There was something about the woman’s expression—smugly triumphant—that he didn’t like. He took a closer look at her face.
And realized, with a thrill of horror, that it was Daphne.
Who must have already been in Journey’s End when she called him a few minutes ago.
4
Well, here she was again, Samira thought glumly as she sat on the sofa and tried to gather her thoughts.
Back in Baptiste’s hotel suite.
Oh, how times had changed.
The last time she was here (hard to believe it had only been a few days ago), she and Baptiste had spent an exquisite night lost in each other’s bodies, drunk with the excitement of experiencing a new lover for the first time.
And now?
Her body had turned into a cage, smothering her inside dread and misery.
Why? Because of Daphne, a former lover of Baptiste’s who liked to send him nude photos (unsolicited, he claimed) and show up uninvited at special events. Like a school of jellyfish along the shoreline in Panama City during spring break.
Oh, but what a day it had been up until now.
Baptiste had charmed the pants off her parents. Although, to be fair, he was good at that; he’d literally charmed the panties off Samira within an hour of meeting her.
Baptiste had even convinced Samira that he was beginning to care for her. He’d seemed so earnest in the car. So sincere. So captivated by her. Hah. Probably all tricks of his Gallic charm and those intense green eyes of his.
And what had happened?
Well, despite repeated stern warnings to herself, Samira had begun to soften toward him. Begun to think that what had started as a one-night stand between them could possibly turn into something more. Despite the fact that Baptiste was a rich European player and she was a regular woman from small-town New York. Despite the fact that he lived. On. Another. Continent.
Despite the fact that she was ostensibly a grown thirty-three-year-old woman who should know better, she’d begun to believe that he really liked her.
And all that only went to show how criminally naive Samira tended to be when given half the chance. It wasn’t like she had a bad track record with men, or anything. Oh, no. Not her. Wasn’t like she’d been left at the altar several weeks ago, dumped by Terrance, who’d come out as gay. Wasn’t like the guy before THAT had been a cheater.
Samira snorted at herself. She could almost laugh at her stupidity if it wasn’t all so tragic. Maybe it would be best if she got her tubes tied first thing Monday morning. Let her faulty gene pool (thanks, birth mom who never wanted anything to do with me) die out with her.
The only good thing about this situation?
Samira hadn’t invested months, or even weeks, into another doomed relationship. She had Daphne’s surprise appearance to thank for that.
Samira had been staring at Baptiste through the flames, wondering if she should let him take her home tonight (after all, wasn’t that horse well out of the barn already?) when someone sidled up next to her and spoke in a conspiratorial voice flavored with a French accent.
“He’s very handsome, isn’t he? Very charming. As long as you don’t fall for him.”
Startled, Samira glanced around to discover a very tall woman watching her with a disquieting light in her dramatically made-up doe eyes. Biracial, she had some African blood thrown in there somewhere, but her honeyed skin was several shades lighter than Samira’s.
The woman did not blend with the soccer-parent locals any more than Baptiste did with his European-cut suits and Italian designer shoes. Where to start? With her perfectly tousled black hair artfully arranged around her bare shoulders in that effect that only professional stylists on retainer could achieve? With her skimpy spaghetti-strapped mini dress and braless breasts on this cool fall night? With the cashmere wrap and expensive bag?
Nah. It was probably best to start with the sick six-inch stiletto heels here in the park, where every other woman wore flats or athletic shoes.
Anyway, the rest of the world fell away.
Samira stared at her with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, knowing that a) a woman like this belonged with Baptiste; b) Baptiste could never belong here, with Samira; and c) Samira’s girlish hopes and dreams, inappropriate as they clearly were, were now dying a brutal death as they smashed, headlong, into this brick wall.
Still, Samira’s mother had long ago taught her to never play the fool. Oh, sure, she might BE a fool, but she must never play the fool.
So she squared her shoulders, hiked up her chin and let loose with the attitude.
“Excuse me?” she asked coolly.
The woman’s eyes gleamed with malevolent amusement. A cat torturing a mouse just for the thrill of hearing it squeal.
“The man you were just staring at. Baptiste. He’s very handsome, no?”
Samira turned to face her, frowning. “I’m sorry. Have we met?”
The woman smiled a beautiful magazine ad-worthy smile. Except for the spite. “Daphne Durand. Baptiste’s girlfriend.”
Though she’d realized something like this was coming, the G-word still felt like a slap to Samira’s overheated face. Although it was better than, say, fiancée or wife.
She winced and didn’t recapture her indifferent mask quickly enough.
“Oh, no.” Daphne pouted prettily. “You didn’t think you were the only brown girl Baptiste has ever fucked, did you?”
The use of the G-word was bad, but this was enough to make Samira flinch. Because she hadn’t realized that Daphne was black. Samira had accidentally seen the picture of Daphne’s breasts that the woman had texted to Baptiste, sure, but the breasts were tan-line pale and Samira had been none the wiser. Nor had she seen any ethnic women in the collection of online articles Melody had shown her earlier. And Samira had stupidly allowed herself to believe there was something different—not special, never special—about her that had captured Baptiste’s attention.
