Shopping for a Billionaire's Wife (7 page)

He’s the red peg and I’m G14.

Or pretty much any G spot on the board.

“Maybe?”

“Would it stop all this crazy talk about five-dollar sodas and personal shoppers and the clash between two socioeconomic systems that each make sense in-culture but that create nothing but conflict and inefficiencies when we argue?”

“You’re so sexy when you speak like a social economist. Please,” he says, licking his lips suggestively. “Do it again.”

“Russian cultural resilience in natural disaster resource allocation.”

He breathes heavily. I stick the candy bar in my mouth suggestively, making him grunt. 

My mind races through sophomore-year classes. “Gunnar Myrdal,” I say. “Homo economicus. Prospect theory.”

“I’m not sure which is sexier. The way you’re mouthing that candy bar, or how you sound when you say ‘resource allocation.’ How about you allocate some resources my way?” he adds. 

I throw a Butterfinger at him. Sure, it’s a waste, but in a pinch, you make sacrifices for a greater good. 

He tackles me around the waist like an experienced Greco-Roman wrestler and I’m on the bed, wrists pinned, his knee between my legs as it looks like we’re about to make up.

“Why are we fighting about money?” I ask him before his mouth lands on mine, the kiss aggressive and demanding, the unraveling ends of our nerves trying to find some sense of order in the flesh. 

“We never fight about money,” he croons, letting go of one wrist so his hands can go on a peace-seeking mission.

“We do
so
fight about money!”

“Are we now fighting about whether or
not
we fight about money?” He collapses on me as if he’s just plain given up.

It’s like Declan can’t
even
.

“We’ve gone meta,” I whisper.

“Is that like going emo?” His voice is muffled in my hair.

“Worse.”

He shudders, then rolls off to the side, propping his head in one hand, elbow on the bed. His tuxedo jacket is open, one button lost somewhere between Boston and here. His shirt is horribly stained, and he smells like a sweaty man at the end of a long day, mixed in with the nose-tickling scent of Coke. Those green eyes are sagging, tired beyond his years, and as he grunts again in frustration I realize how stupid we’re being.

“Stupid,” I whisper. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

“I am. I know.” It’s plain from his tone that he doesn’t believe a word of that. 

“You are.” He tenses. “So am I.” He relaxes. “Why are we fighting? Is it because we’re exhausted? It’s not from lack of sex!”

“That
is
our usual source of conflict,” he agrees.

“Then what?”

All the heat he’s generating disappears, leaving my body chilled as he walks away. The sound of rushing water from the bathroom indicates a tub or a shower’s been started. He comes back into the large living room, searching drawers efficiently. Near the fireplace, he finds what he seeks, and disappears into the bathroom.

Two minutes go by. I close my eyes and count the nerve endings that are jangling like bells in the hands of Salvation Army bell volunteers at the red buckets at Christmastime.

“C’mere,” he says from a distance.

I roll on my side, nearly fall off the bed, catch myself, and walk into the bathroom.

Which he has transformed into a glowing fairyland.

“Oh, Dec,” I sigh. It’s a good sigh. A
great
sigh.

The bathtub, which could seat twelve but
hell to the no
on that right now, is mostly full, covered in frothy delight in the form of lavender bubble bath. It’s the perfect size for two. 

One is already in there, buried to the neck in bubbles, his hand reaching out for me. I giggle at the sight. Masculine and demanding, authoritative and fierce, Declan’s normal countenance is quite compromised by the sight of him swimming in bubbles, glowing in candlelight, ensconced in lavender—

And drinking wine out of a tiny plastic bottle from the minibar.

As my eyes adjust and I strip off my dress, I realize he’s taken a bunch of the minibar snacks and alcoholic drinks and put them at intervals around the edge of the giant tub.

“Mmmmm. Pinot Grigio is simply enhanced by the mouthfeel of the threads of the plastic screw cap,” he says, finishing off the wine and tossing the empty into the trash can on the other side of this bathroom, which is bigger than my childhood bedroom.

Of course—
of course
—he nails it, the bottle a slam dunk.

“Get in.” Declan unscrews another plastic bottle of white wine, muttering something about upgrades and quality, then opens yet another just as I’m dipping my toe in the hot water. 

