Shopping for a Billionaire 3 (8 page)

For a split second, I wish Amanda were here. Sex in a limo with a near-billionaire! And a hot man who looks like a
Men’s Health
cover model.
Watching a Red Sox game from above, flying over the gleaming city lights.
 

Me—
Shannon
—with Declan McCormick.

And then…my own mind does a
180-
degree turn. Sometimes the clearest moments come when you least expect them, and this is one of those times.

You can’t believe it because yo
u won’t let yourself believe it. Let go of your own self as an obstacle and imagine how much more you could do and be.
 

And be cherished.

Tears threaten the inner corners of my eyes. My throat aches with a sickly, bitter taste. I lean in to Declan and press my ear against his heart, the fine cloth of his
s
hirt cool until my face warms it. A tear mars the perfect whiteness of his shirt and I don’t care.

Thu-thump. Thu-thump. Thu-thump.
Steady and strong, his heart continues at its regular pace.
I wonder if he’s always like this. So calm, so confident. Without being smarmy or a blowhard, Declan manages to embody so many qualities I’ve wanted in a man, but thought were mythical.
 

He’s nothing like my own father, who is a sweet, non-judgmental man. But Dad isn’t the dominant type. I’ve never seen him move through life making split-second decisions and assessments of character and behavior and filtering a person in or out based on their response. Dad doesn’t walk into a room with a feeling of command. He’s many wonderful things, but Jason Jacoby is anything but the leader of a pack.

And that’s okay. Really. B
e
cause I can love my dad but want a man for myself who is completely different.

“We’re almost there,” Declan says, pointing through the window at the scattered lights below. I’m so deep in my thoughts that somehow I manage to forget to look outside, to see the show unfolding beneath us.
Complete darkness has descended over the city; it’s a moonless night, so up here in the sky, the air has a whiff of intrigue to it. Without the bright white orb in the sky to shepherd us, the chopper’s movements feel more than a little surreal, like riding Space Mountain at Disney, except there is no enclosed building, no track, no line.
 

We move down, more of the city rolling out before our eyes. A long patch of nothingness spills into view suddenly. The copter shifts downward and we’re flying fast over water. Declan kisses my ear and I see the white caps of waves cresting, my body drained. I’m tired and spent, yet wired and excited. It’s not from the copter ride.

It’s from knowing there’re so m
u
ch more to come.

Joel says a bunch of numbers and phrases again, then suddenly we’re hovering a few feet above the ground on a tiny island, a tall building brightly lit right next to us. The flight itself was fast, so fast we must be on one of the Boston
H
arbor islands. I can’t tell which one. The tall, lit building is a lighthouse, the old kind. The
lighthouse’s beacon
face
s
out to sea and a small golf cart is parked next to
the structure
.

“Powering down,” Joel explains. I sit in place, the copter’s vibrations making my skin tingle. I’m parched, and just as the last
snick
sound from the blades’ rotation makes its final sigh, my stomach growls louder than a zombie bear that stumbled across a bunch of fresh rac
c
oon brains.

“
Hungry?”
 

“Starving.”

Declan has a satisfied look on his face, as if he’s hiding something he’s quite proud of. “Good. You’ll like what’s coming next.”

As long as it’s me
, I think. He gives me a look that says he’s read my mind.

I’m about as graceful as a three-legged elephant with arthritis as I climb out of the helicopter, managing somehow to step on Declan’s foot and elbow him in the abs as he helps me down. Joel gives us a thumbs-up and walks away as Declan takes my elbow and escorts me to a smal
l
door at the base of the lighthouse.

“I assume we’re still in the United States?” I ask. “
B
ecause I left my passport at home.”

“
Glad to hear you have one,” he says as he opens the tattered wood door, the paint worn down, the old dark oak underneath poking through under white paint as faded as old bones left out in the sun for too many summers. A narrow set of stairs, all made of concrete from a time when I imagine puritans hand-mixed it, curls up to the sky in a dizzying spiral. I inhale the scent of sea salt and centuries.
 

