The Billionaire's Conquest: Caught in the Billionaire's Embrace / Billionaire, M.D. / Her Tycoon to Tame

So she said, “Yes. I had schooling.”

He smiled at that. “No. I meant where did you go to—”

“My favorite color is blue,” she told him. “And my favorite food is fruits de mer.” Her French, she was proud to say, sounded as good as his Italian had last night. Unfortunately, fruits de mer was about the only thing she could say in French, and only because she’d practiced it for her menu lesson.

“After opera,” she continued, “my greatest passion is—”

She halted abruptly. Now here was a problem. Because other than opera, Della really had no passions. She’d never really had an opportunity to find any. After landing the job at Whitworth and Stone when she was eighteen, she’d focused entirely on it in order to stay employed there. She’d worked overtime whenever she could for the money, and she’d spent the rest of her time trying to better herself in whatever ways she could. Reading classic novels from the library. Emulating the speech of actors in movies. Swiping magazines she found in the apartment’s recycling bin to educate herself about fashion and etiquette and how to act like a refined human being. Opera had been the only indulgence she’d allowed herself, both because she loved it and it contributed to the kind of person she wanted to be. Beyond that …

Beyond that, she’d never had much of anything else to love.

“After opera …” Marcus prodded her now.

She looked at him, biting back another surge of panic. Never had she felt like a greater impostor than she did in that moment. She really did have nothing. Not a thing in the world. For the first time since leaving her life—such as it was—in New York, she realized how utterly empty her life had been and how absolutely alone she was.

“After opera …” She felt the prickle of tears sting her eyes. No, please. Anything but that. Not here. Not now. Not in front of Marcus. She hadn’t cried since she was a child. Not once. Not when things had fallen apart in New York. Not when Geoffrey had told her she had to leave with him. Not during the eleven months since, when she’d had to turn her entire life over to someone else. Why now? Why here? Why in front of the last person on earth she wanted to see her cry?

She lifted a hand to shield her face and jumped up from the bed. “Excuse me,” she said hastily as she headed for the bathroom. “I think I have an eyelash in my eye.” As she was closing the door, she said over her shoulder, “If you don’t mind, I’ll take the first shower.” Without awaiting a reply, she pushed the door closed and locked it, then turned on the shower full blast. Then she grabbed a towel and dropped to the floor, shoving it hard against her mouth.

I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry.

Her eyes grew damp, so she squeezed them shut.

I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry.

And somehow, by some miracle, Della kept the tears at bay.

The moment Marcus heard the rattle of the shower curtain closing in the bathroom, he crossed to the dresser where Della had laid her purse the night before. Okay, so maybe this one couldn’t hold as much as a computer’s hard drive, since it was one of those tiny purses women carried to formal events that was roughly the size of a negative ion. But it was large enough to hold a driver’s license, cash and a cell phone, all of which he found inside, along with a tube of lipstick, a collapsible hairbrush, a plain metal keychain from which dangled a single key—house key, not car key—and, curiously, a computer USB drive. But no credit card, he noted, thinking it odd. Meaning she’d paid for her dinner and whatever else last night—a not inconsiderable sum—with cash. Interesting. He just wasn’t sure exactly how.

He looked at the driver’s license first and saw that it was from New York State. So she had been honest with him about being from the East Coast, but hadn’t dissuaded him of his assumption that she came from a hot climate. Also interesting. But again, he wasn’t sure how. Looking closer at the license, he saw that her full name was Della Louise Hannan and that she was thirty years old. In fact, she’d turned thirty yesterday. So last night was her celebration of reaching that milestone. The fact that she’d celebrated it alone heartened him—more than it really should have.

He glanced at her address, but it was on one of the higher numbered streets, outside the part of Manhattan with which he was familiar. He knew the better parts of New York like the back of his hand and had expected he would be able to pinpoint Della’s address with little effort—doubtless somewhere near or on Fifth Avenue or Central Park. But this was nowhere close to either of those. He memorized it for future investigation, stuck the license in her purse and withdrew her cell phone, flipping it open.

