Shopping for a Billionaire's Wife (2 page)

I love him so much.

Yet
someone
has to be the target for my guilt. My confusion. My regret. My joy. My...all of it.

And while we aren’t husband and wife just yet, he’s got a big red emotional bull’s-eye on him right now.

 “How can you think about sex at a time like this?” I chirp. We’re in a half-open helicopter with a guy who looks like Mad Max piloting this black bird of doom.

“It’s my wedding day and I have a case of blue balls so bad that these puppies could be weather balloons right now.”

Add in this unmarked helicopter and we’re pretty much turning into an episode of
The X-Files
.

“And besides,” he adds, “when do I
not
think about sex?”

“When you’re sleeping.”

He points at me, winks, and then uses the pointer finger to run a slow, sensual line along my neckline. I inhale sharply through my nose and fight the tingle that spreads across my skin.

I don’t fight hard, mind you, but I
do
fight.

A little. I try. I try about as hard as Kim Davis trying to issue a gay marriage license.

I fail.

“Even then,” he says in a low voice, so quiet I shouldn’t be able to hear him above the fracas of the machinery, and yet I can. “Even in my slumber, I dream of you.” 

As I pull Declan in for a kiss and let my hands say a few vows for me, substituting for the words I was supposed to say right about, oh,
now
, a buzzing begins in a place between us that feels a little too good.

“I didn’t know you could make
that
vibrate,” I marvel as I snuggle in even closer.

“That’s my phone,” he says bitterly, pulling the sporran out from between us.

“Oh.”

“Don’t look so disappointed.” He shuts it off completely, then taps the pilot on the shoulder. The two exchange words, and as the sentences fly back and forth I realize I can’t understand them. Not because of the noise, but because they’re speaking in Russian. 

We have a Russian pilot? In an unmarked black helicopter?

I look nervously at Declan and realize how little I really
do
know about him.

Declan frowns at his screen.

“That bad?”

His eyebrows shoot up in amusement. “You think it’s anything
but
bad? Shannon, we just ditched our own wedding. There were seven camera crews from various news and entertainment programs covering the damn event. Andrew is being waterboarded by Marie right now to get our destination out of him.”

“How tough is he? Will he crack?”

Declan affixes me with a dark look. “You’re fluffy and klutzy on the outside, but underneath you’re hard core.”

My turn to give him a thumbs-up and a grin.

Suddenly, my mouth is occupied by other actions. He tastes so good. Like freedom and promise, like peppermint and wind, like the absence of the desperate clawing sensation that tickled my chest for the past year as this wedding turned into something that separated us, rather than bringing us together. 

This escape isn’t an act of immaturity. Quite the opposite. It is the only reasonable option in a sea of unreasonableness called Mom.

Yet my conscience just won’t stop.

The tears run down my cheeks as the kiss slows, his lips warm and tender against mine, his palm moving across my face with the gentle motion of a man who realizes I’m crying.

And I can’t stop.

“It’s okay,” he says, pulling me in for an awkward embrace. The seatbelt harnesses make any act of intimacy nearly impossible, but Declan’s determined. “Go ahead,” he murmurs against my face, pulling one earphone off. “Feel what you feel.”

And I do, in his arms, racing away from the cacophony of a thousand people who fade as we do exactly what we’re supposed to do as husband and wife.

Turn two into one.

As Declan holds me, he grabs his phone and looks at the flood of messages. Is this as bad as it seems?

“Four hundred messages?” he shouts. “I normally have hundreds of text messages a day. I have
four hundred
from the past thirty minutes.”

It’s
that
bad.

“Um, I’m sure it’s not as bad as it seems,” I shout, trying to reassure him, even though panic is spreading through me faster than Mark Zuckerberg’s fortune giveaway rumors on Facebook. 

“An hour ago all I could think about was making sure I said my vows without making a fool of myself. Now I’m wondering if Marie is assembling tactical drones to take us out. And charging the bill to my dad!” Declan says in a firm, clipped voice. 

I wince and say nothing, keeping my eyes closed, burrowing into him as he thumbs, and thumbs, and thumbs his way through all those messages, making deep grunts of discontent that alternate between sounding like a Star Wars Wookiee and a Highlander with a chest cold.

