Shopping for a Billionaire's Wife (35 page)

Bloom where you’re planted, they say. Tonight we do just that, in each other.

“Declan,” I gasp, his name tickling my mouth, which soon meets his lips as his hands touch me in gentle and slow ways, fingers lighting my skin with love that masquerades itself as passion. The cold slide of my wedding and engagement bands against his inner arm leads to the metal absorbing the heat from his blood that pumps to the surface, the exchange of warmth from his heart to my ring a transfer that leaps from organism to object, turning physics on its head.

Turning love into a physical transfer, from his body to mine.

My hands ride up from his hips to the tight band of muscle at the base of his ribs, counting one, two, three...and losing count as he enters me, my gasp against his mouth making him quicken, our bodies connected in the most spiritual of ways. 

“Mrs. McCormick,” he whispers, the words punctuated by a delightful sigh, then a groan that tightens into a raw sounds that I am privileged to witness, for I am the only person who will hear them. 

Ever
.

“I am,” I murmur back, the words replaced by emotion that jumps from skin to skin, dancing across the electricity that friction and love so deliciously create.

In the part of my soul that only Declan has glimpsed, but not yet touched, I hear the distinct sound of steel on steel, feel the scrape of yet another key sliding into a lock, sense the tingling hope that
this
is the one, a prayer which resides, ever present, in the ever-searching fingers of the holder of the key ring. 

Click.

With great love, the tumblers release, the key holder’s hand shaking in exaltation as love turns, turns, turns and releases, Declan’s soul unlocking my own, reuniting what was once whole but has spent lifetimes seeking reunion.

Our eyes meet and our bodies fall away as he presses into me, affixing me in place, planting himself in the fertile ground of
us
. 

We dissolve.

We merge.

We join.

And they shall become one flesh
.

Chapter Twenty-Two

“She’s not answering her phone.” 

“Neither is he.”

“We can’t leave without saying good-bye.”

“And I don’t want to leave without grinding it in a little more with Andrew.” Declan takes a sip of the latte he had delivered earlier and laughs, a loose sound of joy and victory. “
Grind
it in. Get it? And you’re right. This coffee is the
best
I’ve ever tasted.” 

I groan. Now that he owns the damn company,
of course
it’s the World’s Greatest Coffee. Declan’s never met a superlative that could be applied to his own business that he didn’t love. 

In this case, it’s true.

We’ve been up, showered, dressed and packed for the past half hour, already late for a flight to Hawaii, but when you fly in a private corporate jet, the pilot waits for you. We decided on Hawaii and Japan for our honeymoon, but I don’t want to leave without my good-byes. We’d like to get Amanda and Andrew in first, because I don’t know what we’re going to find with Mom and Dad and the seven-hundred-thousand-dollar-giveaway fiasco.

“I’m worried, Dec. Amanda was supposed to meet me for coffee. She’s not answering. What’s their room number?”

Instead of answering, he walks to the phone and dials. I hear the phone ring and ring and ring, until he puts the receiver in the cradle.

“Nothing. They’re not answering.” He shrugs. “Maybe they’re out?”

“They partied long after we went to bed. Didn’t you get the crazy texts? Amanda’s became increasingly less readable until finally they looked like Chuckles was typing for her. And that was an
improvement
. I can’t imagine they went anywhere this morning.”

“Maybe we should give them some peace.” He frowns. “Though I’m surprised I haven’t heard from Andrew.” 

“But I want to see her! She’s my bestie!”

Declan’s sigh could warm the arctic. “Fine.” He picks up his smartphone and taps, then looks at me. “Let’s meet Jed at their door.”

“Their door?” I ask stupidly.

“If something’s wrong, he can open the door and we can check on them.” A chill runs through me, taking all the loveliness of last night with it. Declan can tell, lacing his fingers through mine, his thumb rubbing the back of my hand. 

“I’m sure they’re fine. Probably just drunk and passed out.”

“Both of them? Andrew’s not the type to ignore his phone for this long, either. I know from Amanda. She feels like it’s his other girlfriend.”

Declan’s laugh makes something in me unclench. “Mistress Siri?”

“Something like that.”

Bzzzzz.

“Is it Andrew? Amanda?” I leap up and practically rip the phone from Declan’s hands. He just holds it up in the air, like a guy with a lighter at a concert. 

Tap tap tap.