Unfortunately, it was one of those not-particularly-smart phones, a bare-bones model that didn’t contain an easy-access menu. So he had to poke around a bit to find what he was looking for, namely her calls received and sent. After a moment, he found both and discovered that every single one had been to and from one person. A person identified simply as Geoffrey.

Any optimism Marcus had begun to feel dissolved at that. Geoffrey could be a first or last name, but somehow he knew that it was definitely a man’s name. He fumbled through more screens until he found her contact list and began to scroll to G. It took a while to get there. She had dozens of contacts, most listed by last name, but a handful—mostly women—were identified by their first names and, when the names were duplicates, by a last initial. Finally, he came to Geoffrey and clicked on it. There were two numbers listed for him, one designated a work number, the other a cell. The work number was a three one two area code—the man worked in Chicago. The cell number, however, was eight four seven, that was in the suburbs. It was a revelation that revealed nothing to Marcus. A lot of people lived in the ‘burbs and worked in the city. And eight four seven covered a lot of ‘burbs.

He reminded himself that Geoffrey could be a brother or a cousin or some guy she knew from high school. There was no reason to think he was necessarily a love interest or the man who kept her. Except for the fact that he was clearly the only person she was in touch with, in spite of her knowing a lot more.

But that was what men like that did, didn’t they? They isolated the woman they wanted to own from her friends and family until she had no one but the guy to rely on. Whoever this Geoffrey was, Marcus was liking him less and less. That was saying something, because Marcus had begun to really loathe the faceless, nameless man in Della’s life without even knowing for sure one existed.

He scrolled through more screens until he found the one that contained her photographs and clicked on those. There weren’t a lot, but there were enough to tell him more about her. Several of the photos were pictures of Della with a trio of other women, all about her age. But it took him a few moments to realize one of the women in the pictures was Della, since she looked different than she did now—her hair was short and black, not the shoulder-length deep gold it was now. But why would she cover up a color like that? Or wear it so short?

Women.

Judging by the length of her hair now, the photos on her phone must be at least a year old. In a few of them, Della and the other women were dressed in business attire and seated at a table with girly-looking drinks sitting in front of them, appearing as if they were blowing off steam at the end of a workday. Okay, so Della had a job and wasn’t necessarily the idle socialite he’d thought her to be. It didn’t mean she hadn’t come from money. She might have even been a client of some kind of one or more of the other women.

Scrolling further down through the pictures, Marcus finally found what he was looking for. Photos of Della, still with short, dark hair, seated with a man on a beach somewhere. A man who looked old enough to be her father, but who was good-looking and fit. Obviously very rich. Obviously very powerful. Obviously very married.

Marcus knew those things about the guy because he knew the guy’s type. Too well. He worked and dealt with men like him every day. A lot of them were his friends. This had to be Geoffrey. Who else would it be? No one else in Della’s contact list was identified informally by first name except for her girlfriends.

He navigated to her call list and saw that the last time Geoffrey had called Della was three nights ago. The last time Della had called him was yesterday morning. And the morning before that. And the morning before that. He kept scrolling. She’d called Geoffrey every single morning, weekday or weekend, always either at nine o’clock or within minutes before or after that hour.

Whoever Geoffrey was, he was keeping tabs on her. And he was making sure she was the one who called him, not the other way around. Another way to exert his control over her. Della hadn’t made or received phone calls from anyone else for more than three months, at least, that was how far back her call log went. Whoever this guy was, he’d had her disconnected from her friends and family for a long time.

Was that why she had come to Chicago? To escape an abusive lover? But she’d told Marcus last night that one night was all she could give him, and she’d phoned Geoffrey yesterday, so obviously this guy wasn’t out of her life yet.

He glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was approaching 8:45 a.m. In fifteen minutes, Della would have to make her obligatory daily call. But it was a safe bet she wouldn’t do it unless Marcus was out of the room—not if she didn’t want him to overhear her. He’d been planning to take a shower after she was finished, but now he was thinking maybe he’d wait a bit. ‘Til, say, well after nine o’clock. It would be interesting to see how Geoffrey—whoever the hell he was—would react to Della’s lack of cooperation. Maybe he’d call her instead. And that, Marcus thought, was something he definitely wanted to be around for.

