The Angler, the Baker, and the Billionaire (Destination Billionaire Romance)

by Day, Amberlee

  She had to look at his face to see if he was sincere or making fun of her, or maybe even making an excuse to hit on her. The appreciative looks he was giving her were subtle, but made her wonder. “I would be fine with that. Peter, I’m sure you’re a very busy man, but if you really did have the time …”

  “How about coming by my house Sunday evening? Tomorrow. My assistant, Marisa, will be there, too. I’ll have the figures ready then, and we can have a discussion about San Francisco when I’m as informed as you clearly already are.”

  “I work early Monday morning, so …”

  “How about four o’clock? I could promise to have you home by eight.”

  How can I refuse that? “I’ll plan on it. Thank you, Peter.” She was having trouble addressing this world-famous billionaire by his first name and not at all sure that she wanted to be on a first-name basis with him.

  “Would you do me one more favor, Sophie?”

  “What’s that?”

  He looked up and around, and she noticed that music was playing over the intercom, and many people were dancing. “You look too lovely in that dress not to be twirled around the dance floor a few times. Would you dance with me? Please.”

  Heat rushed to her cheeks. Yes, he was hitting on her. “Mr. Cohen … Peter, I’m … kind of seeing somebody.”

  He looked around. “I’m sorry. Is he here now? I’d be happy to ask his permission.”

  Sophie rolled her eyes. “I don’t need permission, I just wanted you to know I’m not … available.”

  “Consider me informed. How about that dance?”

  She nodded, because how could she not? She’d already embarrassed Peter Cohen at the microphone and felt too guilty to do it again by turning him down. Also, if people could see that their benefactor had forgiven her tirade, maybe she could smooth over any negative effect it could have on Cathy’s bakery.

  Peter had, in fact, already led her right out to the middle of the dancers (certainly sure of himself). And despite her prejudices, when he swung her into his arms as gracefully as Fred Astaire, before long she had to remind herself why she disliked this handsome, agreeable man.

  He’d charmed her into four dances before Sophie excused herself to help Ellie clean up the cupcake table. While they danced, he asked her questions about San Francisco, and told her about some of the places he’d visited around the world. He managed to work into the conversation stories of sunsets in Fiji, moonlight in Nepal, and the beauty of the Amazon rainforest from high in the treetops, which Sophie tried to think of as pretentious but instead found irresistibly romantic.

  A favorite thing about traveling, he said, was eating local food, and he asked all about the kinds of baking she did. They spent about half an hour together on the dance floor, and Sophie realized later that no matter how hard she worked to dislike everything he stood for, the time in Peter Cohen’s arms had been quite the opposite of unpleasant. How could she mesh this handsome, articulate, and considerate man with the ruthless businessman who went after the business of a woman fighting cancer? She couldn’t.

  And what puzzled her even more was why he would be so interested in her?

  Sophie had suspected that P.J. Cohen wasn’t a man to be reckoned with, but this Peter, the dashing billionaire, was something else altogether.

  The party was breaking up, but people still milled around on their way out. Sophie saw that her great-aunt Constance had come out to the lobby and stopped in front of the now-empty cupcake table. “Aunt Constance! I didn’t know you’d come down. Did you … um … did you see the ribbon cutting?”

  Her aunt’s wrinkly face stretched wide, showing rows of pearly dentures. “I did. I also saw a very attractive young couple dancing and the way that boy looked at you.”

  “Oh, Aunt Constance. He was just—”

  “No need to explain,” she said, wheeling herself around to leave. “I told you that was a dress to make a man fall in love with you. Just don’t forget to invite me to the wedding. I’ve always had a talent for calling these things.”

  22

  Since coming to Sitka, one of the first things Sophie did every morning was to check the day’s weather report. Weather forecasts were never accurate for more than half a day ahead in Alaska; winds coming off the ocean could gather up into storm clouds with very little warning. That was something Jamie had taught her, and his twinkling hazel eyes had been on her mind ever since she’d checked the weather that morning.