“Two at a time?” I ask, laughing.
Ahhhhhhh
. The hot water feels like entering a different world, as if all the chaos and uncertainty has stepped back five hundred feet and is still causing mayhem, but it’s doing it over
there
. 

“One is for you.” He hands it to me, closes his eyes, leans his head against the stuffed neck pillow attached to the edge of the bath, and just sighs, the end of the long exhale turning into a sound that has become the song of my people. 

“I can drink to that,” I say, and I do, downing the wine in a few gulps.

“We are stupid,” he says slowly, his arm coming up out of the water, dripping as he reaches for the other open bottle of wine. “Me, especially.”

Declan is not the self-effacing type. Ever. I say nothing. Even if I knew what to say, I would say nothing.

“I pride myself on being calm in the middle of nearly any storm,” he explains, reaching up to pitch the now-empty plastic wine bottle into the trash can. He misses. Hah!

“No one’s perfect,” I reply, meaning his miss.

“It’s not about perfection. It’s about being grounded. People throw you off your game if you’re not centered. No one wants to be in reaction mode all the time.”

“I don’t even have a framework for what that means.”

“Case in point. You’re always reactive. With a mom like Marie, I can understand why. I try to be as grounded as possible.”

“And with a dad like James, I understand why.”

His eyes are closed, but his mouth twists with a grin. “We’re going to have so much fun figuring out the terrain of our respective families.” 

I slide all the way down, the heat spiking my skin, like burying myself in hot, steaming velvet. “Fun isn’t the word I would use, but okay...”

He unscrews yet another Lilliputian wine bottle, chugs it, tosses the dead soldier in the trash, and hands me another.

“Relaxing?”

“Finally.”

Declan’s not much of a drinker, but it isn’t every day you go through—ah, hell, I can’t even remember everything we’ve been through in less than twenty-four hours. Joining him, I polish off two wines before sinking all the way in to my neck, my toes finding a lovely, soft footrest.

“Hey! I’m attached to that,” he protests, reaching down to stop my foot. His thumbs dig into my arch and I think I orgasm. I’m not sure. I’m so tired. 

“In more ways than one.”

“Mmmmm. Later. Hot bath first. Hot Shannon next.”

“Priorities.”

“Indeed.”

“We’re still not married, Declan.”

Opening one eyelid, he peers at me like an assassin taking aim.

“No, we’re not. But we will be. Soon.”

“What if Mom catches up to us?”

“When. Not if.”

“When, then. What about—”

His own foot creeps up my belly, tentative, then bold, toes tickling one nipple. “I do not want to talk about
what ifs
. I certainly do not want to talk about, or think about, your mother or my father. I have plenty of wine in me, my body is hot and loose and enjoys this bath, and in about ten minutes I plan to have our naked bodies on that very large bed out there, with you in positions that require an advanced degree in yoga.” 

He moves over to my other breast. I grab his foot and massage it, digging my thumbs in deep. He groans and leans back. I look up and make a noise of excitement. I point. 

“There’s a huge television mounted right there!”

He laughs. “Yes. Want to turn it to the fireplace channel?”

“The what?”

“The fireplace channel. The resort has a cable channel that is 24/7 nothing but a video of a fireplace.”

“Couldn’t spring for a real fireplace in the suite?” I joke.

His face goes serious. “Those are the presidential suites. They’re all taken right now. We picked the same week as eight enormous conventions to be here. I couldn’t even bump anyone on short notice, but if you really want a fireplace in the bathroom, I’ll make sure we move tomorrow—”

A laugh of incredulity pours out of me. “Are you crazy? This is great. Perfect.”

His wet hand snakes over to a wall remote I hadn’t noticed. Once the television is on, he flips a few channels, and—

A giant, very familiar auburn head fills the wall.

“AUGH!” Dec screams.

“MOM!” I shout.

He starts to change the channel but I stop him. Instead, he reaches for three tiny bottles of wine.

I don’t stop
that
.

Some reporter I’ve never seen before is interviewing my mother, still at the Farmington Country Club. They’re inside, guests are milling about, and the cake’s been relocated to a table where it rests like the Leaning Tower of Pisa, if the Leaning Tower of Pisa were mauled by hungry tigers named Jeffrey and Tyler.

