Shopping for a Billionaire 4(30)
Author: Julia Kent

“Us?” The second that syllable is out of his mouth I deconstruct it, finding 17 different meanings when you include vocal inflection, tone, and pacing. “And I never told Jessica,” he says with a growl. “She found it out on her own and confronted me with it.”

“Confronted?” What is the big secret?

He storms away from me, onto the balcony, bracing his arms on the railing, leaning into the wrought iron in a way that makes his arm muscles bulge, his shoulders spread. Tipping his head down as I join him, he can’t—won’t—meet my eyes.

I touch him, my hand on his shoulder. He twitches just enough to make me remove it.

“Are you sure you’re safe out here?” he asks in a flat voice.

“Safe from what? Flying vibrators?”

He laughs, clearly against his will. Yet he won’t look at me. His gaze shifts to the water, eyes tracking a sailboat that glides smoothly on the waves.

“No. From a bee sting.”

Anger pours into me like it’s been attached to an IV drip bag and administered as medicine. “You can’t let it go, can you?”

His head snaps up. “What?”

“You can’t let go of the fact that I have this…thing. This allergy. This curse.” I feel the rant coiled deep inside, ready to unfurl. “It’s not like I have a choice. I didn’t ask for this. It’s part of who I am, and I take every precaution imaginable—”

“Not every precaution.”

I tilt my head and stare at his profile. Red dots of fire kiss my cheeks. Blood courses through me like a tsunami.

This? This is what’s stopping him?

“You liar,” I spit out.

His eyes light up with a mixture of confusion and indignation.

“Liar?”

“Yes. Liar. You lied to me a month ago. You told me that you thought I was a chameleon, that I wouldn’t reveal the real Shannon.”

“What does that have to do with my lying about—”

“This is the real Shannon. The real Shannon can die if she’s stung by a bee. The real Shannon has boobs that touch the bed when she lies on her back. The real Shannon needs to wear spanx to fit into a comfortable size sixteen. The real Shannon hates Transformers movies. The real Shannon thinks Jessica and Steve and your father and fake people who have overinflated egos and are out of touch with reality.”

He isn’t showing even the tiniest hint of emotion as he listens, expressionless. His hands are tight fists, though, held close to his thighs, and his nostrils flare as he breathes silently. No reaction.

Oh, yeah? I’ll make you react.

“And the real Shannon thinks you’re a total emotional wuss for thinking that hiding your emotions makes you more of a man,” I add. A parting shot, if you will. I want to kiss him again and knock some sense into that handsome face, using my tongue and hands and heart if I have to, but I see, now, that it’s no use. He’s clinging to his secret and if he won’t tell me what’s going on, I can’t keep playing this game.

My heart isn’t a toy.

And with that I storm out of my own room, snatching my purse and instruction sheet.

It’s time to evaluate the bar.

* * *

It’s an icehouse in here.

This time—literally. I’m fuming and so red-hot on fire that as I walk into the carved-ice bar I fear I’ll melt the entire place down with my very presence.

As I step into the sculpted ice room, I realize it’s like a cave. The bar has barstools—made of ice. The bar itself is one round-edged sheet of ice. Shelves? Ice.

It’s magical.

My ni**les tighten from the cold and I look down. All I’m wearing is the thin white silk shirt I have on, the one that got wet a few minutes ago. My soaked sleeve is like a frosted blanket, and I can see my own breath as I exhale. My jacket is back in my room (with Declan) and my skirt is split up to my panty line.

No wonder the girls just went tight and high. It’s cold in here.

I don’t care. My mind can’t stop spilling over with a thousand words, most of them profanity-laced diatribes about Declan.

How dare he?

How dare he!

Show up and interrupt the most important job I’ve ever had, mock my profession by pretending to be a maintenance man (yeah, right…like Amanda put him up to it!) and then have the audacity to kiss me. A lot. And then blame me for not telling me what on earth his dead mother has to do with his dumping me!

I need a scotch. Bad.

I sit down gingerly on the cold, hard, ice-topped bar stool. The bartender’s back is to me, and he’s whistling some tune I don’t recognize. The lighting in the bar is a series of cool blue LED bulbs carved into the ice. The entire room is like something out of the set of a new Star Trek film.

The music is soft jazz with a jaunty, bluesy tone to it. The kind of music that gets you warmed up to go to bed with someone. To throw inhibitions into the wind and let your impulses carry you to a new place.

Like a hotel room upstairs.

My skin tingles from the rush of emotion that clings to me, my lips raw from those kisses, my heart shredded and beating like it holds time itself together. Like my heart is responsible for the counting of seconds that pass.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

That’s too big a burden.

Need to drown it in alcohol.

I clear my throat. “Excuse me? Could I order a—” As the bartender turns around and I get a look at his face, I cut my own words off.

It’s Andrew.

Declan’s brother.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, incredulous. A few heads, all male, turn toward the sound of my fairly-loud, and quite demanding, voice. They turn back to their drinks and conversation when Andrew leans in toward me and puts his hand over mine, like we’re old friends.

Where Declan is dark and intense, Andrew is fair and blank. Generic. Now that I’ve seen pictures of their mother, I understand who Andrew takes after. He’s not quite blonde, and the eyes are pale brown, like a fine whisky. The broad planes of his face are Declan’s, though.

“Would you keep your voice down? When you go undercover you’re supposed to blend in.”

“I’m blending in!”

“I meant me. I’m acting, and this is my first time, so don’t blow it.” He’s mocking me, pretending to be serious. “I don’t want to have to pretend to be a lesbian and have that blow up in my face,” he adds.

“You’re an ass**le.”

“Nice language.”

“Wait until I have my two drinks in me.”