The Billionaire's Counterfeit Girlfriend (20 page)

Ceinlys blinked. “I see.” Then she frowned. “But do you really want to be with her? She’s not like us, Mark.”

He chuckled dryly. “And what about me? I’m no prize.”

“Don’t you dare say that,” she said sharply. “You’re worth a thousand of her.”

“Net worth, maybe. But I’ve never been able to maintain interest in a woman for very long…always seems like I get itchy and have to move on to somebody new. For all we know, I might have inherited Dad’s temperament.” His mother’s lips firmed, but this close, he could see the small tremor in her jaw. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to hurt you.”

“I’m not hurt.” She blinked a few times, very rapidly. “I’m surprised to hear you compare yourself to your father.”

“Well, is it so unlikely? He can never be faithful to anybody. He couldn’t change for you, or for that other woman…”

“You mean Blaine’s mother.”

He nodded.

“I thought perhaps he might,” Ceinlys said. “I’ve never seen your father like that about a woman. I was so scared he’d discard me like trash…and after I’d given him five children! So I got myself”—she bit her lower lip—“never mind. It isn’t important. I just want you to know you aren’t like your father. You’ve always been a sincere and earnest boy. You don’t look at women like they were just…playthings for you to enjoy and then toss aside when you get bored. You were never that cruel. I’ve seen you.”

“Then why do I leave them within three months? People call them the Quarterly Girls. Did you know that?”

“I didn’t, but what of it? You’re still young. You haven’t found the right woman yet, and you’re paying for your father’s past. Do you think anybody would’ve named your girlfriends that way if your father weren’t what he is? Look at people like Jacob Lloyd. A bigamist and a horrible womanizer, but nobody has anything clever or cruel to say about any of that because his father wasn’t like yours.”

The thought stunned him slightly, but she was right. Jacob was the biggest jerk in recent history. But nobody had called him on his behavior. He’d come from a tight family.

“What’s so special about Hilary?” Ceinlys asked.

“She just makes me want to do better. Every time I think about her, I can’t help but smile. And I can’t stop thinking about her.”

“Do you love her?”

He considered, giving the question the weight it deserved. What he felt for Hilary extended beyond what he’d told his mother. There was bone-deep satisfaction and rightness when he made Hilary happy. He suffered so damn much when she was hurting. It was like he was born to cherish her. And no matter how scary it was, there was only one word to describe it: love. “I do.”

Her eyebrows pinched, and deep lines appeared between them. “I never wanted that for you. Love, I mean.”

“Mom!” Mark wasn’t sure how he’d thought the conversation would go when Ceinlys had walked into his place, but this definitely wasn’t it. “Why the hell not?”

“The simplest happiness in life is the most difficult to attain. I didn’t want you to struggle for an impossible dream. It’s always easier to have stability. It may be boring, but at least it doesn’t disappoint you.”

Mark hurt at the old pain in her voice. It was like those long-ago memories from his childhood, the hazy happiness that had disappeared layer by layer as the truth of his parents’ marriage gradually became clear. It seemed so obvious now, why his mother wanted him to date socially acceptable heiresses. She wanted him to find some level of contentment in his private life. “I don’t know if it’s something I can have, but I want to try. I don’t want to settle.” He sat up and looked into his mother’s beautiful eyes. “I know you threatened to get her fired. Will you please not do that? Her job’s really important to her…and what’s important to her is important to me, too.”

“Of course.” She took a shuddering breath. “I just want you to have a life that’s better than mine.”

“Thanks, Mom.” Suddenly feeling light, he hugged her. “I love you, and I promise I will.”

“See that you do. Now,” Ceinlys said, her voice brisk and back to normal, “you must clean this pig sty. How can you even think of bringing a girl over here, especially one you love?”

After his mother left, Mark downed four aspirins with some water and stared at his place. There were empty whiskey bottles all over the floor, fast food cartons on the table, a mass of something that had once been food on his kitchen counter…and one of his lamps was sitting in the closet for some reason. He gathered up the cartons, but when he opened the lid to the large kitchen garbage bin, a stench emerged that smelled like a pack of rotting zombies.

