The Billionaire's Redemption (The Billionaire's Kiss, Book Five): (A Billionaire Alpha Romance) (12 page)

It’s been six days since I actually met him – but seeing as I spent all of Sunday angrily hacking him for
wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am-
ing me Saturday night, I’m not going to count that part.

So… four days.

Four incredibly intense, scary-as-hell days… and four incredibly intense, sexy-as-hell nights.

I fell in love with him sooner than I’d like to admit. Sooner than my analytical computer hacker’s brain approves of, anyway. But my heart plays by its own rules, which is a fucking pain in the ass.

After all, I was desperately afraid he didn’t feel the same. I wanted to know he felt the same way as I do. I wanted to hear him say it.

But now that he has, I wonder…

Did he mean it?

Or was he just saying it because we were in the heat of the moment?

I shake off the doubt and berate myself.
God, Eve, you finally got what you want – how about you let yourself enjoy it, huh?

Suddenly my stomach growls, and I realize how hungry I am.

Instead of lying here and overthinking stuff, why don’t you go fix both of you some breakfast in bed?

That’s a good idea.

So instead of waking him, I get out of bed and wait until later for what I am sure will be a tender, romantic reunion.

With delicious French pastries.

And maybe more sex.

Yum.

I dress quietly, then stealthily open the bedroom door and tiptoe into the main room.

As soon as I see Dominique sitting at the breakfast island alone, I greatly regret my decision to leave the bedroom. I consider sneaking back inside –

Too late. She’s seen me.

I’m not about to let her know she intimidates me. After all, Grant is with
me.
I’m
the one he said ‘I love you’ to last night.

(Then why are you worried he only said it in the heat of passion?
a little voice asks, but I forcefully push it down.)

I walk over to the kitchen without looking at her. In fact, I pretty much pretend she isn’t there. She returns the favor. Both of us ignore the other as I go about finding some strawberries and leftover scraps of baguette. I figure that’s a good enough breakfast.

There’s also coffee in a French press. It’s still steaming, and it smells delicious. Dominique is drinking from an oversized mug, and there’s still a fair amount in the carafe, so I start to pour a cup.

“You might ask,” she says coldly.

I stop pouring and look back at her. I lace my words with a smiley little trace of venom. “Sorry, didn’t realize you only made it for yourself.”

I leave the cup on the counter and start to walk away with the plate.

“
Alors,
” she says, disgusted. “Go. Take it.”

“No, that’s alright,” I say, and head for the bedroom. I don’t care if Grant’s asleep, I am NOT staying out here.

“
Pourquoi non?
You take everything else,” she says sourly.

I stop.

I think about keeping on walking, but…

Nope. Can’t let that one stand.

I turn around. “I didn’t
take
Grant from you. He
left
you, and then he met me. If anything,
you’re
the one trying to steal him from
me.
”

“He was mine first,” she says, her eyes as deadly as a cobra’s.

“Yeah… and like I said, then he left,” I say, and head for the bedroom.

“He has told you
il t’aime?”
she asks. “That he loves you?”

Something in her tone makes my stomach go cold.

Why did she ask me that?

Again, I stop in my tracks.

I shouldn’t have. I should keep on walking.

But anxiety compels me to stay. It’s the little nagging voice of doubt that comes to you in the middle of the night, when you’re in bed and you wonder,
Did I remember to lock my car? Did I send that important email to the right people at work? Did I double-check that thing, that all-important thing?

Logically, you know you did. You
had
to have. Of
course
you did.

But the anxiety is still there, and it won’t go away.

The unease that maybe something just isn’t… quite… right.

I turn to face her again. “Not that it’s any of your fucking business… but yes, he has.”

I want it to sound dismissive and above-it-all, but I don’t quite pull it off.

She gives me the faintest of smiles, and suddenly I’m not just anxious – I’m very, very afraid.

She was probing for a chink in my armor, she’s found it, and we both know it.

Now she puts all her weight on the blade and drives it in deeper.

“Congratulations.” At first her voice is mocking, then serious. “But
faites attention.
Be careful. He is quick to say he loves… but it fades
rapidement.
After one week, he tells me he loves me, while we make love.”

After one week.

Oh, God…

It’s been four days since he walked in my office in LA. Six days since I met him.

The thought of them together makes me queasy – but it’s
when
Grant told her he loved her that makes me almost vomit.

While we make love.

Just like him and me last night.

My earlier thoughts echo in my brain, distorted and frantic:

Did he mean it?

Or was he just saying it because we were in the heat of the moment?

He did the same thing with Dominique that he did with me.

The exact… same… goddamn thing.

I don’t mean to, but I know I betray my distress by the expression on my face. She sees it, and exults in it… savors it.

Then she lands the widowmaker, the blow that nearly kills me.

“He leaves me three months later,” she says quietly.

The floor shifts underneath me, and my knees buckle.

Three months.

Is that all I have left?

…or is it less?

She smiles. I can’t tell if it’s a triumphant smile, or bitter. Maybe it’s both. “He leaves me a letter when he goes. Would you like to hear? I have read it so many times I have memorized it.”

“No,” I protest, but she ignores me completely.

“‘Dear Dominique: I have loved you passionately, but we are different people. We lead different lives, and while I am grateful those lives intersected for this brief moment in time, I have to go my own way, and let you go yours. Part of me will always love you – the wild, untamed side of you I recognize in myself. Never let that part of you die. With my deepest regrets… Grant.’” She gives me a strange look – one that doesn’t seem calculated – of both hurt and wistfulness combined. “He tells me he loves me
en français…
but he tells me
adieu
in English.”

I have loved you passionately.

Part of me will always love you.

The wild, untamed side of you I recognize in myself.

Grant’s words… not to me, but to another woman.

