Romancing the Billionaire (8 page)

He simply put his head down on the table and morosely stared at one of the bottles.

“Do you need help, ma'am?” One of the waitstaff came over. “I can help you take him up to his room, if you like.”

“No, we're fine,” she said with a small smile of appreciation. “Has he been like this the whole time?”

The man nodded. “When he's not crying.”

“Crying?” Violet was horrified. She'd never seen Jonathan cry. She couldn't even imagine it. Even when they'd fought, he'd just stared at her with those grim, smoldering eyes.

“Yeah. We figured someone died. Keeps saying he lost her.” The man shrugged. “You going to pay his bill? It's a big one.”

Her heart twinged again. Someone
had
died. But Jonathan hadn't cared about the baby . . . had he? She shook the thought off. “No, I'm going to get him out of here. He can pay his own bill. The girl at the front desk can add it to his room.” She pulled money out of her pocket and offered it to him as a tip. “Thank you for your help, though.”

The man nodded and took the twenty. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

He left as she knelt down next to Jonathan's table. She studied him for a long moment, thinking about the man's words.
Crying as if he'd lost someone.
Lost
her.
She reached out and stroked his arm with her hand, and her voice was softer this time. “Jonathan. Come on. Let's get you up to your room, all right?”

Jonathan turned to her, propping his head up on his arm as he gazed in her direction. “You know I loved you, Violet?” His voice was soft.

“I know. But that was a long time ago.”

He shook his head, just a little. “Never changed for me,” he said, his words slurred thickly. “Never stopped. Too late now, though.”

Keeps saying he lost her.

Now
she
wanted to cry. She couldn't bury ten years of festering hatred in a night, but she could pity a man who was clearly miserable. “If you love me, won't you come up to your room?”

“Doesn't matter if I love you or not,” he murmured. “Lost you anyhow.”

Violet thought for a moment. “If you go up to your room and get to bed, I'll kiss you.”

Slowly, he sat up, and she felt the urge to laugh. So she'd found the carrot that would entice the donkey, had she? “But you hate me, Violet.”

“I hate you being drunk here more. The offer stands.” She got to her feet and extended him a hand. “You go up to your room and I'll kiss you. If you don't, you can just stay here with your bottles.”

Jonathan got up from the table so quickly he nearly knocked it over, the glassware rattling noisily. He wove unsteadily on his feet, but his intense gaze was back on her. “Come kiss me, then.”

“Uh uh,” she told him. “Up to your room, first.” When he started to slouch again, she put an arm around his waist and got a good whiff of his breath. “Up to your room, and after you have some mouthwash, that is.”

That got a drunk chuckle from him, and he wrapped his arms around her, dragging her against his front. He inhaled deeply, burying his nose in her hair. “Forgot how good you smell.” His words were almost a moan of pure joy, and it sent a shock wave through her body.

“You're drunk,” she reminded him with a pat on the arm. “Now, let go and we'll get you upstairs, okay?”

He leaned on her heavily as they made their way—slowly—toward the lobby elevator. The girl at the front desk gave her a grateful look as Violet passed by, and held the elevator open for them as Violet and her handsy, drunken companion continued to grab her and exclaim how wonderful her hair smelled. Eventually, though, she got him up to his room and managed to get the keycard out of his wallet and in the door.

“Almost there,” she encouraged.

“Almost to kissing?”

She stifled a laugh at the tipsy hope in his voice. “Almost.”

They wobbled their way across his suite to his bed, and he collapsed into it, flopping onto his back with a groan. Violet pulled back just in time before he dragged her down with him, though her chin-length hair went flying. “Ooof.”

“In bed,” he said, as proud as if he'd accomplished something. He raised his arms, clearly expecting her to leap into them.

She snorted. “Fat chance.” She glanced down at his legs and then gestured at his feet. “Let's get those shoes off of you, okay?” Violet leaned in and bent over to untie his laces. For a billionaire with tons of money, he sure did have some grubby sneakers on.

“I don't mind when you're angry at me, you know.”

