Tempting the Billionaire (14 page)

She finished her water bottle and dropped the empty container into the cup holder. At least she was feeling better. Whatever damage had been wrought by the fish dinner and her ex-husband, at least the former had worked its way through her system.

On some deep level she’d conveniently ignored, Crickitt knew she’d regret meeting with Ronald. He had a knack for needling her weak spot, and yesterday was no exception. Despondent, his voice wobbly, Ronald promised to be on his best behavior. His voice tight with emotion, he begged,
I need you. I miss you.

While her gut cautioned her, her heart was far more magnanimous. “As friends, Crickitt,” he’d pleaded. “Remember how we used to be friends?”

They were friends. For almost all of the nine years they were married, and the two years they dated before that. In the end, she couldn’t justify refusing to see him. He was hurting. And if she were being honest she’d admit he wasn’t the only one to blame for their ending marriage. She hadn’t been a perfect spouse, either.

Dinner started innocently enough. Ronald gave her a polite peck on the cheek, and she’d struggled not to recoil. What used to be their favorite cabernet only tasted bitter as Crickitt found herself comparing it to the complex red wine Shane had introduced her to. She’d made painstaking strides to keep the conversation neutral, but Ronald grew suddenly serious.

“I love you,” he’d blurted.

She’d nearly choked on her baked cod.

Resting her glass on the table, she patted the napkin to her lips, considering her response carefully. “No, you don’t. According to you,” she reminded him, “you haven’t loved me for the last two years of our marriage.”

“That’s not true.” He held up a finger as if it gave his argument more credence. “And you know it.”

Casting a glance at the other diners, she’d leaned in and lowered her voice. “The last time we spoke, you said—”

“You found someone else.”

She snapped back in her chair as if slapped. “What?”

He tossed down his napkin. “You’ve given up already. I can see it in your face.”

She’d closed her eyes then, trying to make sense of how he could perceive that she’d given up when he’d been the one to turn his back on their marriage, and on her, in the first place.

Finishing off his wine, he stood from the table, raising his voice and attracting attention. “You know what? I take it back. You make it impossible for me to love you.”

Impossible to love. After he’d professed he loved her.

“Hey.”

She blinked and Shane’s face came into focus. She must have zoned out staring at him. At least he wasn’t scowling anymore. “Hi.”

He straightened against the limo seat and stretched. She admired the muscled length of his body, unable to dredge up even the pithy irritation from earlier.

Folding Shane’s jacket neatly, Crickitt leaned forward to hand it to him. “Thanks for the blanket.”

“You looked cold,” he said, accepting it. He took a breath before speaking again. “Earlier today, I didn’t mean to be…” He shook his head as if unable to settle on a word.

She had a few. Rude, brash, short. Or was that just her taking out her anger toward Ronald on Shane?

“You’re under a lot of pressure,” she murmured.

He gave her a small smile. “You do give me the benefit of the doubt, don’t you?”

One of her worst qualities, she thought, recalling last night’s disastrous dinner.

They arrived at the design group building and Shane stepped out of the limo behind her, cuffing his sleeves as a light sheen of sweat glazed his forehead. Even with the sun setting, Tennessee was humid and ten degrees warmer than Ohio. Crickitt patted herself on the back for having the foresight to change into the light dress.

She paused under the sign over the door, a graffiti-style logo that read
Gusty’s Design
.

“I have been meaning to ask you who came up with this name.”

He paused, holding the door open, a memory flickering across his face. “Nickname when I was a kid,” he answered, then he pressed his hand to her back gently.

Without asking him to clarify, she allowed him to guide her inside.

The meeting stretched into its third hour and Crickitt stifled another yawn. Richie and Angel hunched in the mod red chairs around the glass conference room table.

Shane was showing an impressive knack for dead-horse beating, having exhausted the topic a good hour and a half ago. Angel and Richie nodded their agreement whenever Shane circled the carcass, but Crickitt couldn’t hold back any longer. “Maybe we could continue this tomorrow,” she interrupted.

