the main pool entrance, a broad white marble staircase in the shallow end of the pool. “I’m pretty sure you don’t regret my domination last night.” Spreading her body across the steps, he smothered her with his chest before slipping his fingers between her legs and alleviating every reason she should regret last night.

  “Harvey…” she moaned and fluttered her eyes. “We can’t do this again. We can’t—”

  “Too late. Regrettable actions are already in full progress.”

  “Harvey—” she insisted again, this time, wedging his chin between her fingers, just to be sure he understood her.

  “I’m not on the pill.”

  He stopped sucking her nipples and blinked.

  “I’m sorry. I should have told you last night.”

  Rolling off her into the shallow water, he sighed like he was pretending to care about their dilemma. “You told me a lot of things last night. You made fun of my feet. You tried to convince me that we weren’t having make-up sex. I had a hard time shutting you up, kinda like now.” He brushed back her hair and whispered kisses along her shoulder, pressing the tip of his persistent erection against her clit.

  “But that was last night, and now, it’s the morning….and we should really try to be more responsible.”

  “Or we could just try to be as irresponsible as possible, so we can have lots and lots babies and let your sister babysit them. Then you won’t be able to refuse me when I offer to marry you again.”

  He rotated her into his arms and gazed intensely into her eyes.

  Did he just offer to marry her again? Alma asked herself.

  Everything fell into slow motion, including the ring tone of Harvey’s phone on the lounge chair, lighting up with “Welcome to the Jungle” by Guns N’ Roses.

  Alma shook herself free from his embrace and peered at the distraction.

  “It’s my beast witch of a real estate lawyer.” He frowned, acknowledging that it had ruined the intimate moment between them. “She usually sends texts, but calls when there’s bad news.”

  “Then you better answer it.”

  He stared at her. She stared at him. The distinctive screech of Axl Rose’s voice foretold their doom.

  “I’ll let it go to voice mail,” he finally said. Their playful banter cooled as he exited the pool and wrapped a towel around his waist.

  An awkward pang of jealousy surged in her heart. Harvey had changed his phone number after their divorce, and it suddenly seemed unfair that his real estate lawyer had access to it all this time, but Alma officially didn’t.

  Pressing the phone against his ear, he waited and listened to the message while his expression turned grim.

  Without saying a word, he tossed his phone back onto the lounge chair and paced away from her.

  Alma remained in the pool, eyeing his intentional distance. “No wonder you’d prefer to take me to tonight’s gala instead of her,” she said, attempting to lighten the mood. “If a mere voice mail from her has this effect on you, I can’t imagine what it’s like when you both are in the same room.”

  “My buyers for the riverfront parcel are pulling out of the deal unless we close tomorrow morning,” he relayed, devoid of emotion. “And we can’t close tomorrow unless Jacques retracts his cease and desist summons for historical preservation of the train depot with the City.”

  Alma nodded, as if she almost expected it. Her biggest fear had been realized, and now, the only uncertainty was Harvey’s reaction. “And he’ll be using my evaluation to bolster his case.”

  “Yep,” he said, attempting to dampen his annoyance—and failing. “Just like you said he would.”

  “Harvey—” she said slowly, noting the way he refused to make eye contact. “If Jacques doesn’t hire me and my father to perform the evaluation, he’ll just find someone else who will. You know that, right?”

  “Yep. One of the many, many, many dozens of other stained glass antique experts in Chicago.” His sarcasm wounded her.

  “I still might be able to help you,” she offered, hearing her own voice crack.

  “Help me how, Alma?

  She hesitated, sensing he was angry at the world, which included her. “Even if my father and I determine that the building has historical value, we could propose alternative options that might give you some leeway—”

  He scoffed. She had seen that look before during their marital fights. His pride was at stake and he didn’t appreciate her pity. “Look, Alma…I appreciate your concern, but this issue comes down to two things: my private property and my public reputation. And I’ll be damned if I let anyone stop me from doing exactly what I want. Especially not somebody who eats French croissants.”

  He tore off his towel and rubbed his head dry. It was hard to take him seriously when his dark hair was pointing in every direction, like he’d just been electrocuted. And yet, she knew better than to directly debate his Libertarian sense of entitlement.

  “Harvey…I like eating French croissants,” she replied, opting to remind him that he needed less enemies and more allies.

  “Yeah,” he said, watching her exit the pool. “And I like eating your French croissant, so I’ll give you a pass.”

  He handed her a towel and gazed at her. She accepted it and gazed at him. He wasn’t fighting against her. He was fighting against the world who had no right—in his eyes—to meddle in his business affairs.

