The Billionaire's Secret (2 page)

He was silent for a long minute, and she wondered what he was thinking. Then he reached for some reflective shades on the dashboard and put them on, covering his gorgeous lakewater blue eyes.

“Well, I…”

***

Evan was feeling the weight of his secret. He’d had two weeks to think it through from every angle imaginable, but it boiled down to two simple facts.

Margie hated—no, loathed—rich people because of her upbringing, one he still didn’t know much about.

It was undeniable that he was a rich person—a billionaire—and had sometimes lived the shallow lifestyle she’d eschewed.

Since they were only going to be together for her time in Paris, it wasn’t like she needed to know everything about him. After all, there were plenty of things he didn’t know about her. Perhaps if she told him about her past, he would change his mind.

Besides, he loved the fact that she liked him for himself, not his success or money. People hadn’t liked him when he was a nerdy scientist with bad skin and untamable curly hair. And he’d finally admitted to himself that the wealthy jet setters he palled around with weren’t exactly friends. Margie was a breath of fresh air.

Being around her had relit the creative fire inside him, and since he’d gotten back, he’d continued to work on the simple inventions he’d started in Dare Valley.

His secret would remain a secret. For now at least.

But there were some truths he could tell. “Well, I’ve been working on the prototypes that came to me while I was painting your bakery. You should see them now.”

Her brow arched. “So you really
are
an inventor and an artist?”

The traffic was slowing down the closer they came to the city, and he forced himself to divide his attention between her and the road. If he hadn’t been hiding the truth, he would have picked her up in the Rolls Royce and let his chauffeur handle Paris traffic. He’d bought the Fiat to perpetuate the ruse that he was the normal person he’d pretended to be in Dare Valley.

He lifted a shoulder. “Yes.” The answer contained a grain of the truth, but it was an unforgivable understatement. After all, his inventions, which supported the defense departments of the major democratic countries in the world, had made him rich and famous. “I’ve also been painting since I’ve been back.” Granted, he was just painting a few rooms in his penthouse—ones no one but him would see.

“I would have thought you’d want a break from painting after Hot Cross Buns,” she said.

“No,” he answered. “There’s something about it. I can’t explain it, but it’s helping me…I don’t know, find my way back to something I’d lost.” Painting cleared his mind, and he was certain it had put him on the cusp of a huge discovery, something that would revolutionize his company. He just wasn’t sure what it was yet.

“Your creative fire,” she said, and it wasn’t a question.

This
was why they were so good together. She knew him. Really knew him.

“Yes.” He steered them to the exit that would take them through downtown to her rented flat in St. Germain. “I’ve been without that spark for a long time.”

“I’m so glad you’ve found it again,” she said. “I remember what it feels like to live without it. It’s a…dark place to be.”

Her tone had changed to one of loneliness, and he reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. “You’ll have to tell me about that time. How you came to Dare Valley.” About why you came to loathe rich people so much, he thought.

“Maybe I’ll tell you,” she said in a small voice. “But maybe not. I just want to be happy here. There’s so much to be grateful for. The past is past.”

Her openness to life awed him, and since he wanted to give her back some of the awe she had given him, he angled the car to drive along the Seine—even though it would take them a little out of the way.

When she started to ooh and ahh next to him, his chest expanded with the same effervescent feeling he had while working on a new invention. How wonderful it was to share this with her, as she had shared her home with him. He pointed out the landmarks as they traveled down the Quai de la Tournelle, Margie was glued to her window. Notre Dame, in all her magnificence, never failed to make an impression, but it was too bold and touristy for him.

“Even though it’s an incredible church architecturally,” he said, “it’s not my favorite.”

“I remember going there in high school when I visited with...a group from boarding school.”

He nodded because he could almost sense her feeling him out after revealing this new piece of information. “That doesn’t sound like a fun way to see Paris,” he said casually.

“It wasn’t.” She looked over her shoulder at him, shadows in her green eyes. “Besides, I wasn’t too interested in churches then. I was in my rebellious stage.”

