Billionaires in Paris: An Alpha Billionaire Romance (5 page)

Aw, I’m getting warm fuzzies. The kind that are obliterated by my hot girlfriend emerging from a changing room wearing nothing but a black negligee. Does she
want
me to die?

Probably.

“Well?” she asks, posing against the wall. “What do you think? Too much?”

“If you mean too much fabric, then yes.” I put my phone away. “Be careful. A man might want to gobble you up if he catches you wearing that thing.”

I’m not the only one around here who can wink. “Maybe that’s what I want, sir.”

She’s so perfect, so absurdly everything I want in a woman that I’m ready to get down on one knee right here. Can’t you imagine it? You’re a pap trolling the streets of Paris looking for the goods, and you stumble upon one of the richest heirs in America proposing to his ridiculously gorgeous girlfriend in a lingerie shop. Of course, she’s wearing nothing but the black of this fabric and the sweet white of her skin. It’s almost kinky.

Oh, good, there goes my optimism and here returns my base self.

You know what I could do to her while she wears this thing? For one, I could rip it off her body and take whatever I want beneath. Between Damon Monroe and Martin Charles, I’m ready to assert myself all over this elegant city. Pshaw. While I’m at it, why don’t I marry her? Then everyone will know that I’ll be the last man to touch this seductive woman.

Before a saleswoman can disturb us, I stand and whisper into Katie’s ear.

“You need to buy this so I can ravage you later. It’s required.”

She silences me with a single finger. “Glad we were thinking the same thing.”

Did you hear that, gentlemen? Whether you slammed her against your headboard or let her slam her pussy against her face,
I’m
the one she’s thinking of now.

Hey, I never said I was proud of my alpha jealousy. I mean tendency. That’s it.
Tendency.

Chapter 6

KATHRYN

While I’m ecstatic about my date this past afternoon, I’m coming down from my high now. Partly because I’m a disgusting liar, and partly because I emailed (emailed!) my mother and told her I would meet her tonight. This was her only chance, because I want to move on with the rest of my vacation. I’ve done a good job not getting drunkenly hitched yet, so I’m on a roll.

Wait. Ian brought you up to speed on
that?
He always does that! Maybe I wanted to be the one to talk about what happened in Vegas months ago. Now, if we’ve never met before, you’re probably thinking I’m some kind of insecure harpy who can’t commit to one of the most perfect men I could ask for.

You may be slightly correct, but that’s not the point. Besides, what else is he telling you?

He wants to marry me, huh?

Excuse me, I’m in the middle of a drink at a restaurant. I intend to finish it right now.

I put my glass down and see the maître d’ leading a woman who eerily looks like me through the gallery. She’s not as tall as me, but she has perfect posture and walks with a hefty gait weighed down by her fur stole. The serious lines on her face made me once think that my mother is wise. Now I know she’s merely an anxious wreck. Those are worry lines, not laugh lines.

“Kathryn,” Marilyn Alison cordially greets me. She removes her coat and drapes it over the back of her chair, although her beady blue eyes search for someone to take it for her. That’s my mother. Wants to look independent, desperately needs to be taken care of.

“Mother.” I don’t get up to help her. “What are you doing in Paris?”

“I should be asking you that.”

We’re seated across from each other at a table that can seat at least five. I’ve already ordered, leaving my mother to flip through a French menu and put off talking to me for another five minutes.

This is how it’s been, although it took me years to realize that this is not normal. When I was little, I thought my mother’s standoffishness had to do with her ladylike mannerisms that made her a hit with the women’s clubs and charities. I don’t tell a lot of people this, but my mother is a huge reason I’m so into nonprofit work. She may have been faking it the whole time I was in primary school, but by God she was a damn good faker. She really made me believe that she wanted to help people and better the world.

The moment I proved to be a competent adult in college, however, was the moment she packed her bags and left my father.

Technically they’re not even legally separated. My father says my mother needs a few years away from the roost to “settle her spirits,” and she’ll be back at the family estate, resuming her previous activities as if she never left. He and I both know that’s a crock of shit. The veneer is gone. My mother is never going back to America if she can get away with it. She lives off her own investments, some inheritance from her own well-off relatives, and the huge allowance my father gives her every month. Sometimes I try to come visit her. I usually end up leaving after a week because living with my mother is to know the full extent of crazy.

A lot of the stuff she’s been diagnosed with can be hereditary, you know. I’ve done extensive research. One day I might convince myself I’m not crazy too. Or I’ll wake up as crazy as her.

“I’m here on vacation,” I eventually say. “With Ian. My boyfriend.”

My mother folds up her menu and says something in flawless French to the waiter. Careful. She might trick you into thinking she’s European. I’m sure that’s what she wants.

“Yes, I remember him. Mathers, right?”

“Yes.”

Mother shrugs her shoulders, as if that name means nothing to her. The Mathers have only been old family friends since I can remember. My mother and Ian’s mother used to run in the same exact circles. It’s how I first met Caroline, long before I started dating her son. These days she’s more of a mother to me than my real one.

“So what are
you
doing in Paris?”

“I’m thinking about moving here. Germany’s getting too… German… for me.”

“Uh huh. Does Dad know?”

“It’s none of your father’s business where I live.”

“Has he ever once come to visit you?”

“No, and that’s how I want it. He won’t shut up about me coming to see him in our monthly phone calls, though.”

“It’s almost like he loves you and wants to see his wife.”

“Kathryn, don’t be like this. You always take his side.”

You ever see that movie
Clue?
The one with “Flames On The Side Of My Face?” It’s one of Ian’s favorite movies. I’ve seen it at least fifty times now, and could quote the first half of the movie for you right now. I won’t, though. Instead I’ll say that I’m starting to feel those flames on my face listening to my mother talk about her nothing but patient husband like that.

