A Billionaire for Christmas

While Frank gathered his slim bag of clothes and his overstuffed satchel of camera equipment, Damien chatted with their hosts, thanking them for taking such good care of his father-in-law.

Then they were on their way, with Frank in the passenger seat and Damien behind the wheel.

“I’m surprised Nikki didn’t come with you,” Frank commented. “But I guess she probably didn’t want to leave the girls.”

“She doesn’t know.” Damien glanced toward his passenger just long enough to see Frank’s brows rise.

“Is that so?”

“She—well, I wanted to see her face light up when she sees you. And watch the kids bowl you over with hugs.” What he didn’t say was that he hadn’t wanted Nikki to be disappointed if he failed.

“She would have appreciated just the thought,” Frank said, apparently understanding Damien’s full motivation. “God knows you do so much for my girl. Hell of a lot more than I ever did.”

Damien flashed a wry smile. “I like to think what I do is a bit different. I’m not her father, after all.”

“Well, that’s a good point,” Frank said, his voice laced with amusement. “And I have to say, you two really are good together. I wasn’t sure at first. When I learned she’d married you, I mean. All that money—it can mess people up.”

Damien thought of his own father. “Yeah. It can.”

“You’re not messed up.”

He smiled. “Everyone is, at least a little. But I’m not messed up that way.”

Frank shifted, trying to get comfortable in the small, battered car. “Though you do like your toys. I’ve seen your garage, my boy.”

“True,” Damien said. “And yes. I do like my toys. I figure I’ve earned them.”

“Amen to that.”

They chatted amiably the rest of the way back, and Damien was pleased when they reached the airport exactly on schedule.

“Should be airborne within the hour,” he told Frank as he maneuvered toward the hanger number that Grayson had given him. “And home in time to surprise your granddaughters.”

They found the hanger, and they found Grayson waiting for them, sitting in a folding chair inside the cavernous space.

What they didn’t find was a plane. The film star had fought with his girlfriend, left her with her family, and stormed back to the airport. Grayson had texted Damien with the bad news, but of course he’d never received the message.

Didn’t matter. There wasn’t anything he could have done. The plane was gone.

And so was Damien’s hope of getting home that day.Chapter TenSince the girls and I went to bed ridiculously early, I woke up on this sunny Christmas Eve-Eve before the sun with two little girls and a cat sharing the bed with me. They’d been calm in sleep, their sweet faces like those of cherubs hanging in so many paintings in the Louvre.

Now it’s almost three in the afternoon, and I’m having to work hard to keep that image in my head. My sleeping angels have morphed into wild, rambunctious whirling dervishes. On any other day, I’d tell them to calm down. But this is pre-Christmas energy, and I don’t have the heart to tell them to stop racing around the third floor’s open area, which they’ve converted into their own version of Santa’s workshop, with about four dozen stuffed animals cast as elves.

Except I do draw the line at racing up the stairs.

“But Mommy! It’s the North Pole, and we have to fly there in the sleigh with the reindeer.”

“Reindeer fly slowly,” I tell Lara, grateful that at least she’s not trying to drag her sister up the stairs in a colorful cardboard box repurposed as a sleigh. “They have to so they can stop at every house. Plus, Santa likes to be careful. It would be terrible if he had an accident and missed a kid, wouldn’t it?”

Lara considers this, then nods. I breathe a sigh of relief.

“So calm down,” I say. “And only fifteen more minutes. Then you can watch Frosty while I talk with Ms. Evelyn, okay?”

Lara salutes, and they scamper off.

Exactly sixteen minutes later, I’ve parked them in front of the television, and I’m heading back upstairs to the kitchen. My phone pings in the tone I’ve assigned to Damien, and it’s as if sunshine is bursting through me from nothing more than that familiar sound.

That sunshine turns to rain, however, when I read the actual text.

Baby, I’m sorry. Crisis expanding. Won’t be back until late Christmas Day. I love you. I miss you. It’s not enough, but no matter what, I am there with you and the girls in spirit. Forgive me?

The thought of his continuing absence is like a knife to my heart, but I roll my shoulders back. Whatever he’s having to deal with is obviously bad, and I don’t want him worrying about me or feeling guilty.

So I pull up my big girl panties, draw in a breath, and quickly type my reply.