Accidentally Married to the Billionaire - Part 2 (The Billionaire's Touch)

by Sierra Rose

  Brandon studied the program like it was his job, eyes flitting down to the stage below as if to ascertain the presence of some dancer he’d seen listed in the booklet. This went on for ten minutes. She wondered absently if there was to be a quiz of some sort afterward to determine who’d paid attention and who had only been there for an excuse to dress up and wear diamonds. She fell squarely into the latter category. She’d rather watch a zombie flick than a lot of people prancing around in tights.

  She wondered if it was too braggy to post that she was at the opening night of the ballet with her handsome husband. Would it raise questions as to why she was on social media if she was really so enthralled with the dance? Bemused, she refrained from posting anything despite the impulse to excite envy in her followers who obviously weren’t bored and wishing for a snack. She looked around idly to see if the box came with a minifridge, which, sadly, it did not.

  “Let me see the program,” she ventured, and he passed it to her, his eyes still on the stage.

  Marj leafed through the columns of fine text listing overtures and instrumentalists in the orchestra and principal dancers. There was nothing in the way of a schedule like, first fifteen minutes, second fifteen minutes and identifying movements or actions…she was looking for a sign that the show was about over with. Nothing seemed different. There was still a backdrop of dreamy painted waves and a boat, a few twinkly lights.

  Her workaholic husband seemed to be relaxed, enjoying the performance like a real ballet fan. Marj did one of the things she’d sworn she’d never do. She watched him. Drinking in the sight of him longingly, as one would gaze at a beautiful object one could never really have. Admiration with a blade of jealousy, of possessive wistfulness seized her. She watched him, intent with concentration on the performance, wondering what he saw, what he noticed and appreciated that somehow escaped her. Either her education hadn’t fitted her to enjoy such a display of dancers on a stage or her temperament ran more toward Coachella than the ballet and opera. Regardless, he was soaking up culture in his refined brain, and she was staring at him like he was an ice cream sundae with extra whipped cream. And extra whipped cream just made her think of squirting whipped cream on him. Clearly, not the way a sophisticated woman would behave at the ballet, she thought.

  Marj poured herself another glass of wine and sat back with her drink. Brandon smiled at her, then turned back to the performance. She admired the width of his shoulders as he leaned forward to watch the action onstage. She took in the inverted triangulation of slope from broad shoulders to narrow hips. She liked the way his dark hair grew to a point at the back of his neck or was cut that way. It had an old-fashioned man’s-man vibe to it that appealed.

  When she shivered, Brandon looked over and took off his coat and draped it around her shoulder like a gentleman.

  “Thanks,” she said. Now she could look at him in his shirtsleeves without that jacket in the way. She stole a lip-biting glance at his muscular back through the white fabric of his shirt.

  “Forgive me, for not noticing earlier that you were chilly. Beastly of me to ignore you like that. I’m not accustomed to having a new bride, I suppose. How is the show?”

  “I’ve never been to the ballet before,” I said.

  “Never?”

  “No, I always thought it was something reserved for rich people.”

  “Culture doesn’t belong to only the wealthy and upper class. It belongs to everyone.”

  She smiled.

  “Is there something you don’t understand that I could explain?” he offered, and she found his belated solicitude charming.

  “No, I’m enjoying it. The music is beautiful and so heartfelt.”

  He grinned. “Soaring and soul-searching?”

  Her eyes sparkled. “It’s telling a story along with the dancers. The choreography is amazing. Grace goes into every single glorious movement. And the costumes are breathtaking.”

  “I’m glad you’re enjoying it. Ballets are decadent performances,” he said.

  “Just like the opera.”

  “Yes. And both have magic. And when you’re watching the performance, well, it’s like you feel that magic.”

  “Yeah, it’s incredible.”

  She stared, admiring the graceful twirling, dainty stepping, and powerful leaping. The emotion and expression in their dancing was nothing short of amazing.