Shane tilted his head in her direction, and she suspected an argument. Instead, he said, “Yeah, we’d better get to the cabin.”

Angel’s eyebrows shot to her hairline. Crickitt felt hers do the same. She’d assumed they’d be staying in a hotel. A cabin sounded so…
tempting
…intimate.

“I have a vacation cabin about half an hour from here,” he told her as they stepped outside. He gazed up at the midnight sky dotted with stars before angling a glance down at her. “It doesn’t get much use, as you’ve probably guessed.”

She rubbed her bare upper arms, gooseflesh popping up on her skin as she pictured sharing a bed with him.

“Sounds nice,” she croaked, leaning her head back and tracing the Big Dipper with her eyes.

“If it makes you more comfortable, I can sleep in the limo.” His tone was hesitant, as if asking for her permission.

“I’m—it’s your house,” she said with a shake of her head.

“The bedrooms are on opposite sides of the living room, each with its own en suite bathroom. You’ll have plenty of space. Privacy,” he added.

So much for sharing a bed.

He reached for her, tipping her chin and piercing her with an intense look. “If you’re not okay staying there for any reason, I need you to tell me.”

She pulled out of his grip and walked toward the limo. “I can handle it,” she said, unable to explain away her disappointment. She should be relieved her boss wasn’t trying to seduce her, that he was being respectful. Professional.

Irritatingly professional.

Thomas dropped them at the main cabin and then proceeded to the guesthouse down the lane. Shane lifted his duffel as well as Crickitt’s small suitcase and followed her into the cabin.

Crickitt swallowed a gasp as the door swung aside. The cabin was the polar opposite of Shane’s expressionless house. Tall, uncovered windows showcased the secluded forest and the mountain view beyond. Rounded logs made up the walls, stained a burning orange the color of the setting sun. A slate fireplace stood in front of a cushy couch, a flat-paneled television hanging over the mantel.

Who decorated this?

“I did,” Shane said, and she realized she’d asked the question aloud. “It’s not as suave as the house, I know. But this is the mountains. Rocks and logs double as décor,” he said, his tone teasing.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathed, meaning it. Every square inch suited him. The
real
him. It struck her that she knew him well enough to say that.

Shane tossed his keys onto the table next to a fresh vase of wildflowers. He walked to the bedroom just beyond the kitchen. “Your room,” he said, seeming to debate whether or not to enter. He dropped her suitcase in front of the doorway and tossed his bag onto the couch. He clapped his hands together and rubbed them in an adorably nervous gesture.

Here they were. And she’d bet his thoughts were gliding along the same rogue path as hers. She gauged the distance between them, wondering what he’d do if she took the twelve to fifteen steps separating them and covered his lips with hers. Then she regrouped, choking down on her self-respect with both hands.

“I had food delivered,” he said. “The cabinets and fridge are fully stocked.” He pointed at the television. “There’s cable if you want to watch TV. If you want a drink the bar is downstairs.”

She shook her head. “No, thank you. I think I’ll just go to bed.”

“Yeah. Me, too.”

They simply stared at one another, neither of them moving as the next thirty seconds stretched out between them, palpably tense.

Shane finally moved, angling across the living room as Crickitt paced to her bedroom door and closed her hand over the knob. She stole a look across the room to find Shane watching her, hovering at the entrance of his own room.

“Um, good night,” she said.

A ghost of a smile curved his mouth. “Sweet dreams.”

And then he disappeared behind the door.

S
hane was attempting to suck up. Though he somehow doubted a bagel and cream cheese would make up for his behavior yesterday.

He didn’t sleep well. He’d lain awake, thinking of Crickitt on the other side of the house and wondering if she hated him. He didn’t make a habit of barking orders at his staff. And before yesterday, he’d never commanded anyone to go out of town with him. And he’d never, ever been callous to anyone for calling in sick.

