The Billionaire

by J. R. Ward

  He pushed the papers at her. “Surely you’ve got your own copy of this?”

  Putting her purse down on a box, she took what was in his hand. After she finished reading the will, she looked up in disbelief.

  “I didn’t ask him to do this. I don’t want the house. Or the money.”

  “Oh, really.” The smile that came at her was horrible. Just a baring of teeth. “You know, I have to give you credit. I mean, you had me, you really did.”

  “Sean, I didn’t—”

  “I’m sure you’re going to get a good price for this place. And soon, too. I’m almost finished here so you can put it on the market right away. Or keep it. Either way, you won’t have to worry about rent for a while and not just because some sap is letting you live here for free.”

  “Why in the world do you think I’d—”

  “I saw the checks.”

  “What?”

  “The ones you wrote to yourself and made him sign.”

  Lizzie was momentarily speechless. But then she had plenty of things to say. “I beg your pardon. First of all, your father’s hands shook from the meds he was on and it was hard for him to write. Secondly, those checks were to me to reimburse what I spent on him. He was all but housebound because of his heart and the only way I could get him to let me do his errands was if he paid me up front. And we still fought about it all the time. He hated accepting help.”

  “A plausible denial, but you have no way of proving to me where any of this cash went, do you? Unless you have receipts from the past year, which somehow I doubt you’re going to be able to produce. Bottom line? There’s a lot more gone from here than can be accounted for through food expenses and miscellaneous purchases. And though I’m sure you’re one hell of a cleaning lady, I don’t think a good dusting is that expensive.”

  Lizzie shook her head and thought of all the prescriptions she’d filled and doctor’s office co-pays she’d covered and cardiac rehab visits she’d shelled out for. And that was just the tip of the iceberg for what treating his heart had required.

  But she wasn’t going to justify herself. Sean wouldn’t believe anything she told him and she was so angry at him she was likely to fly off the handle.

  “You don’t trust me at all, do you?” she said.

  “Give me one reason, in the face of all this, that I should.”

  “Wow. Yeah…that’s all I’ve got right now. Just…wow.” She picked up her purse and put the will on a box. “You can keep the house, Sean. I wouldn’t take it if you paid me to.”

  “Uh-huh, right. A convenient show, but legally it’s already yours.”

  “I never asked him for this. And I can’t believe you find it so easy to doubt me. But you know what? I’d rather know about your lack of faith sooner rather than later.” She turned to the door and stared at him over her shoulder. “I’ve been telling myself you’re just slow to trust, but I don’t think that’s actually true. I think you’re broken, Sean…on the inside. So this showdown between us was inevitable, and although it hurts like hell, I’m glad it’s out of the way. I’ll put your things out in the foyer in a couple of minutes. Don’t knock on my door again. Ever.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Sean spent the night at the Four Seasons and returned to the duplex to let the church folks in the following morning. Lizzie was working another double shift so she wasn’t around. Which was good.

  His father’s place was empty by 11:00 a.m. and he was on his plane going back to Manhattan not long thereafter.

  During the flight, he got no work done. Made no phone calls. Ate nothing, drank nothing. He sat alone in the luxurious cabin and tried to convince his brain to shut up. It was a debate he lost. The refrain that he’d been taken as a fool again just kept hammering at him, making him feel stupid and as if he shouldn’t ever trust his instincts. God, he’d been so careful. For years. To be taken unawares again challenged his faith in himself.

  And the worst of it all? There was a little voice in his head that doubted what he’d seen with his own eyes…. That wanted to believe Lizzie Bond wasn’t capable of that kind of cunning…That craved to find out a different truth.

  Anytime that whisper got too loud, though, he just reminded himself about all those checks and that will. Also recalled that desperation was no one’s friend…and he’d very certainly been desperate for that woman.

  God, he was an idiot.

  As the plane circled Teterboro Airport before landing, his phone went off in his pocket. He frowned at the caller ID on the BlackBerry. Untraceable.

