Shopping for a Billionaire's Wife (11 page)

Lunch?
Amanda’s text asks.
Andrew says meet us at the private club on the roof.
 

Guilt twangs through me like an untuned guitar string. For the past year, Amanda’s been my maid of honor, my rock, my stable bestie who helped me through this farce of a wedding, and how do I thank her? 

By ditching it all after she nearly drowned at the very wedding I escaped.

Where are you?
I text back.

You don’t want to know
, she replies instantly.

Huh?

I’m naked in bed,
she texts.

Oh. She’s right.

I
really
don’t want to know. We’re in new territory now, because she’s naked in bed with my almost brother-in-law, who has seen me naked. 

And I’ve seen Amanda naked.

I look at naked Declan, who is the only person in this quad not to have completed a number of naked-viewing transactions.

Let’s keep it that way, shall we?

Lunch in half an hour?
she answers.

K
, I reply, just as Declan gets off the phone with Grace and starts dressing, morphing from my Declan to the world’s Declan.

You ever watch a man go from naked to fully dressed in a business suit? It’s performance art. Truly. Declan slides those muscled calves into his black boxer briefs, the soft cotton clinging to toned thighs covered in coiled hair, the color of his skin fading to a soft pale I can almost feel. He eschews a t-shirt under his tailored business shirt, buttoning up but leaving the cuffs alone, for those require his cuff links, which come much later in the process. 

I take a seat on the small bench at the base of our California King bed and watch. Forget Cirque du Soleil downstairs.

This is the
real
show here in Vegas. 

And it’s a command performance for one.

Socks—a funky pattern with accents of hot pink mixed with adobe, which Marcello swears is the latest fashion—then the sound,
oh
the sound of those strong, muscled legs swishing against cashmere woven and tailored for his body alone.

Button. Zip.

And then the belt appears.

It’s a classic, simple black leather with an understated silver buckle, but the precision handling and mastery in Declan’s capable fingers makes my mouth curve in a secret smile as he finishes. The jacket is next, then out come the links, old heirlooms passed down from his mother’s father.

I pick out the tie, a lovely grey that has flecks of adobe.

“That’s the one Marcello recommended,” Declan says absentmindedly, clearly unaware of my besotted, enraptured observation of what is, to him, a basic set of procedures to enter civil society.

“Then he has good taste.” I lick my lips. Can’t help it. Watching him dress reminds me of my very first look at him two years ago, when he was Mr. Sex in a Suit, walking into the men’s bathroom at the bagel chain store Anterdec owns, and all I could do was caress him with my eyes and undress him in my mind. 

I reach out.

He’s real now. My fingers walk up the fine weave of his suit jacket, squeezing his arm muscles, finding bone and hard flesh.

And it’s mine.

All mine.

“What are you....doing?” he asks, perplexed and intrigued.

“Touching you.”

“I see that. I feel
that
,” he adds as my stroke goes under the open suit jacket, hand splayed across his ribs, his heat radiating out and warming me. “Why?”

“Because I can.”

The low, sexy rumble that comes out of him makes me lean in closer and inhale, smelling aftershave, soap, coffee and the scent of a man I can breathe in for the rest of my life.

“I think you’re part man, Shannon.”

“Would that turn you on if I were?”

“Nothing could turn me on more than you, as you are, right now.” The way he responds to my touch, twisting toward me, sensuously running his hands up and down my spine, his nose in my hair, his lips twitching with a smile.... 

Oh.

“Nothing?” I sigh. 

“Not one damn thing.”

His kiss makes me regret getting dressed, makes me wish I’d never said yes to this lunch date, makes me spin and grow dizzy in my mind as blood races to all the parts he’s touching right now. Maybe we could postpone...

Bzzzz.

Or not.

“What the hell?” 

Moment transformed. Real life intrudes.

“Grace?” he snaps into the phone. Poor woman. It’s not her fault.

I focus on myself, straightening my skirt and running a useless comb through my hair for a moment, trying to fix the mess as Declan barks orders about a variety of media-related wedding crap. Part of me wishes Grace had come to Vegas, but part of me is glad that the long-time executive assistant to the McCormick family is back in Boston holding down the fort.