She continued to work on a knot in the laces. “That's a good thing, then, because I'm angry at you a lot.”

“It's when you ignore me I can't stand it. When you give up on me and cut me out. It's like you're gone again, and I hate it.”

Damn it, she needed to stop feeling sorry for the man. Pulling viciously on his shoe, she managed to tug it off and tossed it to the floor. His sock followed a moment later. “Other foot now.”

“Miss you,” he said softly.

She ignored him, prying off his other shoe, then jerked off his sock. “There we go. You should probably take off your jacket, too. And that shirt is filthy. Come on.”

He sat up slowly, and she helped him remove his clothing. When his shirt came off, he groaned and fell back on the bed, scratching his chest. “Man, that's good.”

She gazed down at his chest in surprise. She remembered a tall, lanky Jonathan with a lean, boyish chest and nary a chest hair. He'd filled out. His arms were tanned and brawny, ripped with muscle. His pectorals were furred with a light sprinkling of dark chest hair, and there was a trail down his abdomen that just begged to be followed. Violet felt the oddest urge to run her fingers along the cords of his muscles and see if they felt as hard as they looked. Oh, Jesus. He even had a super flat abdomen and little taut ridges down at his hips. Oh, that was sexy.

God, that wasn't fair. Ten years had passed. He should be gross and balding, not hotter than she'd ever seen him.

And he was gazing up at her with that dopey, drunken smile on his face while she was lusting over his tanned, tight abs. She saw an ugly black tattoo of skulls and money on his upper arm. “Drunken night in Rio?”

“Nope.” And he just smiled at her. “Do I get my kiss now?”

“Boy, you sure did fixate on that, didn't you?” Violet muttered, but she considered him for a long moment. At least he was out of the damn bar. “Brush your teeth first.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“That's yes, Ms. DeWitt,” she corrected in a sassy voice, then wanted to slap herself for flirting with her drunken ex-lover.
Terrible idea, Violet.
This man was bad news. She just needed to keep reminding herself that. “Go on.” She wiggled her fingers in the direction of the bathroom. “Brush up.”

He bounded up from the bed—and nearly cracked his head open, running into the wall. She smothered a giggle and sat down on the edge of the bed as he wove his way, stumbling, to the bathroom and began to vigorously brush his teeth. He kept glancing back to her as if checking to make sure she was still on the bed and hadn't escaped.

If it had been anyone but Jonathan, she would have been amused.

But since it was Jonathan, she was just . . . confused. He'd been so upset over their fight that he'd taken to drinking, and now that she was with him, he was acting like a giddy—albeit drunken—schoolboy. It didn't make sense, really.

Unless everything she'd thought about him was a lie.

Maybe he really hadn't known about the baby. She wanted to ask him about it, to get a real, straight, honest answer out of him, but he was drunk. There was no point in questioning a drunk man. It would have to wait. She clasped her hands and watched as he rinsed his mouth, then used mouthwash with great gusto, swishing away to ensure his mouth would be clean enough for their kiss.

Then, he wobbled back into the room and gave her a slit-eyed smile, his eyes practically closed out of a mix of exhaustion and alcohol. “Kiss me now?”

“Lay down,” she commanded, getting up off the bed and patting one pillow.

He more or less staggered into the bed and then looked over at her, waiting. She leaned in, and then at the last moment, kissed him on the forehead.

“Cheat,” he murmured, eyes closed.

“You're too drunk to appreciate anything more,” she told him.

He made a sound that might have been affirmation, and before she'd even pulled the blankets up over him, he was asleep.

She stared down at him, thinking. She didn't know what to do with him. Or what to think. Jonathan still drove her crazier than crazy in every possible way. Why was it that ten years apart felt like an eternity . . . and yet it felt like yesterday at the same time?

He rolled over in the bed and hugged the pillow, exposing his backside and the wallet sticking out of his pocket. Oh, right. She reached over and pulled it out of his jeans so it wouldn't disturb him while he slept, intending to put it on the nightstand. Instead, she stared at it for a moment and then snuck another peek at him. Still fast asleep.

So she opened his wallet, unable to resist her nosiness a moment longer.

