Billionaires in Paris: An Alpha Billionaire Romance (6 page)

I’m expecting my mother to react in any other way than how she does. Namely, she tosses her napkin down and stands up, reaching for her coat.

“Where are you going?” Is she seriously leaving? I’m not done yet!

Her coat slips over her arms. “I am not in the mood to deal with your childishness.” Her purse snaps into her hand. “If you want to ruin your life like that, Kathryn, be my guest. I’ll have no part of it, though. Don’t let me have to tell you that I told you so.”

My mother’s a monster, isn’t she? A real, certified monster.

“Do take care of that ring. Or sell it. I don’t care. At the rate you’re going you might have to in order to cover the costs of your future divorce.”

I’m too gob smacked to say anything or otherwise defend myself. My mother glides out of the room without another word. I feel like I’m five again, chasing her down the hallway of my family home and begging her to pick me up, hold me, anything.

“Ladies don’t do that, dear. They certainly don’t beg or pander. Aren’t you supposed to be a little lady?”

I’m not supposed to beg for her attentions, let alone positive ones. I’m not supposed to beg for anything. It’s unladylike. Unfathomable. A great way for men and their ilk to take advantage of you.

Isn’t that why I turned out the way I did? I don’t need my mother’s team of shrinks to figure that one out.

However, it would be nice to have another napkin. This one is about to be covered in tears.

Chapter 7

IAN

Can you believe that there’s an app for taking a picture of your cat and turning her into a thousand dollar replica?

I’m doing it right now.

“Even when you’re a picture, you’re a shithead.” Fellow cat owners, you know that “shithead” is a term of endearment for our feline friends. I’ve got this picture of Saoirse, my cat, flopped over on the floor going nuts for cat nip. She looks like she’s
seen things, man.
If I don’t have a life-size replica of this beautiful moment waiting for me when I return to America, then my life has not been worth living.

Except the picture won’t process through the app. You know, this app that shows lots of kids with their dogs and old ladies mourning the passing of twenty-year-old Fluffy. Then there’s me, a thirty-year-old billionaire alpha male, already blubbering at the thought of his tawny baby not waking up one day.

This replica will solve everything!

…I may be a little drunk.

What the hell else does a man do in Paris at eight in the evening? If I were single, I’d be out flirting with someone, or at least hitting up one of the lounges where a guy like me could find amazing drinks and even more amazing conversation (if not mediocre-to-great sex with a local Parisian.) I’m not single. I’m happily spoken for, except my intended is currently having dinner with her toxic mother.

Yeah, she told me she was having dinner with a friend. Kathryn is a lot of things, but she’s not a fantastic liar. Nobody willingly goes out to see an old college friend with that sour look on her face. I already know her mother is in town. I can do simple arithmetic, even when I’ve been downing cognac because when in France, am I right?

So, I’m going to assume she’s having dinner with her mother. I’ve never met Marilyn Alison, but I’ve heard the stories from both Kathryn and my mother, who used to be somewhat good friends with her. Then there are the whispers I hear whenever I have the misfortune of going to the country club and hearing old women who have too much time on their hands gossiping. Nobody ever has anything nice to say about Marilyn.

I know she’s responsible for at least half of Katie’s insecurities. Can’t say I care for my spiritual mother-in-law very much.

The hotel bar is nice enough to keep me amused as I flippantly shop on my phone and order more alcohol. This is the last drink, I swear. I want to be relatively sober by the time Kathryn gets back to our room. We found out in Vegas that Little Ian doesn’t always work to his full potential when Big Ian is loaded (with alcohol. Money makes everything work better!)

Or so I claim that this will be my last drink… until a guy I met this morning waltzes in and nearly ruins my fun evening making replicas of my cat.

“Ian Mathers, right?” Surprise! It’s Martin… Charles? Chuck. Charlie. Charleston. I think it’s Charleston. Martin Charleston.

I keep my crinkled nose to my phone before turning to him. “Martin Charleston, right?”

“Charles, actually.”

“My apologies.” I put my phone down. At least I can pretend to be polite. “Fancy seeing you here. You must be staying in this hotel too.”

“Naturally. Just got back from seeing the future in-laws. Be glad Kathryn’s parents aren’t French.”

I’d make a crack about how it’s worse they’re so stubbornly Scandinavian, but that would only be if I didn’t dislike this guy already. Why the hell would I want to make cracks about family he used to know so well? Or so I assume. “You two go that far back, huh?”

Damnit. I’ve invited him to sit on the stool next to mine, and I didn’t even mean to! “Absolutely. She never told you about me?”

Ladies, listen up. You’re about to get some insider information on how we rich fuckheads operate. Gentlemen who happen to be reading this, take notes if you ever want to be me one day. First lesson: when guys want to passive aggressively jab each other, it begins with
“oh hey remember how I used to fuck your girlfriend?”
whether they did or not. If they didn’t, they’re dicks. If they did, they’re still dicks, but they’re dicks with receipts. As the biggest alpha male in the room (I’ve scoped it out) I can still smell her perfume all over him, if you know what I mean. Yes,
that
perfume.

Second, once we’ve established this rivalry – because it always ends up a rivalry – we’re going to give each other the most knowing of looks. Backstabbing looks. Looks that could kill, but not in the sexy way. Women give us a wide berth as they walk by. Men smirk, wondering what we’re up to. Money? Women? Both? (Always.)

Third, let me tell you right now. It doesn’t matter if you’re an alpha male or a beta male who likes to get smacked and called Charlie on the down-low. We all do this shit if we’re confident enough. Men are men are fucking men. I hate it sometimes. Why do I feel compelled to play this stupid game with my fellow man?

Oh, right. Because he fucked my girlfriend.

Rawr rawr caveman bump rawr.

