The Billionaire's Claim_Redemption Page 5

  We put on headsets and take off. I can fly the chopper on my own, so I decided to take it rather than my jet, which requires a different pilot. I don’t want somebody else underfoot, and I don’t want to be stranded on the island without any means to leave. It’s small, with only a landing strip, a helipad and a house the previous owner dubbed “the Hut,” which is really a three-story mansion. It has a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the azure sea and perfect, silky white sand. I bought the whole thing at a bankruptcy auction.

  Elizabeth’s gray eyes shine with excitement as our helicopter flies over the water. “I didn’t know you could fly,” she says, her voice light and joyful as she looks outside, then at me. Suddenly she pulls her lips in and looks away.

  I clear my throat and fudge a bit. “I’ve never flown you anywhere. So you couldn’t have known…”

  The smile returns. Her head swivels around, studying St. Cecilia growing smaller. “It’s gorgeous. I’m glad the weather’s perfect.”

  There isn’t even a wisp of cloud in the sky. The morning sun hits the ever-moving water, fracturing and sparkling like an infinity of turquoise-colored diamonds. Multiple shades of aquamarine denote the depths of the sea below. The vast majority is on the shallow side with calm water.

  I land the chopper on the roof of the Hut at the base of a cove.

  Elizabeth hops out before I can to help her. Thankfully, her step is sure, her legs steady. She looks around the pristine white sand and azure sea.

  “Oh my gosh, this is amazing. I didn’t know places like this actually existed.”

  I give her a wan smile, doing my best to look at it through her eyes. I’ve never liked being on the island much, despite the natural beauty. I could never figure out why the hell not, either. Eventually I chalked it up to claustrophobia, but that isn’t it. “I’m glad you like it.”

  “All this is really yours?”

  “Yup. And it’s just two of us here.”

  I unload our bags and take them inside, pausing briefly to enter my override code so the security system knows the house is no longer unoccupied. The perimeter sensors around the island remain on.

  “You sure you don’t need help?” she asks, watching me roll her two bags down the special winding walkway to the second level of the house.

  “I’m perfectly capable. Besides, you still have bruises and cuts. And I promised Dr. Raydor you wouldn’t exert yourself.”

  “I think he’s worried for nothing. I’m fine.” She looks outside the huge glass wall to our left. “You didn’t always have this.”

  Is she remembering? “No.” The word is dragged out of me.

  “So how did you end up with it? Whoever owned it before must not have wanted to sell.”

  I inhale and start talking. “No, but it didn’t matter. He was a land developer who overextended his company to the point he couldn’t make the note payment to the banks. This was one of the things he got rid of very quickly to cover his debt. Not that it stopped him from going belly up anyway.”

  “Business ambition can be tricky.”

  “Yes—so can luck.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “Luck?”

  “There were a few times when I was having cash-flow problems, and investors and bankers saved my ass by showing up at the right time.”

  “You must’ve had a guardian angel.”

  According to Tolyan, it was you. I have so many things I want to ask, events I want to understand better. Although Yu-Jin told me what she could, I know it wasn’t the whole story. But I’m afraid what Elizabeth might do if she remembers everything. At the same time, I’m afraid she might never remember or want to relive the last ten years.

  Just how bad did it get that you contacted me five years ago? Why did you really give me the portrait? Why did you go to St. Cecilia alone? What’s driving you now? Will you forgive me for my part in destroying your dream?

  Is it too little too late now? Was the charity dinner at the Sterling mansion the right time and place to make things right? Did I miss my chance?

  Elizabeth studies every nook and cranny of the house. I follow along, not because I’m afraid that she’s going to hurt herself or get lost, but because I want to watch her reactions. I redid the place after I bought it. The previous owner preferred an ornate and ostentatious style. I wanted something simpler and lighter, with lots of ivory, gold and sea-teal with a few pink accents, the pink being Kristen’s idea. The furniture’s modern, with clean, simple lines.

