Dance with the Billionaire (39 page)

The words hit me hard, causing my head to spin.

“What?” I said quietly.

“You heard,” he continued in a low, quiet tone. “You know, when we first got together, I could tell you were really into me, and all my stupid insecurities kind of faded away. But ever since your first meeting with that guy, Blake, you’ve been in a world of your own. I’d suspected something was up for a while now. You never listen to me anymore ... You’ve not been yourself …  You’ve been floating around with your head in the clouds for weeks now, like some lovesick teenager. And again and again, I told myself it was nothing. Just my old jealous routine, rearing its ugly head. But tonight, I realized that maybe I really should have something to worry about. ‘Cause you like that guy, don’t you? Blake Matthews. There’s something there, isn’t there, Jessica? Isn’t there?”

I shook my head, but found myself unable to speak.

I could tell Greg was waiting for me to reply, to plead my innocence, but I suddenly felt so weighed down, so heavy with guilt and sadness that I might actually sink right through the concrete sidewalk we were standing on.

“This is the part where you tell me it isn’t true,” Greg said, quietly, his voice trembling.

And at that moment, I knew I had two choices: Either plead with all my heart and convince him that nothing was going on between Blake and I, or …

My head told me to do it, to try and win Greg back — to make one last attempt at getting our relationship back on track. But at the same time, my heart told me it was fruitless. I’d already gone too far with Blake, mentally if not physically. There was already so much hidden from Greg, so much he still didn’t know.

“Jessica?” he said, softly. “Please. Please tell me it isn’t true. Please tell me I’m just going crazy and paranoid and jealous again. Please tell me nothing is really going on between you and Blake.”

“I can’t,” I said quietly, shaking my head, the hot tears spilling down my cheeks.

I stayed where I was, rooted to the spot, as I watched the only man I’d ever loved turn and walk away into the darkness.

CHAPTER TWELVE

“Okay, I’ll be back to check in on you at lunchtime,” Fallon said tenderly, as she left for work that morning.

“You really don’t need to,” I croaked from my makeshift nest of duvets and pillows on the sofa.

“Don’t I?” she asked with a wry grin. “You’ve barely moved all week. I’d better come back and turn you over at least, or you’ll get bedsores.”

“I’m fine,” I said, my throat sore and my eyes puffy from crying.

As she left, the door to her apartment swung closed, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

On my own again, at last.

No need to explain myself.

I sniffed, wiping my face with the scruffy old sleeve of my PJs.

Marianne would have a field day if she could see me now ...

How right she was. 

I’d been crying not only because I was destroyed about the break-up, but because I was so insanely frustrated with myself and my behavior too. Greg was right. When I looked back over the way I’d been acting recently, it was as if I’d been possessed by some devilish force, some cruel bitch who’d decided to systematically screw up every little aspect of my life, piece by piece.

I’d quit a perfectly secure, well-paying job to work for some rich prick who’d probably only hired me in the hope of sleeping with me (as he’d made clear that night), and I’d just thrown away a four-year relationship with the guy I thought I was gonna marry.

And for what?

It was not as if Blake had shown any kind of real care or concern; after I’d left the event, he’d not even been in touch, not once.

Neither had Greg, and I was way too guilty and nervous to make first contact. I’d been planning to write him a long letter, but every time I attempted to think of what I wanted to say, the words and thoughts and feelings all just jumbled up into such a big tangled frustrating ball of nonsense that, once again, I’d find myself curled up and sobbing into one of the many colorful throw pillows, here on Fallon’s couch, the place I’d been camped out all week.

No, the only calls I’d been getting recently were from Mom and Pop — ringing two or three times a day, leaving voicemails when I didn’t answer, and each time trying to convince me to come back home, “just for a few weeks.”

But of course I knew deep down that what they really wanted was to have me back in Glenbrook Falls for good. Mom had even braved the computer, sending me a series of chatty emails, full of small town gossip, fake cheeriness, all the while dropping hints that there was a job going in Sylvia’s Boutique on Main Street, whenever I wanted it – the very same part-time position I’d taken at weekends during high school.

The only thing more pathetic than hiding on Fallon’s sofa in my pajamas, crying, would be to actually run back to Glenbrook Falls.

Pull yourself together.

I looked up at the clock — 9 a.m.

