THE BRAVO BILLIONAIRE Read online

  * * *

  What she hadn't counted on was how the sight of him hollowed her out, how all he had to do was put his hand on her arm and the blood seemed to rush up to the surface of her skin where he touched her, as if it only wanted to be closer to him.

  Pathetic, she thought. Downright pitiful.

  He led her to the living room where they'd shared drinks on their wedding night. He had the daiquiris ready – banana flavored this time. The golden, icy confection tempted her.

  But Emma couldn't afford to get any more stupid than his mere presence was already making her. Banana daiquiris were out. "No, thanks," she said.

  He slanted her a look – watchful, knowing. And he shrugged. He poured himself whatever he'd poured himself the last time, three fingers of something richly amber in color.

  He raised his glass to her and he drank. And then he came toward her.

  Oh, she wished he wouldn't do that. The closer he came, the more tangled up in yearning she got. And the more downright dazed. She was standing in front of one of the striped silk sofas, since she hadn't quite gotten around to sitting down yet. And then she couldn't sit down. Her legs felt spindly and weak as those of a newborn calf, yet at the same time, she could not get them to bend.

  He stopped about a foot from her. It was way too close – and it wasn't nearly close enough. She could smell him. He smelled so good, of some really nice aftershave and of healthiness and of something else, something that was just him, something that stunned her and drew her and made her want to grab him and run – straight up the stairs to her bed.

  "Dinner can wait," he said. He turned to set his half-finished drink on the little table next to the sofa. She just stood there, longing moving through her like a pulse, thinking how pathetic she was – and at the same time, too aroused to even care.

  He faced her again. "Ready?" He offered his arm.

  She hooked her hand through it. They turned for the door to the grand foyer and the stairs.

  * * *

  "An attractive dress," he said, when he was taking it off of her. "It suits you, in a whole new way."

  She actually opened her mouth then, to say what had been on her mind. "Well, I wore it because I thought it looked serious."

  "Serious?" He had the zipper down. He put his hands on her shoulders.

  "Yes. I was planning to talk to you about—"

  "What?" He pushed the dress off her shoulders, his hands stroking down her arms.

  "I thought—"

  And he kissed her.

  So much for thought.

  He took away the dress, and her black bra and her pretty high-heeled shoes and even the pantyhose she had worn because they had seemed a kind of protection, a way to be more covered than usual around him.

  Oh, well. So much for her plans for the evening.

  He took off his own clothes and the two of them fell to the bed and after that there was nothing but sighing and moaning and some yelling, as well.

  * * *

  Emma knew that she needed a good talking-to. She needed someone to tell her what-for.

  For the first twenty or so years of her life, she had had her aunt Cass for times like these. And after Aunt Cass had succumbed to that melanoma she got because she'd always been so big on getting nice and tan, she'd had Blythe. Thinking about the wise things either of those two women might say now was like ripping open a healing wound. It made Emma's throat close up and her chest feel too tight.

  Well, Aunt Cass and Blythe were gone. If Emma wanted wise words, she'd have to look elsewhere.

  She and Deirdre had coffee and bagels together in Emma's office at PetRitz the morning after Jonas returned from New York. They talked a little about the workday ahead and then some about a new guy Deirdre was seeing, an accountant of all things. He sounded like a pretty decent fella, and Emma told her friend so.

  Then Deirdre asked, "So, how's life at the mansion?"

  Emma told all – well, not the details, but the main points.

  It was awful, putting it right out there, how in just over one week of marriage, she'd had nothing that even came close to a real conversation with her new husband, that his touch caused her IQ to drop fifty points. How he came to her late in the night, and left before dawn.

  "I swear, Deirdre," Emma cried, "if he sleeps at all, it's never with me."

  Deirdre shook her red head and munched her raisin bagel with raspberry-flavored cream cheese and said, "It's not like I didn't warn you."

  Emma set down her coffee and made a low noise in her throat. "Oh, gee. Thanks. Say 'I told you so.' That is a big help – and what are you laughing about?"

