The Billionaire's Gamble (5 page)

Still, money couldn’t buy an inside fix. Sometimes he still felt like the geeky kid who could name the full value of pi to 10,000 digits.

Right now, he felt like a fraud for a completely different reason. A sable-haired woman with a heart of pure gold was willing to put a dent in her bank account because she thought he needed the money.

“Margie,” he said, and the simple act of saying her name made the octaves of his voice deeper, slower.

Their eyes met, and he could see her pupils dilate from the shared awareness between them.

She shivered and snatched her hand away. “I need to get back to the coffee shop. Text me if you need anything. What’s your number, by the way?”

The distance she was putting between them was probably for the best, but he found he missed the warmth of her hand. “Ah…I still have a Paris number. Since I’m only planning to stay for a month, I figured I could get by. I don’t want you to have to incur extra charges to text me. Don’t Soy With Me is only a block away. I’ll find you if I need anything.”

One side of her mouth lifted first, and then the other, like smiling took effort. “I’ll leave you to it then.”

He watched her walk away, desperate to call her back to him, to tell her how much her trust and generosity meant to him.

Instead all he was able to say was, “Margie. You’re doing something special here.”

After she finished unlocking the door, she turned and leaned against it, her green eyes all soft. “Thanks, Evan. I’ll see you around.”

***

Margie was off balance for the rest of the day. The connection she felt with Evan was more powerful than the spark she’d felt with Howie, the only man she’d ever loved. Her former boyfriend had been finishing up his Masters in Creative Writing at Emmits Merriam when they met at Polar Fest. His creativity was instantly compelling to a woman who’d been raised around corporate business types like her father.

Howie could write heart-stopping poetry and work with his hands. His capacity for knowledge was as great as hers even though she’d dropped out of Dartmouth—which had been one of the final straws for her parents after years of her rebellious behavior. Unlike them, he’d listened to her dreams—really listened. And when she told him about the Victorian house and how she wished she could buy it and restore it to its former glory, he’d promised they would do it together.

They’d done that and everything else together, and only in retrospect did she realize the extent to which she’d isolated herself. At the time, she hadn’t seen the need to make friends other than the ones she worked with at Don’t Soy With Me. My, how wrong she’d been.

Howie had been passionate, but sometimes wildly moody. She’d figured it was part of being artistic until she discovered the oxycodone in his dresser drawer. Since he didn’t have any reason that she knew of to take a prescription pain killer, she asked him about it. He got defensive and told her it enhanced his creativity. When he wouldn’t tell her how long he’d been using it, they had a huge fight.

In the end, his refusal to address the drug problem was what had broken them apart. She’d grieved him and promised herself to never ever again date a man with secrets or let one man become her everything again. But while she’d dated off and on over the last couple of years, none of the men she’d met had tugged at her heart and soul in the same way. Even though she’d only known him for a couple of days, she could tell that Evan was different.

The door to Don’t Soy With Me opened, and Rhett sauntered over to the counter wearing a T-Shirt that read, “I’m A Good Ol’ Boy—Sometimes.” She found it hard to contain her smile.

“Howdy, darlin’,” he said in his signature drawl.

“Hi, Rhett,” she said, walking over to the cash register to ring him up herself. “What can I get you?”

“How about a banana cream iced latte? I have to hide treats like this from Abbie these days. I’m giving up alcohol while she’s pregnant since she can’t have a glass of wine, but I can’t give up coffee.”

“How is she?” she asked, nodding to her barista to go ahead and start Rhett’s drink.

“Doing great. She’s finally starting to show, and she’s so beautiful I almost tear up every time I see her. I still pinch myself sometimes. Me! A papa. I mean we have Dustin, and he’s like my son in every way, but this one… Well, it’s like I planted him myself.”

She elected not to point out the basics of biology to Rhett by telling him that he had…ahem…planted the seed. “You’re going to be a great dad.”

He ran his hand through his hair. “Man, I hope so. I’ve been reading every book I can find about how to be a good father. Mine sucked the big one. But that’s another tale, and not a happy one. So…I heard Evan is painting your bakery for you.”

There was something strange in his tone, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. “Yes. I’m so glad you shared your thoughts about him with me when I asked. I rented him the room yesterday, and when he asked if I knew anyone in need of work, I offered him the chance to paint Hot Cross Buns.”

“That’s mighty nice of you,” he said, but his voice lacked its usual sing-song cadence.

“He has some experience, being an artist and all, and I need the help. I figured I wouldn’t need to pay him what a regular painter would run.” Which was out of her budget. She’d gotten quotes. But she was still feeling a little guilty about only paying Evan fifteen dollars an hour, which was why she’d offered him more. And what he’d said to her when he refused…

“I’m glad he can help you,” Rhett said, shuffling his feet. “Just…well…”

“What?” she asked, eyeing the line of customers snaking behind him. Her other barista was on a break, so she was in this alone for the moment. “Spit it out.”

“Keep your head on your shoulders, is all.” Rhett scrubbed his face. “Some women think he’s pretty…hot. And I cannot believe I am having this conversation.”

Was he worried about her? His concern was too sweet for words. Growing up, no one had looked out for her. “I guess it’s getting you ready for fatherhood in case you have a daughter.”

He gulped. “A girl? Maybe Abbie and I had better find out the baby’s sex, after all.”

“Go on now and get your drink,” she said with a laugh. “There are people behind you.”

Swiveling, he winced and held out his hands. “Sorry, folks. I was shooting the breeze and lost track. Margie. Just remember what I said.”

“I will,” she responded and signaled to the next person in line to approach.

