Beyond Ordinary Love_A Journey's End Billionaire Romance

by Ann Christopher

  He gripped her shoulders, hunched down in her face and shook her to get this nonsense out of her head.

  “That’s not true.”

  “It is true. My birth mother doesn’t want me. She didn’t want me then, and she doesn’t want me now. She wants her current family, which I assume means her current kids.” Samira picked up her phone and waved it in his face as evidence. “Terrance doesn’t want me, but I’ll give him a pass because he’s gay. But my parents? They don’t want me, either. They’re packing up and moving across the country to be with their birth daughter because they’ve had enough of me.”

  “No, Samira.” He tightened his grip. “That’s not—”

  She twisted free and turned away. “Don’t touch me. You’re going to leave, too. It’s just a matter of time.”

  “No, madame.”

  “You don’t have to pretend—”

  “No. And if that’s what you think, then you don’t know one thing about the way I feel about you.”

  A tense standoff followed. He wondered how he’d landed himself in this nasty purgatory where he was positive he’d fallen in love with her and equally positive that if he told her as much, she wouldn’t believe him. Such an announcement was too much, too soon, and it wasn’t as though he and love had a long and proven track record together. What did he know about love? Nothing. Worse, he had little doubt that Samira would apprise him of that fact the second he mentioned the word.

  Besides. He might be a novice at love, but even he knew that you didn’t tell a woman that you loved her for the first time during a high-stakes moment like this. A regular woman wouldn’t believe you. A woman as wounded as Samira? No chance.

  Some of her defiance wavered, which he considered a victory.

  She snatched a tissue from the box on the coffee table, wiped her eyes and stood.

  “I don’t have time for this now.”

  He couldn’t let her go. Not like this. Not when things between them had been perfect five minutes ago, but the ground beneath them had turned to cracked ice layered over quicksand.

  He also stood, his voice thick with emotion. “Do you believe that I’m not going to walk out on you?”

  She stepped back, her gaze lowered. “I have to go.”

  “You can’t even look at me?”

  She finally did, but she didn’t want to. Remarkable to discover that his strong and confident woman had been so quickly replaced with this hurt and scared little girl.

  “Neither one of us can predict the future,” she said quietly. “That’s all I’m saying.”

  Maybe she couldn’t, but he damn sure could.

  He didn’t mean to get loud, but the strain of pretending he felt so much and no more for her had started to make his nerves fray. It was as though he wanted to present his heart to her on a silver platter, lifting the dome off of it with a flourish the way they did at pretentious restaurants, and she refused to even acknowledge his arrival at the table.

  “Samira, you are the one who keeps the brakes on this relationship. Not I. If it were up to me? There’d be none of this pretending at work. No sneaking around after dark and before dawn. You’d be attending the gala with me. Everyone everywhere would know that we’re together now. Don’t accuse me of planning to walk out on you when you are the one with iron bars around your heart.”

  She folded her arms and glared at him, stony and mutinous. “Are you finished?”

  He’d been spoiling for this fight for weeks. Her refusal to give it to him left him off-kilter. He paused, frowning.

  “That’s all you have to say?” he barked.

  “You seem to have taken all the air out of the room.”

  “Well.” He rubbed the back of his neck. Cleared his throat. Felt raw and exposed. Idiotic. “Maybe I’m frustrated.”

  “Maybe I’m trying to be smart.”

  They watched each other in wary silence.

  “Maybe the smartest thing you could do would be to fall in love with me,” he said.

  She took a deep breath. Something in her expression softened.

  “Maybe I think that’s the scariest thing I could do.”

  “Maybe you’re wrong,” he quietly told her. “Maybe you’ve never been more wrong.”

  8

  The following Friday evening, Baptiste arrived at Samira’s bungalow after work, his body buzzing with excitement. To be fair, his body always buzzed with excitement at the prospect of being with Samira again, but this time his ear-to-ear grin threatened to split his entire skull in half. The cold air, with its hints of wood smoke and pine needles, fell great against his warm face. He breathed deeply, relishing this feeling of grateful belonging. One of these days, he knew, the thrill of homecoming would probably lessen.

