Fighting for My Billionaire Boss (6 page)

Then he helps me, choosing the most conservative of the dresses for me to wear. It’s beautiful, peach-colored, with a short full skirt and a lace bodice. I attempt to fix my hair, wrangling it into a semblance of its earlier style. My makeup is a complete disaster, my lips kissed clean.

The limo slows and stops. Brick’s face grows even grimmer.

“Are you expecting paparazzi?”

“No, not yet.” He opens the door and helps me out of the vehicle.

Rows of white crosses and gray grave markers line the fields of green grass. Oh shit. We’re in a cemetery.

I accused him of seeing Gretchen and he spent the afternoon here.

“I’m sorry.” I grasp his arm.

“I should be the one apologizing.” He takes my hand and leads me along a path. “I should have shared this with you a long time ago.”

This must be an old death. My heels stick in the soft turf. “But you didn’t.”

“I didn’t share the truth with anyone.” His fingers tremble against mine. “You’ll be the first, perhaps the only person.”

I gaze at the gravestones as we pass them. Some of the dead were younger than me, a reminder that life is too fuckin’ short.

We stop in front of a gravestone and I recognize the names. “Your mom and dad.”

He nods and says nothing.

The graveside is covered with impatiens, a riot of pale pink rigidly contained to the plot itself, not allowed to creep an inch over. “The flowers are beautiful.”

“My mom loved to garden.” He crouches, plucks a couple blades of grass wedged between two plants. “Toward the end, she couldn’t. This is my way of trying to make up for that.”

“Her heart problems stopped her from gardening?” His mom died of a stroke years before I joined the company.

“The paparazzi stopped her.”

I glance at him. “They were harassing her?”

“After I first made the ‘Top 30 Business Makers Under 30’ list, they harassed everyone I knew, but it was hardest on my mom. She was…delicate.”

Oh, Christ. I used that word to describe myself.

“You know the story with my dad.” Brick pulls a weed.

“He was a roofer, slipped on a wet shingle, didn’t survive the fall,” I recite. “Fortunately, he was at work and was covered by the company’s insurance policy. That gave your mom and you enough income to live on. If he had been at home, he wouldn’t have had that coverage. Your parents were too poor to afford the premiums.”

He told the story often, putting a human face on the company’s mission—to provide affordable insurance for lower-income customers.

“I don’t know what we would have done without those payouts. My mom was…sensitive before my dad’s death. After he died, she could barely function. I took care of her, at first, as best as I could. I was a teenage kid.”

“That must have been tough.” I squeeze his hand.

“Yeah.” He squeezes back. “When the business started being profitable, I paid for someone to come in, to help her. That was a mistake.” Brick winces. “I failed my mom, didn’t delve deep enough into that person’s background.”

“You were young and trusted the wrong person.” I can’t imagine having that responsibility.

“I was careless. I didn’t protect her as I should have.” His tone is bitter.

That is why he’s intent on protecting me. I wrap my arm around him.

He stiffens even more, determined to punish himself. “After I hit the paparazzi’s radar, this employee fed them stories about my mom, creating a media frenzy. She couldn’t go to the grocery store or church. The paparazzi would follow her. The backyard wasn’t even safe. They’d stick their camera lenses through the hedge.”

“Those bastards.” I’m filled with righteous anger on his mom’s behalf. “I would have grabbed those camera lenses and stomped on them, grinding the glass under the heels of my—”

Brick turns his head and gazes down at me.

And I remember I’m supposed to be a lady. “I mean I would have confronted them in a calm, peaceful manner, giving them the sound bites they wanted,” I repeat what the last media expert told me to do. “Your mom didn’t have the training I’ve had.”

“Media training was beyond my mom’s capabilities.”

Because she was truly delicate, not a scrapper in disguise as I am. I gaze at the flimsy impatiens blowing in the breeze. Those flowers are unable to survive much of anything, unlike the hardy carnations Brick always gives me. He saw their sturdiness as a compliment, a trait to be admired.

“When we found out about the employee, my mom stopped trusting everyone. She thought her friends were talking about her.”

They likely were.

“She wouldn’t use the phone or the Internet. She thought they were listening. It got to the point that she would only see me, but I couldn’t be with her all the time.”