“It’s Jed,” the voice behind the door says.

Declan gives me a withering look and opens the door. Jed stands there, tense like a Secret Service agent, his Bluetooth earpiece yammering in tinny intervals.

We leave our suite and walk to the elevator in silence, wending our way through the enormous resort to Andrew’s private room. He and Amanda didn’t even bother with the pretense of giving her a separate room.

Tap tap tap.

Nothing.

Jed tries again.
Tap tap tap.
 

Nothing.

“Mr. McCormick?” Jed says in
sotto voce
against the door.

Nothing.

Jed and Declan share a look, and Dec nods.

“Go ahead. Enter the room. I’ll take full responsibility.”

Using a special keycard on a cord, Jed waves it in front of the electronic door reader, and the lock opens. Dec slowly inches the door in, me behind him, Jed tastefully waiting in the hall, but at the ready should we need him.

The first sign that something’s wrong is the scent. Dear God, did they paint the walls with alcohol in here?

“Ugh,” Declan grunts, covering his face with his palm, breathing through his mouth. “What the hell did they do—move the tequila fountain from downstairs in here?” 

“Andrew’s the CEO. Who knows?” We walk about eight feet into the suite, the bathroom door on the left, the living room directly ahead, bedroom door closed, on the right.

While the living room isn’t exactly clean, and is littered with alcohol bottles, half-full glasses of mixed drinks, and what looks like Amanda’s infamous Cheeto-marshmallow treat crumbs, no one’s dead in here.

I hope.

Tap tap tap.

Declan knocks on the bedroom door. No answer.

He pulls out his phone and texts someone.

Bzzzz.

We can hear the phone buzz behind the bedroom door.

My eyes fly wide open. So do Declan’s. The buzzing is loud. Why isn’t Andrew answering?

Panic fills my chest. “Open the door!” I urge. “Amanda!” I start knocking. 

“You sure?” Dec’s hand goes to the doorknob, but he pauses. “He could be naked.”

“So what?”

Declan makes a face. “I don’t want you to see my brother’s junk.”

“They could be hurt or in danger, and you’re worried about whether I see Andrew’s
penis
?”

He shrugs. He doesn’t move.

Men.

I shove past him, open the door, and halt.

Two lumps—clearly bodies—are under the covers of the enormous bed. A pair of men’s underwear hangs from the ceiling fan, which whirrs slowly, the motor whining because in addition to that pair of underwear, there is a giant soap-on-a-rope dangling from another blade. 

In the shape of a marijuana leaf that is at least twelve inches wide.

The floor is covered in a mixture of clothing, shoes, Cheetos, Star Wars action figures, empty alcohol bottles, a pet carrier, and— 

“Is that pile of clothes moving?” Declan asks with alarm.

A translucent plastic thing shakes its way out from under a silver disco top, a fabric I vaguely recall Amanda wearing yesterday evening.

“Meow.”

Chuckles’ face pokes out from a plastic Cone of Shame, his
meow
pointed at Declan.

Written in purple Sharpie, on the side of the cone, are the words:

WILL SLEEP WITH PUSSY FOR FOOD

“Chuckles!” I gasp, but Declan beats me to it, bending down to pick up my poor cat, who is wearing...lipstick? And someone has attached hundreds of fake whiskers to the outer edge of the cone, making it look like the mouth of a hookworm. 

“What the hell happened in here?” Dec barks. 

Andrew’s head pops up from the foot of the bed, his neck and shoulders bare. “WHAT THE FUCK?” he bellows, which causes Chuckles to hiss and claw at Declan, who drops my cat right on the other lump in the bed.

Chuckles’s back arches up and he hisses again.

“AIIIIIIEEEEE!” screams the lump from under the covers. I’d know that scream anywhere. It’s Amanda.

“Thank God you’re okay,” I shout over her piercing screams.

“Claws! Claws!” she gasps. “I’ve had enough cat claws. Get him off me.” Her bare arms reach out from under the sheet, still bandaged from her animal encounter a few days ago. I wince in sympathy. 

Declan has the presence of mind to reach down and pluck Chuckles off the covers and hand him over to me, but we see why Amanda screamed: Chuckles’ claws are out, deeply embedded in the duvet. I assume they went through the thin sheet that is the only cover Amanda has. Andrew reaches over to hold her in his arms, and sunlight catches something on his left hand.