  “So what will you do?”

  “If I have to…” he started to say before pausing, weighing the consequences of all his options. “I’ll destroy the building and let Jackass Jacques and the City of Chicago sue me.”

  She closed her eyes in pain. “Please, Harvey…don’t say that.” When she opened
them again, she hoped against all hope that she wouldn’t recognize the ruthless businessman she had divorced.

  “I’ll still try to save you the windows, Alma,” he interjected, softening his tone, “but not if Jacques pushes me against the clock and I have to bulldoze the damn thing myself in the dead of night to get my deal closed.”

  She stared into his cold, hard eyes. “You would do that, wouldn’t you?” But it wasn’t really a question because she already knew the answer.

  “Yes, I would,” he finally confirmed. “I absolutely would.”

  Their eyes locked and she gazed at him, feeling her emotions change from disappointment to heartbreak.

  “But you promised…” Her voice trailed off into a whisper, knowing it didn’t matter to him. In an instant, they had turned from passionate reunited lovers to bitter exes with irreconcilable differences.

  Of course they had…she thought as he broke eye contact and brushed past her toward the master bedroom, seeking his clothes and an end to their stalemate glares. It had always been this way. And it would always be this way.

  Had she been a fool to believe that he could change?

  She definitely felt foolish, standing alone by the pool with sodden hair and shivering breath, protected only by a flimsy hotel towel and her utter lack of surprise, especially the moment she heard the door of the honeymoon suite slam shut behind him.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  When Harvey arrived at the train depot, he fully intended to make good on his threat to Alma. The bulldozer was still parked outside from earlier that week. He still had the keys. He simply had lost the conviction to do something about it—until now.

  It wasn’t her fault, she was just a pawn, he thought, trudging through the overgrowth of prairie grass toward the front entrance. But that didn’t mean he was going to roll over and let that righteous, twerpy Frenchman ruin the closing of his one hundred-million-dollar deal. He had been willing to compromise—for her sake. He had been willing to organize the removal and the delivery of the stained-glass windows to Enrique’s auction warehouse—and into her care. And that would have been enough, Harvey fumed, shoving open the heavy walnut door with a creaking groan. Enough for her and enough for him. And instead of standing there, in the middle of a glorified shanty with fancy windows, he would have been back at the Palmer House’s honeymoon suite, making love to his ex-wife in the hot tub, strategizing how and where he planned to propose to her again.

  And she would have accepted, he nodded before shaking his head in disgust. If it hadn’t been for motherfucking French fuckwad Jackass Jacques.

  He shouted a frustrated series of indecipherable expletives that quivered the rotting rafters. Pigeons scampered. Flaking ceiling plaster drizzled onto his head.

  “Thank you for that welcome, Harvey.”

  Brushing the pebbles of debris out of his hair, he turned and spotted Alma’s father in the doorway. “You shouldn’t be surprised, Enrique. You’ve known me long enough to know that I’m not the type to roll out the red carpet and serve you tea and crumpets.”

  “And definitely not croissants,” Alma uttered sarcastically, emerging from behind her father.

  “Yeah, especially not when you’re working for the enemy,” Harvey shot back.

  Enrique considered Harvey’s abrasive tone and the way Alma brushed past him without acknowledging him. He sighed, realizing there would be no quick truce. “Which is why I brought your favorite drink instead. Black, no sugar. Pinch of salt.” Enrique passed the take-away coffee cup to Harvey. He accepted it.

  That was Enrique. A gracious gentleman to his core.

  Savoring the extra hint of salt, Harvey sipped it while stealing a glance over at Alma. It tasted like her skin, he thought, reminding himself of last night, whether she cared to acknowledge it or not. She was the only person in the world who knew he liked salt in his coffee. Clearly, she told her father. It seemed like a meager consolation in the wake of her refusal to look at him. But he’d take it. Everything about her was business as usual—baggy overalls, glossy red-framed glasses, ponytail as well as her silent determination to despise him.

  “Where is your French fry of a leader, anyway?” Harvey sniped. “I expected him to be here, gloating in his beret and women’s panties.”

  “Oh, he wanted to come,” Enrique confirmed, removing two hard hats with headlamps from his duffle bag and handing one off to Alma. “He called us this morning, telling us he planned to meet us here, asking us how long we intended to stay. But Alma cut him off. She threatened not to participate if he was going to be present during our visit.”

  “Why? Does a man who likes to wear women’s underwear creep you out?” Harvey lobbed his question at Alma, attempting to force her into the conversation.

