A Billionaire for Christmas

“Thank God we aren’t them,” I said cheekily. “Looks like we have the option of bourbon or bourbon.” I held up both overpriced bottles so he could choose.

He looked up. “The Michter. It’s more expensive. We’ve earned it.” He toasted his cigar, drew in a puff, and rotated it until the heat was evenly distributed. “You’ll like this though. Illusione Epernay. It’s mild the way you Europeans tend to like things.”

He handed me a cut cigar in exchange for one of the glasses I’d poured. I sniffed the foot. It smelled like coffee and cedar and, when I drew off it myself a few moments later, I detected floral and honey notes as well.

“Very nice.” I sank into the oversized leather armchair and crossed my ankle over the opposite knee, letting the tension in my shoulders uncoil with the pleasant body of the tobacco. “Are all holidays with your family as awful as this one?” With more than two dozen high-class guests, the day had been filled with pageantry and performance. Much like this office with its overabundance of wood paneling and the gold-plated details. What a nightmare of a life.

“I couldn’t tell you.” He plopped into the rolling chair and leaned back to prop his feet on the massive desk in front of him. “I don’t spend time with them for a reason.”

“But now you’re in the States. For good?” He hadn’t given any indication that he was returning to the Japan office anytime soon, but with Donovan, you could never be too sure what his plans were.

He hesitated, either uncertain of the answer or uncertain he wanted to share it. Finally, he said, “For good.”

“I’m guessing Sabrina Lind has something to do with that.” I was fishing, and it was obvious. Hopefully it wasn’t as evident that the person I was really curious about was Sabrina’s sister, and he’d unwittingly tell me something useful.

Donovan had never been one to show his cards, though. Even years ago when I’d first met him. When he’d practically been engaged to my stepdaughter.

He wasn’t eager to show them now, either. “We’ll see. We’ll see.”

“I’m somewhat surprised she isn’t here today, after that scene you made the other night. Declaring you were her boyfriend right there on the streets of Manhattan.”

He gave me a sharp glare. “It wasn’t a scene. It was a necessary declaration.” Then, after a beat, “She’s spending the day with her sister. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

Neither did I, which was why I was poking around for information. As she’d asked, I’d sent Audrey a text the night before when I’d gotten back to my apartment after Aaron had been found. It had been short and factual.

Dylan: He’s home. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.Audrey: I’m so glad.She’d responded right away, and I’d wondered if I’d woken her or if she’d waited up for my news. Probably the former. And still the possibility that it could have been the latter intrigued me. As did the symbols that followed. A heart, according to Urban Dictionary. Or a ballsack, depending on which definition I wanted to rely on. Either could be considered appropriate.

And yet I longed for the meaning of the heart.

I was stupid. I was raving mad. Letting my thoughts drift to her as often as they did. It was all the buildup. All the wrought-up tension between us. I needed to get laid. Obviously. It would be the only possible way to cut through the bullshit and get down to the meaning of our companionship, the pure sexuality that was the only true connection we shared.

I took another draw on my cigar as I pulled out my mobile from my jacket pocket and was surprised to find another message waiting from her. I’d forgotten I’d put it on silent for dinner.

Audrey: Our T-Day reservations aren’t until five, btw. You can call or text anytime before that.I looked at my watch. It was a quarter to four. Really? That early, and I already needed a drink this badly?

The good news was I had time to catch her.

I set my drink down and stood up. “I, uh. Need to ring someone. Can I step out there?” I nodded toward the single French door that led to a balcony, so small it could only fit one person comfortably.

Donovan shrugged. “Doesn’t bother me any. Aaron?”

I puzzled for half a second before realizing he was asking if I was calling my son. “Yes. Yes, Aaron. You understand.”

Pushing open the door, I stepped quickly out into the biting cold before I could feel too guilty about the lie. Then I clicked on Audrey’s name, put the mobile to my ear, and puffed on my cigar until she answered.

“You called me!” she exclaimed.

“You said I should.” Had I misread her message?

“I know I did. I just didn’t think you’d actually call. I expected a text, at the most.”