“You were one person. You had a business to run.” I fold deeper into my billionaire’s body, trying to comfort him, wishing I had known him then. I would have helped him look after his mom. “You did your best.”

“I caused all of it—her pain, her lack of privacy, her death.” Brick frowns. “She paid the price for my fame.”

“She died of a stroke. You weren’t responsible for that.”

“She died of heart failure, caused by taking three bottles of prescription drugs—sleeping pills, heart pressure medication and painkillers. The combination killed her.” He gazes at the gravestone. “I managed to keep
that
from the paparazzi.”

His mom killed herself. She chose to leave him. As my mom chose to leave me.

“Oh, Brick.” I hug him hard, unable to imagine dealing with that loss alone. I had my father, my three brothers to hold me. He had no one.

Brick hesitates for a moment and then straps his arms around me. “I have to protect you, Lucille.” He nuzzles against my hair, his body shaking, his voice raw with grief. “Because, if you die, I’ll die, too. I wouldn’t survive it.”

I’m the only person on this planet he cares about. Brick means those words.

It isn’t a declaration of love but it’s damn close. “I’m not going anywhere. The paparazzi might irritate the hell out of me but they won’t drive me to harm myself.”

“They can be cruel.”

“I have three brothers. I have a master’s degree in dealing with cruelty.” I gaze up at Brick. “When I was seven, one of my jackass brothers told me that having herpes meant being really, really happy. After I got straight A’s on my report card, I told everyone, and I mean
everyone
, at school that I had herpes, lots and lots of herpes.”

“You didn’t.” Some of the light returns to Brick’s brown eyes.

“I did. He felt bad…after he finished laughing.” I shrug. “My brothers love me. I’ve never doubted that. But I’d follow them around constantly and that irritated the blue blazes out of them.”

“They taught you how to fight.”

“With my father’s help. Yeah, they had to, especially after they informed everyone that the summer I spent at math camp was really a stint in juvenile detention. Kids called me Lunatic after that and would pick fights with me, trying to up their street cred.”

Brick’s lips twitch. He’s not thinking about death and failure now. “That must have been tough for a lady such as yourself.”

“I managed.” I fold my fingers into fists, lift them to my mouth, and blow over my knuckles. “When the paparazzi dig up my brawling record, you’ll be suitably impressed.”

“They
will
dig up your brawling record.” His body stiffens once more. “You’ll have no secrets left.”

“I have no secrets now.” I wave my hands. “I grew up in a small town. All the paparazzi have to do is ask any resident and they’ll hear the herpes rumors and the garbage truck story and the projectile vomiting escapade at the fall fair.”

“You told me about the joyriding in the garbage truck.” He claims my hand, his palm warm and firm against mine. “The projectile vomiting escapade is new to me.”

“Others tell that one better than I do.” I grin. “There are four or five different versions of it. Mrs. Robinson’s is my favorite. I hope they interview her. She’d be in her glory, loving every moment of it.”

“She’ll be famous.” Brick’s lips quirk upward and my heart clenches. That’s as close to a smile as I’ve ever seen on his face.

“Mrs. Robinson is already famous. She once made a set of deviled eggs for the church potluck that sent half the town to the hospital.”

His shoulders shake.

We gaze at the gravestone. I bend over, pull a dandelion from the plot of impatiens. Brick rubs his palm along my back, up and down, up and down.

He trusted me with the truth about his mom, shared his fears, his concerns for me, for us. I now know why he worries, why he hates the paparazzi as much as he does.

We’re closer, a couple, bonded in a way I’ve never been with anyone else.

“I’d like to meet your brothers.” His voice is quiet, this wish heartfelt.

He wants to meet my family. That’s how serious he is about me.

“You’ll have to spend more time in the ring before you do that.” I cover my emotion with a joke. “Or they’ll beat you into the ground. I
am
their little sister.”

“If they’re your size, I’ll take my chances.” The man is cocky.

He’s in for a surprise. My brothers are twice my size, only an inch or two shorter than he is, and there are three of them.

But they won’t hurt him, not seriously.

I hope.

Brick turns to me, his expression solemn yet again, and he studies my face, looking for something, more than likely any sign of weakness. “You’ll be alright?”

