Tempting the Billionaire (18 page)

S
hane got home in time to hear his father’s clock strike twelve. He hung his keys on the hook by the coatrack and considered how close he’d come to losing Crickitt over the stupid thing. And while he wasn’t sure, exactly, what the definition of their relationship was, he was willing to admit he wasn’t anywhere near ready to let go of her.

He flipped his security box closed after keying in the code and turned on his floodlights outside. In his bedroom he stripped down to his boxers and fell onto the mattress, his thoughts on the woman who’d been on it beneath him. And on top of him. A goofy smile stretched across his face as he closed his eyes and watched flashes of what they’d done together this evening on his eyelids. He wished she had stayed, but he couldn’t blame her. She had family in town. Even though he was pretty sure he’d already won over Gerald and Chandra Day. He waited for panic to tighten his chest, but it didn’t come. He felt lighter than he had in…ever.

And he’d see her Wednesday, he reminded himself, exhaling, anticipation draining from his muscles as he sank lower into bed. And if he could somehow get out of his ill-timed meeting tomorrow night, maybe he’d find a way to see her then, too.

It was his last thought before he drifted off to sleep.

Shane woke up with a jolt, blinked at the darkened room, and tried to orient himself. He was in his bed. Light filtered through the spaces in the blinds and striped the sheets. Sheets he was strangling with balled-up fists. He opened his hands, untangling the blankets and kicking them from his legs. He was sweating, his heart racing.

What the hell?

It was like he’d been having a nightmare, but not so much as a wisp of it clung to his memory. He sat up, breathed in and out, and tried to recall even a flash of it. He couldn’t.

Heading for the attached master bath, he splashed a few jittery palms full of cold water on his face and neck before facing his mirror. His grainy, dripping reflection looked back at him. “What the hell?” they said to one another.

He headed back to his bedroom and stood over his bed, his unfocused gaze on the rumpled sheets. If Crickitt had taken his suggestion and stayed, she’d be there now. He could imagine her lying on her side, blinking sleepy eyes at him, asking what was wrong. The temptation to crawl into bed beside her and bury whatever was wrong beneath her silken skin jolted him like an electric fence. That would have been a far better prospect than having a panic attack wearing only his skivvies.

He was half tempted to jump in the car and go and get her. A thought that sent a shiver reverberating through his body. Because if Shane was one thing, it was independent…or so he thought. His palms shook and he balled up his hands. Right now, he felt pretty damn needy.

Four chimes interrupted his thoughts, their echoes hanging in the air long after the clock fell silent.

He’d been alone a lot in his life. His father moving in with him was the first time he’d lived with someone since…well, since he lived at home.

And if anything immunized him from wanting another person close by, it had been Sean August. “Your mother loved that stupid clock,” he’d grumble day after day, insisting to Shane it was “his duty” to hang it. “Piece of junk if you ask me,” he’d say after demanding it be wound. And each time it clanged the hour, Sean reminded Shane that he was responsible for his mother’s death. When Sean died, Shane kept the clock. Kept it out of some misguided sense of loyalty. Or maybe it was guilt.

Well, no more. He stomped into the living room, arranging a patterned armchair he’d never sat on over to the wall. Climbing on top of it, he lifted the clock in both hands, yanking it from the wall. Heavier than he remembered.

Yeah, it’s packed with twenty years of baggage.

Hefting it in his arms, he marched out to the curb. The trash cans sat in the darkened morning, awaiting the pickup. Shane tossed a lid aside and dumped the clock, face-first, into one of the cans.

Hands on his hips, he stared at it for a moment, waiting for peace to cover him. When it didn’t come, and he realized his neighbors were probably wondering why he was standing in his boxers regarding his garbage, he turned and went back inside.

Shane padded to the kitchen, determined to shake off the sense of dread consuming him. But his hands still rattled, his breaths still came out in uneven pants.

Relax, idiot, nothing’s the matter.

Silence greeted him from the direction of the living room, where a naked nail marked the wall. No ticking. No chiming. No echoes of his father’s voice prodding him.

He filled a glass with water from the sink and downed it, pausing to take a few deep breaths. Then he crossed to the fridge and held the door open long enough that, if his mother was alive, she’d have scolded him. In the bluish light from the appliance, his body cooled, his heart rate gradually returned to normal.