He was embarrassed to admit his behavior mirrored that of a jealous high school boyfriend. Shane had no claim on her. If she wanted to go back to her husband, that was her business. It didn’t alleviate his worries. He didn’t want to see her get hurt, or make a mistake she’d later regret. But he wasn’t exactly in a position to give her advice, was he? He was her employer, not her lover. And after last night, he could see she was more than okay with that arrangement.

By morning, it became apparent Crickitt had told the truth about the food poisoning. She strode into the kitchen, her cheeks pink instead of pasty, her eyes bright not glassy. Guilt, with a capital G, settled on his chest. He hadn’t given her the least bit of sympathy yesterday, too wrapped up in his own feelings to even consider hers.

Now Crickitt sat at the kitchen table, picked a piece from her toasted bagel, put it into her mouth, and chewed. His palm found her knee beneath the table. Despite knowing how inappropriate it was to touch her, he was unable to stop himself.

“I owe you an apology for yesterday,” he said. “I’m sorry I was such a bear.”

She lifted her eyebrows. “Wow. Thanks.”

“Wow, as in, wow, you can’t believe I admitted it? Or wow, like you knew I was being a jerk and you can’t believe I didn’t realize it until now?”

She gave the ceiling a quizzical gaze before meeting his eye. “The second one,” she said with a curt nod.

A laugh burst from his chest, surprising him. Crickitt’s full, kissable mouth spread into an even more kissable grin. She looked pleased with herself. She should be. It’d been a laughless week. Man, she was nice to have around.

He dragged his hand from her bare knee and lifted his coffee mug, his thoughts reluctantly returning to the Townsend debacle and the long meetings ahead of them this weekend.

“There’s no sense in worrying,” she said, reading him like a headline in the Sunday paper. “We’ll come up with a new logo he’ll like. One that isn’t being used by strippers.”

Whether it was her dry tone or her choice of phrasing, he didn’t know, but Shane laughed. Hard. So hard he had to pull the mug away from his mouth before he spit coffee on himself. He coughed and she thumped him on the back. His coughing turned into wheezy laughter and she joined him, laughing until tears sprang to her eyes. After, his sides hurt and Crickitt had to sop her wet face with a napkin.

“I needed that,” she said with a watery smile.

“Me, too.”

Their smiles gradually faded, and they simply watched each other, longing hanging in the air between them. Each passing second tightened his chest, the tension increasing like an arrow drawn back in its bow. The emotions spiking his belly were frightening, unfamiliar,
welcome
. And suddenly, Shane found himself sympathizing with her ex-husband’s attempt to win her heart. Because for the first time in his life, he was willing to draw his sword in a woman’s honor.

Crickitt was worth fighting for.

As it turned out, handling the Townsend debacle was nothing four hours locked in a war room at Gusty’s Design couldn’t handle. Henry, via video conferencing, not only approved of the new design but preferred it to the old one.

Angel closed the laptop to end the chat, blowing out a relieved breath Shane could sympathize with entirely. “Thank God,” she said. “We have a plan.”

“Finally! I need to stretch my legs,” Crickitt said, standing. She smiled down at Shane. “Join me?”

“Be right there,” he answered, aware of Angel intently watching the scene play out from the other side of the glass table. She may acquiesce to his demands at work, but he knew she wouldn’t miss an opportunity to butt into his personal life. Just like he was about to butt into hers.

“I’m going to get started on revamping the website,” Richie said. He stood as well, reaching out to give Angel’s shoulder a squeeze before he walked to the door.

Once their co-workers exited, Shane tilted his head at his cousin. “What was that?”

Angel’s eyes widened innocently. “What?”

“Richie.”

Rather than answer, one side of her mouth lifted into an impish smile. “How was the cabin last night?”

“None of your beeswax,” Shane said, but found himself returning her teasing smile. He stood from his chair before she probed further. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“Of course,” Angel said with an all-too-knowing shrug.

Shane found Crickitt sitting on a bench outside the building, head tilted back. Golden sunlight kissed her features as a soft breeze kicked her curls around her head, making her look like a displaced fairy.

“Didn’t I tell you not to worry?” she crowed, her eyes shut.