It wasn’t so much that he wanted to confirm his suspicions that Della was attached to another man in some way—a thought that made the breakfast he’d consumed rebel on him. It was because if someone was mistreating her, whether emotionally or mentally or physically, Marcus wanted to know about it. Then he wanted to know the guy’s full name. And address. So he could hop in his car the minute the roads were clear, and beat the holy hell out of the guy.

When the shower cut off, Marcus hastily closed the phone and returned it to Della’s purse with her other belongings. Then he placed it on the dresser in exactly the same position it had been before. Quickly, he grabbed the newspaper that had been brought up with breakfast and returned to the bed, picked up his coffee and pretended to read.

By the time Della emerged from the shower wrapped in her blue robe again and scrubbing her damp hair with a towel, he’d managed to stow the rage he’d begun to feel for that son of a bitch Geoffrey—at least for the time being.

“The shower is all yours,” she said as she drew nearer to the bed.

“Thanks,” Marcus replied without looking up from the paper.

From the corner of his eye, he saw her glance at the clock. Mere minutes away from nine. He kept his gaze fixed blindly on the newspaper.

Della’s agitation at his tepid response was an almost palpable thing. “You, ah, you might want to hurry. You wouldn’t want them to run out of hot water.” He looked up long enough to see her shift her weight nervously from one foot to the other. “Since it looks like no one will be checking out today. There are probably quite a few people using the shower.”

He turned his attention back to the paper. “I don’t think a hotel like the Ambassador got to be a hotel like the Ambassador by running out of hot water on its guests. It’ll be fine.”

“But still …”

“First I want to finish this article about—” Just what was he pretending to read, anyway? Damn. He’d picked up the Style section. “This article about the return of the, uh, the chunky metallic necklace,” he said, somehow without losing a drop of testosterone. “Wow, did those ever go out of style in the first place? And then,” he continued, “there were a couple of pieces in the Business section that looked even more interesting.” He looked at Della again and saw that panicked look from last night creeping into her expression. “It’s not like I have anywhere to go,” he said. “And it’s been a while since I’ve been able to take my time with the Sunday Tribune.”

“But.” Her voice trailed off without her finishing. “Okay. Then I’ll, ah, I’ll dry my hair.” She pointed halfheartedly over her shoulder. “I have a hairbrush in my purse.”

Marcus nodded, pretending to be absorbed by the fashion icon that was the chunky metallic necklace.

The moment her back was turned, though, he looked up in time to see her withdraw both her brush and phone from the purse, then stash the cell in her robe pocket. When she started to spin around again, he quickly moved his gaze to the paper.

“You know what?” she said suddenly. “I love ice in my orange juice, so I’m going to run down the hall and see if there’s an ice machine on this floor.”

And then, Marcus thought, she would duck into a stairwell to check in with the man who was trying to control her life.

“Call room service to bring some up,” he told her, still looking at the paper.

“I don’t want to trouble them with something like that. They must be busy getting everyone’s breakfast to them.”

Now Marcus put down the paper. “Then I’ll get some ice for you.”

“No,” she said, a little too quickly and a little too adamantly. She seemed to realize she’d overreacted, because she forced a smile and said, “I’m, ah, I’m starting to feel a bit of cabin fever. A little walk down the hall will be nice.”

“In your robe and bare feet?” he asked, dipping his head toward her attire—or lack thereof.

“No one will see,” she said as she began to sidestep toward the door. “Everyone else is probably sleeping in.”

“Not if they’re keeping room service hopping and using up all the hot water the way you say.” “You know what I mean.” “We’re not sleeping in,” he pointed out.

“Yes, but we—” She stopped abruptly, obviously not wanting to bring up the reason they’d woken early. Or maybe it was just that she wasn’t any more certain about what the two of them were doing than Marcus was. “I mean … even if someone does see me,” she said, trying a different tack, “what difference does it make? It’s a hotel. It’s Sunday morning. There must be plenty of people still in their robes and bare feet.”

