STORM: A Standalone Romance (15 page)

She could feel the jets of the Jacuzzi shooting against the back of her legs, and it was this sensation that ultimately drove her over. She came hard and unexpectedly, bearing herself down on Simon's manhood as he milked her for one long, drawn-out cry of release. The sensuous vision of her orgasm inspired his own, and she felt him shoot a hot rush into her to rival the jets. Cara shivered and clenched her thighs around his waist as she rode the feeling out.

Afterwards, she collapsed on the mattress in the bedroom with a towel draped around her spent frame. Simon joined her in a similar state of undress. He seemed amused by the draining effect that hot tub sex had on her.

"Feeling good?" he asked her unnecessarily. Cara could only groan in response. The billionaire pulled her across the bed and into his arms, where they kissed and eventually dozed off as the jet flew them ever closer to their ultimate destination.

              When they touched down in England, it was a hundred times worse than Cara could have ever imagined.

It was too bad she couldn't enjoy her first glimpse of a foreign country between all the flashbulbs bursting.

              Okay, so they weren't
technically
flashbulbs. Most of the paparazzi in the crowd had tiny digital cameras and the huge black beastly models with telescopic lenses that Cara liked to rent out from her school.

              The instant Simon's jet slowed to a stop, the paparazzi were mobbing the stair car outside. Cara stood at the top of the stairs beside Simon, face stricken at the chaos.  She had seen these sort of circling shark tactics before, but
never
at this level, and never in a situation where she had been the subject of attention. This was Beatlemania-level pandemonium. She was seriously considering turning around and disappearing right back the jet until Simon produced a pair of black glasses for her.

              "I was afraid of this. Put these on," he said under his breath. His own eyes were hidden beneath a pair of Ray-Bans. Cara complied, letting the tinted lenses of her terribly last minute disguise swallow up most of her own features. It was too late for her, she knew—at least ten of the photographers at the head of the line had already snapped her picture.

"So much for telling my advisor I'm in New York," she muttered as they descended the stairs together. The bodies swarmed forward to get close-ups, while still parting to allow them passage through the horde. Cara was a bit surprised by this gesture, though there was nothing comfortable about the invasive strangers' continued proximity. She wondered if English paparazzi were politer than the ones they had back in the States.

              "They shouldn't be here," Simon said below his breath. "How could they have possibly known that I was coming? They didn't know I was away to begin with!"

              "This is some shady shit," Cara agreed as they fought their way toward the limousine that awaiting them. She could have sworn she saw one of the reporters quickly jot down her quote. She imagined she could already read tomorrow's headline:
Hermitous billionaire jetsetter brings home foul-mouthed American floozy.

             
Not bad, actually. She might have a hidden talent for editorializing this sort of thing.

              She was surprised to find that it was Gerald holding the door to the limousine open for them. "My apologies, sir," said the elderly butler. "But I couldn't bring the car around any closer to the plane."

              "That's all right, Gerald. I'm sure they would have found out I was back sooner, anyway." Simon held his arm out to invite her inside first, and Cara slid into the expansive backseat of the limo. He piled in after her and slammed the door behind him. She turned immediately to analyze the scene outside and pulled her glasses off.

              "There must have been at least five news stations out there, not counting all the reporters, bloggers, and freelancers…" She trailed off and shot Simon a look of wonder. The man was sitting slumped in a corner with his arms crossed. Despite his words of reassurance to Gerald, he did not look pleased. His mouth was set into a grim line, and he only appeared to be half-listening to her. "Simon, you're a big deal, aren't you?"

              It was a strange question to have to ask. Of course, Melinda had told her that Simon was worth a lot of money—that much had been evident to Cara from the moment she first laid eyes on his house—and she now knew that he had also been involved in a highly publicized accident that had left another man dead. Those statistics alone were enough to warrant some media presence at his arrivals and departures, but to become an actual media
event?
There was more to Simon Banning's image going on here.

              "I used to do a lot of charity events," the man offered eventually. "And I did some, um… modelling. You know how the princes are considered sex symbols in my country?"