  But today wasn’t that day.

  His grin widened.

  Locking down some of his adrenaline, he stashed his package behind the bushes—he’d sneak it into the house later, when she was in the bathroom or something—used his new key and let himself inside.

  Where an unfamiliar scene greeted him.

  He shut the door and froze, his smile slowly fading.

  A fire crackled and danced, so that was normal. Also normal? Wine breathing on the counter, savory scents coming from the kitchen and Sade’s throaty voice coming from the speakers.

  Not normal? There were five open bottles of wine. Bouquets of sunflowers everywhere. Flickering candles all over the mantel and coffee table. A giant bunch of navy balloons tied to the back of the chair at the head of the dining room table, which was set for—he did a quick count—nine people.

  And—his heart turned over hard—a large round cake, dotted with candles, sitting on a glass stand on the counter.

  He stopped dead, too astonished to make it any farther.

  “Now, don’t be mad.” Samira, looking worried, hurried over from the kitchen, her white apron tied around her waist. She wore a sexy black dress that dipped into a V in front (not normal, but he’d happily take it) and a huge red rose tucked behind her ear. “I wasn’t sure if you liked surprises or not. Looks like I was right.”

  He blinked and made good progress toward activating his voice, at least until he saw what was sitting on the sideboard.

  He cleared his throat and pointed, desperately trying not to get choked up. What kind of fool dissolved into tears because someone remembered their birthday?

  “Are those gift bags for guests?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are we having a party?”

  “I’m throwing a dinner party, yes. My parents are coming. Also Daniel, Zoya, Sean and a mystery guest. Oh, and Melody may stop by later.”

  He swallowed in a vain attempt to overcome the growing lump in his throat. “Why?”

  “Oh, so you’ve forgotten that it’s your birthday.” She tried to look severe. “That would certainly explain a great deal, wouldn’t it?”

  “How did you know it’s my birthday?” he asked, feeling incredibly slow and dull-witted. Oh, and were those presents behind the gift bag? For him?

  “I looked you up at work. You should be familiar with that form of research, since you used it on me to get my phone number. Did you think I’d continue sleeping with a man without knowing his sign? Luckily for you, you Scorpios get good marks in the romance department. So I’m going to keep you around for a while yet. Evidently you’re loyal and faithful.”

  Well, she had that right. Whether she knew it or not, he’d planted himself into her life for the long haul. As far as he was concerned? Nothing short of a surgical excision would get him out now.

  She eyed him closely, vague worry lines marring her forehead. “Did I mess up? You wanted the red balloons instead?”

  He tried to laugh.

  It turned into something that sounded suspiciously like a sob before he bit it back.

  Samira, being Samira, didn’t reach for the phone and call the authorities to come and escort him to a place where he’d be no danger to himself or others. Instead, she gentl
y kissed his cheek, wiped a wayward tear off his face and slipped into his arms. Right where he needed her to be.

  “I’m not sure what kind of birthdays you’ve had in the past,” she said, kissing his cheek again, “but here in Journey’s End, birthdays are a big freaking deal.”

  In the past?

  Well, let’s think.

  There’d been the many birthdays observed only by the housekeeper or nanny of the day and the chef, who baked the cake, because his parents were wintering or vacationing or whatever the fuck they did somewhere else.

  The birthdays when his mother sent him a check (although the five thousand Euros and BMW coupe when he turned sixteen had, admittedly, been very sweet).

  And, of course, the birthdays when no one remembered.

  Which was why, in his twenties, he’d made a point of drinking and partying his way through the week of his birthday, just to bury the memories. Because, really, who cared that a billionaire felt sorry for himself because his birthday had never been properly observed?

  Self-pity. Not a good look.