Mom is still livid.

“Where’s Geraldo Rivera? I was told I’d be interviewed by Geraldo Rivera! This is more important than even him.”

The poor reporter tries to calm Mom down. I snort. Good luck, buddy.

Mom’s on a tear. “What about Oprah! When a woman’s daughter is kidnapped by a billionaire and the President of the United States, her story deserves Oprah Freaking Winfrey! What? She’s not available, either? What about that nice blonde lesbian who does that funny talk show. What’s her name—Elizabeth Hasselbeck?”

Click.

We stare at the now-black television, Declan’s hand on the remote. 

“I don’t need the fake fireplace,” I say weakly. 

Declan’s not listening, because he’s chugging back yet more wine. He finishes a bottle, tosses the empty into the toilet with an evocative
kerplunk
that makes me nostalgic for how we met two years ago, and gives me a plaintive, but determined, look.

“Shannon?”

“Yes, honey?”

“Would you do me the great honor of
not
being my wife tonight?” 

“What?”

“I have a very short window of time as a single man, and I’d like to spend it having sex with the most gorgeous woman in the world before I’m tied down by a nagging ball and chain.”

“God, you sound like your father.” 

He’s fooled me, his sloth-like exterior a sham. Standing up like Godzilla emerging from the waters outside of Tokyo, he dips down, pulls me, dripping, out of the tub, and manages to stay sure-footed to the bed, where we become an entangled mess of wet, slippery skin.

“Declan!” I squeal, pink-skinned and soaked, shivering and flushed, his palms lubricated by the soapy, watery mess he’s created.

He covers me completely with his hot body, mouth finding parts of me that take my racing thoughts and spin them faster, until everything is a blur and the only thing I can hold onto for the ride is my pleasure.

By the time we’re done we’re under soggy sheets, wet heads on wet pillows, the sound of Declan’s rare snore guiding me to my own slumber, our day complete in its calamity, with so many questions unanswered.

And so many more not yet asked.

Chapter Seven

I can feel her presence here in Vegas before the phone even rings. They say that evil has its own vibration, a low frequency that masquerades as normal in order to hide among us, a chameleon of extraordinary power, with the gift of destruction.

If it had a name, it would be Marie Jacoby.

Sigh. Not really. But for goodness’ sake, she’s evil personified when it comes to being a Momzilla.

Someone fetched us a basic care package of underwear and sweats, and also brought Declan a replacement phone last night, a shiny bauble plugged in and charging on the bedside table. Instead of buzzing, it glows, like ET’s heartlight, and it’s creepy.
Really
creepy. I pick it up like it’s a live heart and toss it at him.

He startles, snatching it up and smashing it to his ear out of muscle memory, years of middle-of-the-night calls from Asian properties embedded into him.

“ ’lo?” he says, eyes closed and slothlike, his body curled up against my body, except I’m not there. He’s spooning
air
. His hair has dried in the night and is smashed against his sleeping side, the crown poking straight up. He looks like a cartoon character. I reach up for my own hair and hit snarls within seconds. 

His eyes fly wide open as I hear the
mwah mwah mwah
of the person on the other end of the call. “WHAT?”

See? Knew it. Evil. 

“She’s where? Already? And did the staff let her in? They did. In the lobby? Who’s with her? A television camera crew?” Declan doesn’t
do
disheveled and frantic, so I’m enjoying the show. 

His patented Crazy Mother-in-Law Sigh comes out as he reasserts control. “Kick the camera crew out.
Out.
I don’t care what they say. This is private property. No. I said
no
. Did it sound like I said yes? Absolutely not. You heard me. Let them. They can go to hell if they think they can dictate what I can and cannot do with my company’s private property.”

Click.

My tummy starts to tingle. And...he’s back. I love when he becomes a controlling, authoritative asshole who protects me and makes things happen. His domineering side isn’t so great when it’s projected directly at me, but it’s great popcorn-eating fun to watch him in action with others. 

Especially Momzillas.

His eyes are bloodshot, the green irises glowing even brighter as the sun hits them, the pupils pinpointing. “That was a call about your—”