The Billionaire Bargain #3(20)
I let his words wash over me, and his smile, and I knew that it didn’t really matter what was coming. I loved this man. I could never walk away from him again.
I would just have to pray that he felt the same way.
? ? ?
The ballroom glittered like a snowstorm made of crystal and marble, the sounds of polite laughter and intense debate melding and echoing across the brightly lit space, the lush carpet barely absorbing any of the din.
Hundreds of people filled the space; I recognized representatives of seven different big investment funds in the thirty seconds it took to scan the room, and I wasn’t even looking hard. A screen that looked like it belonged in an IMAX theatre wrapped around the stage, cutting from one view of the room to another; later it would stream the proceedings to investors all around the world.
Waiters dodged nimbly through the crowds, offering bottled water, glasses of champagne, chocolate-dipped strawberries, and cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off. I wistfully watched the trays pass by; I was too shot with nerves to even think about eating, and alcohol wasn’t going to help me help Grant, either.
Half of the guests seemed to have gotten the memo that this was a ballroom and dressed like they were expecting their fairy godmother to pull around with the pumpkin at midnight, while the other half were dressed much more like it was a normal day at work. Here and there, a few reclusive investors darted about in jeans and T-shirts, probably hotshots who’d made big money in the dot-com boom in the nineties and gotten out quickly, before they would have lost anything or had to conform to a dress code.
“Really?” I asked Grant skeptically as he ushered me through the doors and down the split staircase. I wore a filmy white dress, and he wore a tuxedo so beautiful it could have made a Renaissance painter cry. I gestured at the grand ballroom, the chandeliers, the guests. “Really-really?”
“Due to the unprecedented level of interest, Devlin Media Corp was forced to rent out a space for the shareholders’ meeting,” Grant said smoothly, sliding my arm through his. “It is entirely a coincidence that we rented out the ballroom from the climactic scene of the spin-off of your favorite spy film.”
“If you get any smoother, scientists are going to kidnap you and run experiments to try to figure out how you transmogrified into a frictionless substance,” I informed him.
“It’s a good thing I have someone to rescue me,” Grant said lightly, giving my side an affectionate squeeze. “I would hate to live out the rest of my days in a lab. My tan would suffer terribly.”
“And yet I somehow have the feeling that you would find a way to get your hands on hair gel,” I returned with equal affection, reaching up to ruffle his hair and watch him make that adorably scowly face he made whenever I undid all his primping. “Did you bankrupt a small country to get it to curl like that, babe?”
“Only a small one,” he promised, and laughing, we made our way into the fray, stepping apart as we crossed the room.
There was still an hour until the meeting itself, and with Portia around, it wouldn’t pay to let down our guard.
? ? ?
It was time. I gripped Grant’s hand tightly as we waited in the wings, the lights dimming in the ballroom except for the ones over the stage. Butterflies performed complicated aerial maneuvers in my stomach. This was it. No more preparation, no more hedging of bets. This was when it was all going to go down.
A rustle of silk, and Portia came around the corner in ivory heels and a sleek dress that looked as though it had traveled here through time from the 1920s. I tried to pull my hand back, but Grant held on to it tightly. He wasn’t interested in covering: we were in this together now, and he didn’t care if Portia—or anyone else—knew it.
She gave a barely perceptible start as she surveyed the way Grant and I were standing so close together, but she recovered almost instantly, favoring the pair of us with an icy smile.
“Well, isn’t this a fairytale ending for you both,” she said through tight lips. “Cinderella has won the heart of the prince after all. Well, they do say you can’t teach good taste.”
Grant squeezed my hand gently. “We have nothing to say you, Portia,” he told her. “We don’t speak to traitors.”
“So melodramatic,” she said with a sniff. “I do hope for your sake that’s not the line you’re taking in your speech tonight. Investors respond so poorly to theatrics.”
“Whereas you are totally one hundred percent honest and authentic,” I butted in sarcastically.
“Oh dear, you two are meant for each other,” Portia said, surveying us with cool disdain. “It’s simply business, children. Nothing personal.”
She breezed past us and swept onstage like a super-villain taking her place before the cowed and subjugated masses, and the crowd fell silent.
“Well, that went well,” Grant muttered.
“Don’t worry,” I said. I kissed his cheek. “There’s still her whole speech. She has plenty of time to alienate everybody. Hell, she can usually do that in thirty seconds without even trying.”
Grant tried to smile, but it looked a little pained. I wrapped my arm around him, willing us both to make each other strong.
Onstage, Portia favored the audience with a brittle smile as though she were a dentist trying to assure them that this wouldn’t hurt, not one little bit. The first few rows flinched back slightly.