“You? Rebellious?” He couldn’t imagine it. But she was nothing if not independent, so it made sense she would rebel against a life she hated. In his own way, he’d done the same.

“Like I said, it’s in the past.” When she looked away, he didn’t press for more details. Apparently he wasn’t the only one who needed time to feel out what—and how much—to say.

They passed the stream of tourists wandering along the Quai, stopping to browse at the Bouquinistes of 
Paris
, or “green boxes,” for antique books and artwork.

“If you’re interested in picking up a print or book, I’ll take you to some of my favorite dealers. Did you know there are nine hundred of those green boxes along the Seine on both the Right and Left Banks?”

“Wow! Nine hundred? How do you know that?” she asked, but didn’t take her eyes off the scene.

Who could blame her? The sky was blue, and the Seine sparkled like diamonds in the sun.

“When I moved here, I read everything I could about Paris.” In truth, he’d never really felt at home anywhere else—until he was with Margie in Dare Valley. To him, it had only seemed logical to learn everything he could about the place where he’d decided to plant his roots.

She settled back into her seat with a gusty sigh. “I still can’t believe I’m here. And with you.”

“I’m glad you’re here, Margie.” His voice was gruff. “Paris was waiting for you.” He wanted to say,
I
was waiting for you, but it was too much, too soon.

He continued on the Quai de Conti and pointed out Pont Neuf Bridge, where he planned to take her later. When he came to Rue de Saints Peres, he turned left and headed to her flat.

“Your street is one of the finest in Paris, but it’s not the quietest.” Which worried him. She needed to get her rest if she was going to get up at two every morning for her apprenticeship. He’d wanted to find her the prettiest and quietest flat available with the best views of Paris. The flowers and the small gift he’d made her would have to suffice as welcome gifts.

“I’ll be fine,” she said. “I know I’m not going to sleep much between the jet lag and my apprenticeship.”

“But you’re already exhausted from finishing up your job at Don’t Soy With Me and starting Hot Cross Buns.”

“Evan,” she said softly as he maneuvered the Fiat down a side street to her flat, which sat on Boulevard St. Germain. “I can take care of myself. I’ve been doing it a long time.”

But he didn’t want her to have to be so stalwart in her independence. “I know you can, but sometimes it’s nice to let other people worry about you and have your back. Promise me you’ll tell me if I can make anything better or easier for you while you’re here.”

Her smile made him think of rainbows. “I will. You’re an angel.”

That was stretching things. Big time.

Since there were no open spaces on the street, he double parked his car in front of her apartment building and put the hazards on. None of the other drivers would like it, but if he got a ticket, he’d simply pay it. After popping open the trunk, he took out her luggage and grabbed the gift he’d made her. Her building was a drab gray stone, three stories tall, with a nondescript black door.

“I’m really happy you’re staying close to the bakery,” he said. “How’d you find it?”

“Brian and Andre asked a couple of their chef friends if they knew of an available place close by. Lucky for me, one of the chefs was going on vacation and offered me his flat. St. Germain is such a great area. How far is your place from here?”

“It’s only a five-minute walk,” he said and felt the internal tug of war inside his belly. Could he show her where he lived? She wouldn’t know he was a billionaire, but it would be obvious that he had money. Penthouses in Paris didn’t come cheap.
Play it by ear,
he told himself for the hundredth time.

“Let me get the code to the building out,” she said, rummaging in her purse.

When she found it, she keyed the numbers into the call box. The downstairs light turned on as soon as she opened the door, but it didn’t illuminate the first floor much. When he squinted, he could make out a sagging staircase to the back. Like older Paris ladies, this building was old, but she’d retained her beauty well.

“It doesn’t look like there’s an elevator,” she said, stepping onto the cracked tile floor. “Let me have my carry-on.”

“Don’t insult my manliness. I can get both. But you can take this package.” He handed her the present he’d boxed up, and her eyes narrowed in curiosity for a moment.

“Evan, it’s three flights of stairs.” She put her hand on her hip, and even though he didn’t want to argue with her, he had to admit he’d missed her stubbornness.

“It’s Paris,” he said, moving past her with the luggage and starting up the steps. “Most of the old buildings don’t have elevators.”