Blake might not have been in touch, but as far as I was aware at least, I still had my job. He’d only seen Greg storm out. He probably thought we’d had a lovers’ quarrel, and that I was keeping my head down, embarrassed about the scene we’d created at his party.

I wasn’t about to lose my job, on top of everything else.

No, today I would work extra hard, and then, at seven this evening when I knew Greg had left for work, I would go over to the apartment and finally pick up a bag or two of fresh clothes.

I was just pulling my laptop up on top of the covers and settling in to do my morning’s work in my PJs, when I heard my phone ringing. I looked at it, sitting on Fallon’s grey and yellow rug:

Blake Matthews calling.

My hand shot out for it, automatically, then paused in midair.

I felt like I was caught between two different urges — on the one hand, here was the guy who’d inadvertently ended my relationship, a guy who I never wanted to see again. But at the same time, I reminded myself, this was my boss too, and unless I really felt like working in retail again, or going back to grovel at Marianne’s feet, cap in hand, then I totally needed to answer that call.

With a heavy heart, I picked up the phone on its fourth ring, swiping my thumb across the touchscreen then lifting it to my ear.

“Hello?” I said, casually as I could, as if perhaps I’d not read the Caller ID first.

“Jessica,” Blake said, his deep sonorous voice sending a flash of electricity through me as my mind span back to the sensation of his expert touch between my legs. “Listen, I’m sorry I’ve not been in touch, and I’m sorry about dropping you in it with Greg. I take it he didn’t know you’d changed jobs?”

“Yeah, well, that’s kind of academic now,” I muttered. “We, um, we broke up.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” It sounded as if there was genuine concern in his voice. “But did you really think he was right for you?”

A long pause, as I puzzled over how to answer such a direct question.

Maybe he’s right.

After all, a guy like Blake didn’t get where he was in business without possessing razor-sharp instincts.

I realized that in this whole week I’d spent crying and wishing Greg would change his mind, I hadn’t even asked myself that question. Hearing Blake’s voice once again had suddenly brought the world into sharp focus, and I remembered how alive I’d felt at his touch; stirring something deep inside me, making me realize there was a lot more out there that I was still to experience.

And I remembered again all the ways things hadn’t been right between Greg and I: our sex life, the way we didn’t laugh like we used to, or even talk to each other anymore, not really. And I knew that if things had been right, then I never would have had to lie to him in the first place.

Blake’s right.

“I guess he wasn’t, no,” I answered finally, truthfully.

Saying it aloud finally made it real, and I felt like I was released from the spell of misery I’d been under all week.

“Good,” he said. “I like to get what I want, but I’m not in the business of breaking up relationships,” he said firmly.

What does he mean by that?

I didn’t know what to say.

I was lost in a thought, a thought that took over my whole body.

Am I what he wants?

“We’ll meet for lunch. Today. We’re entering the final stage of the project now, and I need to make sure everything’s on track ... Not that I don’t trust you,” he continued, his tone suddenly light and friendly, as if he was completely unaware of how much his words had sent me into a tailspin.

“Sure,” I murmured. “Sounds great.”

“Fantastic. Juliet will let you know the address. Looking forward to it.”

And just like that he hung up the phone.

With a sudden burst of energy, I pushed back the covers and sprang up off the sofa, rushing through Fallon’s kitsch, colorful front room, trying not to accidentally step on the vinyl LPs and 7”s that seemed to be everywhere, in order to get to the bathroom.

As I reached for my toothbrush, it dawned on me that apart from the now-ruined, rain-soaked silk APC dress that I’d been wearing the night I’d knocked pathetically on her door, five days ago, I didn’t actually have any clothes of my own here.

Fallon had said I could borrow anything I needed, and I was already wearing her pajamas, but until now I hadn’t even thought about leaving the apartment.

I was going to have to take her up on her offer ...

§

The sumptuous restaurant was dimly lit and surprisingly busy, the room full of the low murmur of conversation and the soft tinkle of piano keys from the immaculately dressed pianist seated at the baby grand in the corner.

I shifted uncomfortably in my chair.

The kinds of places Blake had taken me to before had been expensive, sure, exclusive even, but they’d also been kind of cool, too.

This one was different. For a start, I seemed to be the youngest person in here by about forty years. Even the staff seemed absolutely ancient. The décor was all velvet, heavy gold mirrors, and candelabras. I didn’t understand half the items on the menu, and as for the complicated arrangement of cutlery on the table before me, I hadn’t a clue where to begin.