His words warm me, though. Where could we go? Where would he take me?
Not that it matters, as long as I’m with him. He hinted about New Zealand last week, but I thought he’d been joking.
 

I
guess not. My neck hurts from staring straight up, the lighthouse’s peak blocked by a ceiling.

“What is this place?” I ask. I can see the stairs curve up at the top and stop.

“I wanted to take you somewhere you’ve never been. Finding a restaurant that a mystery shopper has never eaten in or evaluated is a daunting task. But I think I’ve risen to the occasion.” His hand on the small of my back pushes gently so that I go inside, my shoes scraping against old stone.

T
he main door clicks shut and echoes up, the sound carrying to the heavens.

“I think you’ve succeeded,” I whisper. My voice reverberates. I shiver involuntarily, and Declan’s arm is around me instantly, pulling me to his warmth.

“You scared?” He’s amused.

“No,” I protest. “It’s just a little cold. And dark.” Flickering gas lamps dot the path upwards, like something out of a
G
othic novel. Declan clearly has a t
h
ing for these sorts of places. The walls remind me of a mausoleum without the names and dates etched in the front-facing stones.

“Don’t worry,” he says, pulling back and gesturing for me to go first up the stairs. “The manacles on the torture chamber are lined with a nice, thick sherpa fleece.”

I halt so fast his front slams into my ass. I can feel
exactly
how he’s risen to the occasion.
 

“Huh?”

“That was a joke.”

I turn and face him. His lips are twitching around a poorly contained look of amusement.

“Look here, buddy,” I say, poking my finger against his perfect chest. “This isn’t like one of those books where the billionaire steals the poor, underpaid intern away from her horrible life and they discover a mutually beneficial BDSM lifestyle, m’kay?”

He pretends to be crestfallen. “Oh. Okay. Then I’ll just call Joel and we’ll take you home.” He reaches into his back pocket for his phone and fake dials. I can see he’s actually on ESPN and checking scores. The Red Sox are playing at Fenway right now.
In know that because we flew over them, and that fact makes the entire night seem so surreal.
 

Seem?
It
is
surreal. Magical.
A little too p
erfect.

My stomach growls in protest. “What about dinner?” I ignore him and start walking up the stairs. There’s no railing, so I cling to the stones with splayed palms, thanking God I’m not wearing high heels.

“Nice view,” he says, suspiciously close behind me. A warm hand slides up between my thighs. “Here, let me lend you a hand.”

“That hand isn’t helping.”
His fingers slide under my already-soaked panties and he gives me the slightest touch against my wetness. We pause and I cling to the wall with even weaker legs.
 

“Really?” he murmurs against the back of my neck. “It seems to be making things much…smoother.”

“You’re slick.”

“Actually,” he says, “you’re the one who’s slick.” As tantalizing as being felt up on the stairs is, there’s a very real danger that we will roll down the stone steps and end up in the hospital again and I, for one, cannot emotionally handle two dates in a row ending with an Explanation of Benefits
form
and an ER co-pay.

“Let’s get upstairs and see what you have for me.”

H
e takes my hand and puts it on his fly.

“That’s not quite what I meant, Declan.”

He glides past me, making sure to press every inch of his chiseled self against my own soft curves, taking the steps up carefully until his ass is in my face. It’s a fabulous view.

“Normally I’d say ‘ladies first,’ but right now you’re procrastinating, so—”

“You’re groping me on the stairs and making it so I can’t even walk! How is that procrastinating?” I’m talking to air, though, because by the time I say that, he’s halfway to the top, bounding up like this is part of
The Amazing Race
and he’s on the annoying team that’s always way ahead of everyone else because they’re in good shape and all that
unfair crap
.

So I trek my way up, one
frighten
ing stair at a time. My hand b
r
ushes against something soft on the stones and I scream.

“What’s wrong?” he calls down.

