The Billionaire's Secret: A BWWM Romance Mystery (21 page)

Tricia
was gently stroking my arm, her sharp eyes watching me. I can tell she wants to
talk some more. She probably visited the corner house recently, probably
brought Otis some of his favorite schnapps and gotten drunk with him.

Why
can't I bring myself to do the same? Stop by, joke with him, enjoy the time we
have left?

Tricia
sits back, patting me abruptly. "So you met a guy," she prompts,
pulling me out of my guilt-ridden reverie. "How could mama possibly have a
problem with that?"

"Well,"
I dab my eyes hastily and pull myself together. "He's...rich. He's a
client's brother. He's totally off-limits."

"Forbidden
love," Tricia laughs. "Romeo and Juliet!"

I glare
at her. "They both die, you know."

"That's
why I refused to read to the end, keep it happy," she explains. "They
kiss, I close the book, the end."

"No
wonder you had to cheat off of me during that unit in Mrs. Stewart's
class."

Tricia
pokes me with her toe. "You know, you were lousy to cheat off of. I only
got a B on that test. My parents were totally pissed. Even more so than their
normal levels of pissed."

I laugh
at the memory. "So aside from the fact that we aren't star crossed lovers
doomed in a suicide pact, there's another small factor standing in the
way."

"What,
is he a deformed hunchback or something?"

I
laugh. "May as well be as far as mama is concerned." I heave a sigh.
"This feels so awkward and wrong, but...he's white."

Tricia
glances towards the kitchen where her Hispanic wife is fixing dinner. "Is
that a problem?'

"Not
to me, but...."

Tricia
nods knowingly. "Mama," she says evenly.

She has
never come right out and said it, but I know my mother blames our troubles when
I was young on racism.
"Seek out our
people," she had always told me. "We can trust our own."

"I
think she would rather I be a lesbian than date a white guy. But why am I even
talking about this? I just met him, he's the brother of a client. I'm not about
to get involved, that's totally unprofessional and besides, I have no idea if
he's even interested."

After all he didn't even kiss me
, I
don't say.

"I'm
sure it's nothing. Just a little fleeting crush. I'll get over it." I
sound more dismissive than I feel.

Just
then, Rita comes in with three plates stacked effortlessly on her arms with the
practiced touch of a former waitress. The sight and smell of the steaming
empanadas make my mouth water.
 
She
places all three plates on the coffee table and sits down in between Tricia and
me. "Did Felicia get in touch?" she asks me out of the blue.

Rita
has the habit of just blurting out her thoughts, whether they are pertinent or
not.
 
Keeping up with her is enough
to give me whiplash, sometimes.

Quickly,
I switch gears from my nonexistent love life to my neglected business.
"She hasn't, no," I shake my head as I reach for my plate. "I
put another call in to the Styles desk this afternoon before I came here,
though."

Rita
nods. "Felicia likes to have an angle," she muses. "That's why
she's an editor and I'm still a silly beat reporter. But I talked to her about
you today."

"Aw,
thanks Rita," I blush and Tricia pulls her in for a quick kiss on the
cheek.

She
laughs. "Don't thank me yet, guys. I don't think I have the power you
think I do." She sits back and pats Tricia's knee as she talks.
"Felicia definitely seems interested. I mean, I think she does. She just
needs...something else."

"What's
that?" I ask eagerly.

Rita
hedges. "She wants a hook. Something that will grab her readers. An angle
for the story that will make her readers care about your business."

I sigh,
frustrated. "The story is; I grew up in homeless shelters to become an
entrepreneur who plans weddings for rich people. Maybe I'm a narcissist or
something, but I feel like my life alone should be the hook."

"I
agree with you babe," Tricia said quickly, cutting off Rita with a slight
shake of her head. "Try again. She probably needs to hear it from
you."

I nod
fiercely.

"And
Yahya?"

"Yeah?"

She
stares daggers at me.
 
"Go see
Dad."

Chapter Eleven

Carter

When
the helicopter rose into the sky last night, I cursed myself loudly.
"You fucking idiot.
 
You should have kissed her."