  "It's too delicious." For a minute, Emma thought Deirdre meant the cream cheese, which she was licking from her fingers. But then she added, "My boss, the sex toy."

  Emma sat back in her swivel chair and tried to look dignified. "You are just too mean to live."

  "What if the tabloids got ahold of what you just told me? Wouldn't that be rich? I can see it now, 'Dog Trainer Willing Sex Slave of Bravo Billionaire.'"

  "Oh, I am so glad I talked to you about this," Emma muttered under her breath.

  "All right." Deirdre had finished laughing. She leaned toward Emma. "So what are you going to do?"

  Emma swiveled her chair back and forth. "I was hopin' that you'd have a suggestion."

  Deirdre shrugged. "Get a backbone?"

  "I've tried."

  "Try harder."

  Oh, where were Aunt Cass and Blythe when a woman needed them?

  Deirdre was squinting across the desk now. "You're serious? You want advice? From me."

  "Yes, I do."

  "Well, then." Deirdre sipped coffee, took another bite of her bagel. Finally, she came out with it. "I'd say, try to talk to him one more time. But use a different approach."

  "Different?"

  "Yeah. Come at it a new way. Maybe don't try to talk to him right at first, when he shows up at the side of your bed. Get the edge off first, so to speak."

  "The edge off?"

  "Emma. You know what I mean. Make love, once or twice. And when you're both relaxed and satisfied…"

  "Try to talk to him then."

  "Exactly."

  "And if that doesn't work?"

  Deirdre swore. "What is the point with this guy? I gotta ask you, why don't you just enjoy the mindless sex thing while it lasts and then—"

  "That is not what this is about."

  "Oh. Right. Sorry, I forgot."

  "Just stop being sarcastic and tell me the rest."

  "The rest?"

  "The rest of your advice, what to do if I still can't get him to talk to me."

  Deirdre paused long enough for a few of her yoga breaths. Then she slumped in her chair. "All right. If you can't get him to talk to you, then I'd go for action."

  "Action?"

  "Yeah, and don't ask me what action. You'll have to figure that out for yourself."

  * * *

  That night, Emma waited. She bided her time. When her husband came to her, she didn't even try to get him to talk to her right at first. She let him lead the Yorkies and Festus away. Then she opened her arms to him and pulled him down onto the bed with her. She made love to him – passionately, tenderly. She gave it her all.

  Twice.

  And then a third time.

  Finally, well past one in the morning, he did what he always did, brushing her hair away from her temple, whispering so softly, "Go to sleep."

  Surprisingly, she found she felt clearheaded, for once. As if her resolve to reach out to him had finally become strong enough to override her overwhelming lust for the man.

  Emma took the hand that smoothed her hair and kissed it. Then she sat up. She reached over and turned on the bedside lamp.

  The light helped, it really did. She felt more sure of herself than she did in the dark.

  Jonas had sat up, too. He was frowning at her.

  She gave him a big smile. "Jonas, have you noticed that we never seem to
talk?"

  He looked at her for a long time. And then he smiled. It was a very slow smile and a totally sexual one. "I don't think we need to talk."

  Oh, now, how did he do that? How could just his voice and his smile turn her into a quivering mass of burning desire?

  Hold on, she was thinking. Don't go under. Don't give in.

  She sat up straighter, and pulled the sheet tight around her bare breasts. "There," she said. "Look what you're doin'. Aren't you ashamed of yourself?"

  "No." With a finger, he traced the tops of her breasts, right above the sheet, causing hot little goose bumps to erupt where he touched.

  "Well, you certainly should be." She took his hand and gently pushed it away. "This is crazy, this thing between us."

  He sat back a little – which was good. The farther back he sat, the clearer her mind got. He said, "As far as I'm concerned, this thing between us is working out just fine."

  She straightened the sheet a little, huffed in a breath. "Jonas. It is not working out just fine. We're married. We don't act like married folks. Not one bit."