              "Yeah, but I never understood why," Cara responded without thinking. Then the real message behind his question sank home. "What, you're telling me you're a
sex symbol
in your home country?"

              "Not by choice." Simon exhaled a long and drawn-out sigh. He might as well have been discussing his most recent visit to the DMV for all the enthusiasm he was showing. "Having money will buy you that sort of status. And if you're single, and not unfortunate to look at…"

              "Why does this remind me of the opening lines to
Pride and Prejudice?"
Cara glanced out the window as Gerald turned off the runway and onto a major highway. It was disorienting to see all of the cars driving on the wrong side of the yellow line. Everything about the London outside her window appeared modern enough, but Simon's statements still had her grinning with the memory of her English 101 course.

              "Don't paint me as a stereotype, Cara," the billionaire chastised her. "I'm no Mr. Darcy. And anyway, that seems to be the state of affairs in every country. Money attracts attention, whether you want it or not. And when you have everyone's attention, there's nowhere they would rather see you go than down in flames."

              "We're going to be in the papers tomorrow, aren't we?" Cara was already opening her laptop with an idea to run an Internet search on the two of them, when Simon reached across to fold the screen closed in her lap.

              "Yes, but I wouldn't worry about it. I doubt anyone will be able to uncover who you are. Not implying that you're insignificant, or anything."

              "Of course not. Thank you." Cara glared at him, but couldn't help a reluctant laugh when she saw his sheepish grin. "I'm a better story when I'm Simon Banning's 'mystery blonde'. The truth would only disappoint them."

              "Exactly. And that isn't a reflection on you." He was adamant on this point. Cara's face softened, and she set her laptop aside to maneuver herself across the aisle and into Simon's lap. At the rate they were going, she was starting to doubt the future necessity of seats at all. She laced her arms around his neck and gazed out the window once more.

             
No more surprises,
she promised herself.
I'm in Simon's world now, where this sort of thing is commonplace. I have to act like seeing it all for the first time doesn't affect me so he doesn't feel the need to constantly reassure me. I have to play it cool.

#

"Are you
fucking
kidding me?" Cara moaned. "This has got to be a joke, right? This castle isn't
yours,
right?"

              She was standing in the dirt driveway of the largest building outside of a skyscraper that she had ever seen. The house—or mansion, or
castle,
or whatever it was listed as on the billionaire market—loomed over her like a BBC set piece. It was built all out of heather-gray stone, and suited the majestic dreariness of the countryside around it perfectly. She had stopped counting the rows of windows after the fourth or fifth story.

              "You didn't tell me you lived at Downton Abbey!" she exclaimed as Simon instructed one of the servants on where to take their things. The small staff that acted as the holdover at Simon's English mansion were all attractive, pale, and straight-faced men and women, and they didn't appear to know what to make of Cara. Two of them cast her an obvious look as they walked back inside, but a lack of any clear emoting left the intentions behind their glances unknown.

              "That's strike two on your xenophobia card, Cara," Simon said grimly. "I suppose I should be happy that you are getting it out of your system now before we have company over."

              "Are we? Going to have company?" Cara followed the train of servants inside. The interior of the great house was magnificent; she counted three staircases off the top of her head, and that was just her mathematical impression of things from five seconds standing in the foyer. She didn't even want to think about how many of her dorm rooms could fit inside the entryway that was traditionally reserved for housing peoples' umbrellas,
and that was it.
The ornamental rug that she was currently tracking English mud onto looked as if a big game hunter had gone up against the entire cultural history of China, bagged it, and sold it as furniture. The rug alone was probably worth more money than Cara would ever see in her life.

              Most of the furniture pieces were shrouded in dust coverings, and she could see the servants going from room to room now and removing them. A part of her was intrigued by the concept of a house coming back to life around them, but Simon appeared preoccupied by other things, so she followed him into the next room. The fireplace informed her that it was probably the living room—but one of how many?

              She was seriously not playing it cool right now.

              "There will be more talk in the tabloids if we don't." Simon's answer reminded Cara of her original question. She plopped down onto one of the room's couches after one of the maids unveiled it. "In all likelihood, the paparazzi will attempt to infiltrate the grounds and snap photos. Just because no one has ever succeeded before doesn't mean that they won't this time. I used to have a lot more security," he lamented. "Had to send most of them on their way when I left the country. There was no use protecting an employer who wasn't there."

