The Billionaire Bargain #2(23)
“Here, try this,” Grant said, guiding a bit of toast into my mouth.
Sweet cinnamon exploded across my tastebuds, and I had to squeeze my eyes shut in ecstasy as I moaned. “Damn, that is like crack.”
“If you make sounds like that every time you eat it, I’ll have to bring you there every morning,” Grant said. “Wait—you’re shivering.”
“It’s nothing,” I said, and I meant it. It wasn’t the sunniest day, but it was lovely nonetheless, and I didn’t want anything to spoil this moment or make it end.
“Nonsense,” Grant said, and pulled me towards him. “Here What body heat I have, is yours.”
“Words every girl dreams of,” I said, relaxing back into his chest as his arms settled comfortably around my stomach. This really was much better. I snuggled into his warmth and watched the seagulls circle and swirl above us.
“I thought I’d try this ‘consideration’ business,” he said dryly. “I’ve heard it’s quite popular with the young ladies these days.”
“You romantic, you,” I said, chuckling and play-swatting his thigh.
He kissed my temple, one of his hands coming up to rub my back, unkinking the tension of the past several hours with sure, practiced caresses. “I can but try.”
I reached up and squeezed his other hand. “I do appreciate it. The trying.”
He pressed his lips to my temple again, lingering for a second longer there, and continued rubbing my back. We sat in contemplation there by the sea for what could have been hours or minutes; I was unaware of the time, only the steady rise and fall of the slate-grey ocean waves, and the feel of Grant holding me tight, occasionally reaching out to feed me another piece of slowly cooling toast, or offering me a sip of coconut water.
“We can stay as long as you want,” he said. “As long as you need.”
He was making it way too easy to fall in love with him, and right now, that was the very last thing I needed.
NINE
Tornados are not a terribly common natural disaster in San Francisco, and so I was somewhat shocked at the state of affairs when I walked into the damage control meeting the next day. We really should have called the weather channel to report this unique phenomenon; I had never realized it was possible for so many people to rapidly whirl around you without them being propelled by a cyclone.
“Where have you—”
“—seven different news stations—”
“—employee morale at an all-time low!”
“Is the wedding still—”
“—potentially devastating for the company, not to mention—”
“—been trying to get into contact with you—”
“We’ve been saying ‘no comment,’ but—”
“Jennings is the critical—”
“—have to get in front of this!”
Faced with a bunch of near-screaming hyperactive businessmen hopped up on sugar, caffeine, and I-didn’t-want-to-know-what, I did the only thing I could do.
I clapped my hands like a goddamn kindergarten teacher.
Surprisingly, this worked, either because of the bone-deep memory of kindergarten disciplinarians or because everyone was just shocked that I had dared treat them like children.
Before anyone could ponder that too deeply, I took a breath, and also, control of the meeting. “First things first. What have we tried so far?”
There was some shuffling of feet, and after some teeth-pulling it turned out the answer was ‘not much.’ There had been a noncommittal official statement about the separation between personal and private lives, but with Grant and me both going incommunicado, no one had been willing to step up to bat and risk proposing some big gesture.
I felt guilt twist my stomach as I remembered those long, lazy hours at the beach, while these people had been sweating bullets.
That sympathy evaporated, though, with the devious suggestions that began pouring out of these people’s mouths like sewage out of storm drains: “Deny, deny, deny—”
“—know an actor who’d take some cash to say it was him—”
“—we can get a background check on these girls, dig up some dirt on those sluts and throw the limelight on them—”
“—he goes up onstage, makes a tearful speech about how he regrets framing Mr. Devlin—”
“—call the press and make it clear that if coverage doesn’t cease, donations to their newspaper will be!”
“Stop it!” I threw my hands up in the air. “None of these are doable. Setting aside the fact that they’re all morally reprehensible, none of them would work on Jennings. He’s not going to be fooled by any half-assed smokescreen. Now, tell me, does anyone have an idea that might work for him?”
Silence. Then, in a small voice:“We can contend that Mr. Devlin was drugged—”
“No,”Grant said,“not that.”Then he wavered.“Well, maybe—I mean—dammit, we have to do something. Anything, but—oh, damn it all to hell, no! We’re not saying that!” He slammed his fist down on the table, before whirling to his feet and out the door.
I was after him like a flash, but I was too late to save the section of the wall his fist was already hammering into dust.