  “It makes me feel like part of the story,” she said.

  “Brandon…”

  “Yes?”

  Tears welled up in her eyes. “I saw ballet in a whole new light. It was sheer magic to me. Coming here has touched me on such a deep level. It was a beautiful, live, breatakaing show that touched my heart. Thanks for showing me this.”

  His eyes twinkled as he squeezed her hand. “Anytime.”

  An hour passed and some loud music swelled and people applauded. Shouts of Brava! preceded their eventual release from the theater. Brandon put his jacket back on, and as they filed down to the lobby for the cocktail reception and to mingle with the press, he wrapped an arm around her waist and whispered a few details in her ear. When they reached the marble lobby, and she was given a glass of something red and sweet and sparkly, three reporters approached them.

  “Oh, it was magical. I’ve never been to the ballet before, but Tchaikovsky is so approachable. I made myself right at home!” she smiled her ingénue best and the reporters photographed Marj, snug under her husband’s arm and beaming.

  He kissed her forehead and told the press how she had a natural appreciation for all types of music and that it was a treat to introduce her to ballet. She was so stunned by the grace and lightness of the principal dancers. Marj nodded in agreement how she and her husband were riveted by the pirouettes of the professionals.

  She tilted her head so her sweeping diamond earrings caught the light and smiled at Brandon while the pictures were taken. He looked the very image of a proud and adoring husband. She felt a wave of security, of feeling safe and sheltered with him. She knew it was a lie, that everything they’d just said to the press, every look and gesture were a pretense. It didn’t change what she felt. Marj could comprehend the insincerity of their position and still feel the discordant comfort of his presence, the strange assurance that he was with her and would make everything go well.

  Just as he had stood and left his stepmother’s dinner when Marj decided it was time to leave, he was there supporting her and encouraging her now. Even if it wasn’t real. Even if it was to get his hands on his dad’s fortune once and for all, it felt real. That was the danger in all this. So much of the time they were together felt genuine and strong and seductive. She liked him, was attracted to him, and simply having him there, his arm around her, made her feel gorgeous and unattainable. If she wasn’t careful, Brandon Cates could all too easily become her drug of choice.

  And speaking of the devil and all his minions, here was Lena Cates, resplendent in black sequins, squeezing into the photo with Brandon and Marj.

  “Did you enjoy the performance?” she asked sweetly, “quite a change of pace for you, I should imagine.”

  “It was lovely,” Marj said with equally disingenuous sweetness, “I only wonder that you can muster such enthusiasm for it after seeing, I would expect, twenty years or so of ballet season openings in this theater.”

  “Oh, it never grows tiresome, Margaret. Such a refined pastime and in a glorious setting,” Lena said, unruffled by Marj’s dig at her age, “if you’re still around next year, we must share a viewing box.”

  “How kind of you, but Brandon and I like our privacy,” she said archly, and they walked away, leaving Lena rather speechless.

  Chapter 7

  Brandon went to the office after the ballet opening, and such was the tone for the entire week again. She didn’t see him or talk to him. She went to work, was aware when he got home late, too tired to spend time with her, and fell into a deep sleep. She heard from him Friday, though.

  Brandon Cates was
having a rough week at work. Madison, his assistant, had quit suddenly and HR managed to find a replacement, perfectly competent but distressingly, well, perfect. Holly, the new personal assistant to the CEO, looked like she belonged on the cover of Vogue, not in an office. Her mirror-shiny pin straight flaxen hair trailed behind her as she hurried down hallways, clutching file folders to her ample bosom. She looked, in short, like a porn director’s idea of a secretary—luscious and a little brainy as evidenced by her tight blouses and her glasses. She once took off her glasses and bit the end of the arm, her full plummy lips parted around the glasses she chewed thoughtfully, and he had to squirm in his seat.