“I’ll be alright.” I wiggle, my upper thighs sticky. “Though I wouldn’t mind taking a shower.” I deliberately misunderstand him. “Will the paparazzi be staking out your house?”

“They’re always staking out my house, but we’ll have privacy once we pass the gates.” Brick glances at the gravestone one more time.

“Bye, Mom,” he murmurs under his breath.

I hear the love. “Bye, Mrs. Armitage,” I whisper. “We’ll visit you again soon.”

My billionaire presses his lips against my forehead. “Thank you.”

I smile at him, not certain what he’s thanking me for. He guides me toward the limo. There’s no sign of the paparazzi. They must know he visits his mom’s grave, yet they haven’t yet tracked him down here.

His driver, Jeff, opens the door. I climb inside the vehicle. Brick follows, sits close to me, his arm around my shoulders, his thigh pressing against mine. I rest my head against his body, wrapped in his warmth, his scent.

I’d be happy to stay like this forever.

***

Too soon, we arrive at Brick’s home.

His sprawling mansion is situated in the prestigious part of Toronto. His neighbors are equally wealthy businessmen, famous actors and high-profile athletes. Gates surround his property, keeping the paparazzi out. Massive hedges block their views. The main building, a fortress of privacy, is located far from the perimeter.

He’s given me the full tour in the past, showing me the indoor swimming pool, the solarium, the ballroom. Today, he leads me upstairs, into his bedroom.

I gaze around me, curious. A Monet hangs on one of the walls, the water lilies depicted on the water a riot of greens, blues, purples. A massive bed dominates the room. It and the other furniture are predominately white. A vase of pink carnations, the same kind of flowers he gave me this morning, is set on a dresser. I suck back my disappointment. He must have bought them in bulk, not especially for me.

“You don’t like the room.” Brick shifts his weight from his right foot to his left.

“It’s beautiful.” The space is surprisingly light, almost feminine. “But I expected your bedroom to be darker.” Reflecting his black suits and serious nature.

“I didn’t have it decorated for me.” He lays the garment bag on the bed.

“I see.” He had the room decorated for his parade of one-night stands. They get the carnation treatment also. “I’m sure the women appreciated your thoughtfulness…and the flowers.”

“There are no other women, only you.”

“Now.”

Brick frowns. “Ever. I took them to other rooms. This is our private space. Since I renovated the house, only the maid enters this bedroom, to clean it.”

I stare at him. “You renovated the house the year we met.”

He moves behind me. “I knew who you were to me, Lucille.” Brick brushes my hair over my shoulders and unzips my dress. “I’ve always known. And a part of me realized I couldn’t hide you from the paparazzi forever, that I would weaken, not be able to resist you.” He skims his lips along my spine and I quiver. “I always knew I’d claim you as mine.”

The dress drops to the floor. I’m wearing shoes and nothing more.

“You decorated this beautiful room for me.” My voice is breathy.

“We’ll move your things when the media furor dies down.” Brick kisses the dimples above my ass. “The paparazzi have your apartment surrounded. Until then, we’ll buy anything you need.”

I turn to face him. “I need a shower.” I push the suit jacket off his shoulders. “And so do you.”

I quickly rid him of his shirt, revealing his tanned chest, his delineated abs, the fine black hair trailing from his navel downward. His strength is subtle yet undeniable.

“But we’re running out of time.” I unbuckle his belt. “We don’t want to be late for the gala. That wouldn’t be polite.” I unzip his pants, tug them downward. He’s hard again, always. The man is insatiable. I cluck my tongue and shake my head. “You won’t get that clean on your own.”

Brick kicks off his shoes. “What are you proposing?”

I drift my fingertips teasingly along his stomach, hips, thighs, knees, deliberately ignoring his sizable erection. “We could shower together.” I roll down his right sock and then his left, rendering him completely and gloriously naked.

“And that wouldn’t make us late for the gala?” He lifts one eyebrow.

“It’ll only be showering.” I straighten. “Some scrubbing. Some sudsing.” I lean my body into his, brushing my nipples along his chest, pressing my stomach against his shaft. “No coming.”

“Until?” He places his hands on my hips.

“Until after the gala.”

His eyes glimmer. “And who decides when the gala ends?”