The Billionaire

by J. R. Ward

  Or at least she appeared that way.

  “Why do you think I’m in construction, Lizzie?”

  “Your chest is really…ah…developed. So I thought maybe what you did had a physical component to it.” Then she frowned and looked down. “Except your hands aren’t callused. Are you a trainer at a gym?”

  “I do train folks, yeah.” And this was not a lie. He worked a lot with the membership of his triathlon club, getting folks ready for events. “I’m into sports.”

  “What kinds?”

  “Every year I do the Ironman Triathlon. I hit a number of others, but that’s my big one. I like to compete. And I like to win.”

  “You like to push yourself, then.”

  “Yeah, I do. So do my brothers. We’re like that.”

  “Why?”

  The question made warning bells go off in his head. He and Billy and Mac were all driven to the point of obsession and the root cause, he suspected, was in the ugly past: every day, they ran without running.

  Time to switch the subject.

  Sean shrugged. “We’re just like that. So tell me more about your mom. What kind of art is she into?”

  God, he was a liar, wasn’t he?

  And she knew it. Her smart, level eyes told him that.

  Lizzie smiled at him, and it was the smile of a Madonna, all-knowing, very kind. “It’s okay, Sean. I’m not going to push.”

  Crap. Now he was the one flushing. Imagine that. “I’m not into talking about myself much.”

  “That’s all right. You’re really good company anyway.”

  Sean’s heart stopped. He couldn’t think of the last time a woman had told him he was really good company. Hell, maybe one never had. And he was so used to being seen as a “catch” that the idea someone just liked his words and his opinions was…disarming.

  “You’re some good company there, too, Lizzie.” His voice was a little husky and he hoped she didn’t notice it. He cleared his throat. “I am curious about your mom, though. What’s she like?”

  Lizzie took a deep breath, as if she were about to lift something heavy off the floor. “My mother calls herself a free-range art-ellectual. I’m not too clear on what exactly that is, but I can tell you that she’s into pottery now. I don’t think it’s going to stick. Over the past two decades, she’s been through almost everything. Painting in watercolor and oil. Sculpting in clay, marble and brass. Pastels. Photography. Macramé. Toothpicks. Recycle art—that’s garbage by the way. She follows her whims where they take her.”

  “She sell any of her work in galleries?”

  “She’s more into the creation end of things rather than the retail.” Lizzie sipped at her cappuccino. “And well…honestly? She’s not that good at it.”

  “Sounds like an expensive hobby then.”

  Lizzie’s voice grew wry. “Yeah. But the thing is, it makes her happy. So I support it.”

  “Where’s your father?”

  “He left about five years ago for the third time and it finally stuck. My mother is enchanting, but she can be difficult to handle. She’s a child in many ways, and like a child, she’s both irresponsible and beguiling. So I can’t say I blame him.”

  “Do you see him?”

  She shook her head. “When he left, he left us both. Said a clean cut was best. It was no big change, though. She was always what held his interest, not me.”

  Good Lord, he thought. “That’s harsh.”

  “Oh, I don’t mean to come across that way.”

  “Not you, Lizzie. Him. To leave his daughter like that?”

  There was a quiet moment. Then she murmured, “I think it’s hard for him to see me. I look a lot like her and our voices sound the same. To him, I am the younger version of her.”

  “So what? He should man up and get over that.”

  Her eyes flipped to his, and as he saw the sadness in them, he wanted to hunt down her father and yell at the guy for dumping his daughter.

  The urge got even stronger when she said with dignity, “It is what it is. I used to hope he’d be different, but he is who he is and it’s better for me…healthier…to accept him and move on. Waiting for change is hard and not all that realistic.”

  Yeah, well, Sean respected the fact that she wasn’t looking for sympathy and he could see her point, but it still sucked. “You don’t have any brothers or sisters do you?”

  “No.”

  “Which means you deal with your mom all by yourself.”

  “Yes, but it’s not that bad. The house is paid for and her expenses aren’t that high. Usually.”

  He kept his curse to himself. “No offense, but it strikes me that the parent-child thing is ass-backward.”

  “But I love my mother. And without me…”

  “She’d be forced to grow up?” In the silence that followed, Sean cursed out loud. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to get in your face about this.”

  There was another long pause. Then she said, “I don’t tell people this usually, not because I’m ashamed or embarrassed, but because I’m not interested in pity…. My mom’s mentally challenged. She can function independently to a point, but she’s always going to need help. First my father was that for her. Now I am.”

  Sean’s eyes widened. “Oh, God…Lizzie, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” She smiled. “There is no tragedy here and no shame, either. You know, it’s interesting. My father is much older than my mom and I assume in the beginning he thought that she was just young and eccentric. Like she’d grow out of her ways or something. It wasn’t until I was in my early teens that he took her to doctors and we learned that it was not an issue of maturity. But again, there is no catastrophe here. My mother’s happy and healthy and she’s full of joy. So it’s okay. But can you understand why things between her and I aren’t just a case of a parent dropping the ball?”

  “Yeah. Totally.”

  The waiter showed up with the check, and without even thinking, Sean took out his wallet.

  “How much do I owe?” Lizzie asked.

