The Billionaire's Conquest

The toast didn’t put an end to the frisson of uneasiness that still hovered over the table, but it did put a bit of the bloom back in her cheeks. It was enough, he decided. For now.

But certainly not forever.

Della gazed at the man seated across the table from her as she sipped her champagne, and she wondered exactly when the evening had jumped the track and started screeching headlong into a dark, scary tunnel. One minute, she’d been about to embark on the last leg of her evening by enjoying a final glass of champagne at Chicago’s celebrated Windsor Club—which she’d gotten into only by bribing the doorman with another small fortune—and the next minute, she’d found herself gazing once again into the gold-flecked, chocolate-brown eyes that had so intrigued her at the opera.

Marcus. His name fit him. Stoic and classic, commanding and uncompromising. How strange that she should run into him at every destination she’d visited tonight. Then again, she’d gone out of her way to choose destinations that were magnets for the rich and powerful, and he certainly fit that bill. Of course, now she was learning he was part of that other adjective that went along with rich—famous—and that was a condition she most definitely had to avoid.

So what was she afraid of? He was right. There was no one in the club who didn’t belong here. Other than herself, she meant. Nobody had even seemed to notice the two of them. Not to mention it was late and, even if it was Saturday, ninety percent of the city’s population had gone home. There was snow in the forecast for later, even if it wasn’t anything a city like Chicago couldn’t handle. Most people were probably hunkered down in their living rooms and bedrooms, having stocked up on provisions earlier, and were looking forward to a Sunday being snowed in with nothing to do.

Della wished she could enjoy something like that, but she felt as though she’d been snowed in with nothing to do for the past eleven months. At least when she wasn’t at Geoffrey’s beck and call.

But tonight that wasn’t the case. Tonight she was having fun. She should look at the opportunity to share the last couple of hours of her celebration with a man like Marcus as the icing on her birthday cake.

“So …” she began, trying to recapture the flirtatiousness of their earlier exchange. Still trying to figure out when, exactly, she’d decided to return his flirtations. “What kinds of things have you done to make yourself so notorious?”

He savored another sip of his champagne, then placed the glass on the table between them. But instead of releasing it, he dragged his fingers up over the stem and along the bowl of the flute, then up farther along the elegant line of its sides. Della found herself mesmerized by the voyage of those fingers, especially when he began to idly trace the rim with the pad of his middle finger. Around and around it went, slowly, slowly … oh, so slowly … until a coil of heat began to unwrap in her belly and purl into parts beyond.

She found herself wondering what it would be like to have him drawing idle circles like that elsewhere, someplace like, oh … she didn’t know. Herself maybe. Along her shoulder, perhaps. Or down her thigh. Touching her in other places, too—places where such caresses might drive her to the brink of madness.

Her eyes fluttered closed as the thought formed in her brain, as if by not watching what he was doing, she might better dispel the visions dancing around in her head. But closing her eyes only made those images more vivid. More earthy. More erotic. More … oh. So much more more. She snapped her eyes open again in an effort to squash the visions completely. But that left her looking at Marcus, who was gazing at her with faint amusement, as if he’d seen where her attention had settled and knew exactly what she was thinking about.

As he studied her, he stilled his finger on the rim of the glass and settled his index finger beside it. Della watched helplessly as he scissored them along the rim, first opening, then closing, then opening again. With great deliberation, he curled them into the glass until they touched the top of the champagne, then he dampened each finger with the effervescent wine. Then he carefully pulled them out and lifted them to her lips, brushing lightly over her mouth with the dew of champagne.

Heat swamped her, making her stomach simmer, her breasts tingle and her heart rate quadruple, and dampening her between her legs. Without even thinking about what she was doing, she parted her lips enough to allow him to tuck one finger inside. She tasted the champagne then, along with the faint essence of Marcus. And Marcus was, by far, the most intoxicating.