Walking
with her, her warm arm pressed against mine… It felt so right and natural that
I didn't even consider that she wasn't always going to be there. I felt like I
had all the time in the world to savor the scent of her swirling around me. I
was so lost in the novelty of her presence that I took too damn long to act.

And
then she left.

Of
course she left. She was just getting started, looking over the place and
thinking about the wedding. Whatever connection I thought we had… It wasn’t
supposed to happen. Love at first sight doesn’t just happen.

I
fucked up. Royally. She likely had already moved on, bored with my hesitation
last night. Women like Sanniyah Jones didn't wait around for anything, least of
all idiots who suddenly find themselves stumbling around like inexperienced
schoolboys in their presence.

I am
Carter fucking Easton. I got where I am by following my gut. And my gut said to
kiss her. Hard.

The
only thing standing in my way right now is my impending nervous breakdown.

The
black car pulls up to the back entrance of the building. "All clear,
sir," Benson tells me, rolling down the partition.

I try
to quell the panic attack that is looming. "Thank you Benson," I say
instead, surprised at how even my voice is. "I'll be ready to return in
about two hours."

"Very
good, sir." My driver knows enough not to get out and open the door for
me. That would attract too much attention. The paranoia that grips me whenever
I am forced to visit the city is always the worst right at this moment. When I
have to leave the safety of my car and walk quickly into the building.

It's
irrational, I know. By now I have been out of the limelight long enough that
the frenzy has faded, at least a little. But there is still a chance of a
telephoto lens, hidden somewhere that I wouldn't even know to look, taking
pictures of me, my car, my license plate...renewing the bloodlust of the
paparazzi.

It was
the paparazzi's fault my parents were dead. Or rather it was my fault for being
someone the paparazzi hounded.

The
first time a flashbulb went off in my face, I was amused. It didn't make any
sense. I wasn't a celebrity; not an actor, a model or a musician. I was just a
guy who had founded a business that inexplicably became successful. I liked my
work, liked it well enough to let it consume me until I was working around the
clock.

But
then a strange thing happened. The more the business thrived, the less the
magazines and the blogs and the tech sites seemed interested in it. They begin
digging around, looking for dirt in my personal life. My high school
girlfriend, who had been with me since the beginning of everything, was soon
disgusted by her inability to walk to the corner store without having cameras
in her face. Her three-AM drunken tirade against me became a favorite for all
of the gossip sites and then everything went off the rails. The sharks scented
blood in the water and nothing could stop the feeding frenzy. My parents, my
sister, my friends all found themselves hounded night and day, questions about
me hurled at them like clumps of mud. One by one it drove everyone away...

 
Until that fateful night two years ago.

My
parents wanted to take me out to dinner. A normal thing that normal families do
when there is success to be shared. I had sold off the excursions branch of my
business to a start-up out of California and the money had been insane. My
parents were old-fashioned types who never would dream of taking their son's
money. We went to a neighborhood favorite, the place where I had celebrated my
tenth birthday.

The
first flash went off in our faces somewhere around when the appetizers came
out. Someone must have called the tabloids, because soon they were everywhere,
crowding the sidewalk and shoving each other to get their shot. My mother's
face, pinched with worry, still haunts me to this day.

"Carter
honey, your father and I will take your car tonight. Get them out of your
hair."

I
thanked her quickly, handed over my keys, and ducked into the safety of their
Buick. I drove to a hotel on the outskirts of town, reveling in my peace and
quiet.

My
parents ended up in a fiery wreck, run off the road by the paparazzi that
thought
they
were
me
.

Those
men were in prison now, but the full force of my lawyers couldn't bring my
father back to walk Camilla down the aisle. They couldn't bring my mother back
to smile and offer to make me a sandwich, no matter the time of day. They
couldn't give me respite from the guilt that sent me to live in shame on a
glorified sandbar, as far removed from the public eye as I could get.

All of
these thoughts assault me as I step out into the smoggy, dirty air of the city.
I can practically feel the grip of the panic closing around my throat in a
chokehold. I rushed into the building, but it is cold comfort once I am inside.

Two
hours, that's all I need, then I can go back to Annika Island and my fragile
peace.