Not when there was a blizzard raging outside, Marcus wanted to say. The only reason he and Della weren’t dressed was because they didn’t have anything to change into. But he didn’t point out any of those things. If he kept trying to prevent her from leaving the room, she would come up with more reasons why she needed to get out. And if he pressed her, she was only going to get suspicious of him.

“Fine,” he said, looking at the paper again … and seeing nothing but red. “Don’t forget to take the key.”

“Of course,” she said as she collected that from the dresser, too. “I won’t be but a minute.”

If she was able to make that promise, Marcus thought, then her conversations with Geoffrey must not involve much. Just enough for the guy to make sure she did what she was told.

He waited only until the door clicked shut behind her, then hurried over to silently open it, enough that he could see her making her way down the hall. She’d already withdrawn the phone from her pocket and was dialing one-handed, meaning she’d still be in sight when her conversation began, so Marcus was bound to miss some of it. Impatiently, he waited until she rounded a corner at the end of the hall, then he slipped the metal rod of the chain lock between it and the jamb and stole after her at twice her pace.

When he peered around the corner, he saw her duck through another door that led to the stairwell and heard her speaking into the phone. But she was speaking softly enough that he couldn’t distinguish a word. So he raced after her and halted by the door through which she’d exited and cocked his head close. Unfortunately, he could still only hear incomprehensible murmuring. So, as quietly as he could, he turned the knob and pushed the door open a crack, to see that she had seated herself on the top step with her back to him. So he opened it a little bit more.

“Really, Geoffrey, I’m fine,” he heard her say. “There’s no reason for you to come over. You’d get stuck in the snow if you tried.”

He tried to discern something in her voice that sounded fearful or cowering, but, really, she did sound fine.

“I mean, yeah, the snow is kind of a drag,” she continued, “but it’s not like you ever let me go anywhere anyway.”

So she wasn’t supposed to be out and about, Marcus thought. His suspicions were confirmed.

“I had groceries delivered this week,” she said, “and I downloaded a couple of books. Thanks for the Kindle and the Netflix subscription, by the way. It’s helped a lot.”

It was the least the son of a bitch could do, since he wouldn’t let her go anywhere.

“What?” he heard Della ask. Then she laughed lightly. “No, nothing like that. That’s the last thing I need. Mostly romantic comedies. I need something light and escapist, all things considered.”

She paused, though whether it was because Geoffrey was talking or because she was looking for something else to say, Marcus didn’t know. Finally, though, she began to speak again. “Okay, if you must know, Bridget Jones’s Diary, Love, Actually and Pride and Prejudice.” There was another pause, then she laughed again. “Yes. I love Colin Firth. So does your wife, if you’ll recall.”

It really wasn’t the kind of conversation Marcus had expected to hear her having with a married man who was keeping her a virtual prisoner. But neither did it quite dispel his suspicions that Della was being controlled. What really bothered him, though, was that there was something different in her voice when she spoke to Geoffrey that wasn’t there when she was talking to him. A casualness and easiness, a lack of formality, that she hadn’t exhibited with Marcus. As if she were actually more comfortable with the other man than she was with him. As if she and Geoffrey shared a relationship that was based less on control and more on trust.

Just what the hell was this guy to her? Then Marcus heard her say something that chilled him.

“Look, Geoffrey, how much longer am I going to have to live this way? You told me I’d only have to do this for six months. That was eleven months ago. You promised me that if I did everything you guys told me to—”

Guys? So Geoffrey wasn’t the only one? She was being passed around among a group? Had he really heard that right?

“—that then I’d be free,” she continued. “But I’m still—”

The other man must have cut her off before she could finish, because Della stopped talking and listened obediently without saying a word for several minutes.

He saw her lift a hand to her head and push back her hair with a jerky motion that suggested she was anxious. She murmured a few uh-huhs, then slumped forward with her free hand braced on her knee and her forehead pressed to her palm.

