Before Her Billionaires (5 page)

“You’re angry Jill died.”

“Yes.”

“When the word money came up earlier—”

Clench. His hand squashed the pillow. Dr. Harr’s eyes were on it, then looked at Mike.

“Money. What is it about money and your fist?” she asked, a faint look of puzzlement clouding her eyes.

Damn it. Should he tell her? Neither he nor Dylan had said a word to anyone, had only talked about the money with Jill’s family lawyer. The topic was more taboo than anything he’d ever experienced, more radioactive, even, than...

Being in a permanent threesome.

Two billion dollars. The words stuck in his throat, a mixture of excitement, horror, pressure, anger, and—rage. All wrapped up in twenty million one-hundred-dollar bills.

“I—”

“Are you having financial problems?” Dr. Harr asked, jumping to the obvious conclusion. “Many partners do after losing a loved one. We create dynamics in our financial lives where we
i
ntertwine—”

He snorted, tossing the pillow onto the small chair across from him. “
I
ntertwined? Jill kept everything separate. A little too separate,” he said with a near growl.

A
lot
too separate.

Two deep lines formed in the space between the doctor’s eyes as she frowned, clearly struggling to understand.
Join the club,
l
ady
, he thought.
Join the fucking club
.

“
When you say ‘separate,’ what do you mean?”
 

Mike looked around the room, eyes pausing on ten or twelve items, taking them
in
, as if in a meditative state. A small, brass elephant. A spider plant that carried across a fifteen-foot archway in the middle of the room. A stained glass panel at the top of the large picture window, hues of purple and adobe giving the room’s light an ethereal appearance. As he stopped and observed, paused and noted, he found the whirling dervish inside himself calming just enough to say:

“She turns out to be something we didn’t know.”

“
What was that?”
 

He shook his head quickly, like making a fly move away. The words caught in his throat, stuck there forever, a seed that could never crack open enough for a small tendril to make its way to the light.

His long, runner’s legs bent before him, knees high, legs splayed out, hands now planted on his knees as if he were about to stand and walk out the door,
run run run
and stop thinking about
Jill Jill Jill
.

Damn it.

She would follow him, wouldn’t she? Can’t run away from her. Can never run away from the fact that she lied.

Lied.

“She lied,” he hissed, the words like air from an over-inflated balloon.

Dr. Harr just nodded, as if she understood. Did she? Did she know how it felt to waken with a gaping, sucking chest wound where your heart was supposed to
be
? How many holes he’d poked in the wall by slamming his fist against his headboard so many times that the thick wood itself sported a hairline crack, right down the middle? How Dylan slept in his own bedroom now because Mike’s dreams were always of combat, of fighting an evil that tried to kill Jill, and that Dylan had woken more than once to find Mike staring at him with a look of murderous rage?

Dr. Harr knew all of those facts.

But she couldn’t feel Mike’s pain.

And now, the dreams had changed, visions of a new woman implanted in his subconscious, the sense of Jill’s betrayal overwhelmed by soft curves, a sweet, hesitant voice, and moans of pleasure that whisp
e
red his name.

“Damn it,” he whispered through tears he fought so hard to keep back. Anger was easier than pain.

Pain was easier than heartbreak.

“What did she lie about, Mike?” Dr. Ha
r
r leaned
f
o
r
ward, her head tilted to the side slightly, her face encouraging, chin bobbing slightly as if to say yes. Yes. You’re safe here. You can say it.

“She lied about who she was.”

“
And you learned the truth after her death?”
 

“Yes.”

“And this is the source of your anger.” The doctor said it as a statement. Not a question.

“Yes.” He knew he should say more than just one word, but he couldn’t. He didn’t have any more words now. The words were sweating out of him, sticking to the surface of his skin, coming out in the clench of his muscles, the twitches in his calves, the pull of tendons and sinew against bone as his body sat in this chair.