In one of my new expensive outfits, I might have stood half a chance of not sticking out like a sore thumb in this place.

But in skinny black jeans, a leather jacket and a Bikini Kill t-shirt, I was drawing disapproving looks from practically the whole room. 

“I’m honestly sorry if anything I did upset you the other night,” Blake said, while we were waiting for our food to arrive.

I’d ordered a risotto; at least I knew what that was.

“Don’t mention it,” I replied, just wishing we could get back to work, or that the food would arrive or that something would happen to stop the conversation getting any closer to that memory of his hand between my legs.

“No, I was out of line,” he persisted. “I should have been more professional. It’s just …” He looked off into the distance, his eyes burning. “I misread the signals. And for that, I’m sorry.”

“Maybe you didn’t,” I said.

I could feel that confident girl inside me taking control once again.

Did I really just say that?

“I’m sorry?”

“Maybe you didn’t misread the signals,” I said.

I could feel my heartbeat pounding through my whole body as our eyes locked across the table, Blake’s features changing almost imperceptibly as my words began to sink in.

He leant urgently towards me, his fingers brushing mine, sending a shiver of electric pinpricks all around me.

“I’d hoped that was the case,” he said, his fingers now closing around my hand, my mind flashing back once more to the feel of those very same fingers deep inside me, working the pleasure deliciously from my trembling body.

I want more.

I want you right now ...

“I’m hardly ever wrong about people, Jessica.”

 And I was actually about to speak – actually about to tell him just how much I wanted him – when out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a familiar figure, heading straight for our table, a familiar figure with bright dyed red hair and a shiny purple blouse: Marianne.

No.

Not now, not here ...

I watched her approach with a cold creeping dread, hoping to God that she wouldn’t spot us, but of course she made a beeline directly for our table, her eyes wide and friendly as she beamed at Blake, then her top lip quivering in a thin snarl as she clocked me seated opposite him.

I watched her gaze flick back and forth, from Blake to me to our clasped hands, and I pulled my fingers away but it was too late.

“Well, well, well,” she murmured with a tight-lipped smile, tottering a little on her heels; she’d obviously had more than a single glass of wine with her lunch. “Hello, Blake.” She turned to me. “And if it isn’t Jessica!” she continued, her voice now dripping with sarcasm. “What an interesting outfit you’ve chosen to wear here!”

“Marianne,” Blake said calmly but firmly, obviously trying his hardest to keep things neutral. She was obviously a little drunk, and who knew what she might be capable of doing if she got angry, too.

“So, Jessica” she said, trying her hardest to keep her venom under control, all three of us acutely aware that any kind of raised voice would cause a scene in such a hushed, formal restaurant. “I didn’t know that you and Blake Matthews were quite so well acquainted.”

I shot Blake a look but he remained silent.

“But then again,” she continued dryly, almost as an afterthought, “we’ve all been rather well acquainted with Blake at one time or another, haven’t we darling?”

She gave him a cold little wink.

“Actually Jessica is redesigning my apartment,” he said, obviously angry at what she was insinuating, and knowing this would wipe the smile off her face.

Sure enough, her face dropped.

Okay, Marianne may have been used to sexual competition, and was even enjoying making the suggestion that I was Blake’s latest plaything. But now? Now we were competing professionally. I’d won the Blake Matthews account she’d wanted so badly, and she just didn’t know how to take it.

“How very cute,” she hissed. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go and vomit,” and with that she turned and tottered off, away into the darkness of the restaurant.

There was a long moment of uneasy silence. I studied my cutlery, unable to look up at Blake.

It could have been worse, I guess. She could have made a real scene. But instead she’d contented herself with a few cheap shots, and I had to be honest, one of them had hit home, hard.

What did she mean about being acquainted?

Don’t tell me Marianne’s been to one of your parties …

Don’t tell me that she’s been with you, too?

I just had to know. I looked up at him, the intensity throbbing now between us. “Has Marianne ever …” I began.

But just then, of course, our food arrived. And like that, the moment had passed. I stared down at my dish. Perhaps a good square meal was just what I needed — after all, I’d eaten almost nothing in days — and with each mouthful of the risotto I began to feel a little better: restored, and ready finally to just get back to work.