Quickly, she drew her head back and licked the remnants of his touch from her lips. Not that that did anything to quell her arousal. What had come over her? How could she be this attracted to a man this quickly? She knew almost nothing about him, save his name and the fact that he loved opera and good champagne and had bought a rose for someone earlier in the evening who—

The rose. How could she have forgotten about that? She might very well be sitting here enjoying the advances of a married man! Or, at the very least, one who belonged to someone else. And the last thing she wanted to be was part of a triangle.

Where was the rose now? Had he thrown it resentfully into the trash or pressed it between the pages of the neglected opera program as a keepsake? Involuntarily, she scanned the other tables in the club until she saw an empty one not far away with a rose and opera program lying atop it. And another martini glass—though this time it was empty. Had the woman he was expecting finally caught up with him? Had he only moments ago been sharing a moment like this with someone else? Could he really be that big a heel?

“Who were you expecting tonight?”

The question was out of her mouth before Della even realized it had formed in her brain. It obviously surprised Marcus as much as it had her, because his dark eyebrows shot up again.

“No one,” he told her. And then, almost as if he couldn’t stop himself, he added, “Not even you. I could never have anticipated someone like you.”

“But the rose … The pink drink …”

He turned to follow the track of her gaze, saw the table where he must have been sitting when she came in. His shoulders drooped a little, and his head dipped forward, as if in defeat. Or perhaps melancholy? When he looked at her, the shadows she’d noted before were back in his eyes. Definitely the latter.

“I did buy the rose and order the drink for someone else,” he said. “And yes, she was someone special.”

“Was?” Della echoed. “Then you and she aren’t …”

“What?”

“Together?”

His expression revealed nothing of what he might be feeling or thinking. “No.”

She wanted to ask more about the woman, but something in his demeanor told her not to. It was none of her business, she reminded herself. It was bad enough she’d brought up memories for him that clearly weren’t happy. Whoever the woman was, it was obvious she wasn’t a part of his life anymore. Even if it was likewise obvious that he still wanted her to be.

And why did that realization prick her insides so much? Della wouldn’t even see Marcus again after tonight. It didn’t matter if he cared deeply for someone else, and the less she knew about him, the better. That way, he would be easier to forget.

Even if he was the kind of man a woman never forgot.

In spite of her relinquishing the subject, he added, “I knew she wouldn’t be coming tonight, but it felt strange not to buy the rose and order her a drink the way I always did before. She always ran late,” he added parenthetically and, Della couldn’t help but note, affectionately. “It felt almost as if I were betraying her somehow not ordering for her, when really she was the one who—” He halted abruptly and met Della’s gaze again. But now he didn’t look quite so grim. “An uncharacteristic bout of sentimentality on my part, I guess. But no, Della. I’m not with anyone.” He hesitated a telling moment before asking, “Are you?”

Well, now, there was a loaded question if ever there was one. Della wasn’t with anyone—not the way Marcus meant it, anyway. She hadn’t been with anyone that way for nearly a year. And that one had been someone she never should have been with in the first place. Not just because of the sort of man Egan Collingwood turned out to be, either. But Della was indeed with someone—in a different way. She was with Geoffrey. For now, anyway. And as long as she was with Geoffrey, there was no way she could be with anyone else.

She didn’t want to tell Marcus that, though, so she only lifted her champagne to her lips for another sip. When he continued to study her in that inquisitive way, she enjoyed another sip. And another. And another. Until—would you look at that?—the glass was completely empty. The moment she set it on the table, however, Marcus poured her a refill, allowing the champagne to almost reach to the brim before lowering the bottle.

She grinned at the ridiculously full glass. “Marcus, are you trying to get me drunk?”

“Yes,” he replied immediately.

His frankness surprised her, and she laughed. Honestly, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed so much in one evening. Even before Egan, she hadn’t been so prone to jollity. She’d never even used a word like jollity before.

“Well, it won’t work,” she said, even as she carefully lifted the glass to her mouth. “I have a remarkable metabolism.”

Now his smile turned faintly predatory. “I’m counting on that, actually.”

Yikes.