  Sunday, Sophie’s favorite day of the week, meant sleeping in till eight—heavenly!—and early church services. She missed attending with her mother, but going with Roger and Cathy’s family was satisfying in a way she’d never known. She hadn’t been exaggerating when she told Jamie she’d like several kids. In fact, she wouldn’t mind four or five. Now that she was blessed to spend time around baby Jessie, her confidence in diapering, bathing, and soothing a baby boosted her confidence that she might be capable of learning the skills to care for a large family.

  Peter Cohen had sent a driver to pick her up from the lodge and take her to the boat. He also sent a note written in bold script:

  Sophie,

  I’m looking forward to our meeting. I’ll see you soon.

  —Peter

  And a note underneath his in tidy, feminine handwriting:

  I’ll be here too, Sophie. See you in a while.

  —Marissa

  Sophie appreciated that both knew she wouldn’t be comfortable being in the mansion alone with Peter and had breathed easier departing for the meeting.

  The boat, a sleek, black racing-type vessel, pulled away from the harbor, reminding Sophie that she’d be out of cell phone service soon. She wanted to turn it off to save the battery, but looked at it longingly. Why didn’t Jamie send her a text, give her a call? They didn’t have any understanding or commitment between them, she knew that. And, frankly, she had no reason to think Jamie was someone who would be on kissing terms with only one girl at a time.

  On impulse, she sent him a text:

  Hope your business is going well. I met P.J. Cohen last night. He invited me to the island to talk about my San Francisco bakery. Marisa’s going to be there too.

  She pressed send. Would he think she’d mentioned Marisa so he’d know she wasn’t at the mansion alone with the billionaire? Because that was her reason, but she didn’t want him to think she expected him to be jealous.

  But she wondered if he would be.

  The boat flew across the water. Sophie sat where she was protected from the wind, but she squirmed around on the seat. She couldn’t get comfortable. If she did want a large family, would Jamie be the right partner for that kind of life? From what she could see, the man behind the beard hid from regular employment the same way he hid behind his scruffy looks. Would someone like that be a supportive husband to a baker and father to a brood of children? Could she really see herself being Mrs. Jamie …?

  She squirmed again. She still didn’t know Jamie’s last name. Or where he lived. Or really anything about his past. What was she doing even considering a future with him?

  Her phone dinged, and her heart leapt. A reply from Jamie:

  Crazy. Last week you didn’t even want to be in his house. Wonder what could have changed—oh, that’s right. He’s a billionaire. ;) I’ll probably be back in a week or two. J

  She frowned at the phone, hoping that somehow he’d feel her disappointment. Quickly she sent out another text:

  What’s your last name?

  The boat had gained enough distance from cell service that the text wouldn’t send. Sophie sighed, turned off the phone, and focused on the view. This was partly why she’d held back from considering a future with Jamie. He was fun and sexy and could be very sweet, but she hadn’t seen anything that showed he was serious about life. Maybe not dangerous, but not open, and not someone to trust with her heart.

  Too late.

  The day shone with sunny blue skies, and she wondered if a billionaire could somehow
have influence on the weather. The thought resurfaced as they approached the island, and the magnificent house came into view. Framed by the island’s spiky greenery, bright blue skies, and sparkling blue-green water, Peter Cohen’s mansion stood both grand and inviting, its beautiful surroundings mirrored in the window-covered walls.

  As they approached the dock, she realized someone was waiting for them. Tall, his hands in his pockets, Peter Cohen struck a commanding pose just standing there. His hair, not long but with those dark curls, gave him a playful, sexy look.

  Why couldn’t Jamie do something like that with his dishwater-blond hair? she wondered. Surely his wavy, long hair would have some curl if he cut it short.

  When Sophie was close enough to make out Peter’s features, tingles shot through her at the smile he gave her. She could even just make out that deep dimple that intrigued her so much.

  “Welcome!” He offered her a hand out of the boat. “Did Doug give you a smooth ride?”