  I hired three interior decorators to work on the place, but somehow it never ended up feeling quite right. It still doesn’t, despite the stunning setting. Something vital is missing, although neither the decorators nor I could figure out what. I’m certain they thought I was either insane or being a jackass to avoid paying the invoice. I did pay the entire amount, but never spent much time at the Hut, hating the vaguely empty feeling it gave me.

  Still… I want Elizabeth to like it. I’ve made a few modifications to the place since deciding to bring her here. Even if she doesn’t fall fully in love with it, I hope she can tolerate it or find a way to alter it to her taste.

  Elizabeth stands in the middle of the living room, staring at the high ceiling with multiple ceiling fans spinning lazily, stirring the sea air. The sunlight pours over her, making her glow, and I suddenly understand what’s been missing. It isn’t a bigger couch or a livelier color scheme. It’s her—Elizabeth. She completes everything, making it the kind of place I never want to leave.

  “This is a paradise,” she says softly, shooting me a brilliant smile that robs me of breath and speech. “I love it. Thank you for bringing me here.”

  Then she goes to the second level. My mouth dries, anticipation and nerves tingling in my veins. The modifications I made are on the second floor. I want her to love them so badly that my stomach feels funny.

  She checks out the master bedroom suite with its huge sitting area and contemporary four-poster bed with gauzy hangings. It has a built-in nook where you can curl up with a book or coffee. Just like any other window, it overlooks the ocean. The walk-in closet is bigger than my bedroom was ten years ago. The bathroom has a sunken tub with Jacuzzi jets by windows tinted for privacy, so you can look out, but nobody can look in. It also has a separate shower stall with five heads and a double vanity in front of an unfoggable mirror.

  She gives me a quick grin, then checks out my study across the hall. It has some books, a couch and an armchair, a coffee table and a computer, a glass-top desk and an Embody chair. She doesn’t do more than stick her head in and quickly pull away. “Do you work a lot?” she asks.

  “Sometimes, but things aren’t that busy now. I have an executive taking care of things.”

  She nods. “You must have good people.”

  “I wouldn’t have hired them otherwise.”

  She grins. “Spoken like a brilliant man.” Then finally, she walks down the hall and opens the door at the end of the corridor.

  Instead of hopping inside, she comes to an abrupt stop. My mouth dries. This used to be a guest bedroom, but I changed it so that it can be her sanctuary, a place where she can be what she’s always longed to be.

  Three easels squat in the center. To the left is a huge storage space filled with canvases, sketchbooks and other art supplies. And in the center of the wall, right in front of her, is the portrait her grandfather painted. He meant so much to her, saw her gentle soul and steel. I want her to be able to look at it whenever she wants, even if she doesn’t remember its significance.

  She runs an unsteady hand over one of the empty canvases, then slowly walks toward the portrait and runs the same trembling hand along the frame. Her throat works, and she starts blinking rapidly, her lashes spiked with tears.

  When she turns to me, tears are running in rivulets. A hot fist closes around my heart, and I can’t breathe.

  Her voice shakes as she whispers, “Thank you.”

  The fist eases, and is replaced with a desire to give her everythi
ng and the moon.

  “You’re welcome,” I whisper back. Then she launches herself at me, and I catch my angel between my arms, forcibly willing the disquiet in my head to shut up.

  Chapter Twelve

  Dominic

  While Elizabeth unpacks her things, I start dinner. The property manager stocked the fridge and freezer with all sorts of seafood, meat and fresh veggies and fruit. Since he left us a huge package of fresh giant shrimp, I decide to stir-fry those with some spices and veggies and lay them over fluffy rice for dinner, along with mango and pineapple smoothies spiked with vodka—Dr. Raydor cleared her for alcohol, and Elizabeth enjoys good drinks—and a frozen peach cobbler to be warmed in the oven. I’m a decent cook, but not much of a baker.

  When I’m done shelling and deveining the shrimp, Elizabeth comes down the stairs. “That looks delicious.”

  “It will be, by the time I’m done.”

