The Wrong Billionaire, page 9
“Good.” Remy nodded for him to continue his preflight preparations and squeezed Eden’s shoulder to draw her attention from the phone she was double-thumbing.
She lifted a distracted expression. Lines of tension had come in around her mouth and anxious shadows invaded her dark brown eyes.
“You were leaving for Greece directly from the wedding, weren’t you? That means you have your passport?”
“I do.” She hugged her purse under her arm. “Why?”
“Your home in Toronto will be staked out. I’ll take you to Montreal. We’ll fly from there.”
Her eyes went wide with shock. “To where?”
“Martinique.”
“I thought it was rainy season.” She made it sound as though she’d caught him in a falsehood.
“That’s why it’s a quiet place to stay.”
She blinked in befuddlement before her eyebrows came together with caution. “By myself? Or...?”
“Together. But let’s keep this—” He searched for a way to describe whatever this was between them. Obsession, maybe? Spending more time with her certainly wouldn’t help him dampen his lust, but that’s what he would have to do. “I want to know as soon as you do. If nothing transpires—” he couldn’t help the twist of his mouth as he found such a lovely euphemism for the hot mess they would be in if she was pregnant “—we go back to Plan A.”
“One and done,” she said in a hollow voice.
“Yes.” He ignored the sharp knife of electric heat that jolted through his chest and left a scorched sensation in the pit of his stomach.
“Sir?” His pilot closed the hatch, where he had stowed Remy’s bag, and opened the door to the passenger area of the helicopter.
Remy held out his hand.
* * *
Eden didn’t know if she was being cowardly or desperate as she settled into the plush leather seat facing forward. Her phone was still blowing up with emails and voice messages that she was eager to avoid, but she felt bereft as Remy moved into the copilot’s seat in the forward cabin.
He left the door open, but she was so sensitive, she felt rebuffed. The helicopter was close-quarters, not cramped. He could have taken the seat across from her without their knees touching beneath the table between them.
He didn’t want to be with her, though.
If nothing transpires, we go back to Plan A.
She had agreed to that, but it seemed like a thousand hours ago. She had foolishly believed the ache of yearning for him would somehow be satisfied if she slept with him once. On the contrary, she now knew what he could make her feel and was even more drawn to him.
As the helicopter swayed ever so slightly as it lifted off, she looked toward the sliver of Remy that she could see—his shoulder and the headphone that covered his ear. She silently begged him to reveal again the man who had said, I feel empty all the time.
That’s how she felt, so intensely hollow she could hardly breathe through the desolation.
That man had disappeared, though. He was distancing himself. Shutting down and shutting her out. He was trying to hide his association with her because he was embarrassed—ashamed?—to have slept with her.
This schism hurt so much, she ought to have insisted he take her home, where she could begin reassembling her life, but there was that other irrational part of her that would settle for this scant contact. For a few more days with him, remote as he might be.
Truthfully, he wasn’t wrong to hide their relationship, such as it was. She wasn’t ready to face whatever questions would come up if she went home. Her mother wouldn’t understand this reckless desire that gripped her. Micah would see it as outright treason.
Which didn’t make avoiding them right, but it certainly made it easier to put off the inevitable reckoning. Almost all of it. She had a press release to craft.
With a sigh, she picked up her phone again. Her PR team had suggested a slant that threw all the blame onto Hunter and the wedding crasher, Amelia.
Eden sidestepped taking such an easy way out. There was an innocent baby involved. She couldn’t throw a single mom under the bus and, honestly, she didn’t feel like a victim, just collateral damage.
As she glanced out the window, where the shadows of the rotors chopped across the sunlight, she considered how little rancor she felt toward Hunter. Today had been awful, but in some ways, she couldn’t relate at all to the woman she had been this morning when she had been buttoned into her gown.
How had she imagined she could marry Hunter Waverly when Remy Sylvain existed in this world? Marrying anyone else seemed like a ridiculous delusion.
Not that she expected to marry Remy.
With a small sob, she slouched deeper into her seat.
Believing they were soul mates was a delusion, but as she lifted her gaze to the back of his shoulder again, she felt a nearly irresistible desire to move closer and touch him. Not to get his attention, simply to touch. To have the right to caress and share a moment of physical connection.
Why was she pulled so inexorably toward him?
And why was it so terrible for them to see if they had more than sexual attraction? Remy’s explanation about Micah’s father had helped her understand a little, but it still seemed like an overreaction. She almost wished she had hung back to ask Micah why he continued to hold on to so much antipathy toward Remy? Because of her? She was fine.
Sort of.
She checked in with Quinn, texting to ask if Micah had blown his stack when they got to the empty hotel room. Three dots briefly came up, but disappeared just as quickly.
Eden thought about trying a video call, but she didn’t know how to explain to her friend why she was fleeing the country with the one man no one would approve of. Better to focus on her press release.
She sent it to her assistant as they landed. Remy helped her down the steps to the tarmac and they walked directly across to a private jet painted in an abstract blend of metallic green, purple and tropical blue. Remy waved her to precede him up the stairs.
