Shopping for a Billionaire 3(15)
Author: Julia Kent

As long as it’s me, I think. He gives me a look that says he’s read my mind.

I’m about as graceful as a three-legged elephant with arthritis as I climb out of the helicopter, managing somehow to step on Declan’s foot and elbow him in the abs as he helps me down. Joel gives us a thumbs-up and walks away as Declan takes my elbow and escorts me to a small door at the base of the lighthouse.

“I assume we’re still in the United States?” I ask. “Because I left my passport at home.”

“Glad to hear you have one,” he says as he opens the tattered wood door, the paint worn down, the old dark oak underneath poking through under white paint as faded as old bones left out in the sun for too many summers. A narrow set of stairs, all made of concrete from a time when I imagine puritans hand-mixed it, curls up to the sky in a dizzying spiral. I inhale the scent of sea salt and centuries.

His words warm me, though. Where could we go? Where would he take me? Not that it matters, as long as I’m with him. He hinted about New Zealand last week, but I thought he’d been joking.

I guess not. My neck hurts from staring straight up, the lighthouse’s peak blocked by a ceiling.

“What is this place?” I ask. I can see the stairs curve up at the top and stop.

“I wanted to take you somewhere you’ve never been. Finding a restaurant that a mystery shopper has never eaten in or evaluated is a daunting task. But I think I’ve risen to the occasion.” His hand on the small of my back pushes gently so that I go inside, my shoes scraping against old stone.

The main door clicks shut and echoes up, the sound carrying to the heavens.

“I think you’ve succeeded,” I whisper. My voice reverberates. I shiver involuntarily, and Declan’s arm is around me instantly, pulling me to his warmth.

“You scared?” He’s amused.

“No,” I protest. “It’s just a little cold. And dark.” Flickering gas lamps dot the path upwards, like something out of a Gothic novel. Declan clearly has a thing for these sorts of places. The walls remind me of a mausoleum without the names and dates etched in the front-facing stones.

“Don’t worry,” he says, pulling back and gesturing for me to go first up the stairs. “The manacles on the torture chamber are lined with a nice, thick sherpa fleece.”

Chapter Seven

I halt so fast his front slams into my ass. I can feel exactly how he’s risen to the occasion.

“Huh?”

“That was a joke.”

I turn and face him. His lips are twitching around a poorly contained look of amusement.

“Look here, buddy,” I say, poking my finger against his perfect chest. “This isn’t like one of those books where the billionaire steals the poor, underpaid intern away from her horrible life and they discover a mutually beneficial BDSM lifestyle, m’kay?”

He pretends to be crestfallen. “Oh. Okay. Then I’ll just call Joel and we’ll take you home.” He reaches into his back pocket for his phone and fake dials. I can see he’s actually on ESPN and checking scores. The Red Sox are playing at Fenway right now. In know that because we flew over them, and that fact makes the entire night seem so surreal.

Seem? It is surreal. Magical. A little too perfect.

My stomach growls in protest. “What about dinner?” I ignore him and start walking up the stairs. There’s no railing, so I cling to the stones with splayed palms, thanking God I’m not wearing high heels.

“Nice view,” he says, suspiciously close behind me. A warm hand slides up between my thighs. “Here, let me lend you a hand.”

“That hand isn’t helping.” His fingers slide under my already-soaked panties and he gives me the slightest touch against my wetness. We pause and I cling to the wall with even weaker legs.

“Really?” he murmurs against the back of my neck. “It seems to be making things much…smoother.”

“You’re slick.”

“Actually,” he says, “you’re the one who’s slick.” As tantalizing as being felt up on the stairs is, there’s a very real danger that we will roll down the stone steps and end up in the hospital again and I, for one, cannot emotionally handle two dates in a row ending with an Explanation of Benefits form and an ER co-pay.

“Let’s get upstairs and see what you have for me.”

He takes my hand and puts it on his fly.

“That’s not quite what I meant, Declan.”

He glides past me, making sure to press every inch of his chiseled self against my own soft curves, taking the steps up carefully until his ass is in my face. It’s a fabulous view.

“Normally I’d say ‘ladies first,’ but right now you’re procrastinating, so—”

“You’re groping me on the stairs and making it so I can’t even walk! How is that procrastinating?” I’m talking to air, though, because by the time I say that, he’s halfway to the top, bounding up like this is part of The Amazing Race and he’s on the annoying team that’s always way ahead of everyone else because they’re in good shape and all that unfair crap.

So I trek my way up, one frightening stair at a time. My hand brushes against something soft on the stones and I scream.

“What’s wrong?” he calls down.

If I confess, he’ll just make fun of me. Or, worse, come back here and drive me wild with those fingers and we’ll tumble down the stairs to our deaths. No one would find us for days. We would be the lead story on New England Cable News for weeks.

Billionaire Meets Death with Klutzy Woman. News at eleven.

I force myself to take the stairs at a faster clip. By the time I climb the equivalent of three stories, my quads are screaming.

Screaming to be wrapped around his hips.

The most delicious scent tickles my nose as I make the final turn up to the top of the stairs, Declan standing there, holding open a small door. I have to duck to enter. Oregano and rosemary and something else fill the air, and as I come to a full standing position I’m greeted by a scene out of a dream.

Tall, sculpted windows arch high toward a flat ceiling, with the ocean surrounding us in a 360-degree spin that is beyond breathtaking. The room is just beneath what I assume is the lighthouse’s warning light, because an arch of glow comes from above at regular intervals, making this room ethereal and supernatural, as if Declan had conjured it with magic.

The actual room has a small soapstone stove with a fire burning in it, which helps, because the air is chilled this high up and far out into the harbor. Two large L-shaped sofas ring the wood stove, and a series of blown-glass lamps dangle from the ceiling in muted earth tones and adobe. Thick Persian rugs cover the well-worn wood of the floor, wide pine flooring hearkening back to a very different time.