A Billionaire for Christmas

Damien had looked at Frank, who’d shrugged. “I guess that’s our plan, then.”

And they’d set out, but not until Damien had texted Nikki with the bad news.

The text had gone through, but he hadn’t heard back. Still hadn’t, even though it had been over eight hours since he texted.

He hoped it was the network that was the problem, but he also knew that Nikki hadn’t wanted him to leave, and hadn’t understood why he was so determined. That was his own fault, since he hadn’t told her about Frank, but now with the delay, he feared that he’d inadvertently pushed her away when what he’d wanted to do was pull the entire family closer.

“It will be okay,” Frank said, pulling Damien back to the present. “She’ll understand.”

“I didn’t realize I was that obvious.”

“I can tell when you’re thinking about her. It’s one of the reasons I approve of you. I like what I see on your face when you think about my daughter.”

Damien managed a smile, but his heart wasn’t in it. It was after ten on the night of December twenty-third, and he still had thirty-six hours of drive time staring him in the face. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to change that.

He was fucking impotent, and that wasn’t a state of being that he was used to. It hadn’t been for a long time. A very long time.

They drove in silence for a few more hours, both exhausted and dirty. When the gas tank reached the halfway mark, Damien started looking for a station. He’d been filling up regularly since they’d started the journey. This part of the country was remote, with only a few scattered buildings, many looking abandoned. And the last thing he wanted was to run out of gas in the middle of the night in an unfamiliar country.

About an hour later, Frank pointed to a ramshackle gas station surrounded by flat dusty ground illuminated only by the few lights posted above the gas tanks and a tall lamp post that rose up from behind the building.

Damien frowned at it, noting the way the light reflected off of something large and metallic. He couldn’t see all of it—just protrusion of metal sticking out past the side of the building—but something about it seemed so familiar.

“Full,” Frank said, and Damien turned to see Frank holding the fuel nozzle. “No credit card attachment. Guess we pay inside.”

Damien nodded, still distracted, and headed that way, his steps picking up speed as he realized what he’d seen.

A plane. The nose and bit of prop from a small, single-engine plane.

It probably didn’t fly. Was probably rusted and engine-less.

But until he could ask the attendant, he could hope. Because right then, the only thing he wanted in the world was his wife and children. And for a few short minutes at least, he was going to hold onto the dream that the small, dust-covered, probably broken-down plane had enough oomph left in it to get him and Frank home to Nikki.

It was the season of miracles, after all. And right then, he could sure use one.Chapter TwelveI stand in the middle of the Stark Century Hotel’s Grand Ballroom, the venue for the Stark Children’s Foundation’s Holiday Fundraising Gala, surrounded by bright, beautiful, smiling faces. Women and men dressed to the nines. Children in their holiday best.

The kids are mostly in the far corner where a play area is set up, complete with holiday elves. As for the adults, they’re gathered around the silent auction displays, playing roulette or blackjack, indulging in the varied spread of food and drink, or enjoying the band set up by the temporary dance floor.

They’re all here to support the foundation, to raise money for the kids that this organization supports, and to watch the children’s Nutcracker performance that’s due to begin in just a few minutes.

As a member of the board and a Stark Youth Advocate, I’m one of the hostesses for the evening, and in that role, I move through the room, my Engaged Hostess mask firmly in place as I try not to reveal my fears. Because I still haven’t heard from Damien, and I can’t think of a single reason why he wouldn’t be in touch. None of his plants are so remote that cell service isn’t available, and as far as I know, all of the countries in which Stark International does business are stable.

I’m hoping that he’s simply putting every second toward resolving the crisis, so he’s not even taking the extra time to contact me. But no matter how many times I tell myself that, I also know that’s not Damien. And the thought makes me spiral down into fear and worry again.

“I’m so impressed by everything this organization does,” says a journalist I’ve met once or twice, but whose name escapes me. “I’d love to interview you and Mr. Stark about its origins and mission.” She glances around. “By the way, I haven’t seen him this evening. Where is he hiding?”