Romancing the Billionaire (5 page)

He took the tablet back from her and squinted at it. “I thought it was a hieroglyph.”

“It's a devil.”

He turned the tablet, still staring at it. “Are you sure? There are five limbs and three eyes. Maybe it's a bug of some kind?”

“I know what I drew,” Violet snapped at him. “And I wasn't very good at carving, all right?”

His lips twitched in amusement. “So, who did you curse?”

“My father. He'd left my mother again and she was depressed.” He'd left her mother a lot in those days.

“What did you curse him with?”

This time, Violet's mouth curled in a wry smile, remembering her childhood anger. “I believe I demanded that his peepee fall off.”

“I have an incredible urge to cross my legs and slide farther away from you.”

“You're lucky there's not an Etch A Sketch handy.”

He laughed, his smile so utterly brilliant that it lit up his entire face. In that moment, he wasn't Billionaire Jonathan Lyons, daredevil and mogul. He was just nineteen-year-old Jonathan who'd made her heart flutter.

Like it was fluttering right now.

She took a big gulp of the coffee and turned to stare out the window, not caring that her mouth burned on the heat of the drink. The last thing she wanted was to get cozy with Jonathan again. “At any rate,” she said, turning her voice back to that cool diffidence, “we need to head to Alamagordo, New Mexico.”

“Is that where you grew up?”

“Yes.”

“Is the Etch A Sketch still there?”

“No. My mother made me dig it up and then told my father about it when he returned a few months later. He didn't care. In fact, I seem to recall that he corrected me on my curse and said that the Romans would have never marked such a spot, as it defeated the purpose of the curse.”

“So he turned it into a lesson?”

“It isn't a lesson if you're already aware of the facts.”

“So you marked it on purpose? Did you want him to find it?”

She had. She'd wanted her father to realize how furious and hurt she was that he'd left, and that Mommy spent all day in bed, crying and nursing a bottle of rum. She'd had no outlet for her anger, so she'd carved that symbol angrily into the tree, hoping that her father would return home the next day and ask about the symbol.
What's this, Violet?
And then she could show him.

But he hadn't returned home until months later, and he'd never noticed the tree. It had been her mother, giddy with excitement that her husband was home and paying a bit of attention to her, who had brought up Violet's curse.
Isn't that precious of our Violet?

That was pretty much how her entire childhood had gone. Her father would leave. Her mother would drink. Violet would rage. Her father would return. Her mother would smother him with affection. Then he would leave again. All through this, Violet built resentment for her brilliant, flawed father.

“Violet?” Jonathan asked in a low voice. “You okay?”

“Alamagordo,” she said flatly. “I agreed to be your guide, not your entertainment.”

He sighed with resignation, and she felt a bit like an asshole.

V
iolet was rather alarmed to see that the limo didn't head to Detroit Metro Airport, but instead went to a smaller airfield. “Where are we going?”

He gave her that cocky look that made her nerves grate. “The airport.”

She gritted her teeth. “What airport is this?”

“A private one.”

Clearly. She peered out the window at the small hangar. “We're not taking a commercial flight?” She'd been hoping for a multitude of passengers and some in-flight magazines to distract her from her company.

“Since we're just heading to New Mexico, I figured I'd fly us there.”

Fear made her eyes widen. “What? We're not going to have a real pilot?”

He turned that intense, cocky look on her. “I
am
a real pilot, Violet. I fly my planes all the time.”

“Yes, but . . .” She trailed off. It seemed rather impolite to say
I don't want to leave my life in your hands
. But what choice did she have? She could refuse and turn around and leave . . . and then everyone in the school district would resent her.

Yeah, like that was a choice. Violet sighed. “If you crash, I'm going to be furious.”

“I'll take that into consideration.”

She gave him a sharp look to see if he was joking, but . . . he didn't seem to be. With a sigh, she continued to stare out the window and bit back any comments or concerns she had about taking a small plane.

A half hour later, when she saw the actual plane itself, Violet gave a moan of distress. “You're kidding me, right? It's so small.”

“Not that small. This is one of the bigger in its class,” Jonathan said, staring up at it with what looked like affection. “Socata TBM 850. Turboprop. We'll have enough fuel to make it to New Mexico without having to stop and refuel.”

Violet stared at it, then at Jonathan. “And you're the pilot.”

“I'm the pilot.”

She shook her head as he pulled out the tiny staircase for her to get on board. The plane was red and white, and she counted three windows going down the body. As she climbed on, she couldn't suppress another moan of horror. The interior was about the size of her hatchback, all beige leather, and seemed barely big enough for the bucket seats inside. “I can't believe we're flying in this thing.”