The
internet connection on Annika is spotty at best. The conference room at Easton
Ventures is much more reliable. Still, I can't shake the feeling that I have
been dragged to this conference by my board for no real reason. They just need
me here, a visible reminder to the investors that I am still the head of this
company.

And
that I am still sane.

So I
play my part. I banter, and smile. I poke holes in the market projections that
cause the accountants to scramble. And when all is said and done, I lean back
in my chair and think about Sanniyah.

For one
brief moment with her, I felt like my old self. Hungry, instead of hollow.
Brave instead of paranoid.

I need
to get that back.

I need
to get
her
back.

Benson
pulls up, and I sprint inside the car. We race back to the airport but it isn't
until we are in helicopter, waiting for clearance to take off, that I come to
my senses.

 
I'm pissed off at myself, tired of hiding
like a frightened mouse.

I
should have fucking kissed her.

"Hold
on, Benson," I bark. "Don't take off yet."

The
impulsivity I'm known for takes hold of me. I grab my phone and scroll to
Sanniyah's number. Then I text her. And I tell her exactly what I am
thinking....

Chapter Twelve

Sanniyah

"Go
see Dad." Tricia ripped into me pretty badly with only three words. I know
I should go see him. But I still can't. Seeing him would make it real.

So
instead, I take the easy way out. Fifteen minutes before I have to be at the
Ferrara-Dickenson wedding, I call my mother instead.

"Hey
there mama!" My voice is so bright and cheerful I want to punch myself.

"Hey
there, baby girl."

Mama
sounds tired and not at all happy to hear from me. But I soldier on anyway.
"I had a few minutes before I have to start working and I just wanted to
check in. How are you doing? How's Daddy?"

My
mother's long silence is making me squirm. When she finally does speak, she is
deliberately ignoring my questions. "I'm out taking a walk. Needed the
sunshine. I've been cooped up in that house for too long."

"Who's
taking care of Otis?" I ask, and then silently curse myself for calling my
stepdad by his first name. A bad habit all three of us hate.

She
ignores my misstep for once. ""You remember Mrs. Parker down the
block?" she asks.

"The
one with the birthmark?"

"You
be nice," she admonishes, but I can hear her smile when she continues,
"I know, I can't stop looking at it either. But she's a nice lady and
she's been helping a lot. Keeping my azaleas pruned and everything."

I try
to picture this Mrs. Parker, but all I can conjure is the port wine stain that
splotches her cheek. Then I feel horrible.

I feel
even worse when my mother inhales deeply. "So we got some news," she
says, her voice heavy with meaning.

I'm
already dancing in place, a frenzy of nerves. The wedding starts in five
minutes. I can't deal with this right now. I try to sidestep. "Ma, you
sound tired."

"I'm
tired as hell, Yahya," she snaps back.
 
"You know I love him, love him more
than I thought it was possible to love anyone except my daughter, but..."
she trails off trying to find the words. "He needs me. Constantly. Round
the clock. It's like I have a newborn again, except you smelled all sweet when
you were a baby and Otis just smells like sickness."
 
I can hear her sniffing through the
phone "I can smell it on me. It's in my hair, my clothes..."

"Mama,
calm down. It's okay."

"Is
it?" she asks wildly. "They want to take his femur, Sanniyah. That's
the news. The cancer that was supposed to be in remission spent its time eating
away at his bone and now they want to put a metal rod in there like it's going
to do something. He can barely walk now, but they want him to keep trying, keep
walking, keep putting himself through hell on the off chance they can pull off
a miracle."

I am
frozen in place. The guests are arriving and sitting in the pews, but I can't
even muster the strength to move out of their way. "Oh,” I reply in a
small, sad voice.

"What's
that?" Mama isn't talking to me. I hear the scrabbling sounds on the other
end, then a heavy sigh. "Mrs. Parker has to go pick up her grandbaby at
daycare, her daughter just called all frantic. I gotta go, Yahya." She
exhales forcefully into the phone. "Love my baby girl," she sighs in
her standard goodbye, but there's none of the usual warmth. She hangs up before
I can even reply.