Finally, with clear dejection—and maybe a little fear?—she replied, “Two weeks? That’s all the time I have left?”

Until what? Marcus wanted to yell. What the hell was she talking about? What the hell did the man expect her to do that made her sound so unwilling to do it?

“Then it’s really going to happen,” she said with clear resignation, sounding more reserved than ever. “I’m really going to have to do it.”

Do what, for God’s sake?

“No, I understand,” she said. “I’ll go through with it. I mean, it’s not like I have much choice, do I?” There was another pause, then she continued, “I know I promised. And I’ll hold up my end of the bargain. I just … I didn’t think it would be like this, Geoffrey. I didn’t think I’d feel like this about everything.” More softly, she added, “I didn’t think I’d feel like this about myself.” Then, because Geoffrey must not have heard that last, she said with unmistakable melancholy. “It was nothing important. Never mind.”

Nothing important. Marcus felt a little sick to his stomach. The way she felt about herself wasn’t important. This guy had her so wound around his finger that Della didn’t even realize how unbalanced and unhealthy the relationship was.

Relationship, hell. What she had with this guy was a bargain. She’d said so herself. And it was obviously a bad one. A least on her end.

“So two weeks then,” she said again. “I have two weeks to get myself ready and in the right frame of mind.”

Marcus hated to think what that getting ready would involve. He hated more to think about what the right frame of mind for such a thing would be.

He heard her answer a few more yes-and-no questions—with little more than a yes or no, sounding more and more like a child with each one—then heard her promise she would call tomorrow morning at the usual time. Then he heard the sound of her phone flipping closed.

He was about to pull the door to and hurry to the room before she caught him eavesdropping, but he heard something else that stopped him short—the very soft sound of muffled crying.

Something twisted inside him. He wasn’t accustomed to hearing a woman cry. Mostly because he made sure he got involved with women who were as shallow as he was. At least where things like emotional involvement were concerned. Obviously, Della wasn’t shallow. Obviously, she cared a lot about things like involvement. Even if she was currently involved with the wrong man.

Putting aside, for now, the fact that that word probably applied to himself as much as it did Geoffrey, Marcus pushed open the door and silently moved through it. He didn’t know why. It would have been best for him and Della both if he went back to the room and pretended he knew nothing of her conversation. It would have been best if they spent the rest of the weekend pretending there was nothing beyond that room until the two of them had to leave it.

But when he saw her sitting on the stair landing with her feet propped on the carpeted step below her, her arms crossed over her knees, her head rested on her arms, her shoulders shaking lightly, he knew he could never go back to pretending anything. She still had the cell phone clasped in one hand, but it fell, landing with a dull thud when she began to cry harder, and she didn’t bother to retrieve it. Instead, she surrendered to her sobs, muffling them by pressing her mouth to the sleeve of her robe. She was so lost in her despair that she had no idea Marcus stood behind her.

He didn’t know what to do or say, could only stand there feeling helpless. It was an alien concept, this helplessness, and he didn’t like it at all. His instincts told him to flee before she saw him, but his conscience—and he was surprised to discover he actually had one—dictated he do something to make her feel better. He let the two war with each other, to see who would win, but when instinct and conscience kept bickering, he stepped in and made the decision himself. He took a tentative step forward, then another.

As he was reaching down to curl his fingers over her shoulder, she whirled her head quickly around. When she saw him there, her eyes went wide with panic, and she stood so quickly, she almost pitched backward down the stairs. He wrapped his fingers around her wrist as she managed to right herself, but neither seemed to know what to say or do after that. For a long moment, they only stood silently looking at each other. Then, finally, Della stepped onto the landing with Marcus. He released her wrist, but brushed away a tear from her cheek with the pad of his thumb.

He had no idea what to say. He, Marcus Fallon, who had never been at a loss for words in his life. The man who could find a quip—whether appropriate or not—to alleviate any tense situation, who could make light of even the most difficult circumstances, couldn’t scrape up one word that would ease the tension in this one. Some knight in shining armor he was turning out to be. But then, he’d never wanted to be a knight in shining armor.