  “Not as much as men who pride themselves on wearing no underwear.” Flicking on the headlamp of her hard hat, she directed it onto Harvey’s crotch. He peered down at the spotlight. She knew him well. He always went commando in jeans.

  “Neither one of us works well under pressure,” Enrique clarified, stepping between them and redirecting Alma’s light onto the floor. “And the circumstances surrounding this particular evaluation are already rather…unusual.”

  “You mean, the fact that I could claim conflict of interest since I used to be married to your daughter and she still hates me? Or are you referring to the fact that the property is obviously a worthless old train depot that I should have flattened three days ago, but instead, I got played like a man-doll?” Harvey kicked up his glare to the window in the balcony, remembering the reason he had stalled the demolition in the first place.

  “Only because you were acting like a man-child,” Alma huffed under her breath.

  “Better than a man-whore, which you originally assumed. So I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “You could still claim conflict of interest,” Enrique offered. “But it would only drag out the process more. And right now, it sounds like you need to clear your title as fast as possible, which I’m pretty certain I can accomplish for you in five minutes.”

  “If you can clear my title in five minutes, Enrique, then forget marrying your daughter again. I’ll marry you instead.”

  Alma scorned him with her familiar laser-beam glare. Enrique saw their exchange and interjected his opinion. “Jacques Blanc has specifically requested an official evaluation from me regarding the building’s historical significance as one of the original train depots along the North Western Line. But the good news is that I don’t think I will be able to support Jacques’ request for preservation based on the historical significance of the structure as a train depot because I do not believe this building is actually a train depot at all.”

  “Papi?” Alma cried out, as if he had just defected and joined the enemy. “How can you be so sure so quickly?”

  “Because Chicago’s first railway lines were constructed in the 1830s and all the depots along it were built not long after.” Enrique lifted his gaze to the ornamental ironwork of the balcony’s railing. “And most of them burned to the ground like the rest of the city during the Great Chicago Fire of 1871. This building is constructed of brick, which was used exclusively after the fire, and employs a curious neo-classical architectural style, which clearly dates its construction sometime in the 1880s, maybe into the 1890s. And it was clearly constructed for some other purpose. A train depot was meant to shelter passengers until the steam engines arrived, often hours and hours behind schedule, but there are no signs of built-in benches and no fireplaces to warm passengers.”

  Enrique studied the sweeping arched ceiling and prominent upper loft. Where there had once been a rainbow of color shining through the balcony’s stained-glass window, there was now only flat dull light, seeping in like a cloudy haze from the rainy spring morning. “No, this building was obviously made for a reason more sacred, like a chapel or private memorial. But not as a train depot during the height of America’s Industrial Revolution.”

  He removed
his reading glasses and a copy of the official “Cease and Desist” notice from his pocket. “Jacques’ summons specifically states that my evaluation should determine whether or not the structure located on your property is a historical remnant of the Chicago & North Western Railway. And I can say without a doubt…” he paused, flipping over the proposal and scribbling two sentences. He held out the paper to Harvey like a victory flag. “This building is not,” he punctuated with his definitive signature.

  “So are you telling me you just called bullshit on Jacques’ preservation proposal?” Harvey stared at him, unable to fathom that simple technicality would shield him from Jacques’ political encroachment.

  “I am simply doing my job, Harvey,” Enrique said, like a well-trained diplomat. “I’ll leave the bullshit to you.”

  He turned and headed for the door, stopping only when Alma called after him.

  “But what about the windows, Papi? It’s obvious that the windows have historical value.”

  “Oh, I’m not saying the building doesn’t have historical significance,” Enrique unexpectedly agreed. “And yes, the windows are clearly something of merit. But I am not the expert in antique glass. You are, mi amor. But we were not summoned by Jacques’ notice to render our opinion on the windows unless that opinion bolstered his theory that this building is a piece of railway history. And you know as well as I do that they do not.” Enrique glanced at his watch. “That took four minutes and thirty-five seconds. And although I have no interest in marrying you, Harvey, I will accept an offer to buy me lunch.”

  “Lunch, dinner, a brand-new sports car…whatever you want, El Che.”

  “Just lunch, Harvey. This is Chicago, after all. You are my former son-in-law and a brand-new sports car would look like a bribe. And regarding lunch…I will need to accept a rain check because I believe you and my daughter may need more time here—alone. So, I will go now to drop off my written expert opinion to City Hall this afternoon. You will have a clear title by five o’clock. In the meantime, I expect that you will give Alma a ride home in that fancy speedboat of yours, won’t you?”