At the Billionaire's Beck and Call? (7 page)

She looked at Ryder who was watching the activity
of people on the shore. “Thank you,” she said. “It was a memorable lunch.”

He turned his back to the view and, after pushing his sunglasses to the top of his head, leaned his elbows on the rails behind him. “I hope memorable for more than the scenery.”

She glanced at Ryder's profile. He looked better than any preened male model on a nautical photo shoot. The deck beneath her rocked with the movement of the water, but her legs fought more than the motion as they locked to avoid swaying. She clenched her jaw, her muscles, and brought her body back under control.

Then she tossed him the reply his comment deserved. “Are you fishing for a compliment, Mr. Bramson?”

A laugh seemed to roar up from his chest before he threw his head back and it erupted into the air around them. It took a few moments before he could reply. “Just wondering if my plan to get you to accept my proposal is moving forward.”

The captain appeared and told them it was safe to disembark; Ryder thanked him and offered Macy his hand as they walked down the gangplank. Once they were on solid ground, she released his hand and headed for the waiting limousine. Ryder checked his long stride to fall into step beside her.

“Your plan?” she said, as they walked. “I think, instead of discussing your not-so-secret agenda to use me to buy a company, we should go back to the hotel so I can keep working on the job you pay me to do.”

They reached the car, he opened the limousine door for her and offered his hand. “I can live with that. For now.”

As he closed the door and circled the limo, Macy realized it was the
for now
that was the problem. He'd
made his clearest signal yet that he hadn't given up. That he still intended to marry her.

The thought made her quiver.

 

Ryder stepped out of his shower and toweled off to the sound of the blues station he'd found on the hotel room radio. He'd told Macy to be ready at six because he was taking her out to dinner, but in truth, he'd organized a far more elaborate evening including a show at the Opera House, then a table at the city's most exclusive restaurant, followed by a walk along the moonlit Harbour shore.

And during the stroll, he'd propose properly.

She'd practically acknowledged this afternoon on the cruiser that they were compatible companions. And he had enormous respect and admiration for her—add that to the sexual heat they generated, and it was more than he'd expected to find in a wife. He had a good feeling about this marriage. She would, too, once he explained.

He pulled on boxers and black trousers, listening to the sounds of Macy's hairdryer in the second bedroom of their presidential suite. He paused by his open door, appreciating the intimacy of knowing his future wife was nearby, perhaps in a bathrobe. His blood heated and his body began its ascension to the aching need he always felt for her. He couldn't remember this desperate
wanting
with another woman. Usually, if a woman wasn't interested in a sexual relationship for whatever reason, he moved on, no harm, no foul. But not with Macy. Knowing she was in a bathroom on the other side of the wall was next to maddening.

His cell phone rang and he glanced around before remembering he'd left it on the coffee table in the sitting
room. He strode out, not worried about his bare chest or feet since she was still busy in her bathroom.

Thumbing the button, he answered. “Bramson.”

“Good evening, Mr. Bramson, it's Pia Baxter.”

He greeted the executor of his father's estate as his gaze roamed to the door of Macy's room. What would she be wearing now? Would her body still be glistening with water from her shower?

“Mr. Bramson, I'm afraid I have some bad news.”

Instantly, Ryder's attention was one hundred percent on the phone. He turned to face the wall of glass overlooking Sydney Harbour.

“Go on.” He then realized this was an odd hour for someone in the U.S. to ring. Early morning, New York time. His spine stiffened.

“There's been an accident involving your half brother, Jesse Kentrell.”

He sighed heavily. From what he knew of the spoiled brat, accidents weren't uncommon. Although…this must be bad to warrant a phone call to an estranged brother. Or perhaps it affected the will. “What sort of accident?”

“A car crash. I'm afraid he died at the scene.”

For one awful moment, dark, clawing emotions rose in his chest, but without examining, or even naming them, he pushed them back down before they could affect him. They served no purpose; he'd learned that years ago. They only clouded judgment and distracted.