I turn
on my heel and head right into the bathroom. A dab of cool water soothes my
burning cheeks and ten deep breaths calm the tears that sting my eyes.
I have to work. I am a professional. I can't
bring my personal shit into the mix.

"You
can deal with this later when you have a plan," I tell my reflection, then
nod in agreement with the woman in the mirror. I straighten my shoulders and
head out into the vestibule with a smile on my face that doesn’t reach my eyes.

The
first fifteen minutes of the ceremony go off flawlessly and I almost feel like
I can get through today without falling apart. That is, until I feel my phone
buzz in my hand.

"No fish."

Two
little words from the reception site, but they're enough to spell disaster. The
bride's seafood order has been mishandled and now a hundred and twelve of the
five hundred guests are going to have to go without the flounder they had
ordered. My father's cancer is back, but now I have to worry about fish. I
could laugh if I didn't want so badly to break down crying.

I duck
out the back, right as the bride and groom are lighting the Unity candle, and
furiously scroll through my contacts. Gordon has helped me out of a few jams
before and I know his product is fresh. If I can just get him to deliver on
time.

"No can do, Yahya. I've got a full
house tonight."
My phone vibrates so loudly that several heads
turn. "Sorry," I mouth, and push my way into the vestibule, fingers
flying.

"Gordon, work with me here,"
I
type.
"How can I make this worth
your while?"

"Excuse
me? Where are the pictures being taken?"

I whip
my head up to see the bride's ten-year-old nephew looking up at me, all
buck-toothed and earnest with an overpriced DSLR around his neck. Why a kid his
age has a camera like that, I couldn't possibly understand, but I nod and smile
anyway. "The Roosevelt Room downtown," I tell him as my phone
vibrates in quick succession.

"Hmm,
the light in there is not ideal," he intones pompously, looking down and
fiddling with his toy.

"I'm
sure you can make it work," I say smoothly and duck around to check my
phone. When I see Gordon's refusal, I curse softly under my breath.
This isn't happening!

 
I feel a steely resolve settle over me. I
can't fix Otis's femur
but I can fix
missing fish fillets, dammit.

"That's
it for the church pictures," the wedding photographer is poking me as I
text in a flurry.

I need
time. "Are you sure?" I sing out to the bride. "Look at the way
the light is angling through the stained glass there."

The
bride squeals and grabs her new husband's arm. The photographer shoots me a
look and I smile charmingly.

"You win Yahya. Just give me some
time."

I sigh
in relief and hide a discreet fist pump behind my back.
 
I pulled it off. But the pride is hollow
and short lived. I still need to distract the bride long enough to give Gordon
time to deliver. "Oh Katie, you look amazing," I coo out. "Your
veil looks like a halo."

The
bride smiles and her new husband whispers something dirty into her ear. The
photographer and the nephew are getting in each other's way snapping pictures.

I check
my phone. Nothing. Shit.

"Let's
get mom in there!" I trill, grabbing the mother of the bride.
 
"Just one more shot, the light
really is perfect." Even I can hear how crazed I sound.

Katie
looks at me, confused, as I shove her mother into the shot. The photographer
presses her lips together in a thin line, but bends down to her camera anyway
and snaps away. I check my phone again, glaring at it. "Come on,
ring,
you stupid thing," I mutter.

Just as
I am wondering how many more family members I can shove into the shot, my phone
rings loudly, echoing across the now empty church.

Gordon
doesn't even say hello. "One hundred and thirteen fillets are being
delivered as we speak," he barks into the phone.

I smile
and heave a silent sigh of relief. I fixed this. I made it happen.
"Gordon, you are a miracle worker. You just secured a lifelong client, I
promise you."

Gordon
grumbles, but sounds pleased. I hang up the phone and hustle the startled bride
down the steps of the altar and out into the hail of rice wielding guests.

Just
then my text message alert goes off.
No,
goddamnit!

My
phone has brought me nothing but bad news today. I briefly contemplate drowning
it in the baptismal font and running away. How much more bad news can I take?

But it
isn't bad news at all.

"I should have kissed you."

It's
Carter.