See? You’re fine.

Shutting the door, he turned to the coffeemaker, then thought better of it and opened the fridge and poured himself a glass of orange juice. He drank it down, replaying his curious physical reaction, searching for its source.

He thought of Crickitt’s face as she sat across from him and waited for him to put an end to the most incredible week of his life. At the time, he’d been sure it was the right thing to do. They were getting too close.
He
was getting too close. He needed to establish some healthy distance between them before…before something happened.

Something he couldn’t name.

Or something you’re afraid to name.

For whatever reason, he’d been unable to end it, to say the words that would allow him to get his footing. When he saw her with her parents, the interaction between a real family that, while not perfect, had its own special rhythm, he ached to be included. And then he had been. Chandra and Gerald had ushered him into conversation, praised his accomplishments. Made it clear he had their approval to be with their daughter. For the first time in his adult life, Shane felt needed, and like he needed someone.

Shane rested the empty glass on the countertop, staring blankly at the granite surface. Their relationship had advanced without his permission, without his knowledge. Crickitt had utterly invaded his life. But that wasn’t the problem, was it? The problem, the real one, was Shane
liked
having her there, coiled around his heart and squeezing. He liked how, when she was around, he thought of the future rather than the past, or sometimes didn’t think at all, just got lost in the smell of her skin.

If he could lose himself in her, if simply being in her arms made him forget everything else, then he was in bigger trouble than he thought. Spending time with someone, passing the hours, was different from
needing
someone.

Needing Crickitt meant when she left—and she would leave, either by her own doing or by God’s undiscerning hand—Shane would get hurt. He missed her
already
, and it would be a fraction of how much he’d miss her if they continued to be together. His heart splintered as he considered the very real possibility of her telling him she didn’t want to be with him any longer. How much more could he take? Losing his mother, then his father, had hurt him enough for two lifetimes. Maybe three.

If he gave in to the intense feelings for Crickitt, then lost her, it’d kill him.

Or worse. He’d shut down like his father had. Become as fragile and paperlike as the cicada shells he used to pluck off the trees in his backyard when he was a kid. If he allowed that to happen…

So don’t.

A shiver shook his arms, rattling the glass in his palm. If he continued down this rocky path of thought, he’d be crushed under the pressure, do something stupid. Like tell Crickitt everything he was thinking.

I can’t be with you anymore because I…because I…

What? What did he feel for her? He shoved the thought away. It didn’t matter. Because he wouldn’t tell her. He couldn’t.

Just imagining the pained expression on her face wrenched his heart. He needed to get out of here. Away from everything for a while. The house, work, Crickitt…just until he could think rationally. Just for a few days.

He should say good-bye to her, but he packed an overnight bag knowing he wouldn’t call. If he did, and she started to cry, he’d crumble at her feet. What he needed was a good two or three days absent from his own life. He’d locate his pragmatic side, separate his haphazard emotions, and plan the best course of action.

Before he left, he put in a call to Keena and another to Angel, letting them know he’d be unreachable for a few days. Then he climbed behind the wheel of his Porsche and pointed south. When guilt began to nag him, he cranked the radio. If he gave in now, he’d make an emotional decision. And that was a bad idea, considering a certain someone had taken over his emotions.

C
rickitt balanced the to-go cup holder on one hand and rang Shane’s doorbell with the other. She’d called the office this morning and Keena let her know Shane was “unreachable” for a few days, which she assumed meant Shane was planning on spending some extra time with her. An assumption she began doubting as she pressed his doorbell for the third time.

They had agreed to wait and see each other tomorrow at her insistence, but she woke up missing him and couldn’t resist the urge to drive over to see him. Last night he’d asked her to stay, and she told him no. Not until this morning did she recall the flash of hurt in his eyes at her refusal. Remembering the tender way he kissed her good night at her doorstep caused tears to burn her throat.

Their relationship was shifting, moving them closer to one another. But it wasn’t a tectonic plate shift happening gradually and quietly over many millennia. This was more of a seven-point-oh-on-the-Richter-scale earthquake forcing them together. And she, for one, had been knocked on her butt.