  “Hello?”

  “Sean O’Banyon?” came a male voice.

  “Yeah.”

  “This is in regard to your brother, Sergeant Major Mark David O’Banyon.”

  Sean’s blood ran cold until it was a solid in his veins. “Yes?”

  “I understand you’ve left a number of messages for him. He’s on special assignment right now and will not be able to respond to them for a period of time. This is a courtesy call.”

  Sean got dizzy from relief. Nearly saw stars. “Any idea when I’ll hear from him? There’s been a death in the family and I’d prefer not to tell him over the phone.”

  “I can’t answer that in any official manner. But you might think in terms of months, not days. I can, however, try and get a message to him. If this is vital.”

  “Our father’s dead.”

  There was a pause. “You have my condolences and I will make sure that he gets the news. Is there anything else?”

  God, there were so many other things he wanted to tell Mac, but not through an intermediary. “No. I’ll wait to hear from him, but thanks for this.”

  “He will get the word. You can trust the army.”

  “I do. Thanks again.”

  Sean hung up and the plane descended. As the wheels squeaked on the tarmac, he remembered that tonight was the Hall Foundation Gala and he was going as Elena’s social shield.

  Damn shame he was feeling so transparent.

  * * *

  On Sunday, Lizzie went to the local market and bought the Boston Globe for its classifieds section and the New York Times for the crossword puzzle. Back at home, she sat on her couch, turned on National Public Radio for company and got out a red pen to circle jobs and apartments.

  As she went through the rental section, and looked at addresses and monthly costs, she was nothing but an ache with arms and legs. Her whole body hurt, but the worst of it was in her chest. And she couldn’t get her mind to focus. Eventually, she ended up doodling until her pen ate a hole in the newspaper and ink bled through onto her thigh.

  She licked her forefinger and rubbed the red mark away.

  She was so angry at Sean. Insulted. Hurt. Offended.

  Now there was a crossword-puzzle theme. All the emotions you felt when you were grossly misjudged by someone. Probably wouldn’t fly though. PISSED OFF was not likely to show up in the Times as a clue. And neither was WEEPY AS HELL.

  As she started in on another corner with the doodling, part of her wanted to call Sean and yell at him. Part of her wanted to prove she wasn’t who he thought she was. And part of her just wanted to crawl into bed and cry.

  Determined not to fall into self-pity, she reminded herself that she had three interviews lined up this week and there were a couple of apartments that might work depending on whether their bathrooms were inhabitable. So she wasn’t trapped in this apartment and there were prospects for work.

  God…the will.

  She’d never expected Mr. O’Banyon to leave her anything. They’d never even talked about that kind of thing. And she would have told him no if they had.

  Which was maybe why it hadn’t come up.

  The thing was, even though she was mad at Sean, and even though he had so much money it wasn’t as if he needed any cash, she didn’t want to take his father’s legacy away from him and his brothers. That was inappropriate. And Mr. O’Banyon shouldn’t have done it. His children should have come first, no matte
r what had broken apart the family.

  She tossed the Globe aside and picked up the Times. The massive weight of Manhattan’s famous paper was awkward in her hand and the thing spilled out onto the floor.

  Which was how she saw Sean on the front page of the Style section holding a superbly dressed woman in his arms.

  For a moment, Lizzie considered running for the bathroom to throw up.

  Even eyed the way down the hall.

  Sean had said he wasn’t seeing anyone else in Manhattan and she believed him. He might be a terrible judge of character, but she knew instinctively he wasn’t a liar.

  He just hadn’t waited long at all to move on.

  And what a beautiful woman he’d picked. She looked like a model. Except for her jewelry. Those rubies marked her as a queen.

