EXES - A Second Chance Billionaire Romance Novel

by Aria Hawthorne

  “Reeeeeeeeeally?” Conchita’s perfectly penned eyebrow arched upwards. “Someone other than Harvey? That would mean you’re sleeping with two men at the same time, and now you’ve suddenly impressed me. Maybe I’m the one who needs to start babysitting you.”

  “Bonsoir, mon chéri!” Jacques’ shrill greeting cut through the murmur of the crowd as he scampered up to the women.

  Frowning, Conchita glared at his egg-shell satin tuxedo and pink neck scarf. “Okay, suddenly no longer impressed,” she announced to Alma before sweeping her serving tray in the other direction and abandoning her sister to endure Jacques’ barrage of double-cheeked kisses.

  “Mon chéri, you look like…” He paused and scanned the contours of her fitted gown longer than he should. “Glittering starlight. A snow queen. A ray of moon beam.”

  Alma forced herself to accept his fawning. “Thank you. But I had no idea you were wearing white, too.”

  “Très chanceux! What a coincidence parfait! Together, we look like royalty.”

  Alma was thinking more like characters from Disney on Ice.

  “Let us come out of the corner. There are so many people waiting to see us.” He attempted to place his thin, cold hand on her exposed back to draw her away from the corner and into the crowd, but she consciously escaped his touch toward the auctioneer’s podium. She knew she would have to spend time by Jacques’ side tonight, but she had no idea how truly annoying it would be.

  “I’m here mainly to support the auction,” she replied, reminding him she was there on her own merit and not as his official date. “There were several pieces that I appraised and I want to be on-hand in case there are any questions from our clients or the bidders.”

  “Even more reason to mingle together,” Jacques said, drawing her hand into his own.

  “Well, not exactly,” Alma answered, slipping away from him—again. “My father is a thousand times better at working the room than me. I just tend to drink too much champagne and trip over things.”

  On cue, she stumbled over the flowing hem of her silk gown while backing away from him. Seeking a distraction, she spotted the oversized black and white photographs hanging on the wall.

  “The 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition held in Chicago,” she noted, diverting his attention from her and onto one of the most important events in the city’s history.

  Jacques stroked his scarf and eyed the photographs of men in top hats and women in long, bustled skirts who curiously surveyed African oddities like Egyptian sarcophagi and big game animals preserved through the strange new science of taxidermy.

  “La Belle Époque of the development of Chicago.” Jacques sighed, as if it was the city’s best and only era worth remembering.

  “Three years to prepare and millions of dollars to construct dozens and dozens of new buildings,” Alma added. “All designed by the most influential names in architecture to showcase the world’s greatest achievements in arts, science, and culture.”

  Jacques turned away from the photographs and fiddled with his pink neck scarf. “And now…what has been left to show for it? Only one building still stands today.”

  “Most of the buildings were meant to be temporary, Jacques. Constructed quickly to amaze and enchant visitors who came all over the globe to drink newly-invented carbonated soda, experience the magic of electric lights at night, and ride the world’s first Ferris wheel.”

  “Yes,” Jacques mused. “The Great White City. And now, all we have is archived photographs and our imaginations. C’est une grande pitié.”

  “We have museums like this one,” Alma offered, feeling the strange need to counter Jacques’ cynicism. “Founded by Marshall Field after the Exposition to display all the natural curiosities from across the world. It’s still the only place you can see an extinct passenger pigeon or a dodo bird.”

  “Perhaps stuffed birds do not invigorate me like the preservation of art and architecture, which is why I am so disappointed by your father’s evaluation of the train depot this morning. I intended to submit another proposal for preservation tomorrow to City Hall, but I have received word that Monsieur Money Monster has already destroyed the building.”

  “Destroyed the building?” Alma repeated. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, it is what I have heard.”

  “Even the windows?”

  “Oui, bien sûr,” he confirmed. “I have heard everything is gone. It seems that nothing more can be done.”