              "So you're going to them, rather than waiting for them to come to you," Cara mused. Not that she considered what the paparazzi did journalism exactly, but it was certainly interesting to be on the other side of the line for a change. She racked her brain for all the techniques she had ever seen persons of interest employ successfully when they wanted to avoid media attention.

              "Yes. I was thinking a dinner function of some sort, either here or in the city." Simon was about to sit down beside her when a voice cleared itself in the doorway. They both glanced up to find Gerald in the entry.

              "Sir, there is a phone call on the line for you. Shall I tell them you are not here?"

              "Who would be calling me on the landline?" Simon wondered as he rose. "My acquaintances can't know I'm back in the neighborhood already, can they? I suppose it was inevitable." He dropped a quick kiss on Cara's forehead and vanished out into the hall. The move left her making awkward eye contact with Gerald. At least, she felt awkward about it. Gerald looked as stiff and removed as usual. She wondered if he disapproved of her being there.

              Simon had said he had sent all of his servants home back in the States. She supposed the butler, who was distinctly English himself, was probably not counted amongst their ranks. She had just opened her mouth to ask Gerald more about himself when Simon returned and dismissed the man with a nod. She quickly, and unnecessarily, made room for him on the couch beside her. His expression said it all before he did.

              "That was Stetson's family. They heard it on the news that I had returned." Simon laced his hands; he looked as if he was about to be sick."They want to set up a meeting with me."

Stetson Pembrook was the youth who had been driving the night of Simon's accident. He was the boy that Simon had pulled out of the river and successfully administered CPR to—and subsequently died on his way to the hospital. His family were the ones who had filed a lawsuit against Simon and singlehandedly wrecked his trust in the human race.

              "Shouldn't your lawyers be here?" Cara was peeking subtly into one of the mansion's many drawing rooms, where the Pembrooks sat together and waited for Simon to join them. They were thin, unhealthy looking people, and they wore their grief for their son like a perfume. Cara thought she had developed a mistaken impression of them—they didn't look enterprising at all. They just looked… said.

              "They said this meeting was off the record." Simon was pacing the rug beside her, adjusting his tie repeatedly and running a distraught hand through his hair until his auburn locks stood on end. He was definitely starting to look the part of the insane recluse she had once suspected him of being. Cara reached out a hand to stall him, and stepped away from the door to help him readjust his worried appearance.

              "You know, for a guy who didn't believe a word I said when
I
was telling the truth, you sure are willing to trust in people who have your worst interest at heart."

              "This is the first time since I spoke to them at the scene of the accident that it will be just the three of us," Simon whispered to her. "I believe I told you that they never had it in their heads to come after me until later, and by that point there was no hope of reaching out to them to discuss their loss without a lawyer. This was the exact reason I followed your advice and came back to England. This was the exact thing I was hoping would happen."

              "Then why do you look so terrified?" Cara inquired as she swept the wrinkles from his shoulders. In lieu of a response, Simon looked agonized, and of course she would be a fool
not
to know the reason for his sudden case of nerves. "Get in there. I bet they've been waiting to talk to you on the same terms for as long as you have. Don't make it about the lawsuit, and don't make it about you; just listen to what they have to say." She raised herself up on her toes, pulling him down by his freshly-adjusted tie to plant an encouraging kiss on his miserable mouth. "Be brave. And afterwards, you can show me around the grounds."

              "You're smart to give me something to look forward to," Simon commended, but there was no more distracting himself from what he had to do. With a sigh, the billionaire straightened his posture, pushed the door fully open, and entered the room.

#

They met up again later to walk the grounds, as promised. Cara itched to ask him about the interview. She could not divine the direction Simon's conversation with the Pembrooks had taken, either from his expression or from theirs as they left the mansion an hour later. She had stayed out of sight, but always within reach should anything go wrong. She noticed Gerald doing the same.