  She props her elbow on the marble counter and rests her chin in a hand. “How can I help?”

  “Take this.” I hand her the vodka smoothie.

  “Okay.”

  “Now go sit over there”—I gesture at a couch—“sip your smoothie and admire my mad skills.”

  She laughs. “Seriously?”

  “Dead serious. You can also admire my drinks.”

  Giggling, she sits on the couch in an elegant motion and takes a sip of the smoothie. Her eyes widen. “Wow. This is great.”

  “Told you.”

  “Do you have any music?” she asks.

  “On the shelf behind you.”

  She walks to the MP3 player paired to the Bluetooth speaker system in the mansion. Sipping her vodka smoothie, she checks the selection. It’s fairly eclectic and all over the place, mostly because I like almost every kind of music. Each has its own charm. And sometimes Kristen adds something to the list if she has something she particularly likes.

  Finally, Elizabeth makes a selection and returns to the couch. Coldplay’s “The Scientist” comes from the speakers, and I almost slice the tip of my left index finger as the skin around my eyes grows hot and tight.

  Wouldn’t it be awesome to be able to apologize in five minutes, figure out how and why things went so tragically wrong, then be given another chance to start fresh?

  The hot lump in my chest eases when the song ends. But Ed Sheeran’s song about the perfect girl isn’t much better.

  How the hell do I have so many sappy songs? They aren’t my type.

  Kristen.

  She has to be the one who put all those damned songs on our music accounts. I take back that crap about each type of music having its own charm. Some songs are designed purely to torture you, make you feel like shit.

  I’m almost tempted to turn the damned player off, but Elizabeth seems to be listening intently. Do the songs have a special meaning for her? Is her subconscious mind recognizing them, even though she doesn’t consciously remember?

  Doing my best to tune them out, I finish making our dinner. “Here or outside?” I ask.

  “Outside,” she says with a bright smile.

  I breathe more easily. No speakers outside.

  “I’ve been inside for so long,” she continues. “That hospital, ugh.”

  “You weren’t awake to suffer through it,” I joke as I carry the plates out. She brings utensils and napkins.

  “Just because I have no memory of being there doesn’t mean I’m happy about missing out on the beautiful scenery on St. Cecilia.”

  Her words pierce me, each one like a shard of glass and a nasty omen.

  She gives me a rueful smile. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have brought that up. Look, I’m fine now. One of the nurses told me what you did to pull me out of the water. I would’ve died without you.”

  “That’s the least I would’ve done for you,” I say. I set the plates on the intimate round table just big enough for a couple. “Let’s dig in.” I pull out a chair for her.

  She sits down and places a napkin over her lap, her motions delicate. I watch her move with bemusement. A lot of women I know tend to fall into two camps. One is very direct or more on the tomboy side, something unfortunate in women aspiring to climb higher in their careers, because being feminine is still considered undesirable in corporate America. Or they’re outright cloying—trying too hard to be coy and seductive. Elizabeth is as dainty as they come, but nothing about her makes me think she’s the kind of woman you could walk all over.

  She takes a bite. “This is really good.”

  “Of course. I’m an excellent cook.”

  A golden eyebrow arches. “Go on and brag. I don’t think modesty is your strong suit.”

  I laugh.

  “If you’re so good at cooking, what about me?”

  “It was never your forte.” Maybe it is now. I don’t know. And that makes me sad. I could’ve known. I could’ve known everything about her.

  “Not cooking. I mean other things. I must be good at something,” she says.

  I chew on the shrimp and consider. Then I finally pick the one that matters the most. “You have the power to make people happy.”

  She snorts. “Oh, come on.”

  “It’s true. You have the power to inspire others to become greater than they thought possible.”

  She blinks, then giggles. “Okay, now I know you’re outright lying.”

  “Not lying. You’re the one who made me who I am. The billion-dollar empire I built? The papers say I did it because I had great business foresight or drive or whatever. But at the end of the day, it wasn’t the foresight or drive. It was you. I wanted to build it for you.”

