Shopping for a Billionaire's Wife (9 page)

“Never mind,” Declan says, taking the tray from Dad. “Jason, want some blueberries and cream? Fresh from Maine and New Zealand.”

Dad sits at the room service tray table and kicks off his shoes, a sigh escaping him like a slashed tire. “I don’t care if it comes from the corner Seven-Eleven here in Vegas. Just give me something to eat.”

The two men start spooning berries and cream into their mouths as Mom and I unite in our open evaluation of this turn of events.

“What are they doing?” Mom hisses through the side of her mouth.

“They’re Declanning.”

“Declanning?”

“Pretending to be calm so they rattle us.”

Mom snorts. “They always think that works.”

“I know.” Giving her the side-eye, I realize I’m being nice to her. How can this be? We’re re-aligned again, on the same side, and someone must pay for taking the wind out of my sails.  

My stomach growls like it’s shifting into a bear. Just as Declan takes the last spoonful of berries, I realize they’ve managed to eat all the fruit.

“That was my breakfast!” I declare.

Declan looks at Dad and they share a smile. “I’ll call for more.”

Mom gives me a look. “You two need to stop it.”

“Stop what?” Dad and Declan say in unison.

“Not you!” Mom snaps, drinking half her mocha latte, then pointing the top of it at Dad. “These two!” She flails the drink in my and Declan’s general direction.

“Stop what?” Dec and I ask.

“Stop acting like you didn’t cause a major media circus and make poor Jessica Coffin have a nervous breakdown.”

“Jessica?” I screech. “Who cares about Jessica?”

“And James is furious! You’ve wasted all this Anterdec money on a selfish whim!” She gives Declan a condescending look that probably scares preschool boys but just makes Declan burst into braying laughter. 

He begins humming Alanis Morrissette’s “Ironic.”

Tap tap tap.

“THAT BETTER BE THE SHOES!” I bellow, roaring across the room to whip open the door.

To find myself face-to-face with Amanda and Andrew making out so hard he might as well surgically implant his tongue in her duodenum and be done with it.

Chapter Eight

“Do all the men in your family have tongues like that?” Dad asks, tilting his head like we’re watching Animal Planet. 

“Yes,” Mom and I sigh in unison.

“MARIE!” Dad snaps, giving her a look. Sometimes, I forget that Mom and Declan’s father dated for a brief time.

“You asked, Jason!” Mom squeaks.

“Someone get me a spray bottle,” Declan grouses, neatly folding his cloth napkin on the table and crossing the room, grabbing Andrew’s shoulder and peeling him off Amanda. Does the man have suction cups on his—

“Hi!” Amanda chirps, breathless. Unlike the rest of us, she and Andrew are wearing street clothes. They have showered, and both wear the same pink-cheeked, slightly dazed look of two people who have spent the last twelve hours embedded in each other’s mucosal glands.

Or something like that.

“Hi!” Declan chirps back, glaring at his brother. 

Andrew’s arm goes around Amanda’s shoulders, her fingers peeking out at his waist.

They are freaking adorable.

“You two!” Mom roars, storming up to Andrew, her finger in his face. “You knew they were in this room all along and didn’t tell me!”

Declan’s pinched expression softens. “You didn’t?” he asks Andrew.

Andrew’s jaw tightens, his face going hard. I see the resemblance to James, and why these McCormick men can pull off tough negotiations. “Of course I didn’t. Marie got the company jet, but nothing more from me.”

“Then how did you two know which room we’re in?” I ask Amanda. 

“Because the cable news crew you kicked out of the hotel got their revenge,” Mom explains, picking out a black raspberry from Dad’s bowl and munching on it. “Their high school intern hacked into the hotel database and found you.”

“What?” Declan groans.

“He said it was easier than hacking a Minecraft server, whatever that means. Called your computer network security ‘a joke.’” Mom uses finger quotes to dig it in. Declan’s finally showing emotion. Finally.

Over network security protocols.

Or lack thereof.

Andrew’s kissing Amanda again, her back pinned against the door frame, his hands working through a geometry problem where the goal is to find the point of intersection where two legs bisect.

People would like math so much more if it involved real life like that.

“SHOES!” Amanda’s squeal halts their kiss, poor Andrew standing there open-mouthed and alone, as the tailor’s assistant finally arrives with a shipping container’s worth of new shoes for me.