  Sean froze. He’d been about to pay the whole thing and to hell with his Dutch rule.

  Get back with the program, he told himself. Stay tight.

  Doing some quick division in his head, he said, “Sixty-seven dollars.”

  Her eyes flared, but she reached for her purse.

  “Let me pay for the wine, though,” he cut in. “I picked it.”

  “No, that’s okay. I drank my share.”

  As she put three twenties, one five and two ones on the table, he noticed that the edges of her purse were worn through. In a rush, his net worth funneled into his brain, that cool billion dollars or so in stocks and cash and annuities and T-bills and gold.

  He reached out to push her money back to her.

  “Wow, that’s a beautiful wallet you have.”

  He stopped, jarred as his normal mind-set about women returned.

  Man, that stuff about Lizzie losing her job had seemed true enough and so had all those blushes and the revelation about her mother. But he got tangled whenever he thought about her relationship with his father. Surely she couldn’t have enjoyed that miserable bastard’s company. So that left Good Samaritan-itis. Or her being after something.

  Sean looked into her eyes and mined for the answer to his unspoken question: Was Lizzie Bond different than the women he knew or exactly the same?

  After a moment, he found himself slowly moving her money back toward her. “My treat.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah.” Keeping his titanium American Express card out of sight, he put a crisp hundred-dollar bill and three twenties on top of the table. “Let’s go.”

  “Wow, that’s a big tip.”

  “They deserve it.”

  She smiled at him. Then stood up…only to put her hand on the wall to steady herself. “Oh, this is bad.”

  “What?”

  “That wine was awfully good and I have no tolerance whatsoever.”

&
nbsp; “Lean on me, then.”

  As he came around and drew her against him, their bodies fit together so perfectly it momentarily stopped him in his tracks.

  “Sean? You ready to go?”

  He tightened his hold on her waist. “Yeah.”

  He led her through the crowded restaurant, and as he urged her out the door first, he wanted to keep his arm around her. Like for the rest of the night.

  When they were outside, she took a couple of deep inhales and said, “Maybe it was just hot in there.”

  “It was stuffy. You feel better?”

  “Much.” She glanced to the sky. “I heard we’re supposed to get storms tonight.”

  “Hot enough for it.”

  “Yes.”

  He had no idea what they were talking about. Maybe the weather? Whatever. He was caught up in her profile, most specifically her lips. Oh, man…he wanted to grab her around the waist, get her against him from shoulder to knee and kiss the ever-living breath out of her.

  “The car’s this way,” he said roughly.

  On the way back to Southie, they went without air-conditioning and both put their windows down. The summer night was gentle and warm as it flooded into the rental car and he stole glances across the seat at her as if he were sixteen.

  When they pulled up to the row house, he stopped the sedan and turned off the engine, but he made no move to open his door.

  “Thank you,” she said with a smile that melted him. “This was lovely.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  In the silence, he thought of the last time he’d taken a woman out in Manhattan. The two of them had gone to Jean Georges in his limo. She’d been wearing diamond studs the size of marbles and a dress by Chanel; he’d been in one of his Savile Row suits. They’d worked the crowd on the way to their A-lister table then flirted as sophisticates did, one-upping each other. Afterward, they’d gone back to his penthouse, but she hadn’t spent the whole night—yet another of his rules with women.

  It had all been very glamorous…and utterly forgettable.

  Tonight with Lizzie was not. Here in this Ford Taurus, with the summer air on his face and the sound of crickets in his ears and the dark night wrapped around them, this moment was totally vivid to him. He was not on social autopilot. With Lizzie…he was alive.

  And he wanted more. He wanted the privacy of her apartment. He wanted to be in between her sheets. Tonight, he craved the sweetness in her, needed to be naked against her kindness. And though he was very aware that he couldn’t give anything back to her other than pleasure, he vowed to make sure that was enough for her if she let him in.

  He pushed his door open. “Let’s move that kitchen table down.”

  “Are you sure?” She smiled as they went up onto the porch. “It’s late. We could do it tomorrow as I’m off.”

  “Won’t take long. Besides, it’ll give me some room for the boxes.”

  “Oh, in that case, let’s do it.”

  They went upstairs, and as she headed into the kitchen, he walked over to his duffel bag of clothes and took out his shaving kit. As he slipped a condom in his back pocket, he didn’t like the ache in his chest, but he didn’t stop himself. After all, if she told him no, he would absolutely back off.

  “Sean? You coming?” she called out.

  “Yeah.” He rubbed his sternum and went into the kitchen.

  “This is going to be a tight squeeze.” She bent to the side and eyed the table’s girth. “The stairs aren’t that wide.”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll take it slow.”

  Getting the thing down the stairwell took some maneuvering, but they managed not to mash anyone’s fingers on the railing or the doorjamb into her apartment.

  As they took a breather in her living room, his chest burned even more as he looked around. Everything was tidy and very clean, but thrift-shop worn: the couch had a pretty flowered blanket tucked into what undoubtedly were frayed cushions. The chair by the window had threadbare patches on the arms and was covered by a quilt. There was no TV and just one lamp. Nothing on the walls.