  They chatted and talked over the next couple of days. Aside from being distracting, she was the perfect secretary. She was even a workaholic like him. And didn’t complain when she worked twelve hours to catch up on everything that had gotten backed up. She straightened everything out and smoothed out every problem. It was like she was some kind of miracle worker.

  The third day she worked, Holly rushed in to answer his page in a Princeton t-shirt and yoga pants, apparently fresh from her workout.

  “Sorry, I didn’t have time to change yet. If I don’t go for my run first thing, my day just swallows up all my time,” she’d said, adorably apologetic. Wearing a shirt from his alma mater. Saying exactly what he’d said a hundred times—working out first thing in the morning was the only way to fit it in.

  He’d asked how long she’d been a runner, and she showed him pictures on her phone from her half-marathon last month. She’d started running with her mom, she said, when she was a teenager. And after her mom died of cancer, she ran to stay close to her memory. She had turned away then, had hurried to go change clothes, not wanting to impose on him with her sadness. He had wanted to take her hand, to tell her that he always attended the ballet opening for the same reason—that his mother had always taken him there, and it was a way to keep her memory alive for him. Thankfully, he’d remembered his professionalism in time to avoid making such a gaffe, but he’d looked at her differently after that. Like she was a fellow orphan, another lost soul. Which complicated things because she also looked like a filthy fantasy.

  So on Friday, when Holly offered to bring him sushi so they could go over what work needed to be done over the weekend, he told her he had to run home. And he had fled. Because the sushi she suggested was his favorite and he didn’t think closeting himself in an office with Holly, the ‘perfect woman’, was a great idea. Because he felt—vulnerable. He needed to be away from her, to reconnect with his wife so his marriage wouldn’t be over before it began.

  He was tempted. Ridiculously tempted like devils in pitchforks were prodding him toward Holly. He felt drawn to her, not just her beauty and her shared love of running and sushi and Princeton, but to her sadness, her quiet courage. So he went home to the townhouse, only to find that Marj was at work. Of course, she was at work. She had a job, for Power Regions. So he had Rafael drive him to her office, and he called from right outside, to offer to take her to lunch or to take her right there in the parking lot. The call went to voice mail. He messaged and got no response. He called three more times, increasingly frantic, and got voice mail each time. Frustrated, he had Rafael drive him home so he could get his trainers on and go for a run to clear his head.

  He was furious, with Marj for being unavailable, with himself for assuming she should be available any time he had a whim to see her. Furious with himself for being attracted to Holly and even angrier at Holly for showing up and being so infuriatingly delicious and ideal two weeks after he tied the knot with someone else.

  If he had it to do over again, would he have said his vows to Holly in the Vegas chapel? He wanted to be able to say no definitively, to be certain that Marj was what he had chosen and would continue to choose. To be sure he wasn’t like his father, taking off after any piece of ass that walked by at the office. Because a hefty bit of his anguish was revulsion at himself for the attraction he felt for Holly which made him no better than his sleazy opportunist dad.

  When he got home that night, he wasn’t sure if he was eager to see Marj or pissed off at her. She wasn’t in her bedroom. He found her in the kitchen, barefoot and stirring something on the stove.

  “Where were you today?” he demanded.

  “Work. And you?” she answered, unruffled.

  “I came to take you to lunch, and you didn’t answer your phone,” he said, trying to dampen the accusatory note in his voice.

  “I had a training session on the new software with IT. All of marketing and HR had to go. I’m sure it’s below your radar as head honcho, but I was at an official work function. So next time you decide to see me during the week, give me some notice,” she said flatly.

  “I don’t see the advantage to having a wife if I can’t see her, spend time with her or even reach her on the phone.”

  “The advantage, darling, is that you get to keep your dad’s fortune and corporation. Do not try to claim moral high ground and act like you married me because you wanted an affectionate, supportive relationship. You wanted your inheritance, and you have it. And if you don’t like being unable to reach me, tell your general manager at my job to quit making us silence our phones before meetings.”

