The Billionaire's Fake Girlfriend: Part 3 (The Billionaire Saga 3)

“What?”

“I loved the guy, but he’d beat my ass.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“My dad quit hitting me when I grew up. He taught me everything I needed to know about how to run a business. And we became friends as adults, bonding over board meetings and running companies. But I was still torn up about my childhood. For some reason, I couldn’t get over it. But after he died, I forgave him,” he said. “And forgiveness is so freeing. I know I want to give my child a different kind of life. No nannies. No boarding school. No beatings. Just all my unconditional love.”

“That’s so sweet to hear.”

“We’re going to give our child a good life, and he or she is going to have loving parents who care about him or her.”

“Yes, we are.”

“I was drinking heavily last year to try to forget the pain of my past. My dad was so mean to my mother, beat her too. I think it’s why I never settled down or had a girlfriend. I was scared to death that because I was drinking like my dad, that I would become him. I didn’t want to hurt or beat the women in my life.”

“That’s not you at all,” I said.

“I like to think I took after my mother,” he said. “I miss my mother. I loved her dearly. I think losing her put me into a tailspin. I was in a haze. I was a brilliant businessman, sharp during the day. But when night came, I drank to dull the pain. I started taking more holidays and vacations, drinking to escape. But when I was about to lose my biggest client, it made me reevaluate my life.”

“You cleaned up, forgave your dad, and came back to the States.”

“Yes. And soon after, I met you.”

I smiled.

/> “You were the best thing to ever happen to me. You made me a better man.”

“And I’m a better woman because of you.”

I sat down on a bench overlooking the rolling hills, and he took a seat beside me, throwing his jacket automatically around my thin shoulders. I didn’t want to press. I knew Marcus by now—knew how to read the hard set to his jaw and the tightening around his lovely eyes. I knew this was hard for him to talk about, except… There was so much I still didn’t know about Marcus. I knew him, yes. But his history, his family, his past? They were all still mysteries. I decided to start instead.

“My father left us when I was still a kid,” I volunteered softly. Marcus turned to me; I saw him in my periphery, but I kept my eyes on the hills. “My mother raised Max and me alone—and while she did the best she could—there was always an edge to it, you know? She’d never really let her guard down with anyone besides us. It was like she couldn’t trust anymore. No matter how hard she tried to hide it, it’s something she passed on to us kids. And while I can’t speak for Max, I know it’s something I’ve had to work really hard to get over.” I gave him a playful nudge. “You might have noticed…”

He laughed softly but gave me a long, intense look before gazing back over the hills himself. “Sometimes, I almost wish my mother had raised me instead of leaving it to everyone else. I was generally left with the nanny until I was old enough to go to boarding school, but by that time, my mother was already getting sick—even when I was back for holidays. I didn’t get to see her much. My dad forced her to do whatever he wanted. She didn’t want to leave me, not at all, but she didn’t have the courage to leave him.” His handsome face clouded over. I squeezed his hand comfortingly, and he took a deep breath before continuing. “He was a harsh man—very strict, very…physical.” A wry smile touched the corner of his lips. He rolled up the bottom of his collared shirt, twisting slightly so I could see the side of his abdomen. Even in the moonlight, it was impossible to miss the scar. I had noticed it before, of course. In fact, I’d grown quite intimate with Marcus’s body as of late. But I never thought anything of it. Maybe a rough match on the polo field, or a yachting accident, or a fencing wound. In my mind, the catalog of things that could actually injure the filthy rich was a small list. But looking at it now, running in a delicate line across his ribs, it almost looked like…

“A belt buckle?” I asked in quiet horror.

The caustic smile stayed fixed in place. “Like I said.” He rolled his shirt back down and looked out at the hills with a soft sigh. “He was strict.”

I couldn’t think of what to say to this. I didn’t know it was possible to feel so enraged over something that had happened so long in the past. That it was possible to feel so much hatred toward a dead man I’d never met. I know Marcus had forgiven him, and that I should too. But right now, the wounds were too fresh. The emotions warred out in my mind, fighting for supremacy before I finally turned to Marcus and slipped my arm around his waist. He looked up at me with in surprise, and my face softened with a tender smile.

“You are nothing, nothing like your father,” I said.

His voice dropped to a whisper. “You can’t know that. What if I snap? What if I start to—”

“I know you,” I said firmly, staring him right in the eyes. “You’re a good man, Marcus. Selfless. Kind. Exactly the kind of man I want to marry. Exactly the kind of man I want raising my child.”

His mouth opened, but for one of the first times, he could think of nothing to say. Instead, he finally just put his arm back around me and leaned us back against the bench. We stared up at the stars until the sky began to lighten in a soft, morning rose.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he said quietly. I smiled into his chest and nestled even closer against his side. Together, we watched the brilliant sunrise.

Chapter 19

A jeweled belt cinched my waist. It was too big. The belt disappeared, and a new, smaller belt replaced it. Tatiana, the long-suffering woman handcrafting my dress shook her head in amazement. “For sake of Pete, woman, I thought you were supposed to be pregnant!”

For the tenth time that day, I shook my head with a smile and thanked my lucky stars that I had selected a designer straight from the heart of Moscow. While wedding dress fittings weren’t really my thing, her thick accent and complete bewilderment when it came to common colloquialisms was making for an incredibly entertaining morning.

“For sake of Pete, I told you,” I teased her back, “in America, we don’t start to show until nine months. Nyet!”