Mom scans the scores of boxes. “All these for you?” she asks me. The assistant brings in the shoes, whispers something to Declan, and leaves quickly. 

Amanda bends down and pulls out a strappy little pair of turquoise leather shoes with a red heel.

“Ooooooo,” she and Mom gush in unison.

I drink the rest of my lukewarm mocha and try to figure out who to glare at.

Declan catches my eye.
You okay?
he mouths.

I just do my best Grumpy Cat imitation in response.

“Here,” Amanda says, distracted by all the shinies in my room. She hands me a shopping bag. I peer in. 

My purse from home. My ID! My favorite hoodie and jeans. My own underwear. Slip-on loafers. I grab my purse and clutch it to my chest like it’s a lost kitten.

I am
real
again.

Amanda and Mom open shoeboxes like they’re Charlie and they’re searching for the Golden Ticket. Andrew turns to Declan and the two start hissing about computer security issues and international competitors. Dad looks at the suite like he’s a peasant who has entered a palace and is taking it all in. 

I realize I’m in a bathrobe, Declan’s arguing with his brother in his underwear, and damn it, she did it again.

My mother made this all about her.

“OUT!” I scream. 

Mom and Amanda ignore me. Dad gives me a look that says,
About time, kid
, and reaches to tap Mom on the shoulder.

She stands up, holding an Aperlai high heel, her face flushed like she just had a quickie in a department store changing room.

“Everyone out,” I say again. Amanda shoots me a sympathetic look and makes a gesture that says,
Call me
. Andrew is muttering words like “non-reversible encryption” while Declan’s clearly not listening to him, eyes on me, taking in my attempt to re-assert authority.

I fail.

Amanda tugs on Andrew’s shoulder. He ignores her until she stands on tiptoes and whispers something so porny in his ear that the man turns a furious shade of pink and breaks off eye contact with everyone, grabbing her hand and departing.

And then there were two.

“We need to help outfit Shannon!” Mom announces, as if she’s gutting a bathroom down to studs and starting over.

“Shannon can dress herself,” Dad says. 

Mom’s giggles remind me of Jeffrey when he watches a television show called
Wipeout
. Or when Declan tries to tell me my mother can be controlled.

“Shannon can’t tell the difference between eyeliner and lipliner, Jason. You expect her to color coordinate a—”

“We have a professional shopper for that, Marie. You can go now.” Declan’s hands are on Mom’s shoulders. “Shannon wants you to leave.”

“Shannon
thinks
she wants me to leave,” Mom insists.

Dad replaces Declan, hands on Mom’s shoulders from behind, pushing her like a stubborn mule being coaxed to cross a small stream.

“Shannon wants you to leave,” I answer. See? I’m referring to myself in the third person.

My mother has turned me into my nephew, Tyler.

“We’re staying,” Mom says firmly. “We have too much to talk about for me to leave. First of all, you two pulled that horrible stunt with the helicopter! And Declan, your father spent a small fortune on the wedding. Do you have any idea how livid he is right now? More than a thousand people were left—” 

SLAM!

Whoever designed this hotel knew how to pick the right doors. Much better than the one on the airplane.

The doorknob rattles.

“Shannon! Shannon! But Jason, I have one of her shoes!” Mom’s voice trails off in a thin stream of chatter, the sound even more muffled as Declan’s warm, bare skin envelops me, biceps covering my ears, my face burrowing in his hot, hard chest.

I sigh.

“Thank God they’re gone,” I mumble, my lips rubbing against a sprinkling of dark hair at his breastbone. On impulse, I lick the skin right there. He laughs, the rumbling comforting. He tastes like salt and spice, like adrenaline spiked with power, his own sigh mingling with another one of mine.

“It’ll all be fine,” he adds.

Tap tap tap.

“GO AWAY!” we shout together. Who cares about the shoe Mom’s clutching? 

“I own this place. You can’t make me go away,” says an imperial voice on the other side of the door.

Oh, no.

Declan mutters an expletive, then adds, “That’s my dad.”

Mom’s statement about James’ anger makes my blood start to race.

Tap tap tap.

