The Billionaire's Allure (The Silver Cross Club Book 5)

by Bec Linder

  “I think you should put this book aside for a while,” she said. “Give it some space to breathe. Write the story that’s heavy in your heart. You need to set that on paper before you can write anything else.”

  I left the coffee shop feeling rebuked. Claudia had told me to bring her something totally new, and I had, and she still didn’t like it. Maybe I just wasn’t cut out to be a writer.

  That wasn’t true. Even if I never published anything, I would still write. I couldn’t imagine doing anything else.

  Darya was outside on the sidewalk, tapping at her phone. She looked up when I came through the door and smiled at me. “I hope you don’t mind me waiting for you,” she said. “I thought—would you like to go get some dinner? I have some new work, and I’d like an opinion on it before I share it with the rest of the group. And I can read your chapter that you brought. If you’d like.”

  I didn’t really want to. I wanted to go home and lick my wounds in private, maybe eat a pint of ice cream in front of the television. But Darya looked so eager, and I felt bad about continually turning her down. She was shy, and it seemed like she had a hard time making friends, and I understood how that was. I was shy, too. Maybe it would be good for me to finally make a friend.

  So I said, “Okay. Sure. Dinner sounds really nice.”

  We went to a diner a few blocks away, where we could sit at a big booth and have room to spread out. I ordered a grilled cheese and fries, and Darya ordered a huge stack of blueberry pancakes. She was so thin and delicate that I was shocked when she demolished the entire plate.

  “I have a big appetite,” she said when she was finished, a little rueful.

  “Don’t apologize,” I said. “I’m proud of you for that truly epic feat of eating. I’m always full after two pancakes, and it makes me really sad. You should start entering eating contests.”

  She smiled. “I did, once. In college. It was a contest to eat hot dogs.”

  “And?” I asked.

  “I won,” she said.

  When we were finished eating, we pushed our plates aside and swapped papers. Darya was working on a story about a woman who had a phantom pregnancy, and how the experience impacted her relationship with her husband. Like all of Darya’s stories, it was gentle, slow-moving, and so well-written that it made me sick with jealousy.

  The story was unfinished, only a few pages long at this point, and I finished before Darya finished reading my chapter. Then I had to sit there and squirm while she flipped through the pages. Dinner hadn’t been a good idea.

  She finished at last and looked up from the papers. “What did Claudia say when you talked to her about this?”

  My heart sank. That wasn’t a good sign. “She told me to give up on this book,” I said. “She told me I should write what’s really in my heart.” Whatever that meant.

  “I don’t agree with giving up on this one,” Darya said, “but as for the other, yes, I agree with her. You’re fighting with this book, I think.”

  “Writing is supposed to be a battle,” I said. “If it’s easy, it isn’t any good.”

  “I don’t know if that’s true,” Darya said. “Maybe it is. Maybe fight a different battle for a while.”

  I wanted to argue with her, but I didn’t know what I could say that wouldn’t sound ungrateful. “Okay,” I said. “Maybe you’re right. I’ll think about it.”

  “Good,” she said, and smiled. “Now, what about my story? Please don’t hold back!”

  Later, walking home in the dark, I looked up at the night sky and searched for the stars. There was too much light pollution to see many, but there were always a few, on clear nights, bright enough to shine through. Or maybe they were satellites, wheeling on their endless orbits through space.

  I would fix my book. I would make it so good that nobody could say anything bad about it. I didn’t understand what it meant to have a story in my heart. Like my chest was a tiny bookcase, and I could open it and reach inside and pull out the perfect novel. Art didn’t work like that. Or anatomy.

  I would just have to struggle through.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Max

  Beth had been ignoring me for a week, and it was making me crazy.

  She ignored my text messages. She ignored my voice mail. She even ignored my desperate attempt—not my finest hour—to get in touch with her by leaving a note with her mother.

  “Are the two of you having a fight?” Donna asked, peering up at me.

  “Well,” I said.

