Shopping for a Billionaire's Wife (34 page)

“WHAT?” Mom screams, appearing behind us. “Is this what you were doing while I was getting everyone from the airport?” 

So much for keeping this secret. Dad is stone-faced, ignoring all of us. 

“Where in the hell did Jason get eighty THOUSAND dollars?” she hisses. 

Declan recoils from her. “I have no idea.”

“I gambled my way up,” Dad says from across the table. His eyes meet mine. “I took your seventeen-thousand-dollar wedding fund, honey, and just kept playing hands.”

“And now it’s up to eighty?” Dec lets out a low whistle. “Good work.”

“Thanks.”

“JASON!” Mom shouts, her voice a sob. “That’s a huge amount of money! Take it off that number right now!”

He ignores her.

“Marie,” Declan tries to explain. “It’s not a bet on a number. It’s—” 

Mom tries to get closer to the table. All Declan has to do is glance at two guys who look like they starred in
Breaking Bad
and they close in, forming a wall of muscle between Mom and the table.

“You can’t do this!” she cries out.

“Watch us, lady.” Whoever said that smirks. The twist of his lip makes my mouth go dry with fear.

“Declan, you have to stop him,” I plead, my legs aching as I try to stand, squished in the growing crowd around the table.

“Why?”

“Because he can’t jeopardize that kind of money! Eighty thousand dollars will pay off my parents’ house! It’s a huge amount, and he can’t lose it.”

“Sure he can.”

“No, he can’t!”

“He can, Shannon. It’s likely. The odds are way worse than 9 to 1.”

“But if he loses it...” I lean against him, all hope of rationality gone.

“If he loses it, it’ll be of his own free will, a man making a decision to risk it all on the tiniest chance he can make it big. I’m not about to short circuit that.”

“How does this work?” I ask in a blind panic. 

“He’s betting on a tie. That means he’s betting that his cards and the dealer’s cards will be a tie. The same number.” He starts to explain more but gets a look from the dealer that makes him shut up.

I cannot believe that my father is standing in the High Limit room at Litraeon, betting eighty thousand dollars on a game that is about to induce a heart attack in me.

The dealer deals two cards to Dad and all the other players, and two cards to himself. Other players are stationed on either side of Dad, who is number six at the table—the table is full, with fourteen people playing. I don’t know much about baccarat, but I know this: Dad’s probably the only one betting on a tie. 

The cards begin to be revealed. Anyone with a hand that is over nine points is out. Anyone with a hand at nine points wins. No one has nine points.

Dad has a five of diamonds and a three of clubs. 

The dealer shows his cards.

A pair of red fours.

The table goes
nuts
.

“Hot damn!” yells one of the players. “The crazy dude got it right!” He walks over to Dad and rubs his head for good luck.

Dad’s shoulders sag with relief, his chest puffing up with pride. James is next to me, muttering expletives under his breath, while Declan claps and nods with approval. People are quietly cheering for Dad, clapping him on the back, and the game at the table closer to the main casino breaks, people wandering in to see what’s just happened. 

“He just took the house for more than seven hundred thou and you’re
clapping
?” James admonishes Declan.

“He found his power, Dad.”

James frowns, while Mom rushes over to my father and hugs him, jumping up and down like she’s being shocked when she touches the ground.

“SEVEN HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS!” Mom screams, hugging and kissing Dad. 

Declan weaves his way around the table and shakes Dad’s hand. Dad’s staring at the stack of chips just as James pushes through and stands next to him, flanked by two guards.

“Actually,” the dealer says with a big grin, “you keep your eighty-grand bet, so it’s closer to eight hundred thousand.” 

Mom’s eyes explode.

“Congratulations, Jason. That was quite some run,” James says. They pump hands and Dad blinks, over and over. People around us are rubbing his shoulder, making supportive comments, and a ton of phones point our way, snapping pictures as the guards try to stop them.  

Dad just stands in a daze.

“We’re rich!” Mom says, starting to hyperventilate.

The next few seconds tick by in an unreal set of still images. Dad looks down at his hand, clasped in James’ own, then up at me. His face is slack, serious and intense. His eyes move to take in Declan, his body not following his own gaze. He looks at the chips. The table. The vested table worker. The hands again.