But of course a man like Baptiste went through all sorts of women the way an elementary school baseball team went through a Ben & Jerry’s after a game: sampling everything and leaving nothing untasted.
It was harder to recapture her tattered equilibrium this time, but Samira somehow managed it.
“What do you want?” she asked, keeping her voice as icy as her heart.
Daphne leaned in, bringing all that malevolence and the faint yeasty smell of liquor with her.
“To let you know that I’m still here and I will not let a woman like you”—her scathing once-over encompassed everything from Samira’s skin color and less-than-designer clothes to her middle-class status and unfashionable New York address— “come between us.”
Wounded though Samira felt at that moment, her pride still won.
“Poor Daphne,” she purred. “Guess you were hoping he’d run back to you when he saw those tacky nude photos you texted him.”
Daphne flinched this time, which was supremely satisfying even if the ugliness did make Samira feel as though she’d slipped through her TV and into some terrible reality show.
All of Daphne’s exquisite features arranged themselves into a snarl. She’d just opened her gargoyle’s mouth to really let Samira have it when—
“Samira.” Baptiste appeared out of the crowd, looking harried and vaguely wild-eyed. His penetrating gaze nailed Samira right in the face, forcing her to look away lest he see how hurt and humiliated she was, before settling on Daphne. His jaw tightened. “What’s going on?”
Daphne whipped her expression into sweet innocence. She cooed something in French.
Baptiste snapped back. In French.
Further proof that Samira was the outsider here.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, turning to go while she still retained some of her dignity. “I’m not trying to be the third point in anyone’s romantic triangle. I’m sure you both understand.”
“Samira.”
The rising desperation in Baptiste’s tone stopped her. Cursing he
rself for a fool, she turned back and was startled to see something she recognized in his expression: stark fear.
She waited, heart pounding in her ears.
“Please. Stick around so we can talk this out.”
And Samira had agreed, for reasons that eluded her even now.
Now here they were, having ridden together in Baptiste’s car, because he absolutely refused to let Daphne drive drunk. Back in Baptiste’s suite at the hotel, waiting for Daphne to come up after getting settled in her own room for the night.
Feeling the weight of Baptiste’s gaze on the top of her head, Samira looked up at him.
He was over at the bar, reaching for the bourbon.
He still looked afraid.
Funny, because that was how she felt, although whether she was most afraid of looking like a bigger fool or of the loss of a relationship she might have had with Baptiste, she couldn’t say.
Either way, it hurt far too much to look at him.
So she focused on smoothing her skirt.
“Say something,” he said.
“I still don’t understand why I’m here.”
“Because I’m going to tell Daphne to leave me alone. For the third time. In no uncertain terms. And I want you to be here so you can see it with your own eyes and have no doubts about me or my sincerity.”
He said it like this was all perfectly normal.
“I don’t want to—”
“Suit yourself and leave then.” His voice was suddenly all sharp angles and razor blades. “You don’t care about me? What we said to each other this afternoon in the car doesn’t matter to you? You don’t want to nurture our beautiful new relationship and see where it goes? You won’t be eaten alive with jealousy and curiosity, sitting home alone and wondering what’s going on with Daphne and me here in my hotel suite? Fine. Leave.”
Well, he had her there.
She stayed right where she was in the middle of this ridiculous drama, fuming and miserable.
“This is crazy,” she said. “This isn’t me. I don’t need this in my life. I didn’t ask to be here.”
“Nor did I. But Daphne has shown up and now we have to deal with her together. Because you and I are together now. We agreed. We’re a team. And I’m not giving that up just because a ghost from my past has appeared.”
We.
Powerful little word. Funny how it terrified her.
So much better to reject we as a concept and focus on I. So much easier to keep people at a distance. That way, you didn’t get your heart smashed when they inevitably walked out on you.
He gave her a hard stare, the kind that dared her to argue, tossed down his bourbon and poured again.
She, naturally, argued.
“Team? You’re putting way too much effort into a relationship that’s less than a week old.”
His eyes flashed. “And you’re putting way too much effort into pretending that what we’re developing doesn’t mean anything, when we agreed this afternoon that it does. It grows tiresome.”
Now he was calling her names? Oh, hell no.
“You know what?” She grabbed her purse and stood. “I’m going to let you two lovebirds—”
He made a derisive sound and vaulted across the room. One minute he was way over there, and the next he was in her face. She opened her mouth to blast him, but he surprised her by laying a hand on her chest, where her heart was pounding furiously, doing its best to escape. She knocked his hand away, her face flaming, but something in his expression softened.
“You’re a very poor actress, ma reine,” he said quietly. “And you’re as scared as I am right now.”
There was only ever one response to this accusation.
“I’m not sc—”
“Samira.”
His tone was so exasperated and affectionate that she faltered, the lie dying a swift death.
It was like a tree falling in the forest. Was a lie really a lie if no one present believed it?
She opened her mouth—
Someone knocked on the door.
Sparing Samira a final glance, he went to answer it and there she was:
Daphne, the woman who seemed so much more appropriate for Baptiste than Samira could ever be.
She swept into the room trailing cigarette smoke, lingering traces of expensive perfume and alcohol. Not to mention disdain.