              The grounds of Simon's English estate were even more lavish than his lands in Connecticut. There, Cara had mistaken them for open, unclaimed fields—here, his property was well-manicured and tightly controlled by phantom gardeners, none of which she saw on their stroll but who she had to assume were still employed there all the same. The hedges were kept neatly clipped, the grass watered, the fountains clean of too much algae and stocked full of lazily swimming fish.

              She still considered it a little gloomy. This estate and the one back in New England had that quality in common.

              "Does it have a name?" she inquired.

              "Does what have a name?" Simon seemed preoccupied, but considering what he had just been through, Cara thought she could excuse it… if only she knew what it
was
that Simon had just been through.

              "Don't all these old English estates have names? Like 'Broadmoor' and 'Wuthering Heights' and 'Faulty Towers'?"

              "You can name it, if you like." They paused to study another fountain, one that she was sure Simon had stopped in front of numerous times while he had lived there, but he assessed it now as if he had never seen it before. Cara dropped down to sit on the side of the pool and stroked her hand across the top of the water. The fat carp rose up from the bottom instantly to see what the commotion was.

              "Carp Palace," she suggested. Simon made a face as he seated himself beside her. She was pleased with her name, if only because it had succeeded in shaking him out of his stupor.

              "I take it back. Never name anything," he said solemnly.

              "What did the Pembrooks say?" she asked now that he had come back to her. "Or would you rather not tell me? I'm okay, you know,
not
knowing. I'm here for only one reason, and that's to investigate Melinda's death with the information you're able to provide me. I'll leave it to you to vanquish the other demons of your past."

              "They didn't say a lot." Simon studied their reflections upon the water. "But our conversation was… different. In tone. It felt like I was speaking to them directly for the first time, and not through some proxy in the form of a lawyer. They seem more confused by the proceedings than I am. It didn't feel right to inform them that
they
are the cause of all this legal drama they seem to dislike."

              "Probably a good move not saying anything," Cara agreed. "Even though I have to agree that you're right. If they want closure for themselves and for their son, keeping the wound open this way seems counterintuitive. "

              "I'm not sure what it is they want." Simon looked thoughtful again. He had changed out of his suit and into a cream-colored cardigan and khakis. Cara couldn't decide which look of his she preferred: the casual, borderline neglectful Simon she remembered from their first meeting, or the Simon who dressed like the sharp incarnation of his fortune. His current look seemed like a good balance between the two. "It's hard to know, when they don't appear to know it themselves. Again, I feel like any suggestion on my part would be a gross overstep. They have to be allowed to grieve, and to decide for themselves what the best balm may be."

              "You have rights, too," Cara said. "You're suffering, even if it isn't in the same way that they are. Simon, I've seen it."

              "Maybe I deserve to," he concluded. "I'm alive, and their son isn't, Cara."

              She didn't know what there was she could say to this, so she simply took his hands in hers to keep him from fidgeting with them. There was so much about the circumstances leading up the Simon's accident that she still didn't understand. For instance, had it ever been ruled that he himself had
caused
the accident? The other driver had been drunk as well, so it sounded like both of them were equally culpable. But Simon said he hadn't had that much to drink; he was fuzzy on the other details of him leaving the party, but of that he seemed certain.

              Still, the Simon Banning she had known that first week at the mansion certainly hadn't shied away from alcohol. Cara had been of the impression that he was self-medicating in a doomed attempt to keep his mind off the accident. So had it all started that night, or had it come about only after Stetson Pembrook was dead?

              She had too many questions, and none of the answers contributed to her own case she was supposed to be solving. Cara sighed. "Out of curiosity, have you told Gerald what I'm here for? He doesn't speak to me much unless spoken to, so I wasn't sure if he knew the circumstances, or if you even wanted him to know."

              "He is aware that we are dating," Simon replied. Cara froze instantly at the word, and the billionaire's eyes widened. He tried to retract his hand as if it was his statement, but she gripped onto it firmly. No way she was letting him go after that.

              "Excuse me, but could you repeat that? He's aware of what?"

              "I, ah… he's under the impression that we are together as a couple." Simon looked desperately unhappy as he said this; all the while, Cara's blood was singing in her veins.

