Caught in the Billionaire’s Embrace(3)
Author: Elizabeth Bevarly

Butterflies head-butted Della’s midsection at the prospect of having to sit in such close proximity to the man. Once she squeezed past him to get to her seat, there would be no escaping him—unless she wanted to pull a Groucho Marx maneuver from A Night at the Opera and swing across the auditorium on a cable.

She inhaled a single, fortifying breath and forced her feet to move forward until she stood at the edge of the row beside him. His head snapped up, and, when he recognized her, he grinned that shudders-down-the-spine grin again. Heat flared in her belly, her brain turned to mush, and the excuse me Della had been about to utter evaporated in her mouth.

He murmured a greeting as he stood, but she barely heard it, because she was too busy trying not to swoon. Not only did he smell delectable—a luscious mix of spice and wood smoke—but he was also much taller than she’d realized, forcing her to tip back her head to meet his gaze. It was an action to which she was unaccustomed, since she pushed the six-foot mark herself in the two-inch heels she was wearing. Even without heels, she was accustomed to being at eye level with virtually everyone. With this man, however, eye level meant gazing at shoulders that spanned a distance roughly the size of Montana.

But it was his face that drew her attention. His jawline was resolute, his nose was straight and refined, his cheekbones looked as if they’d been hewn from marble, and his eyes… Oh, his eyes. His eyes were the color of bittersweet chocolate, a brown so dark and so compelling that Della couldn’t tear her gaze away. Then she realized it wasn’t the depth or color of his eyes that so captivated her. It was her recognition of something in them that was at odds with his dazzling smile. A somberness, even sadness, that was unmistakable.

The moment she identified it, however, a shadow fell over his eyes, almost as if he was aware of her understanding and didn’t want her to see too deeply into him.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” he said, his smile broadening.

The humor in his tone surprised her, coming as it did on the heels of the shadows in his eyes. Even so, she couldn’t quite keep herself from smiling back. “It is a little odd, isn’t it?”

“Actually, I’m thinking of a different word.”

Not sure that she wanted to know what it was, she heard herself ask anyway, “Oh?”

“Lucky,” he said immediately. “I was thinking it was lucky.”

She wasn’t sure what to say in response to that, so she held up her ticket and gestured toward her seat. She made sure to give the rose-laden chair between hers and his a meaningful inspection before saying, “If you don’t mind? That’s my seat.”

For a minute, he only continued to gaze at her, his eyes revealing nothing now of what might be going through his head. Then, “Not at all,” he replied, sidestepping into the aisle to give her room to pass.

When he did, she hastened to take her seat, immediately opening her program to read it before he had a chance to say anything that might start a conversation.

He didn’t take the hint, however, and said as he returned to his seat, “How was your dinner?”

Not looking up from the program, Della replied, “Lovely.”

Her one-word response did nothing to dissuade him, either. “I ended up ordering the pheasant. It was amazing.”

When Della only nodded silently without looking up from her program, he added, “You should try it next time you’re at Palumbo’s. I highly recommend it.”

He was fishing. Trying to find out if she lived here in town the same way he had when he’d asked her why she’d never been to Palumbo’s. He was trying to gauge whether or not there was a chance the two of them might run into each other again, either by accident or by design. Even with a long-stemmed rose and mystery woman between them.

“I’ll take it under advisement,” she told him. And returned to reading her program.

But still, he didn’t take the hint. “You know, I don’t meet many people of my own generation who enjoy opera,” he said, trying a new tack. “Especially not enough to see it performed live. Or spring for box seats. You must really love it.”

Della sighed inwardly, silently cursing him for the change of subject. That was a low blow. There was no way she could resist a conversation about her most favorite thing in the world.

“I adore it, actually,” she said helplessly, letting the program fall open onto her lap.

When she turned to look at him again, his expression made clear he was as delighted to be here as she was and that he felt every bit as passionately about opera. So passionately that his love for the medium had chased away the darkness that had clouded his eyes earlier. She realized now that they weren’t entirely brown. Flecks of gold wreathed the irises, making his eyes appear more faceted somehow, drawing her in even more deeply.

“I’ve loved opera since I was a little girl,” she told him. “Our next-door neighbor was a huge fan and introduced me to all the classics.” She didn’t add that that was only because she could hear Mrs. Klosterman’s radio through the paper-thin walls of their tenement, or how Della had hung on every word of the announcer’s analysis of each opera once it had concluded. “The first time I saw one performed live,” she continued, not bothering to mention that it was live on PBS, not live on stage, “I was enchanted.”

She actually would have loved to major in music and make the study of opera her life’s work. But college had been beyond the means of an average student from her economic stratum, so she’d gone directly to work after graduating from high school, as a gofer in the offices of one of Wall Street’s most noted and respected brokerage houses. And even though she’d worked her way up the corporate ladder to become an executive assistant, Della had never made the time to go for the degree. She’d been supporting herself fairly well on her salary—certainly better than she’d ever imagined she would growing up in the sort of neighborhood she had—and she’d been happy with the way her life was going. At least until that life had shattered into a million pieces, and she’d been left with nothing but Geoffrey, who’d offered her a dubious sort of refuge—and not without a price.

Almost as if that thought had cued the orchestra, the music swelled, and the lights dimmed. Della couldn’t resist one last look at her companion as the room grew dark, but when she saw him gazing at her—and noted the seat between them still empty—she quickly turned her attention to the stage.