I see him fighting to breathe normally, how he isn’t really there, and if this agony stretches on for three more seconds I’m going to shatter the dissonance with a scream.

Dad saves me.

He looks at James, then points to the chips, which the table worker is counting.

“Those are for you.”

James frowns.

“What?”

Dad shoves the stack of chips, upsetting the neat piles, all toward James.

“Take it.”

“WHAT?” Mom screams. “JASON! ARE YOU ILL?”

“I was,” he says slowly, his smile glorious. “But now I feel so much better.” He looks at James and holds out his hand for another shake. James returns the gesture. 

“What’s this?” he asks.

“Payment,” Dad says. “I’m paying for my daughter’s wedding.”

“But the free publicity more than covers it,” James assures him.

“No. Not the same.” Dad’s eyes bore into James’ own. “Street code. I owe you. Debt is now paid.”

A long few seconds go by, James holding Dad’s gaze.

“
That’s
how this all works,” Dad adds with a clench of his jaw. 

“THAT IS NOT HOW ANY OF THIS WORKS, JASON!”

There’s a Wifezilla version of Mom’s voice. Who knew?

James and Dad stare at each other, their chests rising and falling with each breath, the skin under their eyes tight with tension and study. Each is trying to read the other, and it’s anyone’s call who will win.

An imperceptible nod from James ends the standoff. “You sure?” He’s alluding to the chips.

“Sure as anything I know.”

“I AM NOT SURE! I AM NOT!” Mom screams.

James looks at the pile of chips, and I watch it all in slow motion. He separates them, the eighty-grand original bet in a pile of its own.

He takes the rest and gives my dad the eighty.

Dad scowls. Mom makes a series of moans that make her sound like a professional mourner at an Italian funeral.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO,” she finally wails.

Jed appears suddenly with two more beefy security guards. “Need help, Mrs. McCormick?” he asks me. 

James startles at the sound of my new title, his eyes widening, then watering just slightly. He’s in a zone of ultra-focus, unreadable and unreachable within seconds, his attention entirely on my dad. 

Whose face relaxes as he offers his hand to James.

The two pump furiously, sly grins spreading across their faces.

“Deal.” 

When James motions for one of the guards to start taking the larger stack of chips, Mom lets out a bloodcurdling scream aimed at James that includes the words “seven,” “mine,” “crazy,” and “you were such a bad kisser.” 

Dad walks over to her, his pockets bulging with chips from his win, slings Mom over his shoulder, and marches out of the casino like a caveman.

To the sound of raucous, enthusiastic applause from a bunch of strangers who have no idea what he’s doing.

And a bunch of loved ones who do.

* * *

It’s our true honeymoon night. Finally. We left the gaggle of friends and family downstairs, Chuckles safely managed by the pet concierge (yes, it’s a real job), our bodies burning to join together what our hearts combined today. 

“I am sleeping with someone’s wife,” Declan says, his toe lifting up out of the thick layers of bubbles in the bath, teasing my shoulder. 

“You’re sleeping with
your
wife.” 

“You’re the first wife I’ve ever made love to.”

“And I’ll be your last.”

“You’d better be.” Haunted eyes meet mine, and the implications of what he’s saying make me half-mad with sorrow. 

“Amanda says there are new allergy approaches to the anaphylactic risk,” I whisper, putting words to the emotions flowing between us like currents. In any other setting, with any other man, I wouldn’t talk like this.

But Declan isn’t any other man.

“Good. But I don’t want to talk about that.” 

“Me neither.” I smile, holding my wet left hand up for the bathroom glow to highlight. “Married. We’re married.”

“Finally.”

“I can’t believe my father gambled away my wedding fund, turned it into eight hundred thousand, and gave most of it to your father.”

“That’s one hell of a dowry,” Declan says, deadpan. Then: “Ow! You poked me in the thigh with your foot!”

“You deserved that.”

“Watch the balls! Jesus, Shannon. We need those. For later.” I know he means for sex, but I also know he’s hinting at the future, a time when we’ll actively try for children, and the pregnant promise of the rest of our lives together fills me with a warmth the water can’t match.

