The Billionaire Next Door

She looked fantastic.

“Hi,” he said with a slow smile.

In characteristic fashion she flushed. “Hi. I’m…ah, I’m sorry to bother you.” She held out a clear plastic bag full of clothes. “I meant to give this to you before. They’re your father’s things.”

He didn’t want whatever was in there, but he took the thing anyway. “Thanks.”

She glanced around his shoulder at the stack of collapsed U-Haul boxes. “So you’re starting the packing.”

“No reason to wait.” He stepped back and motioned her in. “Listen, if you want any of the stuff around here, you know, the furniture or anything, it’s yours.”

“Won’t you want to keep some?”

“My place is furnished.” Sean shut the door to keep the air-conditioning from leaking down the stairwell. And also because he wanted her to stay for a little longer. “So is my brother’s.”

Her brows shot up. “You have a brother?”

“He didn’t mention that?”

“No, he only told me to call you.”

Well, hadn’t he won the lottery. “There are three of us, actually. Billy, Mac and me. I’m in the middle. Billy’s the youngest.”

“Oh.” She tucked some hair behind her ear, something he had a feeling she did when she felt awkward. “I had no idea. Where are the other two?”

“Here and there.” Or in the case of Mac, God only knew where. Matter of fact, he still hadn’t returned Sean’s call. “Seriously, Lizzie, check out the furniture, tell me what you want and I’ll help you move it downstairs. Except for the couch, at least for the time being. I’m going to be sleeping on it until I’m through here.”

She gave him an odd look, as if she was thinking there were plenty of beds in the place and was wondering why he didn’t use them. But she didn’t make any comment, just walked around the living room then headed for the kitchen.

As she wandered around assessing furniture, he found himself wishing he could take the offer back. For some reason, he didn’t want this stuff in her home…as if what had taken place here could contaminate where she lived. Which was ridiculous. Domestic abuse wasn’t a virus. And sure as hell if it was, you couldn’t pick it up from a ratty Barcalounger.

When she went into his and Billy’s bedroom, Sean followed, his eyes locking on the sway of her hips as she walked. He let his gaze wander up her spine to her shoulders and her neck. With a flash of inspiration, he wanted to pull her up against him, draw his fingers in deep through her hair, tilt her head back—

“Look at the books!” She crouched down. “These are from high school, right? Were they yours?”

Sean quickly knelt and started stuffing the things into the pack. “They’re nothing. Nothing special.”

She sat back and he knew she was watching his frantic hands, but he couldn’t stop himself. He’d always had to protect his books and evidently the compulsion hadn’t lessened with age. When they were all safely zipped in the bag, he hefted them back onto the shelf in the closet and shut the door.

“So the furniture?” he prompted with an edge. “You want any?”

She got up slowly. “I think not. Thank you.”

As she turned away, he knew she was hightailing it for the exit and he didn’t blame her. Goddamn it, he’d all but bitten her head off.

“Lizzie?”

She paused in the bedroom doorway, but didn’t look at him. “Yes?”

“If I promise to be more polite, would you like to go out for some dinner?”

When her head swiveled around, her eyes were grave. “You don’t like it here, do you?”

For some stupid reason, he found himself shaking his head. “I’d rather be just about anywhere else in the world.”

“Why?”

“No reason.”

The lie was no doubt painfully apparent, yet he was sticking with it. Some things you never shared. Not because you were weak, but because you were strong.

***

Lizzie stared at Sean and idly thought he looked better than any man should. The black T-shirt and low-hanging jeans were just too attractive. And the fact that he was barefoot was really sexy. Even his feet were nice.

In the silence between them, she was reminded keenly of his father. No matter what Sean said, he and Mr. O’Banyon were a lot alike. Very private. Very closed.

Though she had known Mr. O’Banyon for quite a while, there had been so many things the man had hidden, just as Sean was doing now. And the two of them did it the same way. Their faces just walled up tight, their eyes going blank, their mouths drawing into a line.

“So what do you think?” Sean prompted. “Dinner?”

The thing was, the shutdown happened fast. Literally in a moment, they were gone and you were talking to a two-dimensional likeness of who they really were.

It made her want to dig to find out what had happened in this apartment, what had caused a father and son to split so irrevocably.

Son? Sons, she corrected herself. She couldn’t believe Mr. O’Banyon hadn’t mentioned he had multiple children.

“I’ll get my purse,” she said, heading for the living room.

“How about Little Italy?” Sean said as he followed.

“Sounds like heaven.”

She waited as he shoved his feet into a pair of Nikes, grabbed keys from the table next to the couch and slipped a black wallet into his back pocket.

After a quick stop by her place, they got into his rental. As they pulled away from the curb, she noticed that the tension in his face had eased up considerably and she had a feeling it was because they were leaving.

“Sean?”

“Yeah?”

“About the furniture upstairs? Come to think of it, I could really use that kitchen table and those chairs.”

“No problem. When we get back, I’ll hump them down to your place.”

“That would be great.”

She and Mr. O’Banyon had never sat in the kitchen during their Sunday dinners so she didn’t have any deep associations with the little dining set. And she needed one. She was tired of eating either standing up in the kitchen with her butt against the counter or off her lap on her couch.

And maybe there was a little part of her that wanted to keep something of Mr. O’Banyon’s. As she’d looked at all those boxes Sean was going to use, she’d felt an odd fear…as if her friend were truly disappearing even though he was already gone.

A half hour later she and Sean were standing in line outside Bastianelli’s. The restaurant was a Little Italy favorite, barely bigger than a closet with the best Italian food in town. Part of the tradition of eating there was the long line and she always enjoyed the forced slowdown. With nothing to do but inch forward toward the glossy black and brass door, Lizzie found herself calming out and forgetting about the fact that a dear friend had died and she’d lost one of her jobs and her mother was the Imelda Marcos of art supplies.

As the sun set, the heat rolling over the city eased up and a gentle breeze suffused with the scents of oregano and garlic wafted by. The patter of talk from other people in line was like soft, indistinct music, more rhythm than words.

Lizzie lifted her face to the gloaming sky and took a deep breath. When she felt something touch her neck, she jumped.

Sean’s hand hesitated then brushed behind her ear. “Loose strand of hair.”

In slow motion, his fingers drifted over to the other side of her face and did the same thing. “And another one.”

Abruptly, she couldn’t breathe at all. Which was fine. Looking up into his hazel eyes, she didn’t need air to live.

His thumb passed over her cheek and his voice dropped an octave, becoming nothing more than a deep rumble in that muscled chest of his. “You’ve got bruises under your eyes from lack of sleep. What’s got you so tired there, Lizzie?”

She blinked. Then wanted to wince because obviously he thought she looked like hell. “Just have a lot on my mind.”