Well, the joke was on him. Because Mr. Marcus Notorious might think he had the evening mapped out with the quickest route from chance dinner meeting to white-hot marathon of sex, but there was no way that was going to happen. Della had to have her rented clothes back tomorrow when Talk of the Town opened at noon or she’d lose her deposit. Even the promise of a white-hot marathon of sex with a maddeningly irresistible guy wasn’t going to keep her from forgetting that.

She looked at Marcus, at his smoldering eyes and sizzling grin. At the brutally strong jaw and ruthless cheekbones. As if trying to counter the ruggedness of his features, an unruly lock of dark hair had tumbled carelessly over his forehead, begging for the gentling of a woman’s fingers.

Well. Probably that wasn’t going to keep her from getting her deposit. Hmm. Actually, that was kind of a tough call …

But then, Della couldn’t spend the night doing anything anywhere, anyway. As it was, if Geoffrey called the house tonight and she didn’t answer, he’d be hopping mad. Of course, he’d only have to call her on her cell phone to know she was okay, but he’d be furious that she wasn’t cloistered where she was supposed to be. She’d been lucky enough so far that he hadn’t ever called the house when she’d snuck out on those handful of occasions when she became bored to the point of lunacy. But she wasn’t sure how much longer her luck would hold. If Geoffrey ever got wind of her excursions, he’d want to wring her neck. Then he’d become even more determined to keep her hidden.

Still looking at Marcus, but trying not to think about the way he was making her feel, she leaned back in her chair and said, “So you get women drunk and then take advantage of them. Now I know the kinds of things you’ve done to make yourself so notorious.”

“Oh, I never have to get women drunk to take advantage, Della,” he said with complete confidence and without an ounce of arrogance. “In fact, I never have to take advantage.”

She had no doubt that was true. She’d just met the man, and she was already having thoughts about him and inclinations toward him she shouldn’t be having. Too many thoughts. And way too many inclinations.

“Then what does make you so notorious?”

He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the table as he invaded her space, effectively erasing what meager distance she’d put between them. “Where do I begin?” he asked. “And, more important, do you have all night?”

Double yikes.

Having no idea what to say to that, she lifted her champagne for another idle sip … only to enjoy a healthy quaff instead. Well, it was very good. And she was starting to feel a lovely little buzz that was buffing the rough edges off … oh, everything.

As if he realized the turn her thoughts had taken, Marcus pushed his hand across the table until his fingertips were touching hers. A spark shot through Della, even at that simple, innocent touch. And when his hand crept up over hers, that spark leaped into a flame.

“Because if you do have all night,” he added, “I’d be more than happy to give you a very thorough illustration.”

Triple yikes. And another quaff, for good measure.

Ah, that was better. Now, what was it she had been about to say? Something about needing to get home because it was approaching midnight and, any minute now, she was going to turn into a bumpkin. Um, she meant pumpkin. Not that that was much better.

She searched for something to say that would extricate her from her predicament, but no words came. Probably because no ideas came. And probably no ideas came because they were all being crowded out by the visions featuring her and Marcus that kept jumping to the forefront of her brain. He really was incredibly sexy. And it had been such a long time since she’d been with anyone who turned her on the way he did. And it would probably be even longer before she found someone she wanted to be with again. She had no idea what would happen once Geoffrey was done with her. All she had that was certain was right now. This place. This moment. This man. This sexy, notorious, willing man. This man she should in no way allow herself to succumb to. This man who would haunt her for the rest of her life.