It was full of money. That was no surprise to her; he was a billionaire. That interested her less than what else was in the wallet. Was it stuffed full of condoms? Pictures of other women? She dug around, knowing it was a shitty thing to do and not caring. Behind several platinum and black credit cards, she found a picture tucked away. Aha.

But when she pulled it out, it was her own face staring back at her.

The picture was creased, the edges worn, and it was obvious that it had been carried in this wallet—or others like it—for a long, long time. The photo was of Santorini, her and Jonathan standing in front of the Akrotiri ruins, both of them wearing hats and stripes of white zinc on their noses. They looked like dorks.

They looked so happy.

Nineteen-year-old Violet's braids were hanging over her shoulders and she was gazing up at a smiling Jonathan with an adoring look. Violet felt a weird little lurch in her stomach at the sight of that. Once upon a time, she'd adored him. And judging from this photo, that was how he'd wanted to remember her.

She carefully put the folded photo back into his wallet and looked for any other photos of women. There was nothing, just the photo of her. Frowning, she closed his wallet and put it on his bedside table.

At her side, Jonathan moaned in his sleep.

She stiffened, listening and watching him. To her horror, a harsh sob racked his body. “Violet,” he moaned.

He sounded so tortured. Heart aching, she reached out and touched his arm. “I'm here, Jonathan. Go back to sleep.”

Immediately, his sobs died down and his breathing calmed, and he returned to sleep.

Violet stared down at the man she thought she knew.

She didn't know what to do. For a long, painful moment, she wanted to turn and run right out of his room, out of the hotel, and keep running all the way back to Detroit. Pick up her nice, safe, quiet little life again and forget all about the billionaire who'd used her and hung her out to dry. Running away was sometimes a lot easier than staying and facing things, and she was a big fan of running.

But she didn't leave. Instead, she reached over and brushed the curls off of Jonathan's brow and then sighed when he didn't wake up. Well, shit.

She spotted his phone on the other nightstand and got up, heading for it. It was a smartphone, and she slid her thumb across the button, wondering if it was password coded. Nope. Her heart thumping, she went to his list of recent contacts. Several businesses scrolled past the screen, and then she found a name. Cade.

Chewing on her lip, she considered it for a moment, and then dialed.

It took a few rings before someone answered. Then, a man's cheerful voice came on the line. “Hey man, what's up?”

“I— Is this Cade?” Violet tried to keep her voice calm. “Are you a friend of Jonathan's?”

The man's tone immediately became more guarded. “Who's this?”

“My name is Violet—”

“Oh, damn. Violet, huh?”

She frowned. “Yes. Why?”

“
That
Violet?”

“That Violet what?” she snapped at him, growing irritated. What did this man think he knew?

“From a long time ago? The one who broke his heart?”

She felt her cheeks heating. “That's personal.”

“That's also not a no.” The man's voice grew kind. “What can I do for you, Violet? And why are you calling me on Jon's phone?”

She glanced over at the man sleeping in the bed, his brow furrowed as if his dreams still tormented him. “I think I broke him again,” she whispered.

—

Cade agreed to head to New Mexico, but he couldn't get away for another day. In the meantime, Jonathan woke up, surly and dark, and headed right back to the bar. The front desk called Violet again—as if she could stop him!—and through more cajoling of a drunk man, she managed to get him back to his room to sleep it off again.

She didn't know if she could keep doing this. It was too hard on her heart. Her mother had drank herself into a stupor so many times that Violet felt herself mentally distancing every time someone picked up a bottle. Now, Jonathan was doing the same thing, and it made Violet's soul ache. Jonathan was being impossible and refused to listen to reason when she tried to talk to him. It was like he was trying to shut everything and everyone out, and the bottle was the only way he could do so.

Which was why she was ridiculously relieved when she got a text from Cade on her phone.
I'm here. Shall we meet?

Violet raced down to the lobby. She hoped desperately that Cade would know what to do with Jonathan, because she was running out of ideas—and he was starting to get frustrated with her bribes of chaste forehead kisses.