Caught in the Billionaire's Embrace (9 page)

He had no idea what to say. He, Marcus Fallon, who had never been at a loss for words in his life. The man who could find a quip—whether appropriate or not—to alleviate any tense situation, who could make light of
even the most difficult circumstances, couldn't scrape up one word that would ease the tension in this one. Some knight in shining armor he was turning out to be. But then, he'd never wanted to be a knight in shining armor.

Not until now.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly, threading his fingers into her damp hair.

Her eyes were huge, seeming larger thanks to the presence of her tears, making her look vulnerable and fragile. He knew she was neither of those things, and realizing that one conversation with Geoffrey could make her feel that way made him despise the man even more.

She nodded, but said nothing, only swiped at her wet eyes with both hands before shoving them into the pockets of her robe.

“You don't look okay,” Marcus said. He lifted his other hand and wove those fingers through her hair, too, until he found the nape of her neck and cradled it in his palm.

“I'm fine,” she assured him quietly, sounding anything but.

Knowing it would be pointless to pretend he hadn't heard her on the phone, he asked, “Who were you talking to?”

She looked at the phone on the floor, then up at Marcus. “How much of that did you hear?”

He thought about telling her he'd heard enough to know she was mixed up with someone she shouldn't be who was obliging her to do something she obviously didn't want to do, but that was kind of like the pot calling the kettle black. She shouldn't be mixed up with Marcus, either. Not being the kind of woman she was.
Namely, the kind whose emotions ran deeper than a sheaf of paper.

“Not very much,” he lied. “I got worried when you didn't come back, so I came looking for you.”

“Was I gone that long?”

He smiled, unable to help himself. “A few seconds was too long to be away from you.”

When she didn't smile back, his own fell. “So who were you talking to, Della?”

“No one,” she said. “No one important.”

“He's the one you were worried about missing you today, isn't he?”

She hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “But not the way—” She expelled an irritated sound.

“Not the way what?” Marcus asked.

“Nothing.” She pulled away from him, then bent down to scoop up her phone and the still-empty ice bucket. She looked at his face, but her gaze immediately ricocheted to the door. “Look, Marcus, can we go back to the room and forget this happened?”

When he said nothing, she looked at him again, her eyebrows arrowed downward. “Can we? Please?”

He crossed his arms over his chest, telling himself the gesture was
not
defensive. Marcus Fallon didn't get defensive. Marcus Fallon was the most offensive human being on the planet. “I don't know, Della. Can we?”

She glanced away again. “I can if you can.”

Somehow, he doubted that. Because in addition to being the man who currently claimed Della as his own, Geoffrey seemed like the kind of man who wouldn't let her forget about anything.

In spite of that, Marcus nodded. Once. “Fine. Let's just forget it happened.”

Still not looking at him, she replied, “You promise?”

“I do.”

When she looked at him again, all traces of her former sadness were gone. She looked matter-of-fact and a little blank. She sounded that way, too, when she said, “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

It was only then, when she sounded so formal, that Marcus realized she had, for a few moments, been as familiar with him as she had been with the man on the phone. But now the reserve was in her voice again. When he looked at her, he realized it was in her posture, too. They were indeed back to pretending. He should be relieved about that.

Instead, for some reason, now Marcus kind of wanted to cry.

T
he mood in the room was considerably darker when they returned, Della couldn't help noticing. As was the room itself. She strode directly to the window and pulled back the curtains to find her worst fears confirmed. She wouldn't have thought it possible, but the snow was coming down even thicker and faster now than it had been when she'd first awoken.

She was never going to get out of here.

But then, what did she care? It wasn't as though she had anything waiting for her out there. Nothing but a nondescript house full of nondescript furnishings in a nondescript Chicago suburb populated by nondescript families. Middle-class, middle-income, middle America. The area had been chosen specifically because it was so unremarkable and unmemorable. Della had been living there for eleven months now, and even she would have been hard-pressed to describe from memory what any
of her neighbors or their houses looked like. It was the last place she wanted to be, the last place she should be living, the last place anyone would think to look for her.

That, of course, was the whole point.

What made it worse was that she'd been expressly forbidden to interact with anyone or set foot outside unless absolutely unavoidable, and never without asking Geoffrey for permission first. So far, he hadn't considered a single one of her reasons to be absolutely unavoidable. Hence the sneaking around on those occasions when staying in the house would have driven her unavoidably insane.

As disconcerting as it was to be stuck here with Marcus until tomorrow—at least—a part of her thrilled at the prospect. She'd never felt as free or unencumbered—or uninhibited—as she did with him. She scarcely recognized herself this morning. Never in her life had she behaved with a man the way she had behaved with him. Not only the part about having sex with someone she'd just met, but also the sheer volume of sex they'd had. And the earthiness of it. The carnality of it. She'd
never
done things with other men that she'd done with Marcus last night. But with him, she'd felt no reticence or self-consciousness at all. Probably because he hadn't had any himself. On the contrary—he'd been demanding and exacting when it came to what he wanted. But he'd been every bit as generous when giving himself to her.