I’m not the only one who notices.

“Is that a
ring
?” Dec asks, dropping Chuckles like a hot potato and taking a step forward over the thick layers of clothing and crap on the floor. He grabs Andrew’s left hand and stares at it, transfixed, like those cartoon characters whose eyes turn into spirals.

Andrew’s hair is standing up on end, and Amanda’s hair looks like it went through a salad spinner coated with yogurt. I can’t see her hands, which are under the covers, but a creepy-crawly feeling begins in the pit of my stomach. 

I lurch toward her and my foot—my beautiful, Charlotte Olympia-covered foot—lands on something soft that says, “Oof.”

Clothing doesn’t
talk
.

I look down to find two eyes peeking out around a thick terrycloth robe that is littered with chocolate boxes from the chocolatier in the resort’s mall. When I say littered, I mean
littered
. There must be no fewer than fifty such boxes. How many French macarons and bacon-lavender-infused plaid chocolates did these people eat?

“Shannon,” the clothing pile groans.

“JOSH?” I gasp.

He sits up, thankfully clothed, wearing the same outfit I remember from last night.

“AIIIIIIIEEEEEE!” Amanda screams again, holding her left hand away from her body like it’s a poisonous snake about to bite her. 

Her hand is
shiny
.

And there it is.

A ring.

“WHAT DID YOU TWO DO?” Declan bellows, the sound a sonic boom.

Josh does a weird jazz-hands thing and squeals, “Oh, my God, it’s contagious!”

He’s wearing a ring on
his
left ring finger.

Amanda faints.

Chuckles sniffs around what appears to be Andrew’s shoe, stops himself, and looks over my shoulder. I follow his gaze. Behind me is a six-foot-tall stuffed teddy bear. 

My cat’s face breaks out into a look I know.

It’s the look Mom gets when she watches
Sons of Anarchy
.

Pandemonium breaks out as Declan gets right in Andrew’s face, shouting all sorts of profanity I’ve only read on Urban Dictionary but didn’t know people actually used in real life. Andrew’s patting Amanda’s face and looking around the room like he’s woken up in the middle of a hurricane, and meanwhile the giant soap pot leaf and men’s undies on the ceiling fan go
whee-whee-whee
like a soundtrack of the damned.

And Chuckles is claiming his territory one pee-soaked piece of fake fur at a time, starting with the giant stuffed animal’s head. Once his bladder empties, he climbs down the monstrosity, shredding the teddy’s face, and rubs against my calves. I pick him up and he purrs. 

In the middle of it all, a blitz of multicolored neon hair shoots up from the other side of the bed, where we can’t see the floor, and it crouches, warrior-style, holding a can of pepper spray in one hand and a baseball bat in the other. A dark brown baseball bat. 

No. Wait.

That’s a three-foot-long chocolate penis that looks awfully familiar. I open my mouth to tell him that is pretty much the least effective weapon for self-defense
ever
, when I’m interrupted.

“Geordi?” Josh shouts.

“Geordi?” Dec and I say in unison. What the hell is our chauffeur doing here?

Geordi drops the chocolate dildo, abandons the pepper spray, and rushes over to Josh, cradling his face. “Oh, my God! It wasn’t a dream. You’re still here.”

The owner of the men’s underwear on the ceiling fan becomes evident. Geordi’s wearing a button-down men’s dress shirt and socks.

And nothing else.

Josh, being a gentleman, grabs the duvet and covers Geordi, who reaches up to clasp Josh’s shoulder and freezes.

“What is that?” he says in a tone of disgust, pointing to his left ring finger.

Amanda comes to and looks around, palms on either side of her head. “Stop playing the tuba,” she whines.

“No one is playing the tuba,” Declan snaps. He gives the entire room a glare worthy of James.

“Amanda,” I say gently, letting Chuckles down so he can—I don’t know—go find some pussy to sleep with. “What happened?”

“Who the hell is she married to?” Andrew groans as Amanda jumps away from him, almost letting one boob show. She pins her head in place with her hands and looks at him.

“Who am I married to? What? What kind of question is that?”

“There are three men in here with wedding rings on!” Andrew shouts back.

“That’s riiiiiiigggght,” Josh says, drawing out the word, wiggling his hand with a grin. He gives Andrew a saucy look. “And the Supreme Court declared last year that I can marry anyone I want, too.”