  “That won’t do,” she said. “What was it? No, don’t tell me. I’ll give her the note. Now why don’t you come upstairs and see how that plant you gave me is doing?”

  So that was that. My last, nuclear option was showing up at her work—or, possibly worse, her apartment. I wasn’t ready to do that quite yet.

  I probably would be pretty soon.

  I just wasn’t willing to let this be the end. I understood why she was angry with me, and she had every right to be—I had made some poor decisions—but there was no way in hell I was going to give up now. It was really quite simple. I could easily live without her. I had done it for years. I hadn’t put my life on hold while I waited to find her again. I had made money, screwed beautiful women, traveled all over the world. It was a fairly nice life, actually. Enjoyable. Enviable. Most men would kill to be where I had been. But just because I could live without her didn’t mean I wanted to. She made everything richer, brighter. She made baby angels sing inside my heart. I would do whatever it took to get her back.

  Up to and including blackmail, kidnapping, or international drug trafficking.

  Was I joking? Sort of. Not entirely.

  I sent her another text message. Please call me. I’m prepared to grovel.

  No response.

  I threw myself into work. Kwame and I were applying for a big grant to help expand the shelter, and I spent three nights sleeping in my office while we ironed the kinks out of the final draft. The whole situation was farcical. I had more than enough money to buy the building next door and do a complete remodel, but Kwame thought the city would take us more seriously if we had external funding to prove our legitimacy. He also had a good point that my wealth wasn’t infinite, and whatever I didn’t spend on the expansion could be devoted to other projects. That didn’t make me feel any better when I was in the depths of attempting to justify the shelter’s mission. I hated writing grants.

  “This will all be over soon, my friend,” Kwame said, clapping me on the shoulder. “It’s worth it. The kids like it, you know. Seeing you stumble out of your office in the morning after a sleepless night. It tells them you’re working hard, and that you won’t abandon them.”

  “I’m glad they find reassurance in my suffering,” I said. “Please tell me you brought me another cup of coffee.”

  “You know I’m looking out for you,” Kwame said, and handed me a mug.

  So that kept me busy for a few days. But then it had been a week and half, and there was still no word from Beth, and I was only flesh and blood, after all. I got impatient. I missed her. I wanted to see her again, and kiss her sweet face.

  What I did next was not my proudest moment.

  I went to see her at the club.

  I knew it was a terrible idea even as I did it. I was desperate. Beth would ignore me until kingdom come if she felt like it, and I couldn’t bear it. She was mine. I would grovel as much as she wanted if only she would come back to me.

  I went on a Wednesday. Beth had told me that was usually a slow day at the club, and when I arrived, a little before 7, I immediately spotted two waitresses loitering at the bar. Good for my purposes, because it meant I could steal Beth away with relative ease, but also bad, because they would be monitoring my every move, and I knew how much Beth hated being gossiped about. Dramatic gestures didn’t work with her. She just got embarrassed.

  My gesture wouldn’t be dramatic. But it would hopefully convey a message.

  I took a seat at
the bar and ordered a rum and Coke. I recognized the bartender from my previous excursions at the club, and from the way he was scowling, I was pretty sure he recognized me. He didn’t punch me, though, or shake his fist and curse like the villain in an old Western. He just made my drink.

  Part of me was a little disappointed. I would have liked an excuse to make a scene. But I was also happy to nurse my drink and lie in wait.

  I scanned the room, searching for Beth. The club wasn’t the most well-lit of places, and all of the waitresses wore black, making them blend into the background at times. But then I saw her, out on the floor talking to a customer, and my stomach clenched. I felt a sudden surge of possessiveness so powerful that it was all I could do to stay on my barstool instead of marching over there, throwing her over my shoulder, and taking her home with me.

  My hand tightened around my glass. Beth held her tray braced against one hip, and her head was tipped to the side, a small smile on her lips as she listened to the customer. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a tidy knot of braids. She wore a simple sheath dress that skimmed her curves, hinting seductively at what lay underneath. I could visualize undressing her. I would set my hand on the tab of the zipper at the nape of her neck, and draw it down slowly, until the dress puddled at her feet.