             
Dating.Couple.
All words that she herself had been avoiding. She hadn't wanted to put a label on what she and Simon shared. As intimately as they knew each other now, it felt as if they had skipped most of the traditional steps, and revisiting them now felt as terrifying as if this was their first date together.

              "I've made you angry," the Englishman guessed. "I'll be sure to correct his understanding of our relationship as soon as we are back at the house." At a momentary loss for words, Cara could only shake her head.

              "No, Simon. I… it's fine the way it is." Her tongue felt like a lead weight between her teeth, and Cara swallowed. It wasn't like her to get sentimental about things like this. What was the matter with her?

              Simon, of course, had to ruin her intense moment of self-reflection by raising his eyebrows and beleaguering the point. "So I should tell him we
are
dating?"

              "I thought you said he was already of that impression." Cara lowered her face and tried to conceal some of her mounting frustration. Her efforts were for nothing with Simon sitting so close, and knowing her temper as well as he did. "Wait, was that a trick?" she demanded. "Were you trying to figure out where I stood on the issue without having to take any risks yourself?"

              "I plead the fifth," he replied. "Isn't that what you Americans do when your back is against the proverbial wall?"

              "Well, Mr. Banning, you can't plead the fifth. We're in
England."

             
"And God save the Queen," Simon said solemnly. "But in all seriousness Cara, I want you to forget about Gerald for a minute." The hand that she had pulled into her lap squeezed hers, and Cara felt her heart quickening.

              "Yes, Simon?" she asked.

              "I want you to forget all about broken bones and murders and focus on what I'm about to tell you," he continued on blithely.

              "Yes, Simon?" she asked again less patiently.

              "And just know that I… I want to say I'm falling in love with you, Cara. But it would be a lie if I did." Simon forked a hand through his hair. "Because I knew when you left me back at the hospital that I was already in love with you."

              His words stunned Cara to her core. She hadn't been aware of this,
any
of this. She had known, deep down, that her own feelings for Simon were more than fleeting, but to hear the confession from his own lips…

              His blue eyes sought hers, and she could see that expressing his feelings had been incredibly difficult for him. But there was nothing to hide now, and he didn't cast his eyes away from her a second time. He was expecting a response.

              "I'm not sure I'm any good at this sort of thing," Cara mentioned. "I've never, ah… no one has ever said something like this to me before." She blushed profusely. Where was her composure, her effortless American cool? Maybe she had left it behind her on a foreign shore. "But I think I came to the same conclusion while I was away from you, Simon. As much as I wanted to hate you, I couldn't. You were all I thought about. And all I could think was if I ever saw you again, I would find a way to tell you that I…"

              She didn't know why she struggled to say the words now. It had been harder and harder to keep from letting them slip in recent days. Maybe it was the way he looked at her, without an impatient or judgmental line in his handsome, open face.

              She couldn't stand having that face so close to her and not doing anything about it. Cara reached over to take him in her hands, pressing her palms against the clean angles of his jaw. Simon leaned instinctively, and Cara drew him down to her to press a kiss to his lips. When she pulled back, she had found the words again.             

              "I love you."

              The Englishman leaned in again to capture the words in his mouth. Cara settled her hands on his shoulders as she found herself tilted backward; she felt a strong hand cupping the small of her back, keeping her from falling as he stabilized them both against the fountain with his hand. She didn't know why she did it, but she gave a wild laugh at the sudden rush of exhilaration she felt. She was being kissed by a man who loved her, by a man who had just exacted a similar confession from her, and she had never felt so beautifully free. She threw her arms around his neck and arched her back, pushing herself against him as he tasted the truth of her words for himself.

              They kissed for a long time, languid in their activity, enjoying the feeling of each and the crisp English air. They parted eventually, and Cara's lips buzzed and tingled as if they had gone numb. She raised curious fingers to them as Simon kissed the corner of her mouth and beyond, trailing his affection all along her cheek and down the curve of her neck.

              "Simon, when will you see the Pembrooks again?" Cara inquired. The billionaire planted a last, firm brand to her collarbone before glancing off across his property.