Then he lets go of me and types rapidly, pauses, types, pauses—a cycle that becomes maddening as his biceps keep boxing my ear.

I finally pluck the phone from him and read the messages myself. Most of them are back-and-forth missives between Declan and Grace, his longtime admin. But then: 

Answer your damn phone
, Andrew’s text says.

Can’t
, Declan has texted back.

You ass
, he replies. Andrew isn’t the most delicate person when it comes to making a point. 

K
, Declan answered.

K? K? What are you, 13?
Andrew replied.
You owe me big. So big.
 

I know. How about I make you CEO? Oh. Wait
, Declan typed back. 

Andrew replied with an emoticon that is too vulgar to describe. 

I give up. We escaped. The sight of all one-thousand wedding guests assembled below us like a refugee airlift, only with Champagne and really good cake, lingers in my mind as I begin to softly cry against the leather strap of Declan’s sporran. He shifts. I feel his erection, and he clears his throat meaningfully. The sound is so subtle, but I detect it even above the helicopter rotor’s auditory domination. 

He is wondering whether my crying means he’s not getting sex today.

“Stop it,” I yell, handing him back his phone. 

“Stop what?”

“Wondering if I’ll sleep with you today.”

“How do you do that?” he bellows, moving his hips just so, taking the pressure off me. 

Because I’m right, he can’t argue. I thumb through my own phone. Most of the messages are from Grace, Jessica Coffin, various news stations, Mom, Mom, Mom and more Mom in there. She is on the attack, the messages varying wildly from nasty incrimination to desperate pleading, back to the nasties again. 

It’s like reading a string of text messages during my fights with my ex-boyfriend, Steve, only Mom’s language is way more colorful. I think I see Dad in there, too, but after a while it’s all a blur. The buzz of the helicopter as we continue makes it hard to concentrate. Hell, the last ninety minutes makes it impossible to concentrate.

What did we just do?

I select one from my sister, Carol, figuring that should be safe.

Thanks for replacing my Worst Wedding Ever. Mom and I are bonding over this
, she wrote.
Please get married by a Liberace impersonator in Vegas. Mom hates Elvis, but she hates Liberace even more
.

“DECLAN!” I shout, pointing to my phone in horror. “THEY KNOW ABOUT VEGAS!” 

Side note: I’m so glad to perform an important emotional function for my sister. Huh.

Dec grunts, the sound full of angry chagrin, and stares out the window, thinking.

Our secret lasted a whopping thirty minutes. It’s a record.

I grit my teeth and move on to one from Josh.

Can I have all your centerpieces?
he wrote.

Delete.

Greg’s text says,
Hey! Heard you’re going to Vegas. We have some mystery shopping clients there and if you happen to
—

DELETE. How in the hell did they find out? 

Amanda. Amanda’s my bestie. Her messages will be a supportive balm that will get me through this time of crisis. Plus, she’ll tell me who told Mom. I’ll bet Andrew cracked. I open the most recent text from her.

Jessica Coffin is here at your abandoned wedding reception telling three different cable channels all about #poopwatch
, Amanda texted.
Your wedding hashtags are now #smartgroomwhew #poopwatchbride and #runawaybillionaire
 

Text messages are so overrated.

Vegas. I’m numb. Mom knows we’re going to Vegas.

“Shannon,” Declan says, pulling the headphone off my left ear, whispering in a husky voice. “Until ninety minutes ago, my day was pretty simple. Wake up. Take care of business in the shower so I don’t turn into Two-Minute Husband on our wedding night—”

“What?” 

“Never mind. It’s not important.” He frowns. “Scratch that. It
is
important, but that’s not what I want to talk about now.” He shakes his head quickly, then resumes his list, ticking off each item with a finger. “Shave. Go to Farmington Country Club. Wiggle like a space worm being poked by harpoons to get into the damn kilt. Remove underwear. Put on socks and shoes with laces. Add man purse and tux jacket. Grit teeth while Andrew laughs at me. Wait for Andrew to stop laughing. Gently punch Andrew’s arm when he won’t stop pointing and laughing.”

He runs out of fingers and starts over.