D
r. Harr paused, deep in thought, considering Mike like one would study a painting at the Museum of Fine Arts. Then she peered at him with eyes that pierced his soul and said:

“Does knowing what you know change Jill
herself
?
Is she a fundamentally different person?
”

In $2.2 billion ways
, he thought. Mike closed his eyes and envisioned Jill. Opening a Christmas gift the first year the three of them lived together, Mike and Dylan so broke they went in on the set of audio CDs of the Harry Potter series she’d desperately wanted. Another memory: tent camping in West Virginia on parts of the Appalachian Trail, down to their last few dollars and supplementing with wild edibles just to have enough money for beer when they found a bar.

How the ultra-chic apartment they’d moved into years ago had seemed so cheap. Jill collected the rent and told them she’d just handle the bills.

Lies. All of it, lies.

“She was an heiress,” he said softly, the memories turning around in his head, as if viewed through a kaleidoscope. His words marched out of his mouth in a neat, orderly line, as if repo
r
ting for duty. “She left me and Dylan a trust fund worth a combined $2.2 billion.”

Dr. Harr’s eyes widened slightly but went back to normal so fast Mike almost didn’t catch the reaction.

Almost.

“And all those years we never knew. All those years she pretended to be someone she wasn’t. Who does that to a person?
To two people? We were a threesome. She deceived me
and
Dylan,
”
Mike said
with a choking sound at the end.
 

Dr. Harr sniffed slightly, nodding to herself. Warm, bright brown eyes met his. “Someone who was deeply complicated.”

“Conflicted, you mean,” Mike said. A deep weariness settled into his bones, making him feel like cement and steel in human form. The relief in him was clear: he’d finally told someone about Jill.

Too bad he only had three more sessions covered by insurance.

He clapped his palm against his forehead and began to laugh.

“Mike?” Dr. Harr asked, brows knitted in curiosity.

“I—insurance,” he said, gasping. “I was just thinking,” he said through a chuckle, “that insurance only covers four visits.”

“I can submit for approval for...” Her voice dropped off. She got it.

“Right.”
He made a low, mirth-free laugh. “I don’t have to worry about it.
Jill’s death changed my life in more ways than one.
I can afford all the sessions I want, to talk about how everything I knew about her was a lie.
”

Dr. Harr inhaled slowly, biting her upper lip, clearly thinking through her next words.

Then she nodded, her chin moving up and down like molasses, a rhythmic movement that mesmerized Mike.

“It’s important for you to understand why Jill kept this information from you.” Her eyes remained focused on him.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He let a puff of air escape and just shook his head sadly.

“That, Dr. Harr, is what I don’t know.”

“It’s why you’re here,” she said. Not asked -- said.

“Yes.”

Dr. Harr thought for a moment, then asked, “Her motivations can’t be known by anyone now that she’s gone.” It came out with a compassionate tone but Mike heard the warning in her words.

“I know,” he said with bitterness. “But I’m stuck trying. Jill didn’t give me a choice.”

“
You always have a choice.”
 

M
ike really wished that were true.

* * *

Dr. Harr had listened to him rant about how Dylan pushed him to sign up for this stupid online dating site. While Dylan pulled a twenty-four-hour shift, Mike had the apartment to himself.

I
t felt like an echo chamber, his own grief becoming a sound that pinged off the walls over and over, like a ricochet of agony.

Yep. Dylan was right.

H
e had to do something.

With a resigned sigh, he opened the laptop and navigated to the dating site Dylan had shown him. Logged in.

And discovered sixty-seven messages for him.

What.

The.

Fuck?

Sixty-seven messages of
what
?

It only took reading three or four messages for Mike to figure it out. Dylan had submitted a profile for him without saying a word, and the messages were from women looking for someone to date.

A few of the women were drop dead gorgeous. A little too beautiful to be true. Some were from other countries, clearly seeking a green card marriage. A few looked a little too much like his mom to be of interest.