He quickly closed the lid and tilted his head back, breathing through his mouth.
Okay
, he thought, looking at the ceiling and panting slightly,
consuming alcohol clearly is not going to help me win Hilary back
. And he was going to win her even if he had to move heaven and earth.

He’d do anything to show her he wasn’t like her dad or ex-boyfriends.

First to-do item: putting in a priority call to the maid service. Then he showered, got dressed and went to the new restaurant site. He had a meeting with the chef there—André—and he was late. Neglecting his businesses wouldn’t show Hilary he was the kind of good, stable guy she wanted to be with. So he’d take care of that while coming up with a strategy to win her.

André harrumphed when Mark finally showed up. A stolid Frenchman of medium height with cropped black hair and a nose like an eagle’s beak, André’s complexion was always ruddy under a thin layer of fashionable stubble. They talked over the few items left to discuss before the restaurant’s opening, but Mark couldn’t keep his mind off Hilary. How she’d looked while she’d sampled the food he’d been considering serving. How—

“You seem distracted,” André said.

“It’s nothing.”

The chef leaned close and sniffed. “Alcohol, both old and new. Must be a woman problem.”

Mark winced. “Is it that obvious?”

“When men drink too much, there are two reasons. He has lost all his money or it is an
affaire de coeur
gone bad.”

“Yeah. Well.” Mark cleared his throat. “It’s complicated.”

“
Mais non
. Nothing is complicated in
amour
. What you need to do is show her what’s in your heart. See how easy that is?”

“I would if I could.” He’d pay hundreds of millions of dollars if there was an X-ray machine that could show Hilary what she meant to him.

André chuckled. “Americans. They think too hard about such simple things. Cook for her! Nothing says
amour
like good food that you make with your own hands for a special woman.”

“I don’t cook,” Mark said.

“Then perhaps you must learn.”

Mark worried his lower lip. He’d never cooked for anybody. He’d always taken them to restaurants. On the other hand, André might have a point. There was a reason why people focused on food as the basis for human relationships, warmth and love, things that everyone longed for. “What should I make?”

“Something that reflects everything you feel about her. Sublime and true and honest and passionate, yes?” The Frenchman dug through a big folder and pulled out a few sheets. “Ah! I made these for a lover in Paris.” He leaned in again. “And if I may confide… The sex afterward?
Formidable!
”

Mark winced inwardly.
TMI
. He took a look at the recipe, which was a mass of scribbled French. Crap, everything looked pretty complicated. But would a burger and fries—something he could probably manage without too much trouble—convince Hilary he was serious about her? Any guy could make her a burger. Even Walt had probably done that…so Mark was going to do better. “Fine. Let’s try this one.”

And for the next five hours, Mark slaved away in the kitchen under André’s tutelage. The psycho Frenchman was convinced he couldn’t use the same knife to chop up poultry and veggies, and everything had its own…whatever. Mark was thirsty, sweaty and tired, and he acquired a new burn on his forearm. The food had better be good.

André took one look at what was on the plate and sighed. “Fit only for pigs.” He took a tiny piece and tasted it. “
Mais non
. Not even pigs.”

“You’re not being helpful.”

“Cooking is about the heart, not just chopping meat and vegetables.”

“Don’t forget slicing,” Mark added dryly. “Maybe this isn’t going to work. I need something simpler.”

“Simpler will not help. Practice will.”

“I don’t have the time.” Mark took a bite of his own food, then made a face. André was right about it not being fit for anyone’s consumption, especially Hilary’s. “But cooking is a great idea, just not”—he gestured at the stuff on the counter—“this.”

André shook his head, but Mark ignored him. Cooking
was
probably a great idea. He’d seen some romantic comedies where women liked that. And what had his mother said? Something about the simplest happiness. Why would that require a complex recipe invented by a French chef?

He considered… None of the people he knew could show him how to cook something simple and good. Except his half-brother Blaine. He used to run a bar and restaurant, and from what Mark had heard, he was a mean cook. And probably a better teacher than André.

“Now you are trying to find the easy way.”

Mark started. “What?”