So to speak.

“What was that about?” I ask as I stand in front of the suite’s door, not-so-subtly making it clear we need to go. Andrew and Amanda are waiting for us. I know if we stay here we’ll end up naked again. 

I also know that if we leave, Mom doesn’t automatically know our location, and that is more enticing right now than sex.

Believe it or not.

“Jessica Coffin,” he mutters.

If I had any interest in sex a second ago, it is now vanquished.

“What
about
her?”

“She’s hashtagging our wedding.” 

“You’re surprised?”

“And talking about us on television.”

“Okay, well, there were a lot of cable news vans there.”

“National television.”

“Huh?” I look at the wall television.

“Don’t worry, Shannon. Grace is dealing with it, and—it’s complicated,” Declan says.

“It’s
always
complicated,” I grouse, but I grudgingly leave the room with him, teetering on these new heels the tailor brought. As we walk down the hall, I take Dec’s arm and work out the kinks in my body, willing joints, tendons, heels and clothing to work together to make me walk in fluid motion, like a graceful swan. 

I manage to look like a bull moose on roller skates.

So I’m improving.

“You look so hot in those shoes,” he whispers as we wait for the elevator.

“You have a bull moose fetish?”

He lets a few beats pass. “Sometimes I really worry about you, Shannon.”

“Hey. You picked me. What does that say about you?”

“That I’m the smartest man in the world.” He kisses my temple as the elevator doors open and we glide on. 

Like I’m on roller skates, you know?

Exactly like that.

As I rub my sore ankle, the elevator sending us rapidly up to the rooftop, Declan stands within inches of me, ready to dip down and rescue me from my clumsy self.

“I hope our kids have your grace,” I grumble.

“And your looks.”

“But your eyes. So green,” I marvel. The kid conversations are fairly new territory. I love it. A delicious tingle rivets through me like someone’s holding a jackhammer of future fun against my skin, injecting it straight into my bloodstream.

Kids.

Kids with Declan.

The elevator doors open into a solarium filled with couples in various stages of fancy lunches. Two years with Declan has made this scene slightly less surprising, but every time we dine out I still have a part of me that marvels at eating in sit-down restaurants where they don’t roll the silverware in paper napkins, and where jelly doesn’t come in little plastic, foil-topped packets. 

The solarium is filled, along the edges, with orchids. Not a few sprinkled here and there. Oh, no.

Filled
with orchids.

Along the perimeter of the glass-covered room (“room” being an understatement, as it’s bigger than my childhood home) is a series of planter boxes, about a foot deep and three feet tall, filled with dirt.

And orchids.

It’s like being surrounded by flower labia.

What? It is. Try looking at an orchid without imagining an annual gynecological visit. Go ahead. Try.

The decor is Italian marble. Fountains pumping water 24/7, surrounded by sculptures of half-nude people who look just enough like Matt Bomer and Jennifer Lawrence to make me look twice.

Living with Declan has also taught me to look for subtle corporate influences. Product placement is more widespread than you’d ever imagine.

Like, you know, a coffee bean on top of a car, to advertise a fake coffee shop.

Or something like that.

I spot Amanda and Andrew at a table over by an orchid that would make my friend Josh faint. They are engaging in public displays of affection that result in stoning in a minimum of nine countries across Asia.

“Get a room,” Declan growls at them. His words make them break their faces apart, which is refreshing. They haven’t fused their flesh just yet, so there’s hope.

“We have a room. One we can’t use right now, because the cleaning crew is in there,” Andrew says with a fake frown, standing and giving his brother a huge hug.

“Only because decontamination takes so long,” Declan replies, his face split with a genuine grin.

Andrew just grunts, while I hug Amanda.

All the cross-hugging happens and we sit down. A waiter appears instantly with my favorite bottle of white wine. Declan gives Andrew an arched eyebrow.

“Nice touch,” Dec says.

Andrew just shoots him a grin that says,
I win
.

“You called Grace, didn’t you?”

The grin falters.

Declan lobs back the grin Andrew lost.