“I won't let anything happen to you,” Jonathan said. “Just get in already.”

Reluctantly, she did so, heading for one of the back seats.

“In the front,” Jonathan said. “I'm going to need company to keep me awake while I fly.”

“I hope you're joking,” she snapped. When he only winked at her, she sighed and headed to the front, squeezing into the passenger seat. She wasn't relieved to see the massive control panel at the front or the twin sets of steering-wheel thingies. It only made her more upset. What if Jonathan couldn't fly and she had to take over? They'd die for sure; she had no idea how to fly a plane.

“Can't you have a private jet like every other billionaire?” she grumbled while he slid into the front next to her.

“It's more fun to fly your own toys,” he told her with a grin, buckling in. “You get to really appreciate them.”

“
Appreciate
is not the word I'm thinking of,” Violet muttered, and made sure her seat belt was on tightly. Then, she closed her eyes and began to bite her nails, praying that the flight would be over soon.

—

The weather was great all the way across several states, and the flight itself was a breeze. Jonathan tried talking to Violet at first, but when it became clear that she was surly with anxiety, he left her alone and she fell asleep. So instead, he just watched her as she dozed, slumped over in the copilot's seat.

She was still incredibly lovely. For all her prickly demeanor, he could spend every minute of the rest of his life with Violet and not grow tired of her. He was fascinated with the thick fringe of her dark eyelashes, for one. They hid those lovely dark brown eyes he couldn't forget. The stubborn curve of her jaw was just as he remembered it, though, and he remembered pressing kisses there.

Not that she'd let him do that now. She loathed him.

Jonathan was disappointed she'd clearly nurtured hatred toward him over the years. Sure, they'd had a messy breakup, but time had passed and they were both adults. He didn't hold a grudge for her running home and leaving him. He didn't hold a grudge because she'd changed her mind on what she wanted overnight and demanded that they start a family, and when he hadn't liked that idea, run off back home to her mother. He figured they were both young and stupid at the time, and now they could be adults. Friends, if nothing else. But she acted like he was her mortal enemy, and he didn't understand it.

He'd just have to win her over again.

He'd won her once, back when she was a closed-up teenager. He'd talked and smiled and flirted and made an utter fool of himself until she'd broken down and started responding. He could do the same with a stiff, angry Violet. Just keep talking and bothering her until she exploded and told him what was pissing her off so bad, so he could fix it.

Fuck, he'd do
anything
to fix it. He'd never wanted anyone but Violet. She was everything to him. He didn't care what it took.

As if she could hear the turn of his thoughts, Violet shifted in her seat, snuggling down farther against the leather, her cheek cradled against the seat belt that separated her still-magnificent breasts. “Mmm, Jonathan.”

He froze, staring at the instrument panel. He no longer saw the gauges in front of him, or the sky that filled the windows. His mind was on Violet's sleepy moan.

Obviously she was dreaming. Obviously. He repeated this in his mind, but it wasn't sticking. His dick had gotten hard as a rock within seconds. What was she dreaming about? What was she imagining that he was doing? His hands grasped the yoke tightly, the dual sticks reminding him of gripping his cock, of all things. Fuck. Fuck. Like he needed to be thinking about jerking off at the moment? Just because she'd moaned his name in her sleep?

“Mmm,” Violet said again sleepily, and he glanced over at her sharply. Was she just fucking with him? But she didn't stir. Against the thin fabric of her proper blouse, her nipples were stiff.

Oh, Jesus.

Jonathan began to sweat. He wasn't going to ogle her while she was sleeping. He was going to ignore it. Ignore the fact that those delicious nipples were poking against the filmy blouse, just begging to be touched. He remembered how much she'd loved to have her breasts played with, how she'd cried out and thrashed when he'd tugged on her nipples with his lips . . . He wiped his brow, surprised that it wasn't coated with sweat. Violet always talked in her sleep, he remembered. No big deal. She was just dreaming.

Hear that, dick? She's just dreaming. Now go fuck off. She still hates us when she's awake.

Of course, his dick was listening about as well as Violet was. The cockpit of the Socata was small. Too small, he thought. His traitorous mind was telling him to reach over and put a hand on her thigh, slide it up her skirt and see if she was wet . . .

And then she'd really fucking hate him, wouldn't she? Jonathan scrubbed a hand over his face and then returned it to the yoke, staring grimly ahead. He'd just have to ignore her. So he concentrated on things that would make his rearing dick go back down to normal. Things like his wrinkled old housekeeper who worked in his NYC town house. Spotting the paparazzi waiting outside of a hotel he was staying at. His new lineup of sportscars rolling out as lemons. Jumping out of a plane and his parachute cord not responding.

