Shopping for a Billionaire's Wife (6 page)

“I love you,” he says, as if he feels I need to hear it. I don’t. I know.

“I love you, too.”

“And you were a smoking hot Hello Kitty,” he adds with a wolf whistle as the plane’s nose turns downward, taking us to the next step in our hare-brained escape plan.

Chapter Six

Vegas is big and bright. Duh, right? But I mean BIG. And BRIGHT. It’s like Times Square on steroids sprinkled on top of a big dose of Molly with a case of Red Bull thrown in for fun.

I crane my neck, plastering my face against the limo window, looking up.

“I can’t believe you’ve never been to Vegas,” Declan says for the fourth time in ten minutes. 

“C’mon. Not everyone has the means to travel like your family.”

“You never took family vacations?”

“We did. Camping. To the beach. I don’t think dragging three girls to a place where toplessness is legal and Santa Claus carries an LED sign on a backpack with crotch shots really qualifies as a family destination site.”

He frowns. “Anterdec’s resort is trying to do just that.”

I look out the window and see what appears to be Chewbacca from Star Wars receiving oral sex from Elmo.

“You have your work cut out for you,” I reply, pointing to the scene.

“May the Force be with you,” he mutters.

The limo halts at a red light. Famous performers whose names I’ve heard growing up have their faces plastered all over the sides of skyscrapers, the buildings jutting up like towers of Babel in the desert. I’ve seen movies about Vegas. Watched a few documentaries. Even had friends come here and return home with wild stories of gambling and reckless sex.

Until you’re driving down a palm-tree-lined boulevard with wide streets, broad sidewalks, and outdoor escalators leading to catwalks that span the road every block as far as the eye can see, with choreographed water fountains, beggars, old ladies wearing stripper-joint t-shirts that say Girls, Girls, Girls and handing out free passes to nudie bars, you don’t really get a sense of the electrified chaos and the extraordinary overstimulation of it all. 

I’m beginning to think that coming here was a bad, bad idea.

As if he reads my mind, Declan scoots me by my ass across the seat, where he nestles me in his warm arms. He smells like sweat and sex, like remnants of his morning shower’s soap, like my deodorant and the sweet grapes we ate on the plane before dashing to this limo. I’m so used to having Gerald or Lance at the helm. Geordi is our driver, and he looks just enough like Harrison Ford with purple streaked hair under his hat to make me wonder if this isn’t one big movie set and Declan’s playing an elaborate practical joke on me.

“Hey. It’s not all like this.” 

“What isn’t?”

“Vegas. This is all for show. For the masses. We’ll drive into the underground garage and take the private elevator to our room. You won’t have to see a thing.”

“See
what
thing?” 

He laughs. I elbow him.

“I meant the casino floor. The indoor gardens. The shops you clearly don’t want to patronize,” he adds with a touch of saccharine. “The craziness.”

I twist in his arms and look at him. In the neon glow of nonstop blink and change from signs like Tokyo, he looks well worn. Tired. His guard is down, and a piece of me loves him a little more for it. My mouth stretches open with a noisy yawn and he laughs, then yawns as well.

“It’s contagious,” I whisper. The familiar sound of Michael Jackson music is muted outside. I turn to find an impersonator on the granite sidewalk, dancing with sharp moves, tipping his hat to the audience as dark ringlets bounce with his steps. The song ends just as the light cycle changes and we creep, slowly, into the parking garage. 

We climb out of the limo, attendants everywhere, dressed in burgundy jackets, black pants, and most of them wearing earbuds. Soft, modern pop music floats through the air as Declan climbs out, offering his hand to me. I make it to a standing position and wobble. The day has been long. I purposely didn’t drink on the flight, afraid to make a crazy, nerve-jangling day even worse, but now that we’re here—really here—I just want a long soak in a big, hot tub and a bottle of Champagne for my greedy little self.

Then about twelve hours of spooning sleep with Declan.

“Mr. McCormick,” says the attendant who opens the door to the building, handing Declan a set of key cards. He whispers in Declan’s ear. Whatever he tells him, Declan’s face folds into a mixture of reactions. I don’t ask. I’m too tired to ask.