  Lizzie stood and went to her bedroom. Opening up the closet, she pulled out a bag and started to pack for an overnight. It had been a while since she’d been up to see her mother and now was a terrific time to get out of this apartment.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Six weeks later, Billy O’Banyon sat in a lawyer’s office in Southie and wanted to be just about anywhere else on the planet. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to help Sean out with settling their father’s accounts and whatnot. He just hated being around all the books and the paperwork and the kind of people who were confident with writing and reading.

  The printed word and him were not friends and anytime he got into situations like this, he always felt like the stupid idiot his father had told him he was.

  But whatever. He was going to be out of here and back in the gym within the hour. As their father’s will was uncontested and going through probate quickly enough, this wasn’t going to be a long meeting. All he had to do was deliver some unpaid bills to the lawyer who was the estate’s executor and discuss how the deed transfer and house vacating were going to go.

  Actually, being here was his own fault. He could easily have mailed the stuff or dropped it off, but he was a man with a mission. He wanted to run into Lizzie Bond and this was the only acceptable excuse he had.

  Sean had been in a bad way for the past month and a half, ever since those two had broken it off. Naturally he wouldn’t talk much about what had happened, so Billy wanted to see how the other side was doing. If Lizzie came in looking as if she’d been run over by a John Deere, as well, he was going to get involved. The pair had been good together and sometimes people needed a little nudge to get back on track.

  Just call him a romantic. Who happened to be able to bench press five hundred pounds.

  “The other party is on their way.”

  Billy looked up at the voice. The guy who walked into the room was dressed in a gray suit and had a lot of files in his hand. The glasses he wore were more practical than stylish, but they made him look intelligent. Then again, he probably looked that way with contacts, too.

  Billy shook the hand that was offered to him and the attorney sat down. With utter nonchalance, the guy started flipping through a file, his eyes scanning text quickly.

  Billy watched with envy. Man, what was that like, to easily read what was on a page? To him, words were more like jumbled patterns, abstract shapes without meaning.

  The lawyer scribbled something in a margin and looked up. “So you’re a football player, I guess.”

  Billy nodded. “Yeah, I am.”

  “For the Pats.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ve never been into football, but I’ve heard about you.” The tone was vaguely censorious and Billy was used to that. It had been years since he’d grabbed headlines for being a hard-partying playboy, but people didn’t forget. At least not in New England.

  “I’m really all about the game now,” Billy said.

  “Which is, of course, why they pay you all that money.” The lawyer flushed as if he’d let the words fly without thinking.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” a woman said. “Work emergency.”

  Billy glanced over. In the doorway, a handsome African American woman dressed in a bloodred suit was standing just outside the conference room. With her kind, smart eyes, she looked like the sort of person who could run the whole country.

  Or should be running the country.

  Was she Lizzie Bond’s attorney?

  “Not to worry,” the lawyer said. “This won’t take long.”

  The woman came forward and extended her hand to Billy. “Hi, I’m Dr. Denisha Roberts, the executive director of the Roxbury Community Health Initiative.”

  Billy got to his feet and leaned across the table. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Do you have the power of attorney?” the lawyer asked Dr. Roberts.

  “Right here.” The woman took some papers out of her briefcase and sat down.

  “I’m sorry,” Billy cut in. “Isn’t Lizzie Bond supposed to be here?”

  Dr. Roberts smiled as she pushed the documents over to the lawyer. “No reason for her to be. I have to say, this is a really generous thing she’s doing.”

  “What’s she doing?”

  “Giving the community center the house. It’s going to be the basis of our endowment—” Dr. Roberts’s eyes popped. “Wait…Are you one of his sons?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, but it’s okay. We don’t want the house.”

  Which, evidently, Lizzie didn’t, either. God, she was just giving the thing away?

  The lawyer looked up from reviewing the power of attorney.

  “This is all in order.” He glanced at Billy. “Do you have the final bill from the hospital stay when he passed?”

  Billy blinked. He couldn’t believe Lizzie was giving an entire house away.