  He thought of her purse with its worn corners.

  “Sean?”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “Only a little farther.” She nodded over her shoulder. “To my kitchen?”

  “Right.” He picked up his end of the table.

  The kitchen was likewise sparkling from regular cleaning—hell, you could have eaten off the floor or the counters. But there was nothing around, no decorations, no extra appliances. Just the basics.

  He thought of his own kitchen back in Manhattan with its Viking stove and its granite countertops and its wine fridge and its matching toaster and mixer and espresso machines. None of which he’d ever used.

  “Would you like to wait to do the chairs?” she prompted, making him realize he’d been standing stock-still and saying nothing.

  “Nah, let’s do them now.”

  Two joint trips up and down and everything was set up in the middle of her kitchen. As Lizzie eased one of the chairs into the table, her hands lingered on its back. The furniture was well used, but she treated it as if it were precious.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I’ve always eaten on the couch. Now I have a real table.”

  Sean rubbed his chest again. How she shamed him with her pleasure at this gift that meant nothing to him.

  “You’re welcome,” he replied, aware he’d made up his mind. “Good night, Lizzie. Sleep well.”

  As he headed out of the kitchen, he glanced down the hall and saw into one of the bedrooms. It was empty, just four walls and a bare floor. He was willing to bet she only had a bed for herself.

  He walked even faster toward the exit.

  “Sean?”

  He paused with his hand on the door and didn’t look back. “Yeah?”

  As she hesitated, he guessed she was surprised he wasn’t putting a move on her.

  “Ah…thank you again for dinner. That was very generous.”

  Generous? The night before, he’d spent seventeen hundred dollars hosting two people at the Congress Club in Manhattan. But sure as hell, he’d enjoyed the dinner with her in Little Italy so much more.

  She cleared her throat. “Maybe I can pay you back sometime.”

  Now he glanced over his shoulder at her. Standing across the room from him, she was lovely in the way of a summer afternoon. Warm. Inviting. Something you missed during winter.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said and turned away.

  As he closed the door behind himself, he knew if she’d been any other woman he would have stayed. But Lizzie Bond deserved better than a quick roll. And that was all he had in him.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Lizzie watched Sean walk out her door and wondered yet again if she hadn’t read him wrong. She’d been convinced he was going to kiss her, especially after he’d put his arm around her while they’d left the restaurant. She’d even figured that moving the table was just an excuse for him to come into her apartment.

  But maybe she’d let her own attraction to him color her interpretation of his actions.

  She sucked at dating. Or whatever tonight was.

  As she locked her door, she listened to his heavy footsteps going up the stairs and then moving around above her. All things considered, it was probably better for the night to end like this. She could see herself getting attached to him and getting hurt.

  It still was a letdown though.

  Unsettled and vaguely depressed, she took a quick shower, turned the temperature to low on the AC unit and got into bed.

  The lightning came hours later, flashing on the other side of the Venetian blinds, startling her out of sleep. As her heart rate slowed, she listened for the thunder, and after a long pause, a crack dissolved into a bass rumble.

  She reached for the remote to the AC and shut the thing off so she could hear better. She’d always loved storms, especially the—

  What was that?

  She frowned
and looked at the ceiling. An odd noise was coming from upstairs, some kind of…Well, she didn’t know what that was. She sat up, as if that would help her ears do their job, and held her breath.

  There it was again. A low, uneven sound.

  Slipping from bed, she walked out into her living room and got really quiet as she absorbed the sounds in the duplex.

  Whatever it had been seemed to have stopped.

  Except then the next burst of lightning came, and in the dead space before the thunder, she heard what had to be a moan. She opened her door, stepped into the foyer, and put her hand on the staircase’s railing. When the low, aching groan came once more, she jogged up and knocked.

  “Sean?”

  Thunder rolled through the house like a wrecking ball, making the walls vibrate and the darkness of the stairwell seem horror-movie oppressive. Then a hoarse yell came through the door.

  She tossed out all propriety and tried the knob. As it was unlocked, she shoved hard and burst into the apartment.

  Sean was on the couch, his big body contorted, his boxers twisted around his hips, one arm rigid and gripping a cushion. His head was thrown back, his neck straining, his mouth open as he breathed in ragged pulls. Next to him on the floor was the backpack full of books.

  She rushed over and put her hand on his shoulder. “Sean…wake up.”

  He shot out of the nightmare like a bullet from a gun, sitting up in a rush, shouting loudly. As he swiveled his head toward her, his eyes were stark wild and the moment he saw her, he cowered back, lifting both arms to cover his head as if she were going to strike him.

  “No…” His voice didn’t sound at all like the one she knew. “No, please.”

  “Sean?” She touched his thick bicep only to have him flinch away and tremble as lightning flickered through the room.

  Another crack of thunder broke out, so loud it was as if the house next door had been struck. Both of them jumped. Then Sean dropped his arms and looked around as if he wasn’t sure what had happened.

  “You had a nightmare.”

  His eyes went to her face and locked on her as if he were using the sight of her to pull himself out of where he’d been. As he stared up at her, he was breathing hard, the sheen of sweat on his bare chest catching the reflection of yet more bolts of lightning.