We walk into a plushly-carpeted hallway, face a set of elevator doors, and a new attendant nods.

“Mr. McCormick, good to see you.” Declan’s curt nod is all he gives. We enter the elevator and Declan lets out a long, slow exhale.

“They all know you?”

“I called ahead to let them know we were coming.”

“How do they
all
know you?’

He cocks an eyebrow. “Because Anterdec owns the place. I interned here in college. I’ve spent more time here than I should have.”

“What’s that mean?”

He washes his jaw with one hand. “Let’s just say I like the roulette wheel a little too much.”

“You
gamble
?”

“Baccarat now. High stakes only. More controlled variables.”

“What else don’t I know about you?”

The elevator doors ding and he pivots me to the right. “Isn’t that why we’re getting married? So you can get to know me better?” We stop at a set of double doors. The hallways are done in a mix of beige marble shades and burgundies, ornate color patterns designed to convey richness. Old world. A kind of nouveau decoration scheme that says,
You’ve made it
with a mix of
Hey, modern plumbing
. 

“You don’t gamble huge amounts of money, do you?”

“Why gamble otherwise? The thrill is in the risk. Not in actually winning.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Only a non-gambler would say that, Shannon.”

“I thought you play to win?”

“Always.”

“Then isn’t winning the goal?”

“Sure. But the bigger challenge comes from taking the biggest risk possible and seeing it pay off. Sometimes you have to tolerate some losses along the path to reaching that ultimate achievement.”

“And losing giant piles of money is an acceptable way to learn?”

He shrugs. “It’s the only way.”

“Did you ever lose a lot of money?”

He’s immediately uncomfortable. There’s my answer.

Declan finds one of the keys the parking attendant gave him and waves it in front of a wood panel, which opens magically. This should impress me, but it doesn’t. I’ve seen almost every form of hospitality technology you can imagine in my work with Anterdec.

The suite is splendid, with a breathtaking view of the enormous fountain below. Gold is the dominant color, that rich shade of oak trees turning to foliage in a New England fall. Dark, stained wood and tasteful bronze accents round out the room, with abstract art that focuses on burgundies and texture, each framed oil painting signed.

Original art. This ain’t no fifty-nine-buck-a-night motor lodge.

Two years ago I would have been gobsmacked. Living with a man who walks through life in a cloud of money has changed me, though, even if I’m loath to admit it. The suite is beautiful. It smells like piped-in vanilla. The minibar is well stocked and Declan casually opens the tiny refrigerator, pulls out a soda, and cracks it open.

Five bucks
, I think.
That’s a five-buck soda.
 

I tuck the thought away, because why linger over it? I don’t live my old life anymore. I have to get used to this new reality. And I have. Slowly.

One luxury at a time.

One area where I have no problem living large is transportation. Not having to worry about driving, or parking, or fighting through airport security turns off the little piece of self-doubt that reminds me of five-dollar sodas. Am I a hypocrite? Yep.

That’s the price I pay for not having to worry about my underwire bra setting off the metal detectors.

He opens the minibar again and points to it. “Here. Grab something. You must be parched.”

I walk over to him, pluck an empty glass off the counter and walk into the bathroom to fill it with tap water. His eyes follow me and he knows exactly what I’m about to do. While I’m in there, I take a minute to drink, pee, and freshen up, which is loosely defined as taking the “Self-Care Kit” and running a comb through my destroyed hair.

When I come back out into the living room, the table behind the couch is covered in soda pop cans, candy bars, mini wine bottles, small wheels of brie, and three berry bowls.

“What is this?”

He smirks. “I emptied the minibar. Now you have to eat it.”

“What?”

“I know what you’re doing, and it needs to stop. Shannon, just take whatever you want.”

I sip my water. “I’m fine.” But man, I’m eyeing that stack of Butterfinger bars like I’m on death row and this is my last meal.

“Eat. Drink.” He cracks open a tiny little bottle of wine and drinks it in three long gulps.

There must be two hundred dollars worth of snacks here. That the hotel will charge eight hundred for.

“It’s my company’s hotel,” he says, reading my mind. 

“I work for Anterdec, too!”