  Sophie glanced back at her chauffeur/boat pilot. She felt badly she hadn’t paid him any attention at all. “Yes, he did. Thank you, Doug.”

  The young man, probably in his late teens, nodded. “Did I hear you needed help with that new generator, Mr. Cohen?”

  “Yes, if you want to work on it until it’s time to take Miss Molina back. Do you know where it is?”

  “Sure, I helped bring it in.”

  “When you’re done, stop in at the kitchen. Marisa has your mom and sister in there cooking up something that smells delicious.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Cohen.”

  Like at the Pioneer Home the night before, Peter took Sophie’s hand and wrapped it in the crook of his arm. Was he this chivalrous with all women? “And how are you, Sophie? We seem to be matching today, though I think you wear it better.”

  Sophie looked at the billionaire’s outfit, then at her own. Peter was being generous. While she wore a simple black skirt with a black-and-purple floral blouse, his outfit was just what you might think a billionaire would wear on a Sunday afternoon: black slacks with a deep plum-colored, button-up shirt—silk, by the feel of it—rolled up slightly at the sleeves.

  “Thank you,” she said, doubtful. “It sounds like you have a lot of people working here, Peter. When I was on the island last week—”

  “That’s right, you were here for the Platsky family reunion. I’m sorry I missed it. Business kept me in Milan last week.”

  “Bummer,” she teased.

  Peter smiled down at her. Those chiseled cheeks, deep dimple, and white, white teeth just weren’t fair. “You’re right, business in Italy has its perks,” he said. “But we’re here today to talk about your business. The Sunshine Bakery, Right?”

  “That’s right. Sounds like you’ve had a chance to do your homework.”

  “Did you doubt that I would?”

  “Whether I did or not, I appreciate you doing this. I know it won’t change the past, and probably won’t change your business practices, but it means a lot to be heard.”

  Peter didn’t say anything but continued to lead her on a stroll through the front grounds. He must have a gardener regularly tend the lawn and shrubbery.

  “Are these native bushes?” she asked.

  “Yes. I wanted to keep the natural feel of the island, not turn it into a piece of some other place.”

  “No palm trees and orchids?”

  “Not even Japanese maples or border shrubs. We have wild rhododendrons, dogwoods, and that ground cover is native salal. That mound over there? You can just see the top of a large stump underneath the huckleberry bushes.”

  “It does blend well. Your home feels like something organic and magical tucked back into the trees, like something out of a novel.”

  “I’m glad you like it.”

  Those tingly butterflies flew back into her stomach as she looked into his dark eyes. He seemed so happy that she liked his house; she wouldn’t have been entirely surprised if he announced he was giving it to her. But of course, he didn’t.

  They’d taken a winding route to reach the large front door. He opened it and led her inside.

  “Sophie Molina, welcome to my home.”

  As she entered on Peter’s arm, the mansion felt bigger and more intimidating than it had during her last visit. Peter ushered her into the downstairs study she’d seen when Marisa gave her the tour last week. She hadn’t noticed its size, but it comfortably held two large desks. Marisa sat at one, focused on a laptop. She glanced up briefly at their entrance.

  “Sophie, welcome. How are you?”

  “Good, nice to see you. He doesn’t have you working on a Sunday, does he?”

  “No, actually, I’m not working. I mean, I’m in Sitka, so I’m working, but today I’m focusing on something more pleasant.”

  “Your wedding?” Sophie asked, hopeful.

  The beautiful Marisa’s face lit up. “You remembered! Yes, I finally talked to this insane man I work for about getting some time off.”

  “Hey, I’m in the room, you know. I can hear you.” Peter held out a chair for Sophie, then slid around to the back side of the larger desk. “And you could have planned your wedding at any time. You just needed to speak up. Marisa’s indispensible to me. I wouldn’t want to do anything to drive her away.”

  “Good luck with that,” Marisa muttered.

  “Still here.”

  The friendly banter between Peter and Marisa reminded Sophie of the rapport the assistant had with her cousin, Jamie. Sophie found it relaxed her.