Something warm and fizzy bubbled inside, an unfamiliar percolation of both desire and contentment, of want and satisfaction. She'd felt it on and off throughout the night, usually between bouts of lovemaking when their bodies had been damp and
entwined. But Marcus was on the other side of the room now, and their exchange in the stairwell had been a less than satisfying one. Even so, she could still feel this way, simply by being in the same room with him, knowing he wasn't leaving her. Not yet.

So really, why was she so eager to leave?

Maybe, she answered herself, it was because a part of her still knew this couldn't last forever and saw no point in prolonging it. The longer it went on, the harder it would be when it came time for the two of them to part. And they would have to part. Soon. The fantasy she and Marcus had carved out last night should have been over already. They should have separated before dawn, before the harsh light of day cast shadows over what they had created together.

They both had obligations that didn't involve the other—Della to Geoffrey and Marcus to the faceless woman for whom he obviously still had deep feelings. Even if he was no longer “with” her, as he claimed, it was clear he still cared very much for her. Too much for the possibility of including someone new in his life. Even if Della was in a position to become that someone new, which she definitely was not. Not here. Not now. Not ever.

How much
had
he heard of her conversation with Geoffrey? she wondered as she turned from the window and saw Marcus pouring himself another cup of coffee. She tried to remember if she'd said anything that might have offered a hint of what her life had become, but she was confident he would never suspect the truth. Because the truth was like something straight out of fiction.

He glanced up suddenly, and when he saw her looking at him, lifted the coffee carafe and asked, “Would you like some?”

It was a mundane question from a man who looked as if this was just another typical morning in his life. But Della could practically feel a vibe emanating from him that reached all the way across the room, and it was neither mundane nor typical. It was cool and distant, and it was, she was certain, a remnant of their exchange in the stairwell.

Was this how it would be for the rest of their time together? Strained and difficult? Please, no, she immediately answered herself. Somehow, they had to recapture their earlier magic. If only for a little while.

“Yes,” she said, even though her stomach was roiling too much for her to consume anything. She only wanted some kind of conversation with him that wasn't anxious. “Please.”

She strode to the breakfast cart, standing as close to Marcus as she dared, watching him pour. He had magnificent hands, strong with sturdy fingers and no adornments. Looking at his hands, she would never have guessed he worked for a brokerage house. He had the hands of someone who used them for something other than pushing the keys of a computer or cell phone all day.

“Do you play any sports?” she asked impulsively.

His expression was surprised as he handed her her coffee. “I thought you didn't want to know anything about me.”

Oh, yeah. She didn't. She already knew more than she wanted to. So maybe it wouldn't hurt to know a little bit more. Ignoring the convoluted logic in that, she said, “I changed my mind.”

He handed her her coffee with a resigned sigh. “Squash,” he told her. “Three times a week. With another one of the—” He halted, as if he'd been about
to reveal something else about himself, but this time it was something he
didn't
want her to know. “With a coworker,” he finally finished. He sipped his coffee, then met her gaze levelly. “Why do you ask?”

“Your hands,” she said before she could stop herself. “You have good hands, Marcus. They're not the hands of an office worker.”

His eyes seemed to go a little darker at that, and she remembered that there were other ways his hands were good, too. Lots and lots of other ways. She spun around, striding away on slightly shaky legs. But when she realized she was walking straight toward the bed, she quickly sidetracked toward two chairs arranged on each side of a table near the window.

“It's still snowing,” she said as she sat. “Maybe even harder than before.”

Marcus strode to the window, lifted one curtain for a scant moment, then let it drop. “I guess we could turn on the TV to see what the weather guys are saying about how much longer this will last.”

“I suppose we could.”

But neither of them did. They only looked at each other expectantly, almost as if they were daring the other to do it. Della knew why she didn't. She wondered if Marcus's reason mirrored her own.

Finally, he folded himself into the other chair, setting his cup on the table beside hers. He crossed his legs with deceptive casualness, propped an elbow on the chair arm to rest his chin in his hand and, looking her right in the eye, asked, “Who's Geoffrey?”

Della felt as if someone punched her right in the stomach. Obviously he'd heard more of the phone conversation than he'd let on. She wondered how much. She wondered even harder about how she was supposed
to explain her relationship with Geoffrey to Marcus. It wasn't as though she could be vague about something like that.

She reminded herself she didn't have to tell Marcus anything. Not the truth, not a fabrication, nothing. She could say it was none of his business, repeat their agreement not to disclose any personal details about each other—which he'd already breached a number of times, one of which had been at her own encouragement—and change the subject.