Inside, it looked more like an exclusive nightclub than an airplane. The furniture was low and cut along curved, ultramodern lines. The lighting was subdued gold, the colors mimicking white sand and blue-green seas. They moved past a dining nook with a wraparound bench and Remy indicated one of the recliners that faced a big screen showing a welcome message and a Wi-Fi code.
He moved forward through an oval door that blinked like an eye, like something in a spaceship movie. Leaving her to travel alone again, she supposed.
She turned her pout to the window, where the midsummer sun was descending, turning the shadows long as the day stretched toward evening.
“Ms. Bellamy?” A male steward held a tray with a damp facecloth, a small dish of mint candies and a glass of ice water. “I’m Antoine. I’ll be serving a meal once we’re airborne, but may I bring you a refreshment before takeoff? Champagne? A cocktail, perhaps?”
“I would love a Caesar, but make it a mocktail, please.” She kept the facecloth and the ice water, feeling modestly revived after she had washed her hands and rehydrated.
Remy returned as Antoine brought her drink.
“I’ll have one of those,” he said as he eyed her Caesar.
“Virgin?” Antoine asked.
“Promiscuous. As morally objectionable as you can make it.”
Eden hid her smile against the spiced rim of her drink, enjoying the tang of clam-flavored tomato juice with a shot of tabasco and a hint of dill.
Was that what she was now? No longer a virgin, therefore morally promiscuous? She turned a wistful glance to the window, unable to say she was sorry about it. The memory of their lovemaking brought goose bumps to her arms and shivers of pleasure all over her body.
She realized Remy’s aloof gaze was fixed on her. She rubbed at her arms, cheeks stinging at how obvious she was.
“I should have got my suitcase from Quinn,” she lied. “I hope there’ll be some sort of shopping when we land?”
He opened a hatch beneath the television and shook out a sweater with wavy bands of sunset colors knitted into it.
“If that’s too big, my sister may have left something in my stateroom.”
The sweater was massive on her, but it smelled like him and felt so consoling, Eden snuggled herself into it. But—
“Is this your plane?” She realized he had changed into a lighter pair of pants and loafers without socks. “Like, not a charter or a corporate jet?”
“Why is that surprising?” He took his seat, stowing his phone into the cup holder without looking, as if it was something he’d done thousands of times. “I own a fleet.”
“I guess that’s why I’m surprised. I assumed you would jump aboard a flight whenever you need to, not keep one parked like a car in the garage.”
“My sister occasionally steals the keys,” he said dryly. “The rest of the family fly standby, but my schedule requires more flexibility so I keep this ready.”
Antoine brought Remy’s drink. “If you’re comfortable, sir, the pilot has instructed me to buckle in for takeoff?”
Remy nodded and Antoine disappeared through the spaceship door.
“You sound like you’re close with your sister,” Eden mused gently, wanting to know more about him. As the president of Can-Carib Airlines, Remy had a presence online that was heavily curated toward business reporting, but was readily available to access. The rest of his family seemed elusive by comparison.
“We are.” He took another long sip and exhaled to cool whatever burn it had lit in his throat. “She texted me earlier, asking if I would take her to France with me. My aunt and uncle are celebrating their fortieth wedding anniversary next week. I told her I was headed to Martinique and would leave from there. She’s in New York so she’ll have to find her own way.” He tapped his glass with one pensive finger.
“You’ll, um, go without me? If we don’t know by then?” Eden was a big girl. There was no reason she should feel so abandoned.
“We’ll see, won’t we?” He flashed her a look. “I imagine you’ll dominate the gossip sites for the next week or two.”
“For what it’s worth, I didn’t mention you in my press release. Have you texted Hunter? Does he know we’re—” Her heart swerved away from the word together. “That you’re helping me?”
His mouth flattened. “That can wait.”
It’s not like he’ll care, she wanted to say. She looked out the window to hide the dampness that rose against her lashes. She’d been so frustrated by this long day, she could hardly keep tears from overflowing.
When she had control of herself, she texted her team that she was taking her honeymoon time as vacation and instructed them to schedule a board meeting for her return. Then she checked in with her mother and her brother, telling them the same thing.
Her mother texted back, Micah said you left with Remy Sylvain. Are you home?
Eden glanced across at him. No. He helped me avoid paparazzi by flying me to Montreal. Now we’re—
She backspaced.
Now I’m on a plane to the Caribbean.
Where, exactly? I’ll meet you.
Eden chewed her lip, reluctant to tell her mother that she was with Remy. Lucille would disapprove. She was sure of it. When Eden had returned from Paris five years ago, deeply hurt by the belief that Remy had targeted her, her mother had grilled her in a way that had seemed like maternal concern at the time, but now Eden wondered.
“Put it behind you,” Lucille had insisted before she had a long conversation with Micah behind a closed door.
Lucille had also been concerned when Eden had revealed that Remy was Hunter’s best man. “What did he say?”
“He acted like we’d never met.”
“Then you should do the same,” Lucille had said firmly. “Let sleeping dogs lie.”