  This was a terrible idea. I drained my glass and tossed a bill on the bar. It was time to leave.

  Beth turned away from the customer, still smiling, and took a step toward the bar.

  Too late.

  I knew the instant she saw me, because the smile slid right off her face.

  She walked up to me and dropped her tray on the bar, where it wobbled in a circle. “What are you doing here?”

  I had gotten myself into this stupid situation, and now I would just have to brazen my way through it. “I’m here to see you.”

  “Very cute,” she said. “I don’t have time for this.”

  I did another slow scan of the half-empty room, my eyebrows raised, and then said, “It actually looks like you’ve got a lot of time tonight.”

  I knew I was being outrageous. If she had told me then to get out, I would have. But instead, and to my total surprise, she smiled, a small and reluctant smile, like she couldn’t help herself. “You’re unbelievable. I’m working.”

  “I know,” I said. “Give me ten minutes.”

  She pursed her lips. “Fine. Let’s go into the back.”

  I intended to talk to her. I really did. I was going to argue my case, apologize to her, and try to convince her to stop giving me the cold shoulder. She led me to one of the private rooms in the back of the club, and I planned my opening sentence. But as soon as she closed the door behind us, all of my good intentions evaporated like so much smoke. She had that stubborn set to her chin that I couldn’t resist, and it had been more than a week since I’d last had her in my bed. Far too long a time.

  I kissed her. I knew I shouldn’t have, but I did it anyway, and as soon as my lips touched hers, there was no turning back.

  She let out a sigh, and twined her arms around my neck.

  Green light, full steam ahead.

  I wanted to hold her, touch her. I wanted to feel her come apart against me. I slid my hands down her hips to the hem of her dress, and then slid them underneath and up her smooth, bare thighs. I went slowly, teasing her, dragging my nails lightly across her skin.

  She shuddered. I moved my mouth down her neck, kissing and sucking. She turned her head to the side to give me better access. “Max…”

  Talking wasn’t on the agenda. I slid my fingers higher until there was nowhere else to go. The fabric of her panties was already damp between her thighs. I stroked her through the cotton, knowing it wasn’t enough for her, enjoying the way she squirmed and pushed her hips against my hand. Then I pushed the fabric out of the way and touched her directly.

  It didn’t take long. I could tell from the noises she made that she was already on the edge—Christ, just from me kissing her and groping her a little bit. My Beth. Her body knew she belonged to me, even if she was still trying to deny it. I stroked at her and slid two fingers inside her tight heat to give her something to bear down on, and she breathed in sharp gasps and tensed against me and came on my hand.

  She clung to me, panting. When her breathing slowed, I drew my hand away and kissed her forehead. I knew what was going to happen next.

  As I predicted, she took a step back, putting several feet between us. “This wasn’t a good idea,” she said, smoothing her hands over her skirt, like I had somehow dirtied or wrinkled it with my touch.

  “It was a fantastic idea,” I said. My cock was achingly hard. I wanted to hike her skirt up again and bury myself inside her. “Please stop avoiding me. If you want to fight it out, we can do that. You can yell at me as much as you want. But don’t walk away from me now.”

  She shrugged, her hands still moving. She wouldn’t make eye contact. “I need to get back to work.”

  “Beth,” I said, reaching out to her, but she slipped through the door and was gone.

  * * *

  On Saturday, as always, I went home for brunch. Beth had sent me a single text message: Just give me some time. I was of the opinion that I’d already given her more than enough—almost two weeks, at that point—but she was doing her best Rock of Gibraltar imitation and refusing to budge. So be it.

  Rosemary greeted me at the door, wearing one of those floor-length caftans that were inexplicably in style. “Where’s your present for Mother? You remembered that it’s her birthday, didn’t you?”

  I froze. Shit. I had, in fact, forgotten completely.

  Rosemary read the guilt right off my face and had the audacity to laugh at me. “She’s out on the terrace with Jack right now. She doesn’t know you’re here. You can still go out and buy something. Jack got her some food, and I got her toiletries, so I recommend flowers.”