Now that I’ve brought you up to speed on this ridiculous guy code we all willingly adhere to, picture this: Martin Charlestoncharlie, whose feet barely touch the ground sitting in his stool, flattens his eyes and parts his lips in a “gotcha” smile. I am the alpha male. He is the beta male. We both know this. We both play these parts as naturally as we play the part of
male.
Yet right now he’s got the upper hand. The damn wolf cub has come up and bit my jugular by surprise.

“No, she never mentioned you much,” I finally say, attempting to keep my demeanor relaxed and my tone friendly. It’s not easy. “Sorry?”

“No worries.” Martin orders a cocktail. Is he a lifestyle sub? If he is, then it’s quite odd he would confront me in a bar, especially without his Domme in tow. He must not be lifestyle. Honestly, male lifestyle subs at our level of success and heritage are very, very rare. Those men tend to keep that behind every closed door possible. They might be killing it in the board room, but the moment they get home, their wife or mistress becomes the ball-busting bitch they’ve been crying for their whole lives. “I’m far from being as high profile as you.”

Point #4, here we come: now he’s kissing my ass, and he knows it will have either one of two effects. The first is me being a flattered dumbass who doesn’t realize he has BB gunned me in the ass. Or I’ll go even more on the defensive. Guess which one I’m doing!

“That’s not true. You Canadians have your own social circles, I’m sure.” Don’t make a silly accent joke, Ian. Don’t make a silly accent joke…

“Hm, well, put it this way. People have heard of your family where I’m from. They haven’t heard of mine where you’re from.”

No, I can’t say that people in my hometown are much concerned with Canadian lumber. “Who are you with now?” I ask, changing the subject. “I must have missed it earlier.”

“Solange. Do you know her? Kathryn did.”

Of course Kathryn did. “I may have seen her around.”

“I told her that I had run in to you two earlier this morning. She was quite surprised. Apparently she’s so removed from that circle that she still had yet to hear that you and Kathryn are so serious. She couldn’t believe it.”

“We get that a lot.” From the crowd that runs around The Dark Hour, anyway. People are shocked that Kathryn can be happy with me, and then they assume I’m subbing with her. Because it’s totally their business what we do in the bedroom. “It’s rather unconventional.”

I want this guy to leave. I’m sure he’s a perfectly decent man, and Kathryn didn’t make it sound like it was an ugly breakup, but damn, leave me alone. “Sometimes unconventional makes for the best relationship. I guess you could color me surprised that she’s into a guy like you.” The cocktail lands in front of him right as he holds up his hands to me. I’m gonna knock him off that stool, I swear. “You know what I mean. She was always adamant with me that she doesn’t like dominant alpha men. Then next thing I hear after we break up is that she’s seeing you. If I may, you two put on quite the debut show at The Dark Hour.”

Oh my God, he was
there.
Does Kathryn know? That would make her even more sour than usual. She’s really self-conscious about public perception of her.

“Thanks, I suppose. We are pretty happy.”

“So those rumors in the papers about you two getting engaged are true?”

Cheeky fucking bastard. There is no surprise on his round-ass face. He’s been waiting to drop that on me since he sat down. “You know how the papers are. Always making up stories to sell more copies. The thought that a man and a woman can be seriously dating for over a year and
not
moving in together or getting married scares them.”

“Ah, I thought as much. As long as those other rumors aren’t true, though.”

What is this? Girl’s Hour at the local bar? One thing I do
not
like about beta males is how well they play the passive aggressive game. “What rumors are those?” I shouldn’t bite, but I do.

“The ones that say you’re breaking up every other week.”

“Yes, well…” This is why I do my best to control the press regarding my relationship. I’m used to them speculating who I’m marrying or dumping, but Kathryn does not take it well. “They’re wrong. We’re doing quite well, thank you.”

“Of course. I was telling Solange that you make a handsome couple.”

He finishes his cocktail and slips off his stool. Thank. The. Lord.

Then his hand slaps me on the shoulder, like we’re buddies. “I’ve known a lot of Doms in my life. Takes a special one to admit defeat to a woman like Kathryn.”

I glare at him.

“Oh?” With a devilish smirk he removes his hand. “I should have figured. You actually
don’t
know how to give her what she really needs to be happy.”

This.

Fucking.

Rat.

Bastard.

We have hit point #5: kick him right in the nuts and watch him go down, grabbing his balls and sniveling into the ground.
“Haha! You and your girlfriend have cooties! Bye!”

Martin leaves with a tootles. The way he saunters out of the bar with his head held high and hands in his pockets makes me want to throw my glass at the wall in front of me.

Instead, I pick up my phone. I text Kathryn,
“Let me know when you get back. There are things we need to do.”
I’m talking about sex, of course. Whether she’s prepared or not, I’m giving her the full Ian Mathers Dom treatment tonight. It’s a matter of principle. No one but us will know it’s happening, but that’s all that fucking matters. No ex of hers gets to wound my pride without me going on a proving-myself rampage ala Godzilla in post-war Tokyo.

I get a reply right away.
“I’m already upstairs. Where are you?”

Coming. That’s where I am.
Coming.

Chapter 8

KATHRYN

Instinct tells me that I hear heavy footsteps for a reason. Either my boyfriend is angry, or he’s about to go on another tear.

I ignore my instincts. My mind is too full of my mother’s bullshit. All I can do is sit on this couch in our hotel suite and stare out the window, trying my best to appreciate the view of the Eiffel Tower while I gnaw on a completely innocent cuticle that hasn’t done anything to deserve this fate. My twist is definitely too tight on my head now. Every strand is piercing my scalp, begging to be released.

I’m pent up in more ways than one. What I want is my sweet boyfriend who will come crack some jokes and massage my feet while we drink wine and watch weird French TV.