Eden wished she could ask her mother for more details on what might have transpired between Remy and Micah’s fathers, but Lucille rarely talked about her first husband. Eden doubted her mother would tell her anything, so it wasn’t worth stirring up old hurts.
I need some time alone, Eden texted. To work out how to solve the BH&G situation.
It was an open-ended nudge for her mother to relent and allow Micah to help, but her mother only replied, I’m sure you’ll come up with something. Let me know when you’ve landed safely.
Eden put her phone away, thinking her mother had more faith in her resourcefulness than she did in herself.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A CRACK OF thunder and a flash of lightning had Eden sitting up with a gasp.
For a moment, she was dizzy and disoriented, heart racing with alarm. Slowly she made sense of the furniture illuminated by the dim glow from the night-light she’d left on in the adjoining bathroom.
Martinique. Remy.
She closed her eyes in a twinge of disgrace, both in going away with him and for putting herself in a position of needing to. The debacle of her wedding flew straight onto the pile of her chagrin, along with the weight of BH&G.
Her entire life was a scorched, sticky mess and she was alone in the middle of it.
Without checking, she knew the other side of the mattress was empty, not that she had expected Remy to have come to bed with her. Did she want him to? She shouldn’t, but she felt tremendously lonely.
At least during the flight, Remy’s steady presence had kept the worst of the doom at bay. They had eaten spinach-and-artichoke puff pastries in their seats along with rice cups that held a scrumptious bite of tandoori chicken. Then they moved to the dining table for their main course, roasted lobster with whipped parsnips and a watercress salad. They finished with a light strawberry mousse.
After that, they watched a forgettable action movie, then, just as she was nodding off, they began their descent. The rain had eased and the freshly washed night had reflected the sparkling lights of Fort-de-France.
“There’s something magical about arriving somewhere at night, isn’t there?” she had said dreamily as the hatch was opened and a fresh breeze wafted across her face. “It’s like a Christmas present still in its wrapper. You can’t tell what’s inside and you have to wait to find out.”
“That’s very poetic. Are you secretly a romantic?”
Since that hadn’t been the first time she’d been accused of being one, it probably wasn’t a secret, but she deflected, and said, “I’ve never been to the Caribbean before. It feels exciting.”
“We have a few nightclubs, but on the whole, island culture tends to be very laid-back.” He walked her to a wine-red convertible waiting on the tarmac for them.
“Different, then,” she said once they were nestled inside it. “I’ve been to Florida for the amusement parks, and Micah brought me to Europe two or three times a year. I’ve seen Mediterranean beaches, but most of my family vacations were in Canada. BH and G’s motto is ‘It’s great to be home...and garden’ so camping in the Rockies was more on-brand than visiting a tropical all-inclusive. I’m dying for sun and sand.”
“Sand, I can promise, including in places you don’t want it,” he said dryly as he steered the car onto a highway. “Sunshine will be hit-and-miss.”
Traffic had been light and Remy knew the roads. He had zipped in and around other cars, taking a route inland that climbed and wound into dense tropical forest before descending toward an expanse of black ocean and charcoal clouds on the horizon.
Her arduous day must have caught up with her because the next thing she knew, Remy had asked, “Are you awake?”
The car had been parked and her cheek had tingled with the sensation of a light caress.
“Do you want me to carry you in?”
Of course, she did. She wanted to be coddled and petted and told everything would be all right.
“Don’t be silly.” She’d walked into the villa, taking in an impression of burnt-orange shutters against Tuscan-yellow walls and a wraparound veranda.
Had she also heard the rush of waves? If so, it was muffled now by the rumble of thunder and the steady patter of rain on the roof.
She was thirsty, so she rose and retied the sarong she’d worn to bed.
This was Remy’s sister’s room. He had told her to help herself to whatever she needed, but his sister was a fashion designer and most of the clothes looked to be her own creations. They seemed too well-tailored and personal to borrow. Eden had limited herself to the sarong and a silk sleep bonnet still in its package.
She padded out and followed the soft glow toward the living room.
The villa wasn’t as extravagant as she had expected, given the luxury of the jet. It was more of a charming bungalow, reminding her of her Grammy Bellamy’s farmhouse in its eclectic, comfortable decor. Eden nudged a rattan rocking chair on her way through the living room and picked up a mango from the bowl on the dining-room table to smell it.
Oh! Family photos.
She moved behind the table to study the mosaic of framed photographs on the wall.
There was Remy, maybe five years old, deeply tanned and wearing a checkered shirt and a big smile as he held an infant she presumed was his sister. His parents were a cute pair of young professionals in double-breasted suits with thick shoulder pads, looking fondly on their children. Other relatives were captured in dated photos wearing fashions from bygone decades. In one beautifully framed, hand-colored photograph, a couple stood in formal attire from the early 1900s, their expressions somber.
“Do you need something?”
“Oh.” Her heart flipped as she turned. She self-consciously touched the sleep bonnet.
Damn. Remy was wearing hardly anything at all, just drawstring shorts tied low on his hips and a whole lot of naked skin over well-toned muscles. Her gaze swept down to the narrow trail of hair below his navel and jerked back upward.