I look up at Dec and see the storm in his eyes. I’m sure mine is just a mirror, reflecting back a hurricane of overwhelming chaos. We both close our eyes, like little kids who think if we can’t see the monster, he can’t see us. Not that James is a monster. He’s not.

The
world
is the monster.

“Open up, kids. We need to talk.”

With a deep sigh, Declan reaches for the doorknob, his chest expanding as his inhale goes on forever, my arms around him adjusting to the changing space his body inhabits as he just breathes in forever and ever, as if eternity masks what we need to face.

The door opens and there stands The Silver Fox. My soon-to-be father-in-law. The man who just spent nearly three-quarters of a million dollars on a thousand-person wedding we subverted by commandeering corporate helicopters and jets.

To escape.

I keep one arm around Declan’s waist, feeling him go tense and rigid, as if preparing for the verbal onslaught he expects.

James, though, is grinning madly.

“Brilliant!” he exclaims, pulling Declan away from me, embracing my fiancé in a man’s hug, the quick smash of chests and claps of flat palms against shoulder blades that gets the social nicety over with and expresses masculinity without affection. 

“Brilliant?” Declan rasps, clearing his throat.

“Your departure from the wedding. Oh—Shannon!” James comes in for a second, gentler hug, this one fatherly and...sweet? James is about as sweet and sensitive as ISIS.

“Hi, James.” I give Declan a look that says,
WTF?
and he gives it right back in double time. 

“Was this your idea?” James whispers in my ear. His breath smells like coffee and whisky, his breakfast of choice.

“My idea?”

“The whole mess with the helicopter and the press!”

I am walking a tightrope here. If I say
yes
, will I be screamed at, the target of ire? 

“Ummm....”

“Whichever one of you came up with it, you’re a genius,” James adds.

“It was me,” Declan and I declare in unison.

Now we
really
give each other
WTF?
looks.

“That’s a power couple,” James says with a guffaw. He pulls out his smartphone, a phablet he doesn’t really know how to use. “Go find CNN, son,” he tells Declan, who takes the phone, finds the browser, and squints at whatever web page he’s reading.

“Huh,” Dec grunts.

“Our public relations specialists say Anterdec is getting
wicked good
free press here!”

James’ carefully-cultured sophistication is falling apart as his South Boston accent emerges in the excitement. He’s kind of like Pam, who does the same thing.

Hmmm.

“Every news site and gossip blog is talking about you two—and best of all, they’re mentioning Declan’s role as VP of Anterdec in the process, which means we’re trending.” 

“Trending?” I ask, knowing exactly what he means, but trying to reconcile his happiness with the horror of wasting all that money on a wedding that didn’t happen.

“Our PR department tracks Anterdec press mentions and ranks them for positive, negative, and neutral qualities. You’re in marketing—you know the drill.”

“Of course.” James can be pedantic when he talks about business. I don’t push back, because hey—I’m a genius, right?

Or, maybe, half genius. I’ll share the title with Declan. We can go halfsies on it.

“And PR works with marketing to find paid promotional spots to generate positive press mentions. At the rate your shenanigans are generating positive and neutral press for the corporation, your wedding will have paid for itself.”

“Huh?” Dec and I are in stereo on that one.

James beams. “You two orchestrated one of the most brilliant pieces of free positive PR for Anterdec that I’ve ever seen. We’ll get the resort in the press, too, now that they know you’re hiding here at Litraeon.”

“Dad,” Declan asks, his voice going low. “How does the press know we’re at Litraeon?”

“I told them.”

“You
what
?”

James shrugs. “I told them. PR said mentions were dropping, so it seemed prudent to keep the story in the headlines. Sending Marie here was easy, so—”

“I thought a high school intern hacked into the resort records and found us!”

“That was the cover story I fed Marie.” James waves his hand and takes a deep breath. “Good to know she’s following orders.”

“Hold on. Hold
on
. You told Marie our exact location—
and
told the press—in an effort to keep the free PR gravy train going and turn our wedding escape into a media storm?” Declan asks, his voice calm and deadly.

“Yes.”

Declan says nothing, the only sound in the suite his ragged breaths, as he types on James’ giant phone and looks at a series of graphs.

Here it comes
, I think. The emotional bomb is about to detonate. Vesuvius is about to erupt. The tsunami is hitting land.