  The birthdays were never the issue, of course. Merely a stark reflection of the real problem, which was that his parents had never given two shits about him. Nor had most worthwhile people (the crew he’d run with in his twenties had never qualitied as worthwhile) who weren’t on his family’s payroll.

  But now?

  Now he was thirty-six, and he’d met a woman with brains, humor, integrity and a spirit more beautiful on the inside than it was on the outside. And that was saying the near unimaginable.

  Now he had Samira in his arms, a homemade cake on the table and a brighter future than he’d ever thought possible.

  And it all seemed far too good to be true for the undeserving likes of him.

  Which was why he contracted his arms and held her even tighter.

  Was he good enough for her? No. Not with his dismal family history and debauched early adulthood. Not compared to her lovely family. Did he entertain any hope of becoming good enough anytime soon? Not the slightest. If he lived a hundred years? Possibly then.

  But he would try. For this woman who was thoughtful and insightful enough to give him what he needed even when he hadn’t thought to ask for it? He would happily spend his life trying.

  Still...

  They weren’t there yet, he and Samira.

  She hadn’t given herself permission to fall in love with him. She had one foot out the metaphorical door and her car keys in hand at all times, just waiting to take off if and when she decided things between them could never work. A prudent stance for a smart woman, and Samira was nothing if not smart.

  So he had to be patient. He knew that. Tried to make his peace with it.

  Easy enough to do when he was determined to stick around until she was all-in.

  Like he was.

  She pulled back to look up at him with that all-encompassing gaze of hers. “You okay? I wasn’t sure what else to do for a man who has everything.”

  Okay?

  “I’m perfect.”

  She nodded very seriously. “I’m glad I didn’t get the piñata I had my eye on. That would have put you over the edge for sure.”

  The tension broken, they laughed together for one exquisite moment. Until the day’s emotion overtook him and he lost his head. Surely she didn’t expect him to keep this to himself any longer.

  “I’m in love with you.”

  Samira froze, her face flooding with color.

  “I just...” The words soared out of his mouth, powered by the euphoria of releasing himself from his vow of silence. “I know I’m not the kind of guy you see yourself ending up with. I know it’s way too soon and you probably don’t believe me. But I can’t keep pretending it’s not there when you have to know my heart stops every time I look at you.”

  “Baptiste...”

  “No.” He didn’t want to be shushed or diverted. Didn’t want to lock his feelings back in that dark trunk. Didn’t want to see the emotional wall now casting her face in shadow. “You’re not going to talk me out of feeling what I feel. I know what this is. I’m crazy in love with you.”

  His story told, there was nothing to do but watch as she blinked and tried to control the spark of panic in her eyes...as she took a fortifying breath...as she smiled the beginnings of a kindly smile, the type that was always a precursor to a letdown of one sort or another.

  “Don’t,” he said sharply, letting her go as his joy evaporated and a good chunk of his hopes and dreams shattered on the floor. He was, clearly, a fucking idiot. He should have kept his mouth shut and had more patience. This was what happened when you were ruled by your heart rather than your brain.

  Her face fell. “I have to explain, Baptiste—”

  “No, you don’t.” His bruised ego couldn’t take any explanations at the moment. “I already know. It’s too soon. We’re getting to know each other. We have to see how things go. Correct?”

  She blinked.

  “Well...yeah,” she said, frowning. “But you don’t have to make it sound like I’m an asshole for being cautious.”

  “No, no.” He reeled her in so he could press a lingering kiss to her forehead and hopefully de-escalate the situation before it ruined her dinner party. “I don’t think you’re an asshole. You’re one of the smartest people I know. But sometimes? Being too smart is a bad thing.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Because you think too much. And all of this?” He gestured at her scowling face. “And this?” He tapped her temple. “You’re doing it to yourself. I don’t have any doubts about the two of us together. And one day, a long time from now, you will look around and say, ‘he came into my life and it was all very unexpected, but we’ve been very happy together. This whole time. I wonder why I wasted so much time being afraid.’”