  "Why should we? This is hardly your average marriage."

  "Well, you are dead right there, mister. If you ask me, it is a very strange kind of marriage. You come to my bed in the night. We make love. You leave. If you have something to say to me, you call me at work. We both know why you do that. So that you can hang up as soon as you're done talkin', So I won't have a chance to say anything you don't want to hear.

  "Maybe you're happy with the way things are goin'. I'm not. Even if it is for only a year, I would like it to be the best year it can be. I would like more than beautiful lovemakin'. The way I see it, if there's gonna be lovemakin', there should be sleepin' afterward – you and me, I mean, sleepin'. Together. And there should be talking. I want you to really talk to me."

  He studied her face for a long, painful moment. Then he said, "Good night, Emma." He pushed back the covers and swung his legs off the bed.

  She folded her arms over the sheet. "Just tell me, Jonas. Does this mean I'm not gettin' through to you?"

  He sent her the kind of look he was famous for – cold and dangerous as the blade of a knife.

  She kept her chin high. "Aunt Cass used to say, 'Treat a man as he is, and he will remain as he is. Treat a man as he can and should be, and he will become what he can and should be.'"

  He grunted. "Goethe," he said.

  She frowned. "Huh? Gurta?"

  "Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, German poet and dramatist. That quote came from him."

  "Well, fine. Whoever said it, I am doin' it. I am treatin' you as you can and should be, Jonas Bravo. By the time our year is over, you won't be what you were."

  He said something under his breath, something nasty, she just knew it. Then he started getting dressed. He did it swiftly and efficiently. No wasted movement whatsoever.

  In two minutes from the time he'd left the bed, he was striding to the door, fully clothed. He went out, closing it quietly behind him.

  Emma stared at the door he had shut on her. Okay Jonas, she thought. I have tried to get through to you with talk. Talk has not worked. Now action is called for.

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  «^»

  Jonas called Emma at PetRitz twice the next day. Once in the morning and once in the early afternoon. She didn't answer her phone either time. He ended up talking to Pixie, who told him, both times, that Emma was busy and couldn't come to the phone right then.

  "Busy doing what?" he demanded on the second call.

  "Well, she didn't tell me that. She just said to tell you that she was busy."

  "Just busy."

  "That's right. I'd be glad to give her a message for you, Jonas."

  "No, thank you, Pixie," he replied, thinking that he was the one getting the message here. And the message was, if he wanted to talk to his wife, he'd better think of some other way to do it than by phone. He added, "I'll try again later," knowing he would do no such thing.

  "Well, you just go ahead and do that," Pixie chirped out, sounding insolent enough to set his teeth on edge.

  There wasn't a thing more to say right then, so he hung up.

  He decided to give her cell phone a try. It rang for a long time, then a recorded voice picked up, told him that the customer was not available at the moment and invited him to leave a message.

  He didn't.

  * * *

  It was barely seven when Jonas returned to Angel's Crest that evening. He'd gone ahead and rescheduled his dinner engagement with Ledger DelVecchio, an independent film producer, a fellow who always amused him and whose offbeat movies Jonas often backed.

  Though he never made any real money doing it, Jonas frequently contributed to the arts, both as an investor and through outright donations. He supposed he had some of his mother in him, after all. Now and then it felt good to do a thing just because somebody with money had to do it or it wouldn't get done.

  But Ledger would have to wait until tomorrow night. Tonight, Jonas wanted to get things straight with Emma. He had his driver drop him off at the side entrance nearest her rooms. He planned to make a few things crystal clear to his temporary wife. And after he had explained how things were going to be, he planned to ask her to have dinner with him.

  Night before last they'd never managed to get around to dinner. He regretted that now. But he'd taken one look at her in that damn demure little back dress, and all he could think about was getting it off of her.

  And yes. All right. Maybe he shouldn't have walked out on her last night. He was willing, he'd realized today, to expend a little effort to keep Emma happy.

