Billionaire On Fire: The Complete Series (A Bad Boy Alpha Billionaire Romance) (106 page)

I
laughed, reaching into my purse. I paid the man double, thanking him for his
assistance with my bags. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”

I turned
toward the grand home before me, breathing evenly. I couldn’t believe the day
had finally arrived.

He
appeared on the front steps, then. He was clad in jeans, a sexy V-neck t-shirt.
He looked so casual, so primal before me. I hadn’t seen him without a suit in
what seemed like years.

Outside
of the bedroom, of course.

He
brought his hands around my neck and kissed me, there, in front of the house.
He sighed, his eyes large. “The wait is over, Amanda,” he whispered. “It’s
finally over.”

I
smiled, knowing how grateful I was. The past five years had been a struggle.

Xavier
began helping me with my bags, bringing them up into the house we would now
share together: the house he and his wife, Camille, had purchased nearly
fifteen years before. “She never liked it anyway,” Xavier had declared months
ago, when he’d proposed this final addition to our plan. “I don’t think she’ll
miss the place.”

But
already, the brick mansion was stealing my heart. The interior was well-lit,
with this remarkable, stone fireplace in the center. Because it was winter, a
fire was brimming in the fireplace, such a greeting after the winter chill had
escalated throughout my body. I rubbed my hands next to it as Xavier brought in
the last of the bags. He set them by the winding staircase and tapped the couch
beside him as he collapsed.

I sat
next to him, gazing at the fire. It felt so good to be natural beside him,
without feeling that everything was about to fall apart—as it had, several
times throughout the previous five years. The press had nearly gotten wind of
it a few times, especially during the election season. They were continually
asking us questions about each other, trying to get us to slip up. But we never
did. We were professionals.

Of
course, after Xavier won the election, I had to move forward with my career. He
understood, and he supported me—without helping me, which had been essential
for my procedure. I outlined the reasons why I was essential to Congress, how I
had helped the president through every element of his campaign trail. And I’d
been voted in—incredibly—as a thirty-one-year-old woman, still a bit
bright-eyed, with big, brimming ideas. I’d made great strides since my arrival.

Being
at Congress meant that I still saw the president during the day. However, it had
never been enough. We would pass each other, our eyes locked forward, still
feeling the heat from each other’s bodies. It nearly drove me crazy some days.
But most days, I understood: this was our agreement with Camille, his wife. We
weren’t to ruin her First Ladyship. This was her only asking.

And,
all in all, she’d been a remarkable First Lady. She’d made great strides with
younger elementary education programs, working alongside Xavier as he altered
the education program of the entire country. With a few minor hiccups along the
way—and with me working Congress tooth and nail to get the bill passed—Xavier
was able to make great changes. It had been beautiful. Already, people were
remembering this president for his achievements. And Xavier’s incredible, bountiful
presidency had actually paved the way for another democrat, a member of his own
party, to churn into the White House seat. I’d clapped heartily at his
inauguration, of course, knowing in my heart that it wasn’t yet my turn. I was
only thirty-four years old. I had so much learning, so much living to do.

“How
was it when Camille left?” I asked Xavier there, as we sat on the couch.

Xavier
turned toward me, his eyes a bit far away. “She told me she would have left me
anyway, even if we didn’t have this deal.” He laughed a bit at these words. “I
thanked her for staying, for keeping my presidency together. I know, of course,
that she has to feel that she wanted to leave me. Otherwise, it would feel
wrong—it wouldn’t feel like her choice. But I know that she has a boyfriend in
New York. I know that she has plans to move on, to have a life of her own.”

I
nodded, unsure of what to say. It was strange, the way people came together. It
was strange, the way they came apart.

“But
now. I have you,” Xavier murmured, kissing my cheek.

“How
should we tell everyone?” I whispered. It had been over a month since the
inauguration of the new president, which meant it had been four months since
the election. God, it seemed that time was moving both too fast and too slow,
all the time. Once, I had been a young and bright twenty-nine-year-old. And
now, I felt my limbs aging, every day.

Xavier
thought for a moment. “I have a PR guy on it. He says it’s tricky, but it can
be done. It surely won’t hurt your career, either. We were very careful. I
never gave you a single recommendation.” Xavier laughed, shaking his head. “I
remember a reporter once asking me if I didn’t like your policies, if I didn’t
like your ideas on the bill. I wanted to scoff, to tell her everything. But I
knew you’d kill me.”

