Caught in the Billionaire’s Embrace(34)
Author: Elizabeth Bevarly

Oh, great. A dark, shadowy figure who could be almost anyone. That helped ever so much.

The dark, shadowy figure must have sensed her nearness or heard her approach, however, because as she was drawing back from the peephole, a voice called from the other side, “Della? Are you home? Let me in. We need to talk.”

The sound of Marcus’s deep voice startled her even more than the doorbell had. Her phone slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor, her heart began to pound like a marathon runner’s and her mind raced in a million different directions. How had he found her? Why was he here? If he’d found her, did someone else know she was here, too? Would his being here compromise the case? Would the feds go so far as to arrest Marcus to keep him under wraps, too?

What should she do?

“Della?” he called out again. “Are you there?” How had he found her? Why had he found her? And if he knew her whereabouts, did he know about everything else that had happened, too?

What should she do?

Instead of panicking, however, a strange sort of calm suddenly settled over her, in spite of all the questions, in spite of her confusion, in spite of her fears and misgivings. Even though Della didn’t know what to do, she knew, very well, what she wanted to do….

The chain was latched, as it always was, so, ignoring the phone on the floor, Della turned the three dead bolts on the door and opened it. It was still too dark on the other side for her to make out Marcus clearly, but the absence of light made her feel better. If she couldn’t see him, he couldn’t see her, either. But it wasn’t because of vanity about being in wine-stained pajamas and no makeup or having her hair pulled back in a lopsided ponytail. It was because she knew Marcus couldn’t see the real Della Hannan this way. She could still be the fantasy she hoped he remembered her as.

“Della?” he said again, evidently still not certain he’d found her.

All she could manage in response was, “Hi, Marcus.”

His entire body seemed to relax at her greeting. “It’s really you,” he said softly.

The remark didn’t invite a response, so Della said nothing. Truly, she had no idea what to say. If Marcus knew she was here, he must know why she was here, too. The marshals had kept her hidden for eleven months without any problems. Yet in less than two weeks, Marcus had managed to find her, without having anything more than her first name. He must know everything about what had happened at this point.

For a long moment, neither of them said a word, and neither moved a muscle. The cold winter wind whipped up behind him, sending his overcoat fluttering about his legs and his hair shuffling around his face. Even though she couldn’t make out his features in the darkness, she remembered every elegant contour of his face—the rugged jawline, the patrician nose, the carved cheekbones. As the wind blew past him and against her, it brought his scent, too, the spicy, smoky one she recalled too well. Smelling him again, even one fleeting impression, filled her with desire and hunger and need. It was all she could do not to pull back the chain and throw the door open wide and welcome him into the house, into her life, into her.

But she couldn’t do that. She wasn’t the woman he thought she was. He might not be the man she’d thought him to be. And even if they could both be what the other wanted, in a matter of days, Della would be disappearing into another life Marcus couldn’t be a part of. Her new life would be one into which she was retreating, one that would necessitate living quietly and unobtrusively. His life was one into which he would always go boldly and always live lavishly. And neither the twain could meet.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

“No,” she said quickly.

“Della, please. We need to talk.”

“We are talking.”

“No, we’re not. We’re greeting each other.”

“Then start talking.”

He growled out an epithet. “It’s cold. Let me in.”

Well, he did have a point there, she conceded. Her sock-clad toes were already screaming that they were about to get frostbite. Not to mention her robe was in the other room.

Not to mention she really wanted to see him again. Up close and in good light. She wanted to stand near enough to feel his warmth. Near enough to inhale his scent. And she wanted to pretend again, just for a little while, as she had during their weekend together, that nothing in her life would ever be wrong again.

Unable to help herself, she pushed the door closed enough to unhook the chain, then pulled it open again. Strangely, Marcus didn’t barrel immediately through and close it behind himself. Instead, he remained at the threshold, waiting for some cue from her.

Striving to lighten the mood, she said, “Unless you’re a vampire, you don’t need a formal invitation.”

He hesitated a moment, then said, “I’d like to be invited anyway.”

She remembered the night at the club, how he had joined her without asking first, and how he had taken the lead for everything after that. There had been no uncertainty in him that night two weeks ago. But tonight, it was as if he were as uncertain about everything as she was. For some reason, that made her feel a little less uncertain.

“Would you like to come in?” she asked quietly.

He nodded, then took a few steps forward. When she stepped out of the way to let him enter, her foot hit the cell phone on the floor and skittered it to the other side of the foyer. As Della stooped to pick it up, Marcus closed the door behind himself. In the dark room, she could still sense nothing of what he might be feeling or thinking, so she led him into the den. As she walked, she restlessly tugged the rubber band from her ponytail and did her best to fluff and tame her hair at the same time. There was nothing she could do about the wine-spattered pajamas, however, so she only crossed her arms over the stain as best she could and told herself the posture wasn’t defensive.

Even if she was feeling a little defensive.

She gestured toward the sofa. “Have a seat,” she said as she tucked herself into the chair.

But Marcus didn’t sit. Instead, he stood with his hands shoved into his coat pockets, gazing at her.

He looked magnificent, different from the last time she had seen him, but somehow completely unchanged. In person, she’d seen him dressed only in the tuxedo and the bathrobe—one extreme to another—and this incarnation of him was somewhere in between. His trousers were casual and charcoal in color and paired with a bulky black sweater. Coupled with the dark coat and his dark hair, and having come in from the darkness the way he had, he still seemed as overwhelming as he had been the first time she saw him. But his eyes were anxious and smudged with faint purple crescents. His hair was a bit shaggy, and his face wasn’t closely shaved. His posture was both too tense and too fatigued, as if he were trapped in some state between the two. Or maybe both conditions had just overwhelmed him. All in all, he looked like a man who had been worrying about something—or perhaps someone—a lot.