And he told he loved her after only one week…

…while he was making love to her.

I want to scream, to break something, to run away. I want to tear the world apart.

But I keep it under control. Unlike before, I make my face a mask of stone.

But I’m going to hurt the bitch for trying to hurt me.

Trying, and succeeding.

“If he wrote you that letter, why were you so happy to see him?” I ask in an icy tone of voice. “Was it his money?”

She shoots daggers at me with her eyes. “No.” Then she looks me head to toe like she’s inspecting something vile. “I am not like some women. I actually love a man for who he is, not his silver and gold.”

You fucking WHORE.

“Then why were you so happy to see a man who dumped you in a letter?” I sneer.

I expect her to lash out, to curse me in French – but instead, she gives me one of the most heartbreaking looks I’ve ever seen on a human being’s face.

“Because I loved him then, and I love him
toujours.
Always,” she says miserably, and turns away.

If it’s a performance, it’s flawless. Oscar-worthy.

If it’s a tactic, it’s brilliant. A Machiavellian
coup de grace.

But instead, I think she’s totally sincere.

I stand there for a second in uncomfortable silence. Despite all the horrible revelations of the last five minutes, part of me wants to comfort her – until I remind myself that this is my romantic rival.

I leave her sitting there and return to the bedroom, afraid to see the man inside.

Afraid of what else he might say that he’s already told another woman.

When I walk back in the bedroom, Grant is awake.

He sees me and smiles sleepily. “There you are. I was wondering where you got to.”

“Just getting breakfast,” I say, and smile nervously. I sit down next to him in bed, placing the plate between us.

He rolls over and takes a strawberry. “Mmm… thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

He frowns the tiniest bit. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, why?”

“You seem… I don’t know, upset.”

“No,” I answer a little too quickly.

A cloud passes over his face. “Was last night… too soon?”

The question is like a punch to my stomach. Because of my fear of losing him, I let down my guard – and for the first time since I’ve entered the room, I sound genuine. “No – no, not at all. I just…”

I can’t tell him about what Dominique said. I just – I can’t. Not right now.

So I go with what I was most worried about when I first left the room.

“…I just wanted to know if you meant it. If it wasn’t just something you were saying because we were… you know.”

He grins. The cloud has passed. “Oh, I meant it, alright.”

I breathe out a sigh of relief and smile. “Good.”

“Why, didn’t
you
mean it?”

“Yes. Totally and completely,” I say, and suddenly I am afraid again. I remember standing on the beach in the darkness, telling myself I cannot afford to give this man my heart.

This man who told an impossibly gorgeous woman that he loved her after only one week, while they made love… then left her three months later.

“Then why do you look like somebody kidnapped your new puppy dog?” Grant asks.

I answer honestly. “Because I’ve never felt this way before… and now I’m afraid of losing it,” I whisper. “I’m not going to lose you… am I?”

He stares at me… and then he moves across the bed and kisses me passionately.

Despite everything I heard in the other room, I can’t remember it now. There is only the feel of his lips, the taste of strawberries on his tongue.

He pulls away and looks me deep in the eyes. “I love you. Never doubt that.”

“I don’t,” I say, and it’s true.

But that’s not what I fear.

What I fear is losing him.

And I notice he didn’t answer my question.

He wants to make love again – I know he does. I can tell by the way he touches me (and by the way the sheet is slowly lifting off his lap).

But my heart isn’t in it right now. I don’t think I can do it without him knowing I’m only going through the motions.

I consider for a brief second being completely honest – of telling him about the entire conversation with Dominique – but I am saved by the bell.

Well, actually a knock at the door, if you want to get technical.

“Yeah?” Grant calls out.

“You are not fucking, are you?” JP asks on the other side of the door.

“Not now that you’ve killed the mood,” Grant gripes.

I smile in spite of myself. Also out of relief that I don’t have to act happy and turned on.

JP opens the door and sticks his head in. “We should talk about not being caught by the police,
oui?”

“You couldn’t have waited until after we finished?” Grant asks dourly.

“I have heard you last night. You have had enough of the fucking, I think.”

Grant grabs a pillow and throws it at JP, but the Frenchman is gone before it slams against the door.

He turns to reach for me… but I’m gone, too.

The four of us gather in the kitchen and drink more freshly-made coffee. Turns out JP went down to the corner bakery and brought back a bag of warm, fluffy croissants and
pain au chocolate –
pastries with chocolate baked into the middle. I tear into mine with abandon.

“Well,” Grant says, “we didn’t wake up to any cops, so I guess we survived the night.”

JP doesn’t look amused. “For now,
oui,
but I think it is best if we leave.
Je sais, je sais,
” he says, anticipating an argument, “I have called my friend
le policier
, but he is not answering. I am worried.”

Grant nods. “Eve and I were talking last night, and… we agree. Moving somewhere else would be safer.”

JP sighs and leans back like a weight has been taken off his shoulders.

Dominique, on the other hand, gets a pissy look on her face. “Oh, the lovers talk, and now we do what they decide?”

Bitch.

But I don’t dare say anything. Part of me is afraid she’ll reveal what she said to me earlier, and I sure as hell don’t want
that.

Grant throws her a sideways look. “You’re welcome to stay here, but JP, Eve, and I think it’s best if we move to another location. That’s three to one.”

“
Oui – c’est
democracy,
n’est-ce pas?”
JP quips.

Dominique crosses her arms and just scowls.

“I have
une
bonne idée,
” JP says. “There is a place in Montmartre –
Canard et Couteau?
The restaurant of Marcel?”

“Marcel still owns that joint?” Grant marvels. “Is he still running his fencing operation out of it?”

“Oui, bien sûr.”

I frown. “He swordfights?”