Page 56 of Caught Between Two Billionaires
“He’s never held it well,” Sutton murmurs from the other seat.
“Really?” I ask, curious about this lightweight side of Christopher.
Sutton looks at me, his blue eyes dark across the limo. “It’s not something he does often. In fact this is only the second time I’ve seen him get drunk. The first time—that was the night we met.”
“Hell,” Christopher says. Only that.
“We were at the Den,” Sutton says. “He told me about this woman he knew.”
My throat goes tight, because I know which woman he’s talking about. Which means that Christopher was as messed up about me as I was about him. Part of me had suspected that, but it was easier to think of him as an unfeeling robot-monster instead of a flesh-and-blood man.
There’s no jealousy in Sutton’s blue eyes—well, maybe a little. But mostly understanding. He wasn’t clueless when he stepped between us. Definitely not clueless when he bent me over the library counter and spanked my ass with a book.
“What do we do now?” I ask, sounding lost to my own ears.
It’s Christopher who answers, his voice bleak. “What we’ve always done. We work. We fix what’s broken. We fight for every goddamn penny.”
“Your choice,” Sutton says, softer. “It’s always been your choice what you do here. Whether you go or stay. And which one of us you bring home.”
I swallow hard, because I already know what I’m going to do. For tonight, at least. Christopher has been a rock of ambition the entire time I’ve known him. Whatever the reason, tonight broke him. I’m not going to leave him alone to face this himself.
The limo pulls up to a high-rise condo. I know from the sleek glass and the stiff bellhop who lives here, even before Christopher pushes out of the seat. Where does Sutton live? Maybe not somewhere as rustic as a ranch, but I know he must be able to open a window. Must be able to feel the sun and the wind on his face.
Christopher walks away from the limo without a backward glance. He doesn’t expect me to follow. Maybe he never wants to see me again.
He didn’t shiver alone in my cabin after pulling me out of the bay.
“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice low in the back of the limo.
Sutton’s blue eyes flash. “You’re going with him.”
Part of me wants to reassure him—I’m not going to sleep with Christopher. I’m only going to make sure he drinks a glass of water and falls asleep in a bed. But I don’t owe that promise to Sutton. And I can’t be one hundred percent sure I’ll keep it.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I say instead, four words that mean four thousand things. They mean there’s something between us, Sutton and me. Something deep and sensual and ancient. They mean I’m loyal to him, as much as I can be, but the debt I owe Christopher is even older than that.
Sutton’s grip tightens on the leather enough that it creaks under his hold. He’s a mythical beast, barely held by social constraints. “Let me take you to L’Etoile. Or back to my place. Hell, I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”
Except being with Christopher is where I need to go tonight.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I say again, softer now. This time the words mean something different. I’m sorry. That’s what they say.
Sutton accepts my apology in cold silence. He steps out of the limo to help me stand, offering his hand when my ankle wobbles on the pavement. Even in anger he won’t let me fall.
I’ve contemplated where Christopher Bardot lives more times than I care to admit. The depths of hell, I would have said once. Looking at the sterile high-rise condominium with its glass surfaces and its black leather, I think I had it right.
In the fridge I find old take-out containers and a bottle of champagne, unopened, that someone must have given him. It takes some searching to find a drawer with some medicine. I pour him a glass of tap water and hand him two Advils. “Take this.”
He swallows it without looking at it close or thinking too hard about it. This Christopher is a stranger, one who does what I ask and apologizes for being a bastard. “Thanks.”
And says thank you, apparently.
I study his dark eyes, wondering if he fell over the side of the balcony when I wasn’t looking and hit his head. “Are you sure you’re okay? Sutton didn’t knock something loose in the fight?”
He laughs, a little distant. “Deserved it, if he did.”
A curved leather couch takes up most of the living space. Christopher stumbles over to it and lies down, and I realize then that I probably won’t have much luck moving him. So I follow him over and sit down by his head, moving a lock of dark hair out of his eyes.
