Romancing the Billionaire (4 page)

She sauntered over to him, dressed in nothing but thigh-highs and a corset. Her tits were huge and probably fake, but she had a pretty face. “Hello there,” she purred, coming over to help him unbutton his shirt. “My name is Sally,” she told him in a low, sultry voice. “And my safe word is ‘Kitty.' I'm open for anything you might want to do.”

And she reached for his cock.

He stopped her, grasping her wrist. “I'm tired tonight, Sally.”

She looked surprised, and then hurt. “Oh. Do you . . . um, do you want me to call the agency and ask them to send someone else?”

“I don't want anyone tonight,” he said gently. Well, he did want a particular someone, but she was probably sticking pins into a voodoo doll of him at the moment. The thought of fucking Sally instead of Violet was displeasing, like wearing brown shoes with a black suit. There wouldn't be repercussions, but it just didn't
feel
right.

The girl in front of him bit her bright red lip. “Oh.”

Sally still looked hurt, and he felt like an ass. He'd never turned down a girl before, and the agency had sent over just what he liked. She'd probably been filled with stories about how if she made him happy, he'd start asking for her on a regular basis, and he tipped well.

Jonathan guessed that Sally was probably more upset about the money than about not getting his dick. So he pulled out his wallet and began to flip hundred-dollar bills out of his money clip.

She put up a hand, trying to stop him. “Oh, Mr. Lyons, the agency pays me—”

“I know. And I want you to tell them that I was very pleased with your services tonight.
Very
pleased.” He pulled a total of two grand out of his clip and offered it to her. “My driver's downstairs. Tell them at the front desk that you have his services for the rest of the evening. And I'd love for you to go shopping, on me. It's my way of apology.” He waved the money at her.

Sally looked at it, then at him, and beamed with pleasure. “Thank you, Mr. Lyons.” She took the money from him and grabbed her clothing from the neat stack on a nearby chair.

“Enjoy,” he told her as she hauled her clothing on and left a moment later.

Then, he was alone. Thank God.

Shrugging his jacket off, he tossed it on the foot of the bed and sat down. He rubbed his jaw, thinking. Then, he pulled out his iPad and brought up a PDF of Violet's letter from her father. He did a reverse search for the image on the Internet, but it brought up nothing recognizable. Huh. Frustrated, he tossed the tablet aside and lay back, thinking of Violet.

The pillows on his bed smelled like Sally's perfume. It was a thick, musky fragrance, very different from Violet's own scent. She smelled like coffee and, well, paper. Funny how he'd found that arousing. He thought of Violet again, but this time, instead of her cold response to him yesterday, she was raging with anger, anger that melted into raging hunger when he touched her.

With Violet on his mind, he undid his trousers and began to jerk off.

—

The next morning, Violet looked out the window of her condominium to see a limo waiting outside. She rolled her eyes at the sight, but hefted her carry-on and her purse.
Here goes nothing
.

She'd festered with resentment all night at Jonathan's high-handedness, but today she was full of acceptance. She could fight this, or she could accept that he'd outmaneuvered her and was just being a jerk. She could go along with things, get it over with, and then go back to her life. So she would, and she'd smile through gritted teeth the entire time.

She locked her apartment and headed down the elevator and then out to the street. As she emerged from the building, a man got out of the driver's side of the limo and approached her. “Miss DeWitt?”

She sighed and handed him her bag. “Thank you.”

He nodded and opened the back door of the limo for her, and she got in.

It wasn't surprising to her that Jonathan was in the back seat of the limo, waiting. Somehow she'd guessed that he'd be there to pester her every second of this trip. “Hello, Mr. Lyons,” she said in a coolly polite voice. She noticed he was dressed rather casually this morning, a blue Superman T-shirt under his blazer, and jeans. His dark hair was slightly messy, as if he didn't care how he looked that day.

She didn't know what to make of that. Part of her was glad that she didn't have the super-expensive-suit-wearing Jonathan with his impeccable grooming and pricey wristwatch and even more expensive shoes. But to just not give a shit about what he looked like when he was with her? Not even brushing his hair? Really? Didn't she warrant a little self-grooming?