He chuckled. She could tell him so all she wanted. He was relieved enough to dance a jig. And he wasn’t a particularly good dancer. He sat next to her, his leg brushing against her bare one. She straightened from her lounge position, tugging down her filmy floral skirt in the process. Reluctantly, he dragged his gaze from her knees to her gorgeous face.

Shane watched her until she looked over at him.

“Thanks,” he said.

Her eyebrows pinched. “For?”

“For all your help, for letting me drag you down here. For…being you.”

She blinked twice in quick succession, her blue eyes filling with emotion. Hope, if he wasn’t mistaken. So damn much of it, fear coiled in his gut. He looked down at her lips, considering a host of things he shouldn’t.

Kiss her. Tell her you want her. You know you want to.

He did. Badly. The realization made him dizzy, like he was teetering dangerously close to a ledge he never should have ventured onto to begin with. Before he slipped off, he shifted his attention from her face to the tree-lined street in front of them and tried to gather his wits.

The Townsend issue was resolved. It’d be a good time to back off, let things between him and Crickitt return to normal.

“We should go out to dinner, celebrate,” he said, evidently content to ignore his own advice.

“Oh. No, thanks.”

At least one of them was thinking clearly.

But before he felt the sting of rejection, she added, “Restaurants are nice, but I need a home-cooked meal.”

“I know just the place.” It was a small battle, but he couldn’t escape the idea that he’d won. “Great kitchen,” he said, “but no cook.”

“You cook,” she teased, elbowing him.

“I bake,” he corrected. “Unless you want cake or cookies”—he swallowed, remembering the afternoon by the waterfall, intense chocolate chip kisses, her lips pink and swollen from his whiskers. His next words sounded like they were coated in gravel—“then I’m afraid I’m not much help.”

Shane underestimated his culinary abilities, in Crickitt’s opinion. He helped pull together a perfectly respectable spaghetti dinner, knew what the term “al dente” meant, and she’d even found a fresh block of Parmigiano-Reggiano in the fridge.

She leaned back in her chair at the kitchen table and placed a hand on her stomach. “Not bad if I do say so myself.”

“You’re a regular Chef Boyardee,” he said over the rim of his wineglass. Then he frowned and pulled it away without taking a drink. “Dishes.”

“You’re rich,” she said, waving a hand. “Don’t you have people who do that for you?”

“I don’t have a house staff at home, let alone here.”

“Is that really true?”

“Surprised?”

“Your house is so clean.” The image of Shane on his hands and knees scrubbing a bathroom floor, a slightly damp T-shirt clinging to his hard back muscles, thrust itself into her imagination.

“One of my first clients when I started my company was Maid in Waiting,” he said, pulling her out of the fantasy. “They come out twice a month to do the big stuff.”

An image of her wearing a French maid costume popped into her brain.

“But”—he held up a finger to defend himself, probably thinking her smirk had to do with judgment rather than her ill-behaved hormones—“I do all my own laundry.”

She tipped her head toward the mess on the stovetop. “And dishes?”

“And dishes.”

Crickitt’s domestic fantasy of Shane became a reality as she stood at his side at the sink. She watched through her lashes as he scrubbed a pot, elbow-deep in suds, his bare biceps contracting and rippling while he worked. Water dripping from his hands, he handed the pot to her, tugging the handle as she grasped it and dragging her a few inches closer to his face.

“I never asked you how dinner went,” he said, relinquishing the pot. “Apart from the food poisoning, of course.”

Concentrating too hard on drying the cookware, Crickitt debated her answer. She saw no reason not to be up front. “Terrible,” she said.

“Really,” Shane said, sounding intrigued.

She placed the pot in the cabinet over her head. “Yes. Really. Would you have expected a dinner with a former spouse to be anything other than terrible?”

He concentrated on washing a cutting board. “Maybe. You have a lot of history with…” He waited for her to fill in the blank.

She was reluctant to allow her ex-husband to intrude on their near-perfect moment, but because she didn’t want to make it a big deal, she answered him. “Ronald.”