This man who, for some reason, she couldn’t bring herself to leave quite yet …

Three

Della tore her gaze from his, forcing herself to look at something—anything—other than Marcus. Gazing past him, she found herself looking at the windows of two French doors not far from their table. The snow the forecasters had promised earlier in the day had begun to fall—delicate, dazzling flecks of white shimmering in the lamplight outside. As a native New Yorker, Della was no stranger to snow. And Chicago had seen snow more than once already this season. But there was something as magical to her about snow today as there had been when she was a child. When it had snowed then, at least for a little while, her neighborhood ceased to be a broken landscape of grimy concrete and asphalt and would transform into an enchanted world of sparkling white. The rusty fire escape outside her bedroom window morphed into a diamond-covered staircase that led to the top of an imprisoned princess’s turret. The piles of garbage at the curb turned into pillows of glittering fairy-dust. The corroded cars became pearly silver coaches. Snow drove the gangs and dealers inside, who preyed on the neighborhood like wicked witches and evil sorcerers, so that all Della could see for block after block were radiant castles of white.

At least for a little while.

How appropriate that it should snow tonight, when she was actually enjoying the sort of enchanted adventure she’d had to invent as a child. How strangely right it felt to see those fat, fantastic flakes falling behind the man who had been such a bewitching Prince Charming this evening.

“It’s snowing,” she said softly.

Marcus turned to follow her gaze, then looked at Della again. His expression indicated that snow didn’t hold the same fascination or whimsical appeal for him that it did for her.

“They’re predicting four or five inches,” he said, sounding disappointed at the change of subject.

He looked down at their hands, at how his rested atop hers and how hers just lay there. With clear reluctance, he pulled his toward himself. It was what she wanted, Della told herself. A change in subject to change her feelings instead of changing her mind. So why did his withdrawal have the opposite effect? Why did she want him to take her hand again, only this time turn it so their palms were flat against each other and their fingers entwined?

Still, he didn’t retreat completely. His fingertips still brushed hers, and she could feel the warmth of his skin clinging to her own. It was all she could do not to reach for him and arrange their hands the way they’d been before.

It was for the best, she told herself again. This was a momentary encounter. A momentary exchange. A momentary everything. Especially now that the snow had begun, she really should be leaving. She’d told the driver of her hired car that she would be at the club only until midnight. It was nearing that now. She definitely needed to wind down this … whatever it was … with Marcus. Then she needed to be on her way.

So why wasn’t she?

“It will be just enough snow to turn everything into an ungodly mess,” Marcus said distastefully, giving her the perfect segue she needed to say her farewells. Unfortunately, he added, “At least no one will have to battle rush hour to get to work,” reminding her that tomorrow was Sunday, so it wasn’t as though she had to get up that early. She could squeeze in another moment or two …

“By afternoon,” he continued, “the city will be one big pile of black slush. Snow is nothing but a pain in the—”

“I love snow. I think it’s beautiful.”

Marcus smiled indulgently. “Spoken like someone who’s never had to maneuver in it,” he replied. Then he brightened. “But with that clue, I can add to my knowledge of you. I now know that, not only have you only arrived in Chicago recently, but you came here from some hot, sunny place that never has to worry about the hassle of snow.”

She said nothing to contradict him. It wasn’t lying when you didn’t say anything. And the more misconceptions he had about her, the better.

At her silence, he grinned with much satisfaction.

“I’m right, aren’t I? You came here from someplace where it’s hot all the time, didn’t you?”

Oh, if he only knew. It had certainly been “hot” for her in New York when she left. Just not the way he meant. So she only smiled and said, “Guilty.”

And not only of being from a “hot” place. She was guilty of twisting the truth in an effort to stay honest with him. Guilty of letting him believe she was someone she wasn’t. Guilty of leading him on …

But she wasn’t doing that last, she tried to reassure herself. Neither of them was making any promises to the other. If anything, promises were exactly what the two of them were trying to avoid. And, truth be told, she still wasn’t sure what her intentions were where Marcus was concerned. He was clearly interested in sharing more than champagne and an assortment of fruit and cheese with her. He was waiting for her to give him some sign that she was interested in more than that, too. And although there was a not-so-small part of her that was definitely interested, there was another part of her still clinging to rationality, to sanity, to fidelity.

Because even though succumbing to Marcus’s seduction wouldn’t make her unfaithful to another man, it would make her unfaithful to herself. She hadn’t scrabbled her way out of the soul-swallowing slums and into one of Wall Street’s most powerful, most dynamic investing firms by believing in fairy tales and capitulating to whimsy. She’d done it by being pragmatic, hardworking and focused.