“
Really
punch Andrew’s arm. Kick Andrew out of the wedding party room with a snarl and a glare. Find you. Find you screaming at Marie. Insert self between you and Marie. Listen to your escape fantasy—”

“That is
not
how the day went—” I protest, but he cuts me off. 

“Make the escape happen.” His words have such an anguished finality to them. “Here I am. I did it. I succeeded. Victory is mine. Then why do I feel so hollow?”

“Oh, Dec.” 

The earpiece crackles as the helicopter pilot says a series of disjointed syllables that sound like someone with heated marbles in their mouth trying to sing
The Star Spangled Banner
.

“She’s
what
?” Declan says, holding his earpiece tight against his ear. He looks down at me and mutters, “Your mom called the FAA and tried to report this aircraft as a hijack.”

“You understood that?”

“You didn’t?”

“No.” Declan’s words sink in. “My mom did
what
?”

“Tried to ground us and have me arrested.” 

“Arrested? For
hijacking
?” 

The pilot says more mumbo jumbo.

“And kidnapping.”

“Kidnapping? Is she insane?” 

“She was insane long before she tried to have the FAA down this copter.”

I grunt, the sound decidedly unfeminine, and whack him in the chest. So much for romance.

“You’re hitting me because I’m telling the truth about your mother?” he asks, incredulity flowing like melted butter at an all-night Vegas lobster buffet.

“Yes.”

“Maybe the insanity is genetic.”

I reach under the kilt, knowing what I’ll find, and grab something. He sits up so fast, and so straight, that he bangs his head on the helicopter ceiling. I have a death grip on his joystick.

“That’s um, quite a hold you have on—”

“This can go two ways. That is the wonder of our world. We’re yin and yang. Good and evil. Black and white,” I shout above the noise. “Pain and pleasure.” I squeeze, giving him a taste of both. “Love and hate. I know you hate my mother right now. A part of me does, too. But the constant negative comments about her are getting old.” I give him an icy glare. He gives me a smoldering look.  

I may be breathing hard against his lapels, and my hand may cover his throbbing manhood, heat pouring off it like a glowing fireplace poker, but emotionally, I feel like the San Andreas fault just cracked open between us.

Divided by my mother.

The chopper dips suddenly and I roll into Declan, my seat belt harness tangling with the arm that’s under his kilt, the pull of my kinetic readjustment making him yelp.

He takes the opportunity to reach under the tartan and clench my hand, which is not going anywhere.

“Shannon,” he says in a voice of warning. I can’t tell whether he’s turned on or in pain.  

Maybe both?

“My mother shouldn’t be calling the FAA, and certainly shouldn’t sic the bloodhounds on you—”

“Reporting a lie to a federal agency is a bit more than that!”

Our first Christmas as husband and wife is going to really suck if Declan’s in federal prison. The man has a point. Mom shouldn’t have done that.

I take a deep breath through my nose, and as I’m about to speak, the air becomes a swirling mess, our descent imminent. My veil goes in my mouth, a piece hitting the back of my throat, and I gag, so overcome I let go of Declan’s joystick.

The helicopter rights itself. It’s almost like I was flying the damn bird when I was holding him. 

“Don’t ever do that again,” he says coldly. 

“Do what?” I know he means grab his, um, central processing unit, but... 

“Grab me like that when you don’t intend to do anything about it.”

“Can’t do anything about it here!” I insist. 

He stares me down. “Remember our second date?”

“You want me to stab you with an EpiPen?”

He flinches, clears his throat, and clarifies. “
Third
date.”

I scan my memory. Sex in a limo. Something extra in the helicopter. Ah. Yes.

That clears up my earlier confusion. He’s
aroused
.

All four chambers of my heart feel like they’re full of concrete.

“I’m sorry.” My hand goes to his knee. “I’ll make it up to you later.” One of the most endearing qualities in Declan is his bluntness. He has no emotional attachment to how others perceive his words. For some people, that would be a source of distress, but for Declan it’s how he functions. When he wants an emotional attachment, he seeks it out. Cultivates it. Makes it a part of his soul. 

The rest of the world, though?

Meh.

I don’t want to be
meh
to him. I stroke the soft inner thigh, the skin responding to my fingers, heavy muscles tensing.