“Ronald?” he said with mock alarm.

She swatted him with the dish towel. “Be nice.”

“What went so terribly?”

“I don’t know if I should tell you. You’re far too giddy about my plight.”

He cleared his throat and affected a stern expression. “Is this better?”

Crickitt smiled. Even scowling he was attractive. She may as well acknowledge the fact that they were getting closer. Close enough that she felt safe trusting him with the truth. More than that, she wanted to trust him.

“He told me he loved me.” Crickitt spoke the words quickly, like ripping off a Band-Aid. She didn’t have to look at Shane long to determine his frown was genuine. “I was stunned,” she admitted. “We split up because he fell
out
of love with me. And after what he said the night he called me at work…” She trailed off. She hadn’t meant to bring that up.

“The night you were crying.”

The same night Shane held her, his arms shaking so much she’d worried for a moment she’d end up consoling him. But as soon as she leaned into him, they both calmed. As if he’d found as much comfort in her arms as she had in his. Then she swallowed, remembering every second of what happened after. “Yes.”

“What did he say?” he asked.

She shook her head, not wanting to relive the hellish moments before the heavenly ones that followed.

Shane waited and said nothing.

“He just…he said his love for me was…” The words stuck in her throat like briars.

“Was what?” Shane pressed.

It was so embarrassing, so debasing. She didn’t want to believe she’d cast her twenties into the wind. That she’d spent nearly a third of her life futilely, in a marriage where her husband was never more attracted to her than—

“Crickitt.” Shane’s voice dipped, gently scolding her. He pulled out of the soapy water and took the towel from her, drying his hands. “Was what?”

She steeled herself, then blew the words out in a huff. “He said he loved me like a sister.”

Shane laughed.

She winced, the sound lancing her heart. She’d expected sympathy, a heartfelt apology.

“I’m sorry,” he said, grinning.

Not the kind of apology I was looking for.

Crickitt pulled back her shoulders. Heated tears pricked the backs of her eyes and she blinked them back, refusing to make a bigger fool of herself than she already had.

His hands landed on her shoulders. She shook them off, unable to meet his eyes.

“It’s not funny. I’m sorry,” Shane insisted.

“Then why are you laughing?” She choked through the lump of raw humiliation. It hadn’t been easy for her to leave her shell, to show her barely healed underbelly.

“Because…because…”

She blew out an exasperated growl and started to step away from him.

Shane bent, meeting her eyes. “Because I’m relieved, okay? I thought you slept with him the night you had dinner.”

She blinked. Then laughed. He was wrong. It
was
funny. “You thought I slept with Ronald that night?” she said. Shane looked chagrined. She was more amused. That explained his bad mood yesterday. “I was wondering why you were so angry—” She stopped, her jaw dropping slowly as she comprehended exactly why he was angry. She moved to meet his shifting gaze. “Shane, why
were
you angry?”

He turned back to the sink instead of answering. But he didn’t need to. She remembered Lori LaRouche and Shane laughing together and the feelings of jealousy that pricked her like a thousand tiny needles.

He was
jealous
.

Her world flipped on its axis, taking her stomach with it. Had Shane been pacing the floors that night, worried she was being lured into another man’s arms? Had he been worried he’d lost her, regretful that he hadn’t stopped her?

Did Shane want her for himself?

He turned toward her, propping a hip against the sink. She sought his eyes for the truth.

“Remember when I said it would pass?” he asked.

She nodded as she crossed her arms over her stomach, a literal attempt to hold herself together if he said what she hoped to hear.

He gave her a sheepish half grin. “I was wrong.”

Fingers tightening around her arms, she tried to contain her heart as it beat relentlessly against her rib cage. “Yeah, me, too,” she whispered.

Shane stood. “Really?”

A thin laugh escaped her lips. Was he kidding? How could he not see how much she desired him, how much she cared for him? How much she needed him? Even now, when she should be guarding her heart, all she could think about was leaping into his arms and telling him to go for it. But she’d done that already. What she needed to see was that Shane was as desperate for her as she was him.