He read the messages with a strange sort of detachment, as if he were picking out the right cantaloupe at the store, assessing the perfect qualities before committing to one and taking it home, luscious and ripe.

Not that he thought about women that way. Or men. Or human beings,
period
. His head hurt, suddenly, and his feet began to twitch. This was precisely why he hated Jill so much.

Hated her for dying on him.

T
he thought made him sit up in shock. He didn’t hate Jill.

H
e
loved
Jill. Loved her with an intensity so strong it burned bright even now, a year and a half after he’d last heard her voice, kissed her warm lips, been looked at with so m
u
ch love in those eyes that he felt complete.

That’s what he missed. Being loved by her. Being able to love her.
H
aving it all be so seamless.
T
he thought of going out into the crazy dating scene and finding another woman made him go half-mad, because if hell is other people, then
the devil has a lot of fun with
dating profiles and awkward first dates.

He closed the laptop. Later, when Dylan was home and rested, he’d chew him out. Right now, the entire process exhausted him.
Thinking about being with another woman—any woman other than Jill—made his insides twist into a M
ö
bi
u
s strip.
 

Bed. He needed to sleep.
The oblivion of it was a welcome balm, and as he faded out he was grateful for an empty mind and a resting body.
 

At least the sorrow in his dreams didn’t follow him in real life.

* * *

Her
heat
was so soothing, the spread of silky skin along the length of his oversized body a blanket he could wear forever.
She inhaled, then exhaled, a tiny sound of contentment coming from her, so cute it made him chuckle.
 

The sun peeked its rays into the room as it cracked its eyes open and began its morning routine, sunrise beginning. In the strange morning half-light, he watched her hair glisten like honey mixed with cream. His arm was around her and she nestled her cheek into his pec
s
, the feel of soft, pliant flesh against his own marbled body such a welcome contrast that he needed to feel more.

The steady march of his palm down her ribs, cupping her breast, made her sigh, a sound of encouragement all he needed. He moved his arm and pulled her onto him, her thigh bending just so and then, with a pleasant twist, he was in her.

Or, rather, she was on him. Straightening up, her eyes sleepy and unfocused, she placed her hands on his shoulders and sank down completely, the feeling of encasement by her warm core the closest he could ever come to nirvana.

This unexpected morning delight
gave him an unfettered view of her body, the heavy, round breasts with pert nipples, the loose, disheveled hair still tangled from last night’s lovemaking. Her mouth stretched into an O of concentration, her own orgasm closer than his. He watched her, feeling blessed that she would offer him this glimpse of her sexual soul.
 

He began the slow, languid movement of his hips, thrusting up into her to find the sweet spot that would make her tighten, entice her to cry out, strip her of all control until she shuddered wildly. Each thrust up made her thighs clench his hips, and his hand reached up to take one nipple between his fingers, the other slipping between them as he—

Mike awoke with a start, cock at full mast and his heart slapping his ribs so hard it was like being spanked, a sob in his throat as he looked around the room, frantically grabbing the sheets to see what had happened to her. She was just here. Just here. Where did she go?

His head swiveled left and right, eyes adjusting in the early morning light , the sooty grey of the room too dim. Sweat covered him and he chilled instantly, goos
e
f
le
sh exploding on every inch of exposed skin.

Reality sank in.

She wasn’t real.

She was just a dream.

No. Impossible. He could feel her on his skin. His cock was wet from her juices, his hand poking under the covers to touch it, finding only his own wetness there. He could still smell her, the scent fruity with a touch of cinnamon and musk, her hair in his eyes, chafing against his chest.

No matter how hard he tried to make her real, though, the empty bedroom was testimony to the folly.

Dreams were where he saw her. Not in his arms, but in his subconscious.

Mike closed his eyes, willing himself to conjure her taste, her touch, how she looked, but the senses disappointed him as it all faded. Every bit of it, leaving only one final feeling: