The Billionaire's Desire

I sigh, frustrated. "The story is; I grew up in homeless shelters to become an entrepreneur who plans weddings for rich people. Maybe I'm a narcissist or something, but I feel like my life alone should be the hook."

"I agree with you babe," Tricia said quickly, cutting off Rita with a slight shake of her head. "Try again. She probably needs to hear it from you."

I nod fiercely.

"And Yahya?"

"Yeah?"

She stares daggers at me. "Go see Dad."

Chapter Eleven

Carter

When the helicopter rose into the sky last night, I cursed myself loudly. "You fucking idiot. You should have kissed her."

Walking with her, her warm arm pressed against mine… It felt so right and natural that I didn't even consider that she wasn't always going to be there. I felt like I had all the time in the world to savor the scent of her swirling around me. I was so lost in the novelty of her presence that I took too damn long to act.

And then she left.

Of course she left. She was just getting started, looking over the place and thinking about the wedding. Whatever connection I thought we had… It wasn’t supposed to happen. Love at first sight doesn’t just happen.

I fucked up. Royally. She likely had already moved on, bored with my hesitation last night. Women like Sanniyah Jones didn't wait around for anything, least of all idiots who suddenly find themselves stumbling around like inexperienced schoolboys in their presence.

I am Carter fucking Easton. I got where I am by following my gut. And my gut said to kiss her. Hard.

The only thing standing in my way right now is my impending nervous breakdown.

The black car pulls up to the back entrance of the building. "All clear, sir," Benson tells me, rolling down the partition.

I try to quell the panic attack that is looming. "Thank you Benson," I say instead, surprised at how even my voice is. "I'll be ready to return in about two hours."

"Very good, sir." My driver knows enough not to get out and open the door for me. That would attract too much attention. The paranoia that grips me whenever I am forced to visit the city is always the worst right at this moment. When I have to leave the safety of my car and walk quickly into the building.

It's irrational, I know. By now I have been out of the limelight long enough that the frenzy has faded, at least a little. But there is still a chance of a telephoto lens, hidden somewhere that I wouldn't even know to look, taking pictures of me, my car, my license plate...renewing the bloodlust of the paparazzi.

It was the paparazzi's fault my parents were dead. Or rather it was my fault for being someone the paparazzi hounded.

The first time a flashbulb went off in my face, I was amused. It didn't make any sense. I wasn't a celebrity; not an actor, a model or a musician. I was just a guy who had founded a business that inexplicably became successful. I liked my work, liked it well enough to let it consume me until I was working around the clock.

But then a strange thing happened. The more the business thrived, the less the magazines and the blogs and the tech sites seemed interested in it. They begin digging around, looking for dirt in my personal life. My high school girlfriend, who had been with me since the beginning of everything, was soon disgusted by her inability to walk to the corner store without having cameras in her face. Her three- AM drunken tirade against me became a favorite for all of the gossip sites and then everything went off the rails. The sharks scented blood in the water and nothing could stop the feeding frenzy. My parents, my sister, my friends all found themselves hounded night and day, questions about me hurled at them like clumps of mud. One by one it drove everyone away...

Until that fateful night two years ago.

My parents wanted to take me out to dinner. A normal thing that normal families do when there is success to be shared. I had sold off the excursions branch of my business to a start-up out of California and the money had been insane. My parents were old-fashioned types who never would dream of taking their son's money. We went to a neighborhood favorite, the place where I had celebrated my tenth birthday.

The first flash went off in our faces somewhere around when the appetizers came out. Someone must have called the tabloids, because soon they were everywhere, crowding the sidewalk and shoving each other to get their shot. My mother's face, pinched with worry, still haunts me to this day.

"Carter honey, your father and I will take your car tonight. Get them out of your hair."

I thanked her quickly, handed over my keys, and ducked into the safety of their Buick. I drove to a hotel on the outskirts of town, reveling in my peace and quiet.

My parents ended up in a fiery wreck, run off the road by the paparazzi that thought they were me.

Those men were in prison now, but the full force of my lawyers couldn't bring my father back to walk Camilla down the aisle. They couldn't bring my mother back to smile and offer to make me a sandwich, no matter the time of day. They couldn't give me respite from the guilt that sent me to live in shame on a glorified sandbar, as far removed from the public eye as I could get.

All of these thoughts assault me as I step out into the smoggy, dirty air of the city. I can practically feel the grip of the panic closing around my throat in a chokehold. I rushed into the building, but it is cold comfort once I am inside.

Two hours, that's all I need, then I can go back to Annika Island and my fragile peace.

The internet connection on Annika is spotty at best. The conference room at Easton Ventures is much more reliable. Still, I can't shake the feeling that I have been dragged to this conference by my board for no real reason. They just need me here, a visible reminder to the investors that I am still the head of this company.

And that I am still sane.

So I play my part. I banter, and smile. I poke holes in the market projections that cause the accountants to scramble. And when all is said and done, I lean back in my chair and think about Sanniyah.

For one brief moment with her, I felt like my old self. Hungry, instead of hollow. Brave instead of paranoid.

I need to get that back.

I need to get her back.

Benson pulls up, and I sprint inside the car. We race back to the airport but it isn't until we are in helicopter, waiting for clearance to take off, that I come to my senses.

I'm pissed off at myself, tired of hiding like a frightened mouse.

I should have fucking kissed her.

"Hold on, Benson," I bark. "Don't take off yet."

The impulsivity I'm known for takes hold of me. I grab my phone and scroll to Sanniyah's number. Then I text her. And I tell her exactly what I am thinking....

Chapter Twelve

Sanniyah

"Go see Dad." Tricia ripped into me pretty badly with only three words. I know I should go see him. But I still can't. Seeing him would make it real.

So instead, I take the easy way out. Fifteen minutes before I have to be at the Ferrara-Dickenson wedding, I call my mother instead.

"Hey there mama!" My voice is so bright and cheerful I want to punch myself.

"Hey there, baby girl."

Mama sounds tired and not at all happy to hear from me. But I soldier on anyway. "I had a few minutes before I have to start working and I just wanted to check in. How are you doing? How's Daddy?"

My mother's long silence is making me squirm. When she finally does speak, she is deliberately ignoring my questions. "I'm out taking a walk. Needed the sunshine. I've been cooped up in that house for too long."

"Who's taking care of Otis?" I ask, and then silently curse myself for calling my stepdad by his first name. A bad habit all three of us hate.

She ignores my misstep for once. ""You remember Mrs. Parker down the block?" she asks.

"The one with the birthmark?"

"You be nice," she admonishes, but I can hear her smile when she continues, "I know, I can't stop looking at it either. But she's a nice lady and she's been helping a lot. Keeping my azaleas pruned a

nd everything."

I try to picture this Mrs. Parker, but all I can conjure is the port wine stain that splotches her cheek. Then I feel horrible.

I feel even worse when my mother inhales deeply. "So we got some news," she says, her voice heavy with meaning.

I'm already dancing in place, a frenzy of nerves. The wedding starts in five minutes. I can't deal with this right now. I try to side step. . "Ma, you sound tired."