“Je veux te parler seul,” she told Baptiste.
“There’s nothing you need to say to me that you can’t say in front of Samira.” Icicles dangled from every syllable as Baptiste spoke. His eyes, likewise, contained all the warmth of winter on Jupiter. “And we’ll speak English. I thought you were in the city. I don’t appreciate you showing up out of the blue. I would have told you not to waste your time. What do you want?”
She looked him up and down, dripping sex. “You know what I want.”
“Besides that,” he said flatly.
Her thoughtful gaze flickered to Samira. Lingered. Then, taking all the time in the world, she turned and strutted—there was no other word for it—those long legs in those killer heels over to the nearest chair and sat with the kind of grace and poise that would win you a spot dancing with the New York City Ballet. When she crossed her legs, it was with a deliberate display of bare vagina meant for Samira’s eyes alone, because Baptiste had turned his back on her to refill his drink.
Samira knew what she was doing. Knew that, while the other woman might lose the battle tonight, she may well win the war in which the only victory that counted was stabbing Samira in the heart. Now the images were implanting themselves in Samira’s mind, and there was every possibility that they’d never be eradicated.
Baptiste had loved that graceful body at one time.
Kissed that mouth and had those long legs wrapped around him.
Fucked that pussy.
Samira almost wanted to give her a round of applause.
Daphne was a brilliantly effective tactician.
Toxic levels of jealousy and doubt (was Baptiste really willing to give all that up; why would he want little ole Samira when he could have that?) threatened to kill Samira on the spot.
Now settled, Daphne looked at Baptiste. “Why are you replacing me with her?”
Baptiste slammed his glass back down, vibrating with fury. Samira didn’t know him that well yet, but she’d be willing to bet everything she had that he’d never lay hands on a woman in anger.
Even so, she felt a little sorry for Daphne.
“What. Do. You. Want?”
Daphne shrank a little. Some of her defiance wavered as she watched Baptiste warily for a couple of beats. Samira could almost see her recalculating. Taking new measurements of the room’s temperature.
“I’m pregnant,” Daphne finally said.
Samira froze—in an evening filled with knives to her heart, this was the thousand-dollar chef’s knife—but Baptiste laughed.
Actually laughed.
“No, you’re not. Is that the best you can do, Daphne? Magical condom failure?”
Daphne’s expression hardened. “I could be.”
“Yes, and someone else could be the father. And you could be the type of woman who doesn’t care if she gets drunk when she’s pregnant, but I doubt it. I also doubt that you’d want to jeopardize your bookings—don’t you have a Victoria’s Secret shoot and a couple of fashion weeks coming up? —with a pregnancy.”
Daphne had the decency to flush.
“I think it’s far more likely that you want me to pay rent on your apartment for another six months, or give you, I don’t know, a parting piece of jewelry. Neither of which I’m going to do.”
“Jewelry would be a classy touch,” she cooed.
“You already enjoyed my classy touch when I gave you the Bulgari watch for your birthday and didn’t demand it back when I discovered you receiving pictures of another man’s queue the next day.”
“Oh, my God.” Samira wanted to keep quiet and let this scene play out to its natural co
nclusion, but that became harder with each passing second. “I am not hearing this.”
“Were you jealous?” Daphne asked Baptiste, sudden hope brightening her eyes.
“I was disgusted,” he said. “We were casual lovers at best, but when I set you up in an apartment, I expected a certain amount of loyalty and discretion from you.”
There was a long pause, during which both Samira and Daphne searched his face for signs of lying. She had no idea what Daphne saw, but all Samira could detect was something that looked like indifference as he stared at Daphne. And possibly determination to get rid of her as soon as possible. He didn’t look jealous or hurt. If anything, he seemed impatient to be done with her.
Daphne hiked up her chin and tried again. “I could go to the tabloids.”
Baptiste nodded thoughtfully. “You could. And I could then sue you for breaching the confidentiality agreement I had you sign.”
Samira looked around in surprise.
A confidentiality agreement?
What planet were these people from?
“Why are you being such a fucking bastard to me?” Daphne cried, real tears shimmering in her eyes as she mined the princess in distress angle.
This one was really good with all her heartsick beauty, as though Baptiste alone in a world of men could save her from this anguish, Samira thought as objectively as she could, that lump of dread sitting on her chest beginning to throb.
Daphne was really, really good.
But Baptiste stared Daphne down, his expression absolutely immovable.
“You will not make me into the villain. We had a casual affair. I paid for your apartment in the city and was generous to you in a hundred different ways. But now the casual affair has run its course. I told you this two weeks ago. I have moved on with my life, and you need to do the same. Starting now. Don’t contact me again.”
With that, he crossed to the door. Opened it. Waited.
Daphne turned all those tears on Samira.
“Get a good look,” Daphne told her, sobbing now. “This will be you next—”
“You will not speak to Samira!”
The women both flinched as the sound of the slamming door and his roar echoed off the walls, surprised by the way his rage broke loose when he’d been so cool and collected this whole time.
Beyond Ordinary Love_A Journey's End Billionaire Romance Page 6