“Does yours?” she asked.

“No,” he answered honestly. “We have an old dumbwaiter that carries up the heavier items.” It was one of the features that had convinced him to buy the place.

“Let me guess,” she said, her footsteps scraping the concrete steps as she followed him up. “You fixed it.”

He stopped on the stairs and turned back to look at her. “How did you know that?”

Her wink was beyond sexy. “I could hear it in your voice. You sounded like that when you were trying to tell me how you’d made your paint mistress.”

He resumed the climb. “That’s the Paint Prep Mistress to you, Ms. Lancaster.”

She laughed. “Well, excuse me. I didn’t mean to offend her.”

The impulse to drop her luggage and kiss her senseless on the stairs was so strong he increased his speed, needing to distance himself from his own temptation and the cinnamon fragrance in her hair.

He climbed to the third floor, and at the top noticed there was only one other door. Even though it was daytime, the light here was miniscule. “I’ll find you a flashlight. You’re going to be leaving in the pitch dark to get to work.”

“I’ll manage,” she said and edged around him in the small corridor. “Does it say 3A?”

Again, he had to squint to see the markings. Apparently the building was old enough for the ink to have faded. “I believe so.”

She leaned down, giving him a fabulous view of her backside. “Jacques said he’d put the key under the mat. Aha! Wow, this is a really old key.”

It looked like a skeleton key to Evan. He was practically holding his breath in anticipation. What if the place was a dump? She inserted it and had to wiggle it around in the lock before the tumblers caught.

“I’ll fix that,” he said. “I don’t want you getting locked out.”

She opened the door and felt for the light switch. “I’ll be fine. Oh, wow. Look at this place.”

He hauled her bag into the tiny kitchen. To the right was a bedroom. The doorway at the end of the galley kitchen sported a small eating and sitting area. And that was it.

“It’s wonderful!” she exclaimed and then did a little jig in place.

He didn’t see much to dance over. “It’s not very big,” he said, his eyes scanning the old wooden beams above their heads and the cracked plaster lines streaking across the ceiling. Was it safe? So many places in Paris wouldn’t pass a home inspection. “I’ll have to check—”

“No, you won’t,” she said, giving him a playful shove. “No checking. If Jacques can live here, so can I.”

“Where is he, anyway?” he asked.

“In Malta for a long holiday,” she said, tracing the sagging wooden cutting board anchored in the middle of the kitchen counter. “Just imagine how many people have used this surface to cook.”

All Evan could imagine was how many types of kitchen bacteria were living in that ancient wood. “Maybe I should—”

“No,” she said again, this time more firmly.

He held out his hands. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

She gave him a saucy look. “I don’t have to. It involved fixing something. Everything in here is perfect.”

Turning on the water to make sure it worked, he bit his tongue. Okay, at least she had water. She sailed past him through the small door leading to the bedroom. Should he follow her?

“Oh, come see!” she called out.

He ducked his head under the doorway. The bedroom had a small full bed—likely two twin beds pushed together if he knew Paris—and a twenty-foot-tall ceiling again covered with age-old beams and cracked plaster. He had a horrible vision of the whole thing caving in on her while she slept.

“Margie—”

“Oh, look at this bathroom door!” she cried out.

“It’s a hobbit door,” he said dryly, eying the four-foot-tall door cut off at the top in a diagonal line. “One thing is for sure. You can’t run to the bathroom without knocking yourself out.”

She peeked in, ducking her head like an explorer going into a tomb in the Valley of the Kings. “It even has a bidet.”

“Yeah!” he called out sarcastically.

She stuck her head out through the hobbit door and glared at him. “Don’t make fun of me or my bidet.”

His mouth twitched. “I know I’ve been calling you Pocket Venus, but now I think you might have found your home in the Shire.”

“Why am I not surprised you like
Lord of the Rings?”

“I pretty much like all things Tolkien.” So sue him. He liked fantasy and magic. Life needed more of it, if you asked him.

“I like those movies too,” she confessed. “Maybe we can watch the first one while I’m here.”