But she was surprised to discover there was a part of herself that wanted to tell him about Geoffrey. And not just Geoffrey, but about everything that had led to her meeting him. She wanted to tell Marcus everything about the mess that had started on New Year's Day to herald the beginning of the worst year of her life, about the months of fear and uncertainty that had followed, right up until her encounter with him at Palumbo's. She wanted to tell him about how she hadn't felt safe or contented for eleven months. About how lonely she'd been. About how hopeless and scared she'd felt.

At least until her encounter with him at Palumbo's. It was only now that Della realized she hadn't experienced any of those feelings since meeting Marcus. For the first time in eleven months—maybe for the first time in her life—she'd been free of anxiety and pleasantly at ease. She'd spent the past twelve hours ensconced in a perfect bubble of completeness, where nothing intruded that could cause her harm or pain. All because of a man whose last name she didn't even know.

But she couldn't tell him any of that, either.

She couldn't say a word. She'd taken a virtual vow of silence about what had happened in New York, and she'd been told that if she revealed anything to anyone, it
could compromise everything. And then the last eleven months of living in hiding and being so relentlessly alone would have been for nothing.

Two weeks, she reminded herself. That was how long Geoffrey had told her she had to wait. Only two more weeks. In sixteen days, everything would be revealed, everything would come to light, and Della would be free of all of them. Of Geoffrey, of Egan Collingwood, of her boss Mr. Nathanson and everyone else at Whitworth and Stone. And even if that freedom meant losing everything she had now and starting all over somewhere else, even if it meant becoming an entirely new person, at least she would be done with all of it. She would be safe. She would be free. She would be
done.
She just had to hold on for two more weeks.

She opened her mouth to tell Marcus that Geoffrey was none of his business and then change the subject, but instead she hedged, “Well. So much for forgetting about the episode in the stairwell. And you promised.”

“I've made a lot of promises since meeting you,” he reminded her. “And I haven't kept many of them. You should probably know that about me. I'm great at making promises. Terrible at keeping them.”

She nodded. “Good to know.”

“Doesn't make me a terrible person,” he told her. “It just makes me more human.”

It also made him an excellent reminder, Della thought. His assertion that he couldn't keep promises illustrated more clearly why she couldn't tell him anything more about herself. She might very well become the topic of his next cocktail party anecdote or an inadvertently shared story with a colleague who had some connection to the very life she was trying to
escape. Not because he was a bad person, as he had said. But because he was human. And humanity was something Della had learned not to trust.

“So who is he, Della?”

She hesitated, trying to remind herself again of all the reasons why she couldn't tell Marcus the truth—or anything else. Then, very softly, she heard herself say, “Geoffrey is a man who…who kind of…” She sighed again. “He kind of takes care of me.”

Marcus said nothing for a moment, then nodded slowly. His expression cleared some, and he looked as if he completely understood. That was impossible, because there was still a lot of it that even Della didn't understand.

“You're his mistress, you mean,” Marcus said in a remarkably matter-of-fact way. “It's all right, Della. I'm a big boy. You can spell it out for me.”

It took a moment for what he was saying to sink in. And not only because the word
mistress
was so old-fashioned, either. Marcus thought she and Geoffrey had a sexual relationship. That he was a wealthy benefactor who was giving her money and gifts in exchange for sexual favors. That she, Della Hannan, the only girl in her neighborhood who had been determined to claw her way out of the slum
not
using sex as the means to get there, was now making her way in the world by renting herself out sexually to the highest bidder.

She should have been insulted. Instead, she wanted to laugh. Because compared to the reality of her situation, his assumption, as tawdry as it sounded, was just so…so… So adorably innocent.

Wow. If she
were
Geoffrey's mistress, that would make her life a million times easier. But number one, the guy was married. Number two, he was old enough
to be her father. Number three, he looked like a sixty-something version of Dwight Schrute. And number four, there was no way he could afford a mistress when he had two kids in college and a daughter getting married in six months. After all, federal marshals weren't exactly the highest paid people on the government payroll.

Marcus must have mistaken her lack of response as being offended instead of off guard, because he hastily continued, “Look, Della, it doesn't matter to me. I'm the last person who should, or would, judge the way another person lives their life. I don't consider your situation to be appalling or bad or cheap or dirty or embarrassing or—” He seemed to realize how badly he was belaboring his objections—and he'd barely made a dent if he was going to be all alphabetical about it—something that made them sound even less convincing than they already did. He gave his head a single shake, as if he were trying to clear it. “Besides, it's not like I haven't, ah, kept a woman myself in the past.”

Della wasn't sure, but he almost sounded as if he were about to offer her such a job now.

He tried again, holding out one hand as if he were literally groping for the right words. “What I'm trying to say is that I don't think any less of you for it. Sometimes, in order to survive in this world, people have to resort to unconventional methods. It doesn't make them any less a human being than anyone else. In a lot of ways, it makes them better than the people who don't have to struggle to make their way. Be cause they're…they're survivors, Della. That's what they do. They…they survive. That's what you are, too. You're a survivor. You're unconventional and you're…you're making your way in the world, and you're… You're surviving. You're—”