Romancing the Billionaire (Billionaire Boys Club #5)(32)
Author: Jessica Clare

She felt like an ass. She’d meant the “Prince Charming” comment in a teasing way, referring to the way he’d carried her like a princess in need of her fainting couch. He’d apparently taken it the wrong way. So she just crossed her arms over her chest to hide her br**sts and shivered on the bank. “What do we do now? Want to try the other side?”

“Take my jacket,” he told her, stripping it off.

“You’re not cold?”

“I’m fine,” he said brusquely, pushing the blazer over her shoulders before she could protest.

He wasn’t fine. That wasn’t the tone of voice of a man who was “fine” but she didn’t want to argue with him. She slipped her arms through the sleeves of his jacket, grateful she’d at least be able to hide her too-perky ni**les. “Thanks.”

“Let’s go across the bridge and try the other side. This time I’ll do the exploring.”

She made a face at him but didn’t protest. She hadn’t been able to find anything herself. Maybe he’d have better luck than she did.

She gathered up her shoes and stockings and followed him. They picked up their coffee cups—the contents had spilled when Jonathan had plunged into the river after her—and Violet sniffed hers mournfully. The ducks had attacked the paper bag as soon as it had hit the ground, and there was nothing left of it but shreds and crumbs. “So much for breakfast,” she said in a light voice, hoping to restore their easy mood from earlier.

Jonathan didn’t reply, just put a hand at the small of her back and steered her toward the bridge.

Violet sighed to herself and let him guide her.

They had just stepped onto the footpath-designated area of the bridge when Jonathan stiffened at her side.

“What is it?” she asked him, curious.

He looked down at her, his eyes gleaming in a way that made her pulse race. “The letter said thirteen steps underneath, right?”

“It did.”

“What if there was a comma?”

“A comma,” she echoed, not following. She was too distracted by that roguish look in his eyes. Oh, God, did that look give her memories. It was the same one he’d given her just before he’d gone down on her. That wait till you get a load of this look that always promised—and delivered—such good things.

She really, really needed to stop thinking about sex around him.

“Thirteen steps,” Jonathan said, “comma, underneath.”

Realization dawned. Thirteen steps, underneath. She looked behind them at the start of the suspension bridge. “Thirteen steps from there, do you think?”

Jonathan was already racing back, and she watched him turn, and then began to count aloud. He passed her and paused. “Thirteen.” Then, he dropped to his knees and stuck his head over the side of the bridge. A moment later, he leaned in and his entire torso moved over the edge.

“Jonathan, be careful,” she warned as he twisted his body farther over the side, reaching for something she couldn’t see.

“Got it,” he called up, and then held an envelope aloft a few moments later.

Violet squealed and danced in place; she couldn’t help herself. “You did! You found it! Jonathan, you’re a genius!”

He sat back on his haunches, just grinning up at her like he’d won an award, and Violet had to clench her fists to keep from going over and planting a big happy kiss on his face. She should have been grumpy that he was able to find it so easily, but she was simply excited that he’d found it. It felt like they were a team.

She sat down next to him on the walkway, ignoring the people who had to maneuver around them, and peered over his shoulder as he flipped the envelope in his hands. It was larger than she thought it would be, and sealed entirely in a thin layer of plastic. The exterior was plain, but she could see her name and Jonathan’s written on the front in her father’s handwriting.

The sight of it sent a pang of emotion through her. What was her father thinking when he placed it here? What was his goal? She stared down at the sealed envelope, wishing she’d understood her father just a little bit. But even in death, he was inscrutable to her.

Jonathan offered the envelope to her. “Do you want to do the honors?”

She shook her head. “You found it. You open it. It only seems fair.”

He flashed her a grin and then tore at the plastic covering the envelope. He tugged it free and slipped a finger under the wax seal, and then reached inside.

EIGHT

Jonathan pulled out two familiar yellowed envelopes from the plastic covering, each one with its own seal. One had Violet’s name on it, and the other, Jonathan’s. He held the envelope with her name out to her, and when she hesitated, said gently, “Why don’t you open yours first?”

She nodded and took a deep breath. This was just another clue. There was no reason to be nervous. It was just more of her father’s games that would lead to yet another unsatisfying clue, and eventually an unsatisfying prize. Violet plucked the envelope from Jonathan’s hand and tore open the wax seal, then pulled out the letter inside. She scanned the lines of text, and then began to read aloud.

“Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel, and lower the proud;

Turn thy wild wheel thro’ sunshine, storm, and cloud;

Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.

Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frown;

With that wild wheel we go not up or down;

Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.

Smile and we smile, the lords of many lands;

Frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands;

For man is man and master of his fate.

Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring crowd;

Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the cloud;

Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.”

Violet finished reading and frowned. “What is this obsession with poetry?”

“You loved poetry once. I remember that well. Maybe that’s why he’s been selecting poems for your messages.”

True, she’d loved poetry . . . once upon a time, maybe. Back when she’d been romantic and silly. She’d lost all interest in it when reality had slapped her in the face. Ignoring Jonathan’s astute comment, she scanned the letter again, looking for hints. “I don’t see a clue like before. There must be a message in the meaning of the poem itself. Either that, or yours has the message and mine is just fluff.” She looked over at him. “Do you recognize this poem?”

Jonathan took the letter from her and considered it. After a pause, he shook his head. “It sounds vaguely familiar, but I don’t know who wrote it.”