If I confess, he’ll just make fun of me. Or, worse, come back here and drive me wild w
i
th those fingers and we’ll
tumble down the stairs to
our deaths. No one would find us for days. We would be the lead story on New England Cable News for weeks.

Billionaire Meets Death with
K
lutzy Woman
. News at eleven.

I force myself to take the stairs at a faster clip. By the time I climb the equivalent of three stories, my quads are screaming.

Screaming to be wrapped around his hips.

The most delicious scent
tickle
s my nose as I make the final turn up to the top of the stairs, Declan standing there, holding open a small door. I have to duck to enter. Oregano and rosemary and something else fill the air, and as I come to a full standing position I’m greeted by a scene out of a dream.

Tal
l
, sculpted windows arch high toward a flat ceiling, with the ocean surrounding us in a
360-
degree spin that is beyond breathtaking. The room is just beneath what I assume is the lighthouse’s warning light, because an arch of glow comes from above at regular intervals, making this room ethereal and supernatural, as if Declan had conjured it with magic.

The actual room has a small soapstone stove with a fire burning in it, which helps, because the air is chilled this high up and far out into the harbor. Two large L-shaped sofas ring the wood stove, and a series of blown-gla
s
s lamps dangle from the ceiling in muted earth tones and adobe. Thick
P
ersian rugs cover the well-worn wood of the fl
o
or, wide pine flooring hearkening back to a very different time.

And a small table for two with candles in large crab buckets filled with seashells is the source of the incredible smell that makes my mouth water and my stomach beg for mercy.

Declan has t
h
at effect on me, too, but right now I am all about the meal. I need some calories. Sustenance. Protein, because one of those sofas is so big and covered with a small Matterhorn of pillows, and the entire room is like a woman’s idea of the perfect sex den.

Which it is.

His arm sweeping out in a
welcoming
gesture, he invites me to sit at the table. I see a plate full of chocolate-covered strawberries, cheese, and a bottle of white wine.

“You know me well.”

“I want to know you better.” Declan pulls out the chair and I sit, scooch
ing
in, my hand reaching for one of the strawberries without thinking. The bite is sweet and juicy, the chocolate smooth and creamy, and this time, there are no bees to ruin my mouthgasm.

Declan sits across from me and leans back, his hands at his navel, eyes piercing. “
You come here often?” he asks.
 

“Nice pickup line,” I mumble through a mouth full of awesome. I swallow and look right back at him. “But you should know I’m a sure thing.”

His th
ro
aty laugh makes me tingle in all the right places. Again?
Again?
Confession time: I’ve never had sex twice in one night with a guy. Given a blow job and had sex? Yes. But actual
sex
sex twice in the same night? Nope. I’m at a loss here, frankly. We, um, did the deed. Now we’re eating dinner. This sumptuous room is designed for nothing but rolling in the sheets.

Or lack of sheets. Naked on that soft, velvety couch. Or the rug. Or just…naked. Anywhere. My eyes drift to the glass walls facing the ocean, the sound of waves lapping against the island’s shores like the blood pounding through me. Imagine making love while looking out into the expansiveness of—

“Y
o
u’re deep in thought.” Declan’s pouring two glasses of wine and I didn’t even notice h
im stand
and uncork the bottle. It’s getting hot in here. I finish my strawberry and
smile at him, reaching for the wine.
 

Which I promptly drink in a series of gulps that would make any NBA player on a time-out proud.

“This is unbelievable, Declan,” I say, looking around. “How did you find this? Is it a restaurant? It doesn’t look like one.”

“It’s ours for tonight.”

“That’s it? C’mon. Explain.”

He smiles. “Okay. I donate money to a histori
c
al preservation society that works on buying and restoring lighthouses. This one isn’t in danger, but plenty of others are. I know someone who knows someone who sacrifi
c
ed a few small animals to give me access to this place.
I
t’s the only lighthouse within a short helicopter ride from Boston. I hired a few people to outfit the place to my specifications and…here we are.”

“I think that’s the most you’ve ever said to me in one breath.”