  Dr. Roberts leaned forward and put her hand on his arm. “I want you to know that your father’s going to be remembered at our health center. The endowment is going to be called the Edward O’Banyon Fund. At Lizzie’s request.”

  Son of a bitch.

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, Lizzie had all but finished packing up her apartment. As she wasn’t officially moving out for another three days, she left her clothes in the dresser and in the closet, but pretty much everything else was in boxes.

  She couldn’t wait to get out of the duplex.

  Her new place was on the dark side of Beacon Hill, a stone’s throw from Mass General, where she’d found a job as a floor nurse in the surgical intensive care unit.

  Like the studio apartment she’d rented, her new job was going to be fine. She knew a couple of the folks she’d be working with and they were good people. Also, her supervisor had an excellent reputation and had seemed really great throughout the interview process. Of course, she’d much rather have stayed with the community center, but she hadn’t lost that connection. She volunteered there on Saturday mornings.

  So it had all worked out.

  For the most part.

  Unfortunately, no amount of positive news got her mind off Sean. Memories of him were shadows that lurked in her thoughts. She remained angry and frustrated, but there were other things she felt, too. Sadness. Loneliness.

  Except she had to let it all go, let him go. There was no getting over what he’d said to her or what he’d assumed she’d done. No healing that breach of trust. Besides, he had walked away without looking back. She needed to do the same.

  It was so hard, though.

  When her phone started ringing, she picked it up. “Hello?”

  Her mother’s voice was curiously level. “Lizzie?”

  “Hi, Mom.” When there was just silence on the other end, she frowned. “Mom? Are you okay?”

  “Yes, Lizzie-fish. It’s just…the oddest thing has happened.”

  “What?” Oh God. “Mom? You there?”

  “Someone likes my pottery.”

  Lizzie deflated from relief. And exhaustion. “That’s great, Mom.”

  “They really like it.”

  “I can see why.” Unlike a lot of her mother’s “work,” the pottery was gorge
ous, both decorative and functional. The vases were all flowing, organic lines; the mugs wistful and quirky; the plates uneven and charming. When Lizzie had seen some of it during her overnight trip to Essex, the first thing she’d thought was that the objects were just like her mother: beautiful and fey and somehow not of this world.

  “Well, the someone wants to sell them, Lizzie.”

  “Boy, wouldn’t that be great.” A little extra money was always good. “Is it the little craft store next to the grocery?”

  “It’s the Mason Gallery in Boston. On Newbury Street.”

  Lizzie’s eyes popped. “What?”

  “Mr. Mason was up here buying antiques with his wife and I happened to be taking a stroll with my morning coffee. He saw my mug and when I told him I made it and had others they came back to the house. He liked what I did and wants to send a truck to pick up fifty pieces.”

  Good…Lord. The Mason Gallery specialized in selling one-of-a-kind objets d’art to the high-rent crowd in Boston. Lizzie had only ever walked by the window because she knew the prices inside were way out of her league.

  “What should I do, Lizzie?”

  “Well, do you want to sell your work?”

  “I think so.” There was a slight pause and then her mother’s voice grew soft, almost ashamed. “But, Lizzie, you know I’m not good with money. Will you take care of all that stuff? I mean, I am not…good with money.”

  Lizzie closed her eyes, knowing there was so much more in that comment. Her mother was rarely self-aware, but in this moment, she was totally present and obviously clear about her mental deficiency.

  The shame was painful to hear. And so very unnecessary.

  “Mom, don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything. I’ll tell you what we have to do.”

  There was sigh of relief. “Thank you. Because you know what? I really like pottery. I could see myself doing this for a long while. I think I’m not just inspired, I think I’m good at it.”

  Lizzie blinked away the tears that pooled in her eyes. “That’s wonderful, Mom. I think that’s wonderful.”

  “You know, Lizzie…you take such good care of me. Except I was thinking last night, I kind of wish someone would take care of you. Or don’t you want that?”