She dealt with the new customers, and when the other barista returned, she detoured to the office to check on Rebecca’s progress in learning the software they used to track inventory. The woman was doing great, and Margie had no doubt she would do a terrific job for Jill. She’d worked in a coffee shop in Aspen before deciding she wanted a change of scenery.

When Margie was finally able to pull herself away from Don’t Soy With Me, she headed down the block to Hot Cross Buns. The very thought of visiting her new bakery—her dream shop—gave her a thrill. And with a fresh coat of paint, it would look much closer to how she envisioned it.

She had trouble hiding her shock when she opened the door. Four hours had passed since she’d left the shop, but Evan hadn’t started painting. Instead, he was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, muttering over a roll of painter’s tape and what looked like an old adding machine with a paper rollout.

“Ah…Evan?” she asked, coming forward.

He didn’t even look up.

“What are you doing?” Since he still hadn’t noticed her, she crouched down and touched his shoulder. “Evan?”

His face tilted up, and his eyes popped open as he finally noticed her. Then he smiled what Rhett would have called a shit-eating grin. “Hey! So, you’re probably wondering why nothing has changed since you left.”

She nodded. “I was. Yes.”

“Something amazing happened.” He held up a level, and the yellow fluid swayed in the air. “I got to thinking about the whole level thing. I don’t know why someone hasn’t thought of it before. What we need is a machine to measure the wall and dispense the tape as the angle changes. That way we can make it
look
level.”

Huh?

Her face must have conveyed her confusion since he immediately added, “I went to the hardware store to find some things I could cobble together into a prototype. The guy at Smith’s Hardware Store—Wayne—didn’t have everything I needed, but he dug out his dad’s old adding machine, and that’s when my idea snapped into focus. If I program the adding machine to dispense the painter’s tape and then add a level, we’re in business. Now, I’m trying to reprogram a microchip I bought at the electronics store to communicate from the level to the adding machine so it knows when to roll out. Isn’t that terrific?”

She didn’t understand much of what he was saying, but what did come through was his excitement. “Evan, I told you before. It doesn’t have to be perfect.”

“Sure it does! It’s your dream, Margie. There shouldn’t be a crooked line in this whole place.”

A sigh was building in her chest. “I really appreciate your earnestness, but I had hoped you would have at least started painting by now.”

The way his whole face fell made her feel like she’d kicked a puppy.

“Oh,” he said, looking down in his lap, his makeshift invention resting on a muscular thigh she couldn’t help but notice. “I don’t expect you to pay me for all this time. I…know this isn’t the conventional way to paint, but…trust me, this is going to make e
verything
easier. And just think. Anytime you ever need to paint anything again, this machine is going to cut the prep work in half. I promise.”

Howie used to have big ideas too. He’d tried to convince her they should lead ghost tours of the Victorian and tell tourists the ghosts of small-time mobster Aaron the Kid and the card dealer from a local hotel who’d killed him—and vice versa—in a shoot-out inhabited their basement. And then there was his notion about making holiday candles and selling them at art shows around Colorado. Big ideas were all well and good…when they didn’t put a halt to progress.

As gently as she could, she said, “Why don’t you take a break? Did you have lunch? I can start taping, and depending on where I end up, you can take over tomorrow.”

His brow furrowed. “You hate my idea, don’t you?”

She put a hand on his forearm, and the defined musculature bunched at her touch. She almost yanked her hand away, feeling the electricity spark between them from even that simple contact. “No, I don’t hate it. I’m only suggesting you step back for a bit while I take over.” At this rate, she was going to be taping until midnight to make up for lost time.

“You don’t believe this will work, do you?” he asked, staring straight into her eyes.

She’d been wrong to think his eyes looked like lake water. Right now, they were a much clearer blue—the kind only seen at sunrise, a color so transparent, it was almost fathomless.

She made herself smile. “I’m no genius, Evan. I’m only a small business owner who wants to get my place painted in a reasonable timeframe so I’ll have enough time for installation and to decorate it before the opening when I get back from Paris.”

“It
will
work,” he said, his voice hard. “You’ll see. Give me…thirty minutes.”

Since his stubborn side had decided to make an appearance, she allowed herself to heave a sigh. “I’m going to start now.”

“Thirty minutes.”

He was tempting her to lose her temper. “I said I’m starting now.”

“Fine,” he said, grabbing his laptop. “But you’re going to want to undo any tape you lay once you see what a straight line I can make with my machine.”

What was this? The World’s Fair? “I didn’t know you could make things.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” he snapped. “Now, don’t talk to me. If you’re only going to give me thirty minutes, I need to concentrate.”

He
needed to concentrate? Well, fine. Suddenly her new renter and contract painter seemed more like a pain in the butt than the charming artist who’d made her insides go beep-beep.

The sun was setting in the west, cascading soft golden rays through the front windows, when she went to work. Evan muttered in the background, cursing a few times. Thank God she’d bought two rolls of painter’s tape. The way Evan was acting, he’d likely bite off her hand if she asked him for the one he was jimmying through the adding machine between typing things into his laptop.

Halfway down just one wall, Margie wanted to curse herself. There
was
no way to make a straight line. It was a mystery to her why her contractor had not simply up and quit on her. She’d barely started, and she was ready to throw aside the painter’s tape and simply paint. What did it matter if she got a little paint on the baseboards or ceiling? If any of the customers wanted to make an issue of it, they could take their business elsewhere.

“Aha!” she heard Evan cry out. “I’ve got you, you sweet little bitch.”

“Don’t talk about me like that,” she said in a dry tone, knowing he was referring to the object in his hands.

His head popped up, and he blinked. “I didn’t mean…”

“I’m just kidding,” she said, trying not to laugh at the expression on his face. From now on, she’d have to remember he was sensitive—more so than she would have expected. Perhaps it suited his artistic temperament.