  “I’m really happy for you,” Sophie said. “Do you have a date, then?”

  “Early November, in Des Moines.”

  “Iowa?”

  “My hometown. We’re being married at the Saint Ambrose Cathedral, the same church my parents were married in. Would you like to see a picture?” She turned the laptop around so Sophie could see from her seat.

  “It’s gorgeous! What a wonderful start to a marriage. Is your fiancé from Des Moines, too?”

  “No, but he is a former Midwesterner. He’s an Indiana boy. We met at college.”

  “Nice. Will you settle around that area once you’re married?”

  Marisa glanced at Peter. “That’s up for debate.” She closed her laptop and stood up, stretching. “I’ll go check on Claudia in the kitchen, see how things are coming along.”

  “So.” Peter straightened some papers on his desk and inspected the document on top. “The Sunshine Bakery.”

  Sophie sat taller. “Yes.”

  “You were in business for twelve years?” He’d turned off the charm, she was happy to see, and spoke to her in a friendly but businesslike manner.

  “My mom started the business when I was in high school.”

  “Your mom, Joan Molina.”

  Sophie swallowed a sudden lump hearing P.J. Cohen say her mother’s name. “Yes.”

  “The Sunshine Bakery was in prime real estate. Rich in tourism, offices, and surrounded by a variety of other small service businesses.”

  “Yes.”

  “Gross sales look like they were in a steady increase through the ninth year.”

  “Is that … public knowledge?”

  “It is. It was in the tenth year of doing business that numbers took a downturn.”

  “Well, yes. I guess things started to change for us then.”

  “Your sales dropped by forty percent.”

  Sophie swallowed again. “I’m not sure why we’re talking about that.”

  “We’re talking about what happened to the Sunshine Bakery, yes?”

  “We’re talking about the devastating impact of PJ’s Wholesale Warehouse coming to the area.”

  “And yet, the Sunshine Bakery suffered significant losses an entire year before PJ’s came into town. Are you suggesting,” he said gently, “that as soon as PJ’s building permits were approved, customers stopped coming to the Sunshine Bakery?”

  “I don’t understand what you’re doing here.” Sophie folded her ar
ms. She should have known better than to trust the billionaire. “Is this some way to not take responsibility for the Sunshine Bakery going out of business?”

  “Not at all. Sophie, when we look for a new PJ’s location, there are a number of factors we consider. One of the many is how PJ’s coming into the area will affect local business. We look at where people are currently buying their groceries, their furniture, their pet supplies. You’d be surprised to hear that many of those businesses are largely unaffected by a PJ’s going in.”

  “Really.” She crossed her legs, her right foot bouncing impatiently in front of her.

  “Take a look at this. A specialty pet shop within five minutes of our San Francisco location. Are you familiar with it?”

  “I’ve seen it. I don’t have pets, so I’ve never been inside.”

  “You don’t have pets?” Peter asked. “You’re missing out.”

  “You do?”

  “I did. I used to keep a dog bed for Ruby right here.” He nodded at a spot next to the desk. “When I came up here, she did too. I lost her earlier this year.”

  “I’m … sorry to hear that.”

  “Anyway, my numbers people predicted that the pet store’s business would only feel a loss of less than five percent. They were right. It was three percent.”

  “I don’t understand. PJ’s must offer cheaper products.”

  “We do, but cheaper isn’t always what people want. We have five choices of dog food; they have over a hundred. We don’t always carry chew toys, but when we occasionally do, we only have one type. Their selection is a doggy’s heaven. I shopped at a place like that for Ruby’s supplies.”

  “I see.”

  “The same is true for local jewelry stores, sports supplies, department stores. Just because we sell certain items doesn’t mean everyone comes to us.”

  “I take it your numbers people predicted that the Sunshine Bakery would only be slightly affected, too.”

  Peter switched to the second paper in the pile. He looked at it and then handed it to Sophie. “Look at the date on this report,” he said.