“Morning, Violet,” he said, and held out a lidded cup to her. “Three sugars, extra cream, right?”

Her eyes narrowed. He even remembered how she liked her coffee? Was this all so he could charm her back into his bed? Not a fucking chance. “Thanks.” She took the cup from him but didn't drink.

He noticed that. “I didn't poison it, you know.”

“Of course not. I imagine it's hard for even a billionaire to hide a body.”

“That, and you're far more useful to me alive.” He lifted his own cup to his lips. “We're heading straight for the airport, if you're ready.”

“Ready?” She snorted. “You're the one kidnapping me.”

“It's not a kidnapping, Violet. Your father stole a one-of-a-kind stele from one of my digs—”

“A stele?”

“Yes. You know, one of those stone tablets with a ceremonial inscription on it—”

“I know what a stele is, Jonathan!” Like she was uneducated. The nerve.

“Yes, well, then you know it's very important from me. You're the only person who might have known how to get it back.”

“You keep saying he stole from you.” Phineas DeWitt was a heartless prick, but he was a devotee of archaeology and a huge supporter of museums. Violet wasn't sure that she bought the whole “thievery” angle. “Why?”

“That's the question, isn't it? It's important mostly because of where it's from—Cadiz. Here.” He pulled out a laptop and began to type. A moment later, he flicked the camera on and dialed a call. “Are you there, Sergio?”

A rattle of Spanish came through the speakers of the laptop, mixed with feedback. The picture on the screen swung back and forth. Violet winced and rubbed her ear as Jonathan adjusted the volume.

“Sergio, I have Ms. DeWitt in the car with me,” Jonathan yelled at the camera. “Can you show her where the missing stele came from?”

“In the hole?” Sergio yelled, accent thick. The camera bounced around dizzily, as if someone was walking.

“Yes, in the hole!”

“In the hole?” Sergio repeated, clearly missing Jonathan's commands.

“In the damn hole!”

Violet's lips twitched with amusement. “So much yelling about holes. Should I leave you two alone for a private moment?”

Jonathan shot her a quelling look.

“Okay, in the hole,” Sergio said, and he barked something in Spanish to someone, then changed to English again to address Jonathan. “I'll put on the headgear.”

“Thank you,” Jonathan said tersely.

The camera shifted again, and Violet caught a glimpse of a golden-skinned man with amber eyes and a curly mop of black hair before it swiveled around. “Camera is on. Can you hear me?”

Jonathan looked over at Violet and then nodded. “We can hear you.”

Curious, Violet leaned forward to watch the picture on the laptop as it bounced with every step. Even though it was morning where she was at, the sun was late afternoon bright in the picture. Pixels bounced around as Sergio maneuvered through a busy encampment.

“Where is he?” Violet asked, her voice pitched low so the computer's microphone wouldn't pick it up. She found herself interested in spite of her irritation at Jonathan.

“A dig I'm jointly sponsoring with a friend of mine. We're looking for what might be the ruins of Atlantis.”

“In Spain?”

“Yes. Recent data has shown that there was a very large civilization on a coastal plain that was wiped out due to a tsunami at the right time. We're looking for anything that would link it to Atlantis instead of, say, Tarshish, which is the current theory. Your father was supervising the dig last year, until he got too sick to continue.”

“Mmm,” Violet said noncommittally. Was that supposed to be a jab at her? She hadn't known that her father had cancer until it was too late. She'd barely spoken to him in the last ten years and only found out his situation after he'd died. Then, she'd resented the fact that he'd prevented her from seeing him one last time. She'd always suspected that family wasn't important to Phineas DeWitt, but denying his daughter her final good-bye to her erstwhile father? That made her irrationally upset, and when she was upset, she locked her emotions down and went cold.

Kind of like she was doing right now.

So she watched the camera jounce around and said nothing until the picture bobbed and she was looking down into a tight, dark crawlspace. “What's that?”

“That is the hole,” Jonathan said. “It leads to a cave we found what we believe was used for oracular purposes and worship. The entrance is buried under several tons of rock and mud, but we were able to dig down several feet and break in from above.”