  “Quit! Quit your job. Seriously. You’ve seen what my life is like, how I have virtually no time for myself. Then when I get a sliver of time for a personal life, you’re unavailable. That doesn’t work for me. It isn’t like you can’t afford to quit your job, Marjorie.”

  “Being your temporary wife is a part-time gig. Weekends, some evenings,” she said.

  “Did you get the email my attorneys forwarded us? The one from Lena’s team citing an online publication that shows your current and active lease agreement, your pay stub and several other documents that make this appear to be a short-term arrangement? I can’t afford for you to look like you’re independent with your own apartment and job. You might as well leave if you’re not going to try.”

  Marjorie calmly turned off the burner and gave the quinoa a final stir.

  “You’re pissed because I wasn’t at your beck and call, and so you are insisting that I quit my job and dump my apartment. Overreact much? Because this should go in the negatives column on your phone list. Women don’t like ultimatums. Women don’t like having their independence and agency attacked. Women also don’t like being treated like prostitutes who are supposed to be available instantly at a phone call or text. I’m not something you bought with a pile of diamonds. I’m a person, and I’m going to act like one. If you don’t like it, then I’m sorry, Brandon.”

  She stomped out of the kitchen as ostentatiously as one could with bare feet. He trailed after her, unsure of what to believe. Was he being unreasonable? If not, why did every sentence he tried to frame begin with ‘a man is entitled to have his wife home…” like some Neanderthal? She was making him crazy. That’s all there was to it. He, Brandon Cates, was an educated and fully evolved modern man. He could appreciate a woman’s accomplishments, her opinions. He preferred a woman of strong convictions, a woman who was strong and clever and able to take care of herself.

  Yet, suddenly, he wanted to put this particular woman, the most bull-headed woman he’d ever known, no less—into a velvet case and keep her for himself. He wanted her to be at home, in his townhouse, and happy to see him anytime he had a spare moment.

  It was completely and utterly confounding that he would hold such an antiquated, sexist expectation of his wife. It couldn’t be the marriage thing. He had little regard for the institution after watching his father neglect his mother and then fawn over Lena in her turn. He had a rather poor example to live up to, and nothing in his past explained this stupid desire to have Marj give up her job and be available to him 24-7. It was just—what he wanted.

  He knocked on the door to their bedroom and then opened it without waiting for her response. He sat down on a chair and waited for her to come out since she had clearly locked herself
in the bathroom. He heard water running and she came out the door.

  “What?” she asked. “Me standing around the kitchen barefoot, cooking dinner wasn’t traditional enough for you? Do I need an apron? Do I need to give up my job? Maybe give up my driver’s license and my voter’s registration, too?” she challenged.

  “You’re right, okay? It’s stupid and it makes no sense, but I want you to quit your job. Not because I’m worried about what Lena and her attorneys will say. Because I want you here. So I can see you whenever I want. I want that luxury. I needed you today, and I was furious when I couldn’t find you.

  She gazed at him. “No, there’s more to it than that? What?”

  He let out a long breath. “Okay, I’ll admit it. I was more furious at myself—for needing you so much,” he broke off.

  Marj dropped her hands from her hips and went and put her arms around him.

  “Dammit. You had to go and be honest and sound all sweet and forlorn. I’m not made out of stone. And it’s not that great of a job, honestly. Your health benefits suck. I’ll quit. I’ll do some consulting, keep my hand in on the industry trends, but I’ll quit for the six months. Just don’t try this pitiful routine the next time you want something. Because it only works the one time. When you want me to, like, go vegan or something, and you say it’s because you need me too much, I will laugh at you while eating bacon.”

  “Now that’s romantic as hell. Laugh at me while eating bacon?”

  “I have to save face somehow. Try and make it out of the argument with some shred of dignity. Fact is, I totally folded as soon as you seemed upset and that’s not good for my reputation. I’m a total badass most of the time. Do not tell my friend Britt that I gave in that easily. It’s embarrassing,” she said.