A low, tired laugh makes my chest ripple the hot water. “My mother has a new target now. I was worried she’d never forgive me for escaping the wedding, but now she’ll
really
never forgive Dad for handing all that money to James.”

“She will.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Declan’s eyes are closed, his body relaxed again in the water, the white foam covering his chest just under his pecs. “Because they love each other so much.”

“Does that mean you forgive me for resort-cheating on you?”

“I do.” 

I’m skeptical. “You sure?”

“It’s not cheating if we own the place.” 

For that he gets a face full of foam.

And in return, I get a big, soapy kiss.

Ten minutes later, we dry off and crawl into bed, the curtains open, sheers closed, the city lights glowing through the thin, shimmery fabric like stardust illuminated by the dying light of a thousand stars from long before the earth began. 

He reaches for my left hand, fingers worrying the thin wedding band. “We’re really married,” he says, his voice strong, his breath hot against my shoulder.

I find his matching band, hard and cool against the warm skin, light hair encircling the ring. “Yes. It only took two tries to get here.” The rustle of skin against soft, Egyptian cotton sheets that feel like silk prickles my ears. 

“It took forever. At least, that’s what it feels like sometimes. I wish I’d met you sooner.” He kisses my neck, his nose brushing against my earlobe, his fingers still tracing my ring as we snuggle between the sheets. 

“I wish we’d met sooner, too.” He’s familiar and new. My husband—and just Declan. We’re some kind of different right now, and the change is just enough to make this all unspeakably real, as if every experience I’ve had before now was just practice for
this
.

“Think of all the years we’ve wasted,” he says, pausing his kisses. We’re in no rush. I’m pretty much a sure thing. 

You know. For the next sixty years or so.

“You bought me a company.” 

“Too much?” He’s on his side, facing me, his profile in shadow, eyes bright. 

“If the only reason you did it was to beat Andrew at his own game, then well played, Declan. Very well played.” My hip brushes against his, and as I tuck my legs in, thighs brushing against thighs, my smooth calves finding just the right place to rest between his, the tickle of his body hair makes me smile.

“I did it for you. And me, too. I told you to stop letting people take your power away from you. Turns out I was really talking to myself.”

“Is that what you want to do now, Mr. McCormick?” I flatten my palm against his chest, tickling a nipple with my thumb, the tiny point of attention a pleasant bump along the road that leads down to even bigger encounters. “Talk?”

“I—” His voice hitches, and he clears his throat, a sensual sigh emerging in the resulting seconds that tick between talking and what my hand decides to do to my husband.

Flipped on my back by strong, corded arms that know how to say so many words without uttering a sound, Declan’s naked body covers mine, parts hard and muscled, some sections peppered with coarse hair, others blissfully smooth and determined to elicit a response from my prone, pinned form. His kiss is neither tender nor rough, but instead a pressing engagement that tells me it’s time to descend into a world under the covers, where we make this marriage truly official.

The good old-fashioned way.

After more than two years of making love with each other, you would think this would be routine. Pleasant and passionate, yes, but also a bit too known. A bit too tame. A sequence of moves and touches, mouths and fingers, a joining that is scripted to maximize pleasure, but that comes from a place where the unexpected gives way to the predictable. 

But no.

Each time his mouth touches my breast, I shiver like it’s the first time. Every sigh, every moan, is a fresh sound. The gravelly sound of his groan sets off new neurons in my brain, a lightning-fast signal speeding through my brain, traveling through my blood to my heart. 

The path of love doesn’t always make sense, but like the laws of physics, it doesn’t care.

We’re so serious, Declan taking my face in his hands, the light notes of a symphony rolling out of speakers somewhere in the suite, a low, contemporary sound of music that fills the air with a mood designed to highlight this newness. Never before have we made love for the first time as husband and wife.

And we never will again.

I kiss him, rising up to meet his mouth, the tender taste of him making my mouth tingle. Every breath sounds harsh and soft against my ear. The drag of his lips against my jaw and neck is a world unto itself.  

“Shannon,” he whispers into the mingling of our breath, mouths so close we become one taste. I sigh, the long exhale a release of the past, my body letting go of uncertainty and fear, and as I breathe in his breath, I feel that grounding I have spent my entire adult life seeking.