Page 87 of Caught Between Two Billionaires
Maybe it’s becoming an obsession.
As much of an obsession as the shiny mall had been to Christopher.
“What are you doing here?”
I turn back to see him stepping through the plastic sheeting, his eyes black with fury. It’s like I’ve conjured him from my mind. He can’t be real. Can’t. Be. Even as he kicks aside pieces of debris and storms closer, even as the dust parts for him like the goddamn Red Sea, I’m sure he’s part of my imagination. I must have inhaled more varnish than I thought.
He grasps my arms, both of them, hauling me up. I gasp at the sudden movement. The trowel I was holding clatters to the floor. Those black eyes sear me, accusatory and cold.
“I said, what the hell are you doing here?”
“Rumpelstiltskin,” is all I can manage to say, which makes me sound crazy.
Christopher Bardot has always had that effect on me. From the time I was fifteen years old, he made me stutter and stumble. But he doesn’t disappear when I say his name.
Instead he looks incredulous. “This building should be condemned.”
I yank away from him, only able to breathe again when he’s no longer touching me. “This building is none of your concern. Not after you sold it to me. For a ridiculous price, I should mention.”
“It’s my concern if it crashes to the ground next to my luxury condos.”
“Oh no.” I manage a laugh that sounds haughty and unafraid. As if I’m not shaking inside. “Sutton told me you’re still developing in the west end. I’ll stay out of your business if you stay out of mine.”
His lips press together. It’s as if the words are torn from him. As if each one pulls a piece of his skin when he speaks it. “When did you speak to Sutton?”
“When I hired him to restore the library.”
“Restore. Restore? It’s not a goddamn painting in a museum. It’s a building that isn’t structurally sound. There’s no way you can get a contractor to work on it.”
My eyes narrow. “Wait a second. Did you talk to contractors about this building?”
“Of course I talked to them,” he says, his voice clipped. “I owned it.”
“You bastard.”
“The only thing to do is raze the building and start over.”
“You bastard. You blackballed me. Told the contractors not to do business with me. What did you offer them? Some of the money I paid for the library? God. You are unbelievable.”
“They’re welcome to accept any job they find suitable.”
“That’s the only reason you sold it to me, isn’t it? Because you knew I wouldn’t be able to restore it.” For two billion dollars. He sold me the library knowing I couldn’t fix it.
“You can rebuild. Make it look exactly like it did before, if you want.”
“It won’t be the same.”
“You’re damn right it won’t be the same. It will be structurally sound.”
“Well, the joke is on you, because Sutton already said he would help me. And in case you didn’t notice? People actually like him. They want to work with him, because he’s not an arrogant jerk face.”
Christopher looks around with fake curiosity. “Then where are the workers?”
“They’re coming,” I say through gritted teeth. There is a ball of fire inside me. It’s an entire sun, its rays struggling to find a path out of my body. He doesn’t give a fuck about me. About the library. So why is he so damn intent on ruining this?
“And in the meantime, you’re… what? Living here?”
“So what if I am? Maybe I camp out under the circulation desk with a sleeping bag. Maybe I use the antique books as kindling for more fire and eat roasted pigeons for dinner.”
“What about your mother?” He says it as a challenge, which only serves to piss me off.
“What do you care about her? You didn’t want her to have the treatment, and now she’s not having it. The hospital doesn’t get their expensive new butterfly garden. Happy now?”
“It’s not safe here,” he says flatly.
“Then why don’t you leave?”
He turns away from me, and for a moment I think I’m going to see the back of him. It feels momentous, that his broad shoulders might walk away from me one last time. I don’t know what my life would be like without his hard disdain. Without his censure. I long for the freedom as much as I ache for him to stay. One step. Two. He makes it six feet away before he stops.
I need him to hold me. To tell me everything will be okay.
“There’s no way I can convince you to go?” He asks the question without looking at me.
He does worry about me, in that terrible white-knight kind of way. Terrible because it’s how he keeps his distance. Like I’m someone he has to save instead of a woman he can hold. There’s no life raft in this particular ocean, though. There’s no saving me.