Then again, being those things was also what had forced her to flee the very life she’d toiled in and fought so hard to build.

She sighed inwardly. There it was again. More thinking about things she wasn’t supposed to be thinking about tonight. Recalling the dissolution of her old life and fretting over the irresolution of her new one didn’t belong in the fantasy life she was living now. It was her birthday. The one day of the year where it was okay for a person to be selfish and self-indulgent. It was the perfect time for her to be thinking about the moment. The moment was all that mattered for now. The moment was all she had that was certain. The moment was all she had that she could control. With another glance at Marcus—whose place in this night, in this moment, she still hadn’t determined—she rose from her chair and moved to the French doors to watch the snow.

There was a small terrace beyond them, dark because of the late hour and frigid season. Della could just discern the outline of a handful of tables and chairs—all covered for the winter—and some potted topiaries that lay dormant. A layer of white covered all of it, so it must have been snowing harder and for longer than either of them had realized. Then again, when a woman was preoccupied by a man such as Marcus, it was hard to recognize that there was anything else out in the world at all.

As if conjured by the thought, she felt him slip up behind her, close enough that his body was flush against her own. She told herself she was only imagining the way she could feel the heat from his body mingling with hers, but the scent of him … That was all too real. All too wonderful. All too exhilarating.

“It was barely flurrying when I came in,” she said. “I’m surprised how much has already fallen.”

He said nothing for a moment, only continued to exude warmth and his intoxicatingly spicy fragrance.

Finally, quietly, he said, “The snow isn’t the only thing that’s been surprising tonight.”

She couldn’t disagree. Yet as unexpected as Marcus had been, his presence somehow felt perfectly right. Prince Charming was the only thing that had been missing from Della’s fairy-tale plan for the evening, even if he was a complete stranger. Then again, he wasn’t a stranger, not really. They’d known each other for hours now. They’d shared, in a way, a lovely dinner, a spectacular opera, some quiet conversation and gentle touches. They’d made each other smile. They’d made each other laugh. They’d made each other … feel things.

Della liked Marcus. He liked her. That made them something more than strangers, surely. She just wasn’t quite certain what.

Impulsively, she tested the handle of the door and found it unlocked. Another surprise. Or perhaps more magic. Unable to help herself, she pushed open the door and strode quickly out onto the terrace, turning around slowly in the falling snow.

“Della,” Marcus objected from inside, “what are you doing? It’s freezing out there.”

Funny, but she didn’t feel cold. On the contrary, being with him made her hot to her core.

“I can’t help it,” she said as she halted her rotation to face him. “It’s so beautiful. And so quiet. Listen.”

As happened with snow, the sounds of the city beyond the terrace were muffled and silent, but the snow itself seemed to make a soft, supple sound as it fell. Reluctantly, Marcus shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and walked onto the terrace, shaking his head at her.

“You’re worse than a little kid,” he said. But he was smiling that delicious smile again.

As he drew nearer, Della moved farther away, until she’d backed herself into the far corner of the terrace, away from the door. When her back bumped the wall, the motion unsettled a small bundle of snow from somewhere above her, sending it cascading down around over her. She laughed as she shook her head to scatter the flakes, then the comb that had been holding her hair came loose, making it fall around her shoulders. He came to her immediately, slipping a little on his way, grabbing the railing to steady himself as his laughter joined her own.

“Well, aren’t we a mess?” she said.

Not that she cared. Her life had been a mess for a year now. At least this mess was a fun one. She extended her hand over the balcony to let the snowflakes collect in her palm one by one. As soon as they landed, they melted, but the moisture still sparkled against her skin. “Look at it, Marcus,” she said. “How can you think it’s not lovely?”

He tucked himself into the corner of the darkened terrace as snugly as she was. “It’s cold,” he corrected her. “And you left your coat inside.”