“I am not taking sides.” Somehow, I remain calm.

Mother works a kink in her neck. I can tell she would rather be anywhere than here with me, her daughter and only child. I’ve learned to stop taking it personally. She doesn’t want to see or be with
anyone.
I could be her hero Harrison Ford and she would still tell me to take the next cab.

“So, I doubt that this is a pleasure call.” Is my twist too tight on my head? It feels too tight. Like every hair on my scalp is hanging on in a wind tunnel. “What do you want to talk about, Mother?”

She pops open her purse and pulls another clutch out of that. More popping. Shuffling. Quiet observances of her own belongings. “I was doing some summer cleaning recently and came upon a token of your grandmother’s. I don’t want it anymore.” She places something between us. It sparkles. Gems.

Diamonds.

“You can have it.”

I swear to fucking God I will
never
understand this woman. She finds out we’re both in the same famous city? She contacts me so we can have dinner, right? Sounds great! Then I find out that she only wants to give me an heirloom. Maybe
you
think that’s sweet as sugar, but this is my mother we’re talking about. She either has an ulterior motive, or she’s going through a spell. I can never tell until it’s too late.

I snatch the ring off the table. Diamonds, yes. Looks like an amethyst, too. Silver band. It must be an antique if it belonged to my grandmother. Could be even older than…

Wait.
Wait.

“Is this her wedding ring?”

My surprise must have caught my mother off guard, for she gapes at me for asking such a harrowing question. “Of course not! She was buried with her wedding ring. Really, Kathryn, what kind of freaks do you think we
are?
”

“Uh huh.”

“That’s her engagement ring.”

“Uh
huh.
”

“Are you going to try it on? I didn’t bring that thing here for you to admire. Maybe it’s not your tastes, but you can humor me. I did give birth to you. Humor me!”

Yay. The guilt trips have begun. If, in some parallel universe, I one day become a mother, I’ll know exactly how to make my kids do anything. Giving birth means they owe, big time, forever.

Just to amuse her, I try to slip the ring on my index finger. It’s too big. Fine, then. I’ll try it on my ring finger.

“Lovely.” My mother is barely looking at me when she says this. “Rest your grandmother’s soul, she probably wanted you to have it.”

“I’m guessing so, if she gave it to you.” I don’t remember my grandmother very well. She died when I was still a child, and the only memories I have are of Christmases and birthday cards. “Why aren’t you keeping it, though?”

“I told you. I don’t want it. Do whatever you want with it.”

The ring twinkles on my hand. It’s definitely not to my tastes, but at least it’s not too ostentatious. “Thank you.”

An awkward silence falls between us that lasts all the way until dinner is brought out. My mother gushes over her meal, using her energy to tell me how much she wants to move to France and how it will be the perfect opportunity to eat divine cuisine all day. Right now I’m thinking about that leftover food I ate the day before. Only Ian wouldn’t be appalled at me doing that, but it’s because he knows me so well. Then again, he wasn’t too enamored that I had history with Damon Monroe. (In truth, that’s one of the reasons I didn’t feel weird eating his untouched food. I had already made out with the man once in my life. What was eating his food? They were going to throw it out!)

My mother is still prattling.

“I’m doing great, thanks,” I interrupt. Mother claps her mouth shut, lips taut. Those beady eyes widen, then narrow, coolly judging my poor manners. “Work is going well and my personal life is pretty fantastic. Thanks for asking.”

As if on cue, my phone buzzes in my purse. I know it’s from Ian before I glance at the preview.
“How’s dinner with your friend?”

That’s right. I lied to him about who I came to see. I didn’t want him to worry. Told him I had a friend in town. If he knew I was meeting with my mother, he’d insist on joining me eventually. They have never met.

Did you hear that? The man I’m super serious about has never met my mother. That’s unheard of in our society.

“That’s great, dear.” That, my friends, is the closest she’s gotten tonight to saying something sweet to me.

“Yup. Ian and I are doing well. You know we’ve been together over a year now. That’s my longest relationship ever.”

My mother purses her bright red lips. “Congratulations.” She reaches for some alcohol.

“He’s an excellent boyfriend. Feels weird calling him that now.” How far can I push this? “We’ve been talking a lot about marriage.”

Boom. I said the M word. My mother’s
least
favorite word.

“Kathryn,” her terse voice cuts through the air, “if you’re trying to give me a heart attack, you’re damn near succeeding. Don’t scare your poor mother with that marriage tripe.”

Ahahahaha!

If anyone ever comes up to you and asks where half my problems with marriage come from, I want you to point that nosy asshole to this moment.

“What if I told you that he and I eloped in Vegas a few months ago?”

An almost comedic amount of alcohol shoots out of my mother’s face. She chokes until she covers her pristine white napkin with red wine. “
What?
”

“Don’t worry. We got it annulled. Neither of us were ready yet.”

The relief descending upon the table would make you think I’m twelve and joking about being pregnant.

“Kathryn.” This is the most serious I’ve heard my mother in years. “Don’t you dare do that to me. For all you know I’ve got a bad heart like your grandmother did.”

More information I never knew. “I’m serious about the other things, though. We’re having many conversations about marriage.”

My mother will not look me in the eye.

“It would mean a lot to me if you would come to our wedding one day.”

I have surprised even myself, since this is the closest I’ve ever come to saying I’m going to marry that man one day. But I am resolute in my conviction. Mother won’t have any idea that I’m blustering.
Marrying Ian? Really? Are you kidding me? Don’t even go there!