He heard Macy's door open but didn't turn, remaining focused on the information Pia Baxter was sharing. “Were others involved? Seth?”

“Seth Kentrell wasn't traveling with him. It was a single car accident and it seems Jesse was the driver. There was one passenger who was taken to hospital unconscious.” Pia paused. “April Fairchild.”

Ryder sucked in a breath. Jesse had dated minor celebrities in the past, but April Fairchild was the big leagues. America's favorite jazz singer was famous, talented, gorgeous…and unconscious. His stomach dipped as he comprehended the enormity of the situation.

“Is she seriously injured?” He felt Macy move behind him, standing only feet away.

“There's no word yet,” Pia said. “I know you'll understand that neither her involvement nor her condition are public at this point.”

“Of course. Thank you for informing me.”

“Seth Kentrell's assistant asked me to pass the information to you. Mr. Kentrell feels that you might not have had a relationship with Jesse but he was still your brother and you deserve to know about his death before it hits the media.”

Ryder swallowed past a ball of emotion in his throat. “Thank you, I appreciate it.”

He disconnected and, holding any reaction the news had caused at bay, he turned to Macy.

She stood in a bronze satin sheath, feet bare, face free of makeup, hair up in another French twist. She was breathtaking. But her eyes were soft with concern. She must have realized something had happened from his comments or tone. She'd find out soon—the news would be everywhere by morning. He should leave it at that. But a tug deep in his chest drew him to share the information with her now. To seek her hand.

She offered it without hesitation, allowing him to interlace their fingers. And she waited in silence.

He cleared his throat. “My half brother—Jesse—has been killed.”

“Oh, Ryder.” She took a step in.

He stared at her fingers interlaced with his for a long
moment, then shook his head. “I met him twice, briefly. I didn't know him.”
And now he never would.
His stomach hollowed.

Macy tugged on his fingers. “Come, sit down.” She led him to an overstuffed gold brocade couch and he dropped heavily into its depths.

She sank down beside him, still holding his hand. “Did you want to know him?”

“No.” He scrubbed his free hand through his hair. As a child he'd wished his brothers dead for the crime of stealing his father's love and attention. But that had been a hurt child lashing out—he couldn't ever reveal those feelings. Especially now that it'd happened. She'd think he was a monster.

“Will you go back for the funeral?”

Funeral? He hadn't thought that far ahead. “I don't know. The first time I was in the same place as Seth, Jesse and their mother all together was for my father's funeral a couple of months ago. I didn't acknowledge them.”

He knew the ill feeling ran both ways, and was vaguely surprised Seth had asked his assistant to send word of Jesse's death. He and Seth had occasionally been at the same function or event, and through a mutual, silent understanding, neither had acknowledged the other. Except for once when an unknowing party guest had introduced them. He remembered the glacial indifference in Seth's eyes and knew his own stare would have been as brutally cold. They'd nodded once, then parted. No love lost, no common ground. Deep anger covered with a thick veneer of civility.

Macy squeezed his hand. “No matter what, he's your brother and you have a right to go to his funeral if you want.”

“My brother,” he repeated quietly. The word was
foreign on his lips. He'd never called him that before—had rarely referred to either Jesse or Seth in any way, but definitely not as “my brother.”

“I was thirteen when my mother died.” Macy's voice was gentle, but full of old pain. “I thought I'd die along with her, the ache was so bad.”

He grasped her other hand, wishing he'd known her then to offer comfort. “I can't imagine.”

The room receded then zoomed into hyper-focus as it hit him. He would never know his brother. Never form a relationship. His pulse raced, chest constricted. Never.

“Ryder?” He felt a soft hand on his forearm.