Amanda and I roll our eyes in unison. I didn’t know that was possible, but apparently, the collective ego of the two youngest McCormick brothers is so large it shoves everything in the room to the side and forces all objects into the gravitational pull of their orbit. 

Including our eyeballs.

“How’s married life treating you, Dec?” Andrew asks, just as Declan can’t answer, his mouth full of wine. 

Amanda shoots me a look that says everything and nothing.

“Oh,” Andrew adds. “That’s right. You’re not married yet. Wonder how that happened?”

“I see why he’s CEO. He’s direct, fearless, and a bit of a prick,” I whisper in Amanda’s ear.

She stiffens.

Oops.

“Prick?” she hisses. “He’s not a prick! He’s a
jerk
,” she adds. “He’s been a jerk ever since James discovered how trendy your escape has been in the news, and how it’s boosting Anterdec’s profile.”

“Why would Andrew be upset by that?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. Have you ever noticed how competitive they are?”

We look over at Dec and Andrew, who are arguing about whether Montrachet or Scharzhofberger is a better wine.

“Nope. Never noticed,” I say faintly. Grasping at anything but the wedding escape as a topic, I notice her earrings. “Oooo, look at those!” A combination of amber topaz, lapis lazuli, and sterling silver catch the sunlight and glitter. I reach over and let the dangling jewelry rest on my fingertips. “Gorgeous.”

“Andrew got them for me,” she says with a happy smile, reaching over to clasp his hand. “A surprise gift delivered from Tiffany when we woke up this morning. These and my breve latte were the second-best things I woke up to.” She squeezes his hand.

Andrew gives Declan the same smile, except on his face it looks smug. Self-satisfied.

Triumphant.

“What did Declan get for you, Shannon?” he asks.

“Get for me?”

Declan’s tongue rolls in his cheek so hard it might as well be drilling for oil.

Andrew’s eyes light up. “He didn’t give you something this morning?”

“Oh, I gave her something this morning,” Declan murmurs in my ear.

I bat at him, giggling, reaching for my wine. “I got this outfit. And these shoes,” I say.

“Mmmmmm,” Andrew says, drinking the rest of his wine and giving Declan a look I don’t understand, and definitely don’t like.

“James tells us that the public relations department at Anterdec is over the moon about all the positive free press the wedding is getting for the company,” I assert. 

Declan gives me an appreciative thigh squeeze. Andrew’s smile goes sour.

What the hell is going on between the two of them? Is Amanda right? I know Declan was crushed when James picked Andrew as his successor, but he never fought it. He could have created a fuss with the board of directors but chose not to create that kind of divisiveness when James was stepping down because of his prostate cancer diagnosis.

Competition is in Declan’s blood, but I’m getting a creepy vibe here, as if they’re vying for some title that Amanda and I aren’t aware of. 

“It’s true,” Andrew says, clearly reluctant to admit whatever’s about to come out of his mouth. If Amanda weren’t here to soften him, I’d think he was angry. For brothers who are only two years apart and who work in the same business, the two are so different. Declan’s closed off and placid, like a calm sheet of mirror on a lake.

Andrew is all action, with laser focus, and an aloofness that I know masks a boyishness underneath that makes him and Declan spar.

He also has a freakish fear of wasps, generated entirely by his anaphylactic reaction. We both flout death on a regular basis when it comes to spinning the random dial for bee and wasp stings. Andrew takes risk assessment and prevention to a degree that I find intolerable.

Obsessive.

Bizarre.

It hits me, though: the wedding. He overcame his deep-seated fear in order to rescue Amanda from drowning. I almost smack my own head in a
Eureka!
moment. Of course.

Of course
that explains all this weirdness.

Months of wedding preparation made me miss out on so much of my normally layered life. While Amanda and Andrew’s developing relationship was on my radar, it wasn’t front and center. 

Like now.

We’re in a new reality, where Declan and I are at the core of a media spectacle, the year-long planning for the thousand-person wedding just got thrown out the window, Andrew is the new CEO of Anterdec and their father is ill, and he threw himself (literally) headfirst into his relationship with Amanda just yesterday, at our wedding.