After a few minutes, he was under control again. Good.

She shifted in her seat again, her skirt riding higher up her thighs. “Mmm, oh, yes—”

“Violet,”
he barked. Jesus. A man could only take so much.

She jerked awake with a small snort, limbs flailing a bit. Then she looked around, eyes glazed and narrow with sleep. “Huh?”

“Wake up,” he said gruffly.

She raised a hand and rubbed her face. “I was trying to sleep, you know.”

“Yeah, but I want company,” he lied. She'd flip out on him if she knew the real reason he'd woken her up. “Talk to me.”

“Grow up,” she muttered, straightening in her seat. “I can't believe you woke me up because you were bored.”

He glanced over at her, noticing that she crossed her arms over those erect nipples to hide them, and her cheeks were flushed. Was she aware she was having dirty dreams about him? Sounded like they both needed a distraction. “Tell me, why is it you never opened the letter your father sent?”

She stared out the window to her right, avoiding his gaze. “You're kidding me, right? You should know more than most people that my father and I were never exactly on good terms.”

“You never saw eye to eye. I remember that.”

“Understatement,” she said flatly.

“Still, he must have loved you quite a bit to put in all the work to set up some sort of scavenger hunt after his death. I assume we're not going to find what we're looking for at your childhood home?”

“Nope,” she drawled out the word. “It's going to lead us to a clue, which is going to lead us to another clue, which is going to lead us, ultimately, to disappointment. Trust me on that one.”

“I'm not so sure about that.” Dr. DeWitt had put a lot of effort into this while sick and dying. It didn't strike Jonathan as a whim. As long as this trip had his stele at the end of it, and Violet's company during it, it would be a win in Jonathan's book.

“I'm sure,” Violet said flatly. “This is my father we're talking about. Everything was always a disappointment with him.”

“Yes, but for him to send both of us letters, it's clearly intimating that it's something we should work on together.”

“Or, it's all part of my father's plan to keep you funding his projects after he dies. He dangles me under your nose, and you keep throwing money into the things that mattered to him.”

“You don't know that's true.”

“He sent you a list, didn't he? Of foundations and projects he wants continued after he's gone?”

Jonathan's mouth quirked slightly at that, though he bit back the smile that threatened. She knew the old man well. Dr. DeWitt had, in fact, sent Jonathan a laundry list of causes dear to his heart that he wished to continue to see supported after his death. But the old man knew he didn't have to throw Violet in Jonathan's path to get Jonathan to support him. “I've already handled his wishes.”

“Of course you have,” she said flatly. “You've always been his little puppet, haven't you?”

Irritation flicked in Jonathan's mind. He ignored her needling words. Violet could lash out at him, but he wouldn't respond in kind.

So he only said, “We'll be landing shortly.”

—

Violet was silent as they rode in the back of the sedan through the streets of Alamagordo. It wasn't an elite sort of city—Alamagordo was anything but—so she'd been surprised to see that Jonathan had a chauffeur waiting for them when they landed at the tiny private airport. Apparently he had really efficient assistants.

She hated to say it, but she was feeling . . . guilty. Just a bit. She could tell she'd hurt Jonathan's feelings by lashing out at him in the plane, calling him her father's puppet. It wasn't fair, she knew that. Her father had been the most manipulative man she'd ever met. He was friendly and pleasant and dynamic to be around precisely because he knew it got him what he wanted. You didn't realize he was trampling all over your own wishes until much, much later. Most people didn't mind that Phineas had been a manipulative old goat, but then, Violet wasn't most people. For Jonathan to be completely swept up in the old man's charm was understandable.

So, yeah, she felt a bit like a jerk for being so short with him on the plane.

It was just that . . . she'd been having the most disturbing dream. Violet absently bit her nails, remembering. One of the things she held against Jonathan—one of the many, many things—was that he'd been incredible in bed. He practically vibrated intensity at all times, and to have that intensity focused on her pleasure had been a multi-orgasmic experience each time. Post-Jonathan? She'd been dissatisfied with quite a few of her lovers, simply because they hadn't put in the time or care to make sure she got off until her brains were mush. Not like Jonathan had. That was another thing that irritated her—that she'd peaked sexually with an asshole who dumped her.

And apparently her body recalled just how good he'd been in bed, because it was reminding her as she slept. She'd been having the most erotic dream about him. Images of Jonathan's body poised over her own still filled her mind. Of him drilling into her from behind until she was screaming with pleasure. Of her begging for him to flip her over and eat her pussy until she couldn't stand it any longer.