  Alma closed her eyes, as if Jacques had just punched her in the gut. In the background, the auctioneer’s voice boomed through the microphone.

  “Sold for six hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars!”

  Gasps of astonishment and delight rippled through the crowd before applause erupted like a thunderclap, echoing off the Plaster-of-Paris walls and ricocheting across the vaulted ceiling.

  “Your father looks pleased,” Jacques commented. “It must be one of your clients.”

  As if she were in a surreal dream, Alma gazed around the room and caught her father’s eye.

  “It must be Madame van der Meer’s antique wristwatches. She wanted to sell four of the rarest within her collection to a private collector or philanthropic institution that would put them on public display.”

  Alma scanned the floor, seeking out the auction paddle of the highest bidder. “They are rare and highly desirable artifacts from World War II, so we started with a reserve of two-hundred thousand dollars, anticipating only a major museum or arts foundation would be willing to shell out that kind of money.”

  “Instead, it looks like it is a private collector who prefers to remain anonymous.” Jacques noted the auctioneer’s assistant, delivering the crimson velvet palette laced with four bejeweled watches to the successful buyer. He dashed up the staircase, disappearing into one of the curtained balcony suites.

  Moments later, the assistant retraced his steps down the stairs and marched directly toward them.

  “Miss Castillo,” he called out confidently, as if he was certain he had found the right woman.

  “Yes?” Alma answered.

  “This is for you.” The assistant presented the velvet palette, lined with one of Madame van der Meer’s diamond-studded wristwatches. “The buyer would like you to accept his gift.” The assistant removed the antique timepiece from the palette and passed it over to her. Alma stared down at the rows and rows of petite baguette cut diamonds, scintillating back at her.

  “Please, you must have made some mistake,” she said, fumbling to replace the watch on the palette.

  But the assistant returned it to her along with a business card. “No, definitely not, Miss Castillo. The buyer was very specific in his request. Enjoy.”

  She glanced down at the message scrawled in ink across the back of the card: Hall of Gems. Eight o’clock sharp. By the way, you look ravishing…

  Her gaze shot up to the balcony. He was watching her.

  She flipped over the card, spotting the emblem for the Peoria Hotel—in case she needed the reminder. She didn’t. Her whole body remembered every intimate, seducing touch from that night.

  “That is most irregular,” Jacques said, a hint of jealousy dampening his grandiose French accent. “As its appraiser, you must reconsider accepting it.”

  “I have no intention of accepting it,” she snapped. “And I certainly don’t need anyone reminding me of the ethics of my job. Excuse me.”

  Realizing the Hall of Gems was on the second floor, she scurried up the staircase, pausing only to admire the sweeping aerial view of the grand hall when she reached the top step. When she was certain she had escaped Jacques, she headed for the entrance of the Hall of Gems and slipped inside it.

  Dark, quiet, and empty, she noted, feeling her heart rate exploding as she crept deeper into the secluded gallery. During normal business hours, she knew the Hall of Gems was a bright, airy room crowded with patrons looking to catch a glimpse of the 5890-carat Chalmers topaz, a brilliant cut oval gemstone weig
hing over two and a half pounds, almost the size of Alma’s palm. Its unblemished translucence flashed cosmic blue as it spun on a circular pedestal beneath the showcase’s spotlight. The only other light in the room was the automatic illumination within each display case, triggered by movement along the glass panes.

  “One of the largest topaz gems in the world,” the masculine voice called out from the entrance.

  She shut her eyes and deliberately withheld her gasp. When his footsteps closed in on her, she whirled around to face him. His chiseled profile passed out of the shadows and into the light of the nearby tanzanite display case.

  “Ugh, Harvey. Could you stop doing that?”

  “Doing what? Following you into a dark, private corner of a museum, just to whisper, boo?”

  “Yes, exactly.” She anxiously glanced behind him, realizing the last person in the world she wanted to deal with at that moment was Harvey Zale.

  “Because you were expecting someone else?”