She clapped the brass knocker on the door, but still no answer. Until now, she thought Shane had been knocked on his butt, too.

“Hello, Ms. Day,” came Thomas’s friendly greeting. He was dressed in his driver’s finery, cap in hand.

“Good morning. Have you seen Shane?”

He shook his head. “No, but he called a few minutes ago. Asked me to check on the place, then gave me the week off.” He glanced at the tray in her hand holding two coffees and a bag of Danishes. “Didn’t he tell you?”

The tray shook in her hands. He hadn’t told her. But that’s not what bothered her. What bothered her was
why
he hadn’t told her.

“I’m sure he left me a voice mail,” she said dismissively. “Darn phones, they never work when you need them to.” Shane had called everyone. Everyone but her. Her premonition tingled, but she refused to give it her attention. Especially with Thomas looking on.

“Guess he won’t need this, then.” She lifted a Styrofoam cup out of the tray. “Coffee?”

Thomas grinned. “Thank you, Ms. Day.”

She handed off the Danishes, too, her stomach suddenly unfit for food. Wherever Shane went he hadn’t bothered to tell her. After all they’d shared…or rather, all she
thought
they’d shared.

As promised, Crickitt returned to work on Wednesday. Shane did not.

Throughout the day, she left a few voice mails on his cell. She tried to sound casual, relaying messages and ending with a cheerful “Give me a call when you can.” Where was he? And why did he take off? He seemed fine the last time she saw him. He’d kissed her, pressed her against the door, and promised to see her today.

But by the end of the day, he hadn’t returned her calls or her e-mails. Drained, she entered her apartment and mumbled hello to her mother, who stood over a pot of homemade chili and quizzed her conversationally. How was work, how was Shane, what did you have for lunch? Crickitt dutifully answered her questions before heading to bed early with a headache she didn’t have to feign.

In the morning, Crickitt poured herself a cup of coffee from the pot her mother had brewed. She glanced into the hallway at her parents’ luggage lining the wall. It was just as well they were leaving. She could expect an equally long day today and tomorrow if Shane didn’t show up. And she didn’t expect him to, probably because she was afraid to hope he would.

Crickitt bottomed out the coffee mug and rinsed it in the sink. She reached for a banana on the countertop as her mother strolled into the kitchen, a well-worn book open against her pink bathrobe.

With her free hand she straightened Crickitt’s shirt collar. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

She gave her an overexaggerated shrug. “Nothing’s going on, Mom.”

Chandra Day tilted her head to the side in an age-old gesture of disbelief.

“Shane’s out of town,”
I guess
, “so it’s really busy at work.” She shrugged again, as if that would really sell it.

Chandra watched her daughter for a few seconds before sighing. “He’s a good man, Crickitt. I have a sense for these things. I could tell that about your father, too. Remember when we first met Ronald? He treated us to that fancy Japanese dinner where they cooked the food right in front of you.”

Crickitt smiled. “I remember. The chef tossed a shrimp into Dad’s pocket, and he jumped out of his chair like he’d been doused with fire ants.”

They shared a laugh.

“He won’t eat a shrimp to this day.” Chandra considered her. “Ronald took us there because he wanted to convince us he was good enough for you. All that forced conversation and his bragging about how well loved he was at work.”

She remembered. Ronald acted more like a smooth salesman than her date.

“Shane didn’t do that,” Chandra continued. “He didn’t try to buy our affections. He took us out not because he was
trying
to be generous, but because he is.”

Crickitt thought of the waitress from the diner and smiled. “You’re right, Mom. He is. With his money, with his time.”
Just not with his heart or emotions
, she added silently.

“All men have their problems,” her mother said, making Crickitt wonder if she’d spoken aloud. “He may be afraid of expressing his feelings, dear, but it’s obvious how much he cares about you.”

Crickitt let out a disbelieving sniff. “Yeah? Then why did he ask me to stay the night with him only to leave first thing in the morning without telling me?”

Chandra’s forehead bunched. Palming Crickitt’s arm, she gave her a squeeze. “Oh, sweetheart.”

“I have to go, Mom.” She pecked her mother’s cheek. “You and Dad drive safe.”

“It’ll work out,” Chandra said, walking Crickitt to the door. “I have a sense for these things.”