  Because, on the whole, Emma kept him happy. In ways he'd never known a man could be happy. The woman was a find. In the end, he supposed, there was something to be said for sincerity – for frankness and honesty, for giving a hundred percent.

  Emma made love like that: sincerely, frankly, one hundred percent. After the past nine stimulating nights, Jonas had discovered he could actually imagine lasting out the whole year without becoming the least bit bored.

  He only had to make it clear to her that heart-to-heart talks and staying the whole night in her bed were not part of the deal. He was willing to bend. A little. He'd spend more time with her clothed, if she wanted it that way. They'd share meals a few times a week.

  He'd even take her out, if that would please her, though in his opinion, going out would be far more trouble than it could possibly be worth. Right now, the two of them were something of an item with the press. Which meant they'd probably be hounded unmercifully by reporters should they dare anything so outrageous as trying to share a meal in a restaurant.

  Jonas climbed the servants' stairway to the second floor, telling himself that if Emma wanted a few nights on the town, she would have them. Because he was a fair man and he took care of the people who took care of him. And as exasperating as the woman could be now and then, Emma Lynn definitely knew how to take care of him.

  He emerged from the stairwell into a side hall, strode down it and turned a corner to find himself at the door to Emma's suite. He reached for the door handle – and then hesitated.

  Strange. Every night, he went into her room without so much as a thought for knocking first.

  But right now, he felt that that would be wrong. Rude. An invasion of her privacy.

  Maybe it was the slowly sinking sun whose orange rays still glowed in the fan-lighted window at the far end of the hall. He never came to her when the sun was up. Daylight, somehow, seemed a time when he had no claim on her.

  He shrugged. Whatever. And then he knocked.

  And after that, he waited.

  She didn't answer.

  He called her name, "Emma," and knocked again.

  Nothing.

  It hadn't occurred to him that she might not be in her rooms. She had always been there, waiting, whenever he wanted her.

  The absurdity of his assumption dawned on him then. He'd never befo
re come to her at seven in the evening. This, as they say, was a whole new ball game. She might be anywhere – including on the other side of the door, ignoring his knock.

  He took hold of the door handle. It turned, so he pushed the door inward. "Emma," he said, "there's no need to be childish about—"

  He cut himself off. She did not appear to be in the room.

  He went in and quietly shut the door behind him. "Emma?"

  No answer. He went into the dressing room and the bath, as well. No sign of her. Or of the dogs, for that matter. Or even of that sleepy-eyed black-and-white cat.

  It came to him. Mandy's room. She'd taken the animals and gone to visit his sister.

  Well all right, then. He'd seek her out there. That might work well, now he thought about it. If she remained irritated with him about last night, she would try not to let her feelings show around the sprite. She'd make an effort to be civil to him, and that would be a start. They could spend some time with Mandy, and then he could lead her away to say the things he meant to say.

  He started for the door again – and then paused near the foot of the black-skirted bed. Something wasn't right.

  His gaze fell on the gilded black Empire table that served as a nightstand. Last night, there had been two framed pictures on that table, one of his mother and the Yorkies and Mandy. And one of a handsome, deeply tanned woman in a tight-fitting blue chambray shirt and Western-cut vest: the legendary Aunt Cass.

  Neither picture was there now.

  Jonas turned slowly, taking in every aspect of the large room. He found not one single item of Emma's in sight. No pictures, none of those little bits of bric-a-brac she had brought with her when she moved in, things like a saucer full of shells she'd probably gathered on some beach somewhere and a three-inch figurine of a raccoon standing on its haunches, prehensile paws tucked under its chin, staring out at the world coyly through surprisingly lifelike black glass eyes.

  Jonas spun on his heel and strode to the dressing room. He threw back the door to the walk-in closet.

  Not a single, skimpy dayglow-colored dress. No leopard-skin pants, no peekaboo blouses, no rows of sexy high-heeled shoes. Nothing. Empty. Just a faint, faraway echo of roses, the smell of her lingering, and that was all.