  I don’t tell her that it was initially for revenge. Because it’s also true that one of my biggest drivers was to become her equal in every way and never have people look at me like I didn’t deserve her because of money. I wanted to be able to stand tall and proud, knowing whatever she had, I did too…and whatever she wanted, I could buy it without a second thought.

  Most importantly, I don’t ever want to lose something I desire because I’m weak…and money is power.

  “That’s such a nice thing to say,” she whispers, her silvery gaze soft.

  “Don’t look at me like that. All I did was tell you the truth.”

  And I’m glad she doesn’t remember the cruel words I flung at her. This is my chance to give her sweet memories so when she finally remembers everything, she’ll also know we’re capable of civilized conversation and…more.

  She polishes off dinner and pats her belly, sighing contentedly. A bone-deep satisfaction warms me. She needs to gain back the weight she lost, and it feels good to know I’m the one feeding her.

  This is another reason she shouldn’t go back to L.A. Her mom would be bitching about her eating carbs and gaining weight. Fuck it. I’m toasting her bagels for breakfast tomorrow. If she wants, she can eat bagels every damn day. I’ll make sure of it.

  Eyes closed, Elizabeth sips her drink. After a while, she starts smiling a secret smile.

  “What are you thinking about?” I ask, loving the utter lack of tension on her face. It’s so different from how she was, nothing like the brilliant and polished smile she showed to the world as a society queen.

  “Just daydreaming.” Her eyes still closed, the grin widens. “This is the kind of place I’d want for a proposal. Just the two of us—and the beautiful sea…and probably the moon and the stars. If the weather’s bad, I guess a storm would be okay, too. There’s something awesome about a good storm, don’t you agree?”

  I inhale sharply, feeling like I’ve been kicked in the gut. The food I had turns to cold rock in my stomach. She’s imagining romantic things that never happened because of my lies about us being engaged. I didn’t realize how much it would twist me to hear her talk about it.

  She looks at her left hand, probably wondering what her engagement ring looks like. If we were really engaged, I would’ve replaced it immediately, and I would’ve told her it was no big deal it got lost because I still
have her.

  But I can’t keep digging by giving her a damned replacement ring, can I?

  Are you going to have her sleep with you, too? Antoine’s question rings in my head.

  Of course not. This isn’t about sex. This is about… I rake my hair.

  God.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Elizabeth

  I know I definitely messed up and said or did something to upset Dominic. Not that he said or did anything overt to show his displeasure. But I can tell.

  After dinner, I help him clean up. He nods and says thanks, but asks me to put detergent in the dishwasher three times. I straighten up. “What’s wrong?”

  He blinks, his gaze fixed on my face. “What?”

  “You saw me dump detergent in the dishwasher, but you just asked me to do it again. I don’t think it’s a good idea to put more in, do you?”

  “Right. No. That’s a terrible idea. Right. You’re right.”

  I reach for the kitchen rag he’s holding. As our fingers brush, he flinches like he’s come in contact with a hot stove. His eyes drop to our barely touching hands, then rise to my chest and the cleavage showing in the bodice of my pink dress. The weight of his gaze is almost tactile, and my breasts grow heavy. I’m sure he can see my nipples bead.

  Abruptly he raises his gaze back to my face. The rag falls limply from his hand to the counter, and he walks toward the living room without a word.

  What’s that about? After starting the dishwasher, I follow him.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah.” He plops down on a couch and runs a palm along the back of his neck. “Just a little tired.”

  It’s only eight forty-six. But maybe he’s exhausted from planning our trip here and everything. Piloting the helicopter might’ve been tiring too. The muscles where his neck meets his shoulders are bunched, creating small bulges. I should give him a nice massage to help him relax. Or maybe a blowjob would be better. He’s so tense, he definitely needs something other than alcohol—he already had three drinks toward the end of dinner.

  “Do you want to go to bed now?” I ask, my fingers toying with my platinum chain necklace.