I
smiled. “I wanted it to feel like I’d worked my way to the top, on my own.”

“You
never needed my help,” Xavier murmured. “You never needed anyone’s help.”

I
bowed my head. “I need you, though. I need you more than anything.”

We sat
in silence, brimming with the knowledge that we could finally be together, out
in the open. We could go to brunch together, to the theater together. We could
go out on double dates. I could introduce him to my family, if I wanted.
Everything was different. He wasn’t the president, and I wasn’t his campaign
manager. We were just people, struggling to survive and finding something
particularly special along the way.

Xavier
snapped his fingers, then. He stood up, leaving me still, on the couch. “Do you
want to make a toast? I have this aged bottle of red. I’ve been saving it.”

I
nodded, standing up before him. “Of course,” I murmured, a bit sleepy.
Something about making these big, overarching decisions seemed to conk me out.

Xavier
was gone in an instant, rushing down toward the cellar. He left me alone, to my
own devices, for several minutes. I began to roam the house by myself, gazing
at the beautiful artwork. I wondered if the place had been decorated with
Camille’s tastes in mind; I wondered if I could change anything, personalize
anything to my taste.

I
imagined the grand parties we would have at this place. The friends—an
non-friends, the political socialites—would gather in the foyer, kissing each
other on the cheeks, calling out to each other, eating hors d’oeuvres. Perhaps
we would have my campaign party here. I imagined myself, then, ten years down
the line. A presidential candidate. The first woman to rule the office, poised
with Xavier by my side. I shivered at the mere thought of it.

For a
moment, I allowed my mind to shift back to my old life. Immediately after
Jason—that terrorizing brute who I’d heard had accepted a job in the state of
Illinois, for some political agency in Chicago—had been revealed by Xavier, I’d
moved back into my apartment. Rachel had grown quite serious with Michael in
the months after they met, and I knew that I needed to get out of their way, to
bring myself back to the place I belonged. I remembered their wedding—the
bright, outdoor ceremony the summer before Xavier’s second election. I
remembered standing by her side at the helm of the ceremony, feeling myself
brimming with such joy for her. My best friend in the world, finally meeting
her happiness, head-on.

Suddenly,
the cellar door creaked open. I stood, face-to-face with Xavier once more, in
the kitchen. My fingers passed over the cold, beautiful countertop. My eyes met
with Xavier’s. In that moment, a bit of tension flitted through the air. I
swallowed, unable to breathe.

In
Xavier’s hand, he held a bottle of aged wine and two wine glasses. He walked
forward, his eyes still on me. He tapped each glass on the counter, and the
sound rang throughout the air. He uncorked the wine and poured it, allowing it
to breathe for only a moment. And then: he passed the wine to me.

I
didn’t say anything. I waited as he pushed his wine glass into the air, as if
he were about to make a toast.

He
began.

“Amanda,”
he said, his voice soft. “You have been a constant joy in my life. You’ve
guided me through two presidencies. You’ve held my hand during difficult times.
You’ve waited for me, until this final day when we can finally come together
and be free with each other, find love with each other, without prying eyes. I
don’t think I can ever thank you enough for it.”

I
nodded, unsure of what to say. My heart had begun to swell in my chest.

He
continued. He brought his hand into his pocket and revealed a small, black box.
He sent his wine glass back to the counter. I noted that his hands were
shaking. He bent down on one knee, allowing his dark, penetrating eyes to look
up toward me—so deep, so full of wisdom, so full of love, just as they’d been
all those years ago, when this all had begun.

“I
want you to be my wife, Amanda. I want you to be by my side through thick and
thin, and I want to do the same for you. I love you.” He opened the box, then,
revealing this stunning, immaculate diamond ring.

I
brought my hands to my face, feeling the tears riding hot, fast down my cheeks.
My mind knew my answer. I brought my left hand toward him, and he drew the
engagement ring over my finger. I watched as it glowed in the subtle
candlelight of the beautiful kitchen. I nodded, with passion, with zeal, unable
to form the words.

Xavier
understood, just as he always had. He brought his body up, toward me, and he
kissed me, bending me over the countertop in the new home we shared together.
Our lives were joined, then. We were united: at the helm of the country, our
hands linked and our eyes locked together. Nothing could tear us apart.
 

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This
book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are
products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not
to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual
events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Copyright
© 2016 Claire Adams