André gave him a look down the impressive length of his nose, somehow managing to seem both arrogant and friendly. “You are like new students at culinary school. Always looking for the easy way.
Mon ami
, there is no easy way. If she means so much to you, you’ll learn. Otherwise you won’t. Anything worth having requires work. Especially a woman. If she’s not worth the work”—André gestured at the messy kitchen—“then maybe you should let her go, eh? Why do this for only a cheap hamburger and hot dog girl?”

André had a point, even if it was one Mark didn’t like. “Fine. But you gotta teach me fast. I’ve got a deadline to meet, and I don’t know exactly when it is. I just know it’s close.”

* * *

Hilary went to work extra early on Monday in her most conservative outfit and shoes—sensible and utterly boring pumps—and waited for Gavin to show. Since she’d broken things off with Mark, Ceinlys should be happy, but the woman had called Hilary twice since Sunday.

She’d left a message before hanging up:
Call me
.

What did that mean? Was that a good or bad omen?

Hilary rubbed her temples. She couldn’t decide anymore. It was as if her ability to think had disappeared when Ceinlys had issued the threat. This was the price Hilary paid for her stupidity.

She tensed when Gavin appeared. He looked unusually perturbed. Had Ceinlys broken her promise to leave Hilary alone and spoken with him anyway? Was she going to be fired?

“Good morning,” Hilary said, her mouth dry.

“Hi, Hilary. How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“Good. Send the itinerary for the week to my tablet.”

“Yes, sir.” When Gavin disappeared into his office, she closed her eyes, her shoulders sagging. Maybe his less than chirpy mood was due to something else. The currency markets might have taken a dive over the weekend. Who knew?

She gripped her mug and read out loud, “A Woman Worth Her Weight in Gold.” That still had to mean something, right?

When she got a free moment, she called Ceinlys and reached her assistant instead. Hilary left a simple message:
You won
.
I’ve done everything you asked me to
.
Please don’t call me again
.

“Really? I’m to tell Ceinlys exactly that?” the assistant confirmed, sounding somewhat skeptical and surprised.

“Yes. That’s all. Thank you.”

There was nothing more to say. Hilary had lost. She wasn’t even going to pretend otherwise.

She continued to monitor Gavin’s mood, but he didn’t seem to treat her any differently. Her coworkers were as friendly as usual, and she hadn’t received a single call from Ceinlys in the past four hours.

So far so good.

By Wednesday, she realized she’d been paranoid for nothing. Why wouldn’t Ceinlys keep her word? She’d probably called Hilary to make sure she wouldn’t latch onto Mark again or something. Now that she and Mark were through, Ceinlys’s interest in Hilary was probably also in the past tense. The YouTube video was still up, but there was nothing to be done about that.

About a quarter till noon, Hilary left the office and went to Galore. The owner greeted her with a big smile, and she found comfort in the familiarity of the routine. She ordered her usual, a BLT, with an extra large latte. The caffeine would be necessary to fortify herself for the meeting that was about to happen.

After she got her lunch, she looked around. Walt was there as scheduled, at a small table near the window. Unlike the last time, he looked perfectly presentable and doctor-like in a pair of rimless glasses and heavily starched white button-down shirt. He’d also grown a goatee, which somehow suited him.

She went over and took the other seat at his table. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Walt said, his face unreadable. “So you changed your mind about the bracelet?”

“Yeah.” She was pretty sure he wouldn’t have made the time in his busy schedule to see her otherwise. She pulled out a jewelry box from her purse and handed it to him. “Here.”

He opened the lid to check, then put the bracelet into his jacket pocket, sliding the box back to her side of the table. “Thanks,” he said, looking past her.

“Walt… I owe you an apology.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. I learned recently that that woman wasn’t your fiancée after all. I’m sorry I was so nasty to you.”

He shrugged carelessly, but the skin around his eyes was still tight. “Any woman in your situation would’ve done the same.”

“Maybe, but you deserve someone who would have believed you when you said you didn’t know her.” Hilary played with a fry. “I don’t think I’m that woman for you.”

“Are you saying this because you found somebody better? Mark Pryce, right? Rich guy…not like me with my huge med school debt.” His face was hard. She’d never seen him like this before. He had always been so sweet and gentle. It came with his job.