  She seemed a little shaken. “I thought international players, such as yourself, didn’t believe in love.”

  His ears burned. “I don’t like the term ‘international players.’”

  “I’ll bet you don’t,” she said sourly.

  “But one of the many things about international players is that they spend so much time with the wrong women that it takes them awhile to find the right woman. But they’re smart enough to know her when they finally see her. Because she’s not like anyone else.”

  He stared her in the face, happy to meet her questioning gaze dead on.

  Until, once again, the moment’s emotional weight threatened to overwhelm him. Since he didn’t want to make any more startling outbursts tonight—let’s get married! kept popping into his mind—he decided it was time to lighten the mood.

  “So,” he said, pointing to the kitchen, “as the birthday boy, I feel I should be allowed to sample just a small plate of food before the guests arrive. To make sure the quality is what it should be.”

  “The birthday boy will find himself eating a peanut butter and jelly rather than beef brisket and macaroni and cheese if he keeps running his mouth,” she said, laughing. “So you might want to rethink.”

  The threat sent a chill down his spine.

  “I repent and recognize the error of my ways.”

  “I thought you might. Now are you ready for your surprise?”

  His jaw dropped.

  “What the hell was this?” he asked, gesturing at the entire scene.

  Pivoting away with a merry laugh, she hurried down the hall, knocked on her bedroom door—was someone here? —opened it and peeked inside.

  “Come on out, birthday surprise!”

  To his utter astonishment, out walked a tall older woman with a brisk step that made something chime in the back of his mind. It couldn’t be, he thought, cocking his head and narrowing his eyes to watch her come closer, but she had the sleek auburn bob...the ruthlessly crisp white shirt and black slacks...the bright blue eyes and rosy-cheeked pale skin...

  The clincher? The wide smile, as warm and engaging as it had been decades ago.

  His heart ex
ploded in his chest, making it pretty damn difficult for him to talk.

  Still, he gave it a shot.

  “Mrs. Smith?”

  His voice sounded boyish. Tearful. He didn’t care and couldn’t help it anyway.

  “Jean-Baptiste.” She clapped her hands, then held her arms wide. “Didn’t you grow up to be a handsome devil?”

  He hurried the last few feet, laughing out a sob, or maybe sobbing out a laugh. And then they came together in a Chanel No. 5-scented hug, and he had to hide his tear-twisted face in Mrs. Smith’s shoulder for a minute or two because he didn’t want Samira to see him crying like a baby.

  “It’s okay, Jean-Baptiste,” Mrs. Smith said, smoothing his hair as they swayed together. “It’s okay.”

  It wasn’t okay.

  He’d thought that grown men shouldn’t cry. Thought that he was over her sudden disappearance from his life back when he was a kid. Thought he’d gotten over the way his mother betrayed him by firing Mrs. Smith, the only real mother figure he’d ever had. Thought he’d whittled his loneliness and yearning for her down to manageable chunks.

  Thought he’d gotten his blown mind around what a spectacular woman Samira was.

  But for her to do this? For him?

  “I think he likes his present, Mrs. Smith,” Samira said. “What about you?”

  They all laughed. Baptiste raised his head, mopped his eyes with the tissue Samira thoughtfully slipped into his hand, backed up to arm’s length and grinned into Mrs. Smith’s face the way he had as a little boy, when they laughed together during the Roseanne episode where Dan drank the sour milk.

  “What are you doing here?” he cried.

  “Samira tracked me down through social media.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “In Boston. So I just rode the train down.”

  “Can you stay for long?”

  “Not this time, but I’ll come back again so we can really catch up. I’m actually on my way to visit my new grandbaby in DC. Samira happened to catch me at the exact right moment.”

  He glanced over at Samira, intending to thank her, but his heart was lodged right in his throat and he didn’t trust himself to say anything right now. Not when she beamed at him like that, almost as though she loved him back even if she wasn’t ready to say it yet, and her big brown eyes shone with her own tears.