  She turned away, avoiding his question. But he pressed the point.

  “Isn’t it kinda strange that whenever you’re looking to meet Romero, you keep running into me instead?”

  “Strange isn’t the right word,” she answered, noting his formal tuxedo. He was one of the few men she knew who could pull off wearing a contemporary silver-grey shirt with a traditional black tie.

  “Stalker-ish?” he asked.

  “Warm, getting warmer,” she replied.

  He swept his eyes over her diamond choker and curve-hugging silk gown, sensing her discomfort. “You look nervous.”

  “I’m not nervous.”

  “Antsy?”

  “No.”

  “Apprehensive?”

  She crossed her arms and glared at him.

  “Annoyed?”

  “Not until this conversation.”

  He laughed aloud. “So let me ask you something…do you think there’s a reason Lois Lane never questioned why Clark Kent looked so much like Superman? I mean, can a pair of glasses really fool a woman that much?”

  “Denial goes a long way.”

  “Denial? Or just hot sex with a man who doesn’t have an obvious first name?”

  Closing her eyes, she drew in a deep breath to compose herself. She needed to get rid of him. “Can we please discuss your comic book fetish later? I would prefer to be alone right now.”

  “Really? Alone? Or just not around me?”

  “Please, Harvey—” she insisted, hoping he would just take the not-so-subtle hint and leave the gallery.

  Instead, he looked into the jewelry case, studying the stunning pendant necklace, its lustrous aqua-violet gemstone in a square white gold setting, inlaid with endless petite diamonds. “What if I promised only to talk about gemstones in a highbrow, intellectual manner? Like the fact that tanzanite is a thousand times rarer than diamonds, and still, nobody ever says, ‘Honey, can you please buy me a big honking tanzanite ring for my birthday?’”

  Ugh, he was seriously not going to take the hint. She glanced down at the time: five minutes to eight. Perhaps if she indulged him for one minute, she could persuade him to go away.

  “I definitely wouldn’t consider the use of ‘honking’ in any conversation as highbrow.”

  A smile flashed across his chiseled face. “Good point. I forget how many times your highbrow has had to lower itself to lowbrow over the years.”

  She shrugged, a subtle affirmation. “Highbrow would be the fact that tanzanite is a thousand times rarer than diamonds because it’s only found one place on earth.”

  “The flagship Tiffany & Co. store on Fifth Avenue in New York City?”

  “Near Mount Kilimanjaro in Tanzania,” she corrected him.

  “See…that’s exactly what I mean. You have to trek up a treacherous volcanic mountain just to find it. Now that screams love.”

  She crossed her arms and expelled an intentional sigh of exasperation. “Harvey, I’m not here to banter with you about gemstones.”

  “No? That’s a shame. I thought you might want to talk antiques. It is, after all, an antiques auction and it looks like you might have gotten something more than just a nice commission from that winning bid.”

  He eyed the diamond wristwatch in her palm until she shifted it behind her back.

  “It’s very lovely,” he said. “Almost a perfect match to that diamond choker necklace. Someone must know your tastes well.” His voice lifted to the Tiffany stained glass masterpiece window, Mermaid, at the far end of the gallery. “A little too well…”

  Alma curiously stared at him. “You sound jealous?”

  “Would that really shock you, Alma?”

  The sudden sincerity in his voice arrested her. “Yes, it absolutely would. Especially since I assumed by your words and actions this morning that you really couldn’t care less about me anymore.”

  His jawline flinched. “I’m just surprised you’re willing to give this guy another chance despite the fact that he stood you up the last time. You usually aren’t that forgiving of people’s faults.”

  “No, just not forgiving of your faults.”

  “Ouch, burn, sting,” he said mockingly. “Well, at least you’re aware of the double standard.”

  Alma rolled her eyes, growing tired of the same old querulous song. “You’re my ex-husband, Harvey. We’ve been divorced for over a year. Really, what else can you expect from me?”