Blindly, he reached for that hand and brought it to his aching chest as if she could magically soothe the turmoil. He'd always thought of Jesse as a problem, an obstacle. One of the sons who'd taken his father's love and broken his family. But in some dark recess of his mind, he must have thought that one day they could meet properly, and…
something
. Not become best friends, but at least acknowledge each other. Perhaps even become acquaintances who met once a year to share a bottle of wine. Or
something
…

A yawning raw hole seemed to open within his chest and for a moment, the power of it paralyzed him. He fought against it, unwilling to give in to the dark emotions that wanted to claim his heart. He emerged victorious, but engulfed by a desperate need to fill the void.

Suddenly he was aware that Macy's arms were around him. He drew her closer, welcoming the comfort of human touch. Of
her
touch.

She stroked his back and his eyes drifted shut, absorbing the full extent of the sensation. Lifting her, he brought her to his lap, reveling in having her this near. He'd needed her touching him again since their first kiss
in her lobby. But the kiss on the jet this morning had raised that need to a new peak.

He held her tight and, mercifully, she held him, too. She sat there, in his lap, letting him hold her for what seemed like an eternity. Until the thoughts of Jesse began to fade, and thoughts of Macy were all that filled his mind. And that desperate sense of need. He reached to pull the pins from that blasted French twist and growled in satisfaction as her gorgeous hair tumbled down.

He leaned his face into her neck, smelling her floral shampoo, the scent of her skin. “So beautiful,” he whispered against her hair.

She turned away, as if she was unsure of what was happening between them. If it was right.
He
was sure. He used a knuckle to bring her face around and met her lips with his own. At first she didn't respond, and he coaxed, gently, knowing the passion that had been in her kiss on the plane. She might want to deny it but he knew he could rouse passion in her. Passion for him.

As his thumbs stroked her cheeks, he sucked her bottom lip into his mouth, biting softly, then ran his tongue along her top lip. She relaxed into him, moaning deep in her throat as his mouth moved over hers with all the desperation he felt. Heat seared his chest as her hands tentatively made contact with his naked skin, skimming across and up, over his shoulders. The touch was a flame to tinder—he'd dreamed of having her here but the reality would surely set him alight.

She twisted in his lap, reaching to touch more, and the pressure on his groin made him groan. He traced a path down her back, feeling the shape of her through the thin satin fabric. He felt until he found the zipper and tugged until the cap sleeves loosened enough for him to push them down, revealing her golden shoulder. Nothing could
have stopped him from kissing the smooth perfection of her exposed skin.

She smelled like jasmine. The tang from her soap was erotic and he nipped, then kissed more skin, faster. He needed to taste all of her. His kisses moved back to her throat, desire for her pulsing through his entire body.

He found her mouth again, and the touch of her tongue on his, her tongue in his mouth, almost made him lose control. He scooped his hands under her knees, readying to carry her to his bed, where he could have unfettered access to all of her.

Hands on his shoulders, Macy pulled back, her chest rising and falling rapidly. “Ryder, I'm not sure about this. You're upset after the phone call.” She laid a palm on his cheek. “This isn't the best time for either of us.”

He heaved in a breath, willing his mind to work. There was a tiny frown line between her eyebrows, but her pupils were dilated and her skin was flushed. She desired him, that much was obvious. She just needed to know he wasn't using her to forget about his brother. Nothing could be further from the truth.

“Macy, I need you,” he rasped. “I've craved you since that first day.” He kissed the lobe of her ear, then whispered in her ear, “Tell me you need me as much. Please.”

Her head rolled to one side, giving him easier access to her lobe. “I want you more than I've ever wanted anyone. More than I thought I
could
want anyone.”

“Then forget everything else. Forget Ashley International and Chocolate Diva. Forget your father and my brother. This is just between you and me.” He stood, taking her with him and setting her on her feet before holding out his hand.

“Come with me.” He didn't intend their first time to
be on a couch—it would be in a bed, where he had the room to savor her properly. Where they could wake up tomorrow morning together.

He looked into her eyes, not hiding the need he had for her in this moment. In every moment. “Come with me, Macy.”

She took a ragged breath and her luscious lips parted, as if to speak. Then she smiled, almost shyly, and took his outstretched hand.