“Going in,” Sergio called. There was a minor scuffle, and then the camera stared at the rocky wall as Sergio climbed down on a creaky metal ladder into a narrow, dark tunnel.

“Brave man,” Violet commented. “You must be paying him well.”

“Actually, Sergio is a volunteer from the university,” Jonathan said.

“And he's willing to jump into a hole like that?”

“Of course. That's what archaeology is about.” Jonathan grinned at her. “I seem to recall a girl who had ‘carpe diem' tattooed on her lower back. Where's your sense of adventure?”

“It was long beaten out of me,” Violet said in a disapproving voice. “I've had enough adventure for one life.”

“I am at the bottom,” Sergio called, and the picture bobbed again. “Heading into the atrium.” More scuffling, and then in the darkness, a light flared on. “At the site,” Sergio called, and the camera shifted. “Can you see?”

Violet looked over at Jonathan, one eyebrow raised inquiringly.

Jonathan pointed at the computer screen. “Do you see that painting on the wall? You can barely make out a mural, but it's mostly destroyed.” His finger skimmed the screen. “This is a bull, and this person is a festival dancer here. Quit moving, Sergio.”

“Sorry,” came the tinny voice, and the camera stilled.

“I'll take your word for it,” Violet said. “What does this have to do with me?”

“Below the mural,” Jonathan said, and his finger pointed at a slightly darker line, “we found two inscripted stone slabs—two stelae. One was hand-sized and one was larger. The larger was written in hieratic, and mentioned a great festival. The second one was in Etruscan and a variant we'd never seen before. It was commemorating something that one of our men interpreted to be a great flood or a disaster with water.”

“Mmm.”

“Atlantis.”

She rolled her eyes. What did he want her to say?

Jonathan continued to watch her. “Your father took the smaller stone to have it carbon-dated and catalogued, and no one has seen it since. Nor has anyone recorded it being taken to a lab for carbon dating.” He turned back to the computer, tapped the screen, and then frowned to himself. “Thank you, Sergio. That is all I needed.”

“Anytime,” Sergio called back, his voice garbled. He said something else, but the connection disrupted and the call went dead.

Jonathan shut his laptop and gave Violet a scrutinizing look. “Well?”

“That was a lovely bedtime story, but what does this have to do with me?”

“Do you know anything about your father stealing artifacts?”

“I barely talked to my father in the last ten years. How would I know anything?” Her lips curled with derision. “You're the one who was so in love with him. You should be the one to know.”

“I think he stole it because he knew I'd want it.” Jonathan gave her a curious look. “And I think he expects me to come after you and ask questions.”

“Well, if this was part of his master plan, it's a pitiful one. I want nothing to do with him. Or you, for that matter.”

“Nevertheless, here we are.” Jonathan's intense gaze made her shiver. “You said you'd help me find my stele and his journals.”

“You didn't give me much of a choice,” she retorted back.

“He's not my father,” Jonathan said.

He might as well have been. Violet sure hadn't been close to Dr. DeWitt. She drummed her fingers. “Let's just get this over with, all right?”

“Like I said, we're heading straight to the airport. I don't want to waste time, either. Every day that passes without that stele, the trail goes colder.”

“I have my passport.” She kept her voice even, and kept her gaze off of him.

He nodded. “All right. Can I ask where we're going?”

She frowned and looked over at him. “Why are you asking
me
where we're going? This is your little trip!”

“You're the one who's meant to understand the symbol your father left.” He pulled out a tablet and began tapping on it, then offered the tablet to her. There, scanned in, was a copy of the symbol on one of the letters.

Right. This was all a little game her father had designed to keep her in Jonathan's eyes so he'd continue to fund Phineas DeWitt's pet projects even after death. “Yes, I know where that is.”

“Care to share?”

She hesitated. “When I was growing up, I was very into Ancient Roman studies. One of the superstitions the Romans had were curse tablets. They believed that if you wanted to curse someone, you wrote the curse on a tablet and then hid it in a place that no one could find. When I was nine, I wrote a curse on my Etch A Sketch and buried it in the backyard of my childhood home. And because I wanted to find it later, I carved that symbol onto the tree.” She pointed at the symbol on the paper.