  “You won’t sell me out, will you?” I asked. I fumbled my phone out of my pocket, and sure enough, there was the reminder: Mother’s birthday, May 21. Beth had me so distracted that I had forgotten all about it.

  “I’ll probably make you buy me some new shoes,” she said, “but I won’t tell.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Thanks, I guess.” It was 10:48; I had twelve minutes before I was officially “late.” That should be more than enough time to run down the street and buy some flowers.

  It was the season for peonies, which were my mother’s favorite flower. I bought a huge bouquet of cut stems, pale pink and sweet-smelling. When I returned to the apartment, my mother was just coming in from the terrace, coffee cup in one hand, her arm linked through Jack’s. She released him when she saw me and sailed across the room, her arms outstretched. “My eldest son, here at last!”

  I kissed her cheek and handed her the flowers. “I’m right on time, Mother. Happy birthday.”

  “You’re only on time if you’re early,” my father said from behind his newspaper.

  “Peonies!” my mother exclaimed. “Oh, Max. How did you know?”

  “Because you complain whenever someone brings you anything other than peonies,” Jack said. “Honestly, Mother. We aren’t totally unobservant.”

  “Only mostly,” Rosemary said, and Jack flipped her off.

  My mother pressed a hand against her chest, either feigning shock or genuinely incredulous that one of her children would do something so crass. “Jonathan Archibald—”

  “Why don’t we eat?” my father interrupted, setting aside his paper. “Breakfast smells delicious. Did you have Helen make croissants?”

  Helen was my parents’ housekeeper. “Isn’t she a wonder?” my mother said, distracted from scolding Jack by this talk of pastries. “Just as good as anything you’d get in Paris.”

  “Oh my God,” Rosemary said. “Can we just eat?”

  We ate. My mother went into the other room to find a vase for the peonies, which she then set in the middle of the table, blocking my view of Jack. It was just as well. He was g
oing through some sort of late growth spurt, and he shoveled food into his mouth with a focus that precluded conversation or even good table manners.

  Jack and Rosemary were both finished with classes for the semester and—as far as I could tell—doing very little but lazing around, and in Rosemary’s case, spending a lot of time lying on the terrace in a bikini. Without school as a topic of conversation, my mother focused her interrogation tactics on me. After a series of questions about my apartment, income, and diet, she said, “And what about that young lady you were telling me about? What did you say her name was—Beth, wasn’t it?”

  Jack and my father both kept eating, but Rosemary perked up and looked in my direction, one eyebrow raised, and I bit down on my tongue to keep myself from visibly reacting to my mother’s question. If Rosemary thought there was a good story here, she would hassle me about it until the end of time. “She’s doing well,” I said. “She’s a good friend. I haven’t seen her much lately. She’s busy with work.”

  “Who’s Beth?” Rosemary asked, and I took a sip of coffee to hide my dismay.

  “Beth is a young lady he knows from that unfortunate time in his life,” my mother said, the unfortunate time being her euphemism for my brief stint as a runaway.

  “Oh, you mean when he ran away, and we never talk about it,” Rosemary said.

  Silence. I set my coffee cup on its saucer. Jack kept eating. My father took a bite of his croissant and looked at me.

  “It’s stupid that we don’t talk about it,” Rosemary said, undaunted. “Why don’t we? Mother spent six months crying about it, and then he came back and it was like nothing ever happened.”

  “You were in a coma,” I said stiffly. “You don’t know what happened.”

  “Oh sure, you guys talked it all out in the one month I was in a coma,” she said. “I definitely believe that. And the fact that nobody has ever mentioned it since isn’t at all an indication of seething dysfunction. I know we’re WASPs, but this Stiff Upper Lip nonsense has gotten old.”

  “This isn’t the time or the place, Rosemary,” I said. I was hugely uncomfortable. This was not a conversation I ever wanted to have, much less during brunch on my mother’s birthday.