  “Oh, I dunno.” He paced around the gallery, stopping in front of the ruby display case. “I guess that depends on if you think you’re in love with him.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “In love with who?”

  He held her defensive gaze. “Whoever you think you’re meeting here tonight.”

  His comment enraged her. Was it any of his damn business?

  “Shouldn’t you be downstairs, Harvey? Schmoozing with all your city hall buddies, making sure they grant you the title clearance you need to sell your riverfront parcel tomorrow, especially now that you’ve demolished the building and all its windows?”

  “Is that what you’ve heard?”

  She confirmed it with silence.

  “Well, in that case, I’m also sure that Jacques told you I built a pagan altar with the gold from the sale of the land and sacrificed virgins who refused to sleep with me.”

  “I didn’t believe the virgin part,” she replied. “Although it was tempting.”

  “Tempting to believe the worst about me? Kinda like that other myth that the only thing that matters to me is money.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “It didn’t used to be, Alma. You know that.”

  “And now, Harvey?” she challenged.

  Challenging her in return, he stepped forward, locking eyes and crowding her against the display case. “And now, I have to wonder…if you didn’t know anything about me—if you didn’t know I was a greedy unscrupulous billionaire who willingly sold his soul to make an exorbitant profit with every business deal—could you still fall in love with me the way you fell in love with me years ago?”

  She searched his unflinching eyes, his clear blue gaze reflecting her own truth. “The only reason I hate your money is because you’re the one who makes it the most important thing about you.”

  “What if it didn’t matter to me as much as you think,” he offered, slowly reeling her in by her hand until he secured her bodice against his stylish tuxedo, forcing her breath to rise and fall in sync with his own. “And what if, despite the fact that you despise everything that I’ve done to make money, you still find yourself drawn back to me again and again?”

  “Harvey…” she paused and bowed her head, truly pained by the familiar scent of his cologne—the same one she had bought him for Christmas every year. “Please…you can’t keep doing this, telling me you want me back, but then not acknowledging any of the reasons why we separated in the first place.”

  “I do acknowledge them, Alma. I just don’t accept them. Especially not when you let me make love to
you like you did the other night.”

  “Please don’t make this about the other night. I was alone and vulnerable, and I had too much to drink, and…”

  “And what, Alma?”

  “And…it was a mistake.” She looked up to meet his eyes, ensuring that he would not only understand her, but that he would also believe her.

  “A mistake?”

  “Yes, a mistake,” she repeated quietly. “And you know it was, too.”

  He released his hold on her and backed away. “No, I really don’t,” he replied, the edge in his voice cutting between them. “I would never cast aside a night that we spent together like that as nothing more than a casual mistake.”

  “It was a mistake because it complicated things that didn’t need to be made more complicated.”

  “No?” He glanced at her sidelong, mocking her rationale. “And what about the complicated night before that?”

  Alma felt the blood drop out of her cheeks. “What night before that?”

  “You really don’t know?” he fished. “Or maybe you’re a little bit too much like Lois Lane, and just a little too good at fooling yourself.”

  Her eyes darted back and forth over his enigmatic expression, decoding the message hiding there.

  “You?” She could barely pronounce the single word through her lips, unable to believe it was true.

  He flashed her a roguish smile, as if he’d been caught in the middle of a jewelry heist. “When I bought The Peoria Hotel, I knew owning an upscale business lounge like The Vault would come in handy. But I never expected to enjoy something like the Turkish Suite—until you came along that night.”

  She darted forward, striking that arrogant, cocky, billionaires-can-do-anything-they-want smirk right off his face. S-M-A-C-K!

  After absorbing the sting of her slap, he realigned his jaw. “Please tell me you did that because there’s a spider on my cheek.”

  “No, Harvey. I did that because you’re a lying son-of-a-bitch who deserves far worse than that.”

  She attempted to strike him again, but he seized her hand and forcefully drew her toward him. She fought to escape his grip, but he was stronger and more determined to settle the score.