“It’s
your
company’s hotel,” he intones. “Act like it. Enjoy.”

“This isn’t business,” I say primly.

“What do you mean?”

“We’re not on a business trip, so I can’t treat this like a deduction.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Life isn’t one big business trip.” 

Blank stare.

“Quit acting like you don’t get what I’m saying.”

“I’m not acting. Life is business. The time I spend with you is what I squeeze in between work.”

Stunned into silence, I listen to the sound of my breath. The fizz of his drink in the can. The noise of candy wrappers as I lower myself to sit on the bed, a few stray delights from the minibar strewn on the bed like bedtime decorations. A ventilation unit goes off. A woman’s throaty laugh is muted out in the hall.

He looks at me, brow darkening with increasing concern, as I let his world circumnavigate my mind a few hundred times.

“Will it always be that way?” I ask.

His turn to be stunned. He’s blinking harder than an owl in a sandstorm.

“That sounded really bad, didn’t it?’ he says as his frown deepens, his fingers going to his chin, his eyes troubled. 

“Yep.”

“I didn’t—that’s not—” He stops and starts a few times, finally taking a long, slow breath and saying, “Can I have a do-over?”

“A do-over.”

“Right.”

“Like a reboot?”

“Exactly.”

Declan’s so self-assured, so precise and confident in pretty much every way possible, that this is interesting to watch. I am not at all above the schadenfreude that comes from observing his verbal klutziness right now.

“No.”

“No?”

“You don’t get a reboot,” I say, my words regal and pompous. “Say what you mean and mean what you say.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, because that is one of his favorite sayings.

“If you like work more than me, Declan—”

“That is not what I said, and you know it, Shannon. I said that life is what I fit in around work. We were talking about a soda or a bag of chips from the minibar and now it’s devolved into an argument about work-life balance.”

“What’s that?”

“Work-life balance?”

“Right.”

“It’s where you juggle the two to make them evenly important.”

“How can you claim to even try if life is what you squeeze in around work? That’s not balance. That’s gap-filling. I’m nothing but a full caulk gun to you.”

“I was using that as a way of defending against your ridiculous contention that you needed to deprive yourself of a Butterfinger because we’re not on a business trip!”

“Ohh, low blow, Dec!”

“What?”

“Now you’re using my love of Butterfingers to win this argument!” Some lines can’t be crossed in relationships. 

He picks up one of the offending confections and tosses it to me.

“Dirty fighter.”

“Oh, I’m way dirtier than that,” he says in a voice that rumbles.

“Sex. Again.” I sigh and shake my head. I also crouch and pick up the candy bar, because
hey
. Butterfinger. 

“Is that an observation or a...request?”

Considering that question carefully, I fume, and yet, in great anger there is great opportunity. What if I just throw myself at him and end this ridiculous argument? We’ve been bickering since we got on the plane, and this is not our norm. Other couples may fight in tiny little ways with micro-insults that are all about keeping score in some fifty-years war where the victor—what? Lives?

But I don’t want that kind of life.

If sex will heal this rift, then maybe I need to call him on his cute little bluff. Maybe that was just a sweet little joke. A poke. 

Maybe I can’t tell, because it looks too much like a sharp stick he’s poking at me for me to know it’s really an olive branch.

“Which do you want it to be?” I peel open the candy bar and wrap my lips around the tip of the long, chocolate-coated piece of layered processed pretend peanutty
whatever
that some lab rat in a candy factory created with chemicals for the perfect consistency and addictive taste. 

If this whole marketing-director thing doesn’t work out, I think I’ll become a chemical taster for candy companies.

“I want it to be whatever gets us to stop fighting. I hate this, Shannon. I hate not feeling connected to you.”

This is why I want to marry this man.
This
. Not the thousand guests, the tartan thongs, the cat as flower girl, or the forty-one bagpipe players. Not Mom’s Farmington Country Club dream, and not for the lavish gifts people brought.

Him.

Only him.

“Maybe I
should
have sex with you,” I challenge, eyes on his, giving him the side-eye like I’m evaluating a rival before a boxing match. Except instead of hitting each other, we’re going to play an elaborate game of Battleship.