Priceless: Contemporary Billionaire Romance Novel (6 page)

 “Something
a little more…casual.”

 “You
mean less stuffy.”

“Less
formal,” she corrected him.

He
smiled, slyly. “Less pretentious.”

“More
relaxing
.”

He
glanced down at her untouched meal, and smirked. “Less inky.”

“Maybe,”
Maribel’s eyes fell down onto his white ramekin, filled with black ink and giggly
wiggly black octopus tentacles. 

Maybe
,
his mind repeated. 
He had learned her language now
.  Miles smirked with
pure enjoyment. “Javier…Miss Martinez would like her coat,” he called out into
the open room, then turned to Maribel with a wink. “You’re absolutely right.  Let’s
go get some fresh air.”

*
* * *

Hot dogs.  Fully loaded hot dogs.  Now,
this
was perfect.

Miles glanced down at Maribel, who thought it was
perfect, too.  They both indulged in the steamy, juicy hot dogs while gazing
upon in the ice skaters in outdoor rink in Millennium Park.

Maribel took another gluttonous bite.  A mixture of
ketchup and mustard dotted the tip of her nose.  Miles reached out with his
napkin and swiped it off with a smile.

“Slow down, or I might have to buy you a second
one.”

Miles was used to dining with women who ate like
birds and pretended they could barely eat dessert.  But not Maribel.  She
consumed her hot dog without apology and smiled wide when he suggested they go
for seconds.

“It’s just so delicious.”

“Better than octopus cooked in their own ink?”

“Please, don’t remind me.”

Miles laughed. 
Sassy when relaxed and well-fed
,
he thought.  He could live with that. 

“I have a confession to make…”

“Another one?” she eyed him.

“Yes, a zinger this time,” he quipped.  “This is usually
where I come to eat my lunch during the week.”

He turned around and leaned against the rink’s
railing, taking in the full view of the city and its skyline. “That’s my apartment
over there,” he nodded. “I usually work from home in the mornings, then come
down here for a quick lunch break before heading over to the office.”

Maribel followed his gaze to the top of each
building. “It must be exhausting, living life at the top all the time.” She
chomped down on her hot dog.  Ketchup smeared her cheek.

Miles fell silent.
 
Her
perceptive
comments disarmed him.
  It was exhausting
. 
Isolating and exhausting
. 
He gazed at Maribel with her ketchup smudge and black earmuffs, and realized
she was the first person with whom he felt comfortable confiding in. “Yes, it
can be. That’s why I make sure to come down to the street every day,” he
acknowledged, wiping her cheek with his napkin, “to keep everything in
perspective.”

He watched as she finished her hot dog, and dodged
his playful advance to wipe her face again.  She wiped it herself, then turned
back to watch the skaters, circling the rink with their brown rental skates and
wobbly, imperfect balance.

“I think that everyone is living their own private
lives of pain and isolation, you know?  And we’re all trying to find ways to
come together to enjoy ourselves—if only for brief fleeting moments.  Then, we
wake up the next day and struggle to do it all over again.”

Pensive, Miles chewed on his hot dog and studied
her.  Her cheeks blushed from the cold air, and condensation escaped from her
lips when she spoke.
She possessed such
sophistication and maturity
for her age
, he thought,
and she was so authentic, inside and out
.  It
made him want to stare at her without restraint, waiting to discover a new
angle that would charm him even more.  He already knew she had the ability to
be down-right sexy—images of her in high heels and fish nets in the lingerie
department had been permanently seared in his head.  But he wasn’t prepared for
her to be so genuine, and their connection to be so intimate. 

“Thank you for coming down here to meet me,” he
suddenly said. “I mean it.”

Something in his voice caught her attention, and she
flushed red. “Now, I’m the one who has a confession to make…” she slowly said.

“Shoot.”

“I’m very grateful that you invited me.  It’s been
years—
years
,” she stressed, less to him and more to herself, “that I’ve
spent my Valentine’s Day with anyone other than Keats and Tolstoy.”

“
War and Peace
, really?” he flashed a smile.
“I much prefer Stephen King.”

“On Valentine’s Day?” she truly seemed horrified. 
He laughed and grabbed her hand.  He towed her towards him, but resisted the
urge to kiss her and taste her sweetness.  It was too soon, and he knew it.

Suddenly, his cell phone rang.  Maribel looked down
at his vibrating pocket.  The glee and banter dissipated as they both waited to
see if Miles was going to answer it.

Miles noted the name of the caller and exhaled into
the cold air with bitterness. Then, he answered the call. “I’m here.”

“You’re not going to blow this deal, are you?”

Miles clenched his jaw, drifting away from the loud,
cheery glee of the ice skaters in the rink.

“Thirty-five million dollars, Brax, and you’re
making them wait on the details, just so you can get your nuts off with some
call girl…”

“Enough, Gary—” Miles cut in.  “Gillian called you,
fine, I get that.  But the rest is personal, so fuck off.”

“Okay, okay, whatever you say. I’m just your lawyer,
not your shrink.  But maybe you need a visit to your shrink to have your head
examined if you think it’s a good idea to blow off a thirty-five million dollar
deal.”

“Look—it’s Saturday.”

“I’m a lawyer, Brax. We don’t acknowledge the
difference between the work week and the weekend.  They’re all billable hours.”

“We’re too far apart on the lease terms.”

“You’re not
that
far apart,” Gary countered.
“And that’s what I’m here for.  Tell me what you want, and if it gets shot down,
then let me be the one who carries the surrender flag. No ego lost on your
part.” 

Ego
.
Everyone always
thought it was about his ego
, Miles thought.  He considered taking up
Gary’s offer and spewing out the acceptable terms, but then reconsidered.  He
had escaped—for a few brief hours—and now they were circling him like ravenous
vultures, attempting to draw him back in.

Maribel
suddenly appeared behind him. “Hot chocolate,” she mouthed, and proudly offered
up two paper cups, steaming and frothy with their cocoa delight.

He
gazed at her and slowly smiled—a thirty-five million dollar deal or hot chocolate
on Valentine’s Day with a sassy, spontaneous, sexy woman who he wanted to get
to know more.

“Marshmallows,”
she mouthed, sweetening the deal.

Oh,
Maribel
.  Miles rubbed his face and peered down at the
white dots, bobbing in the hot chocolate.  She made difficult choices seem so
simple.

 
“I’ll call you tomorrow, Gary.”

“Don’t,
Brax—” Gary rushed to keep his attention, “Don’t do this… you blow this deal,
and you’ll quickly become the hardass megalomaniac real estate tycoon who
nobody is going to want to do business with.”

“Well,
that sounds better than just being known as an ‘asshole.’”

Miles
ended the call, regretting his decision to answer it in the first place. 
Crude
and rude
.  That’s how they provoked him to act because that’s what they
expected from him.  It was a vicious cycle, and he hated it.  He noted the sun
was drifting behind the thick winter clouds.  The frigid wind lashed through
their coats and pushed them close together.

Maribel
shivered against his coat.  “Trade,” she offered—the hot chocolate for his
phone.  Miles accepted the drink, but waivered on giving up his cell phone.

“C’mon
on,” she nudged, opening up her purse. “At least until we finish our hot
chocolates.”

It
was a fair compromise, and a concession he was willing to make—more than she
knew.

“I’m
a wanted man, Maribel,” he quipped, depositing his phone in her purse. “My
mugshot is all over the wires.”

She
shrugged. “You’re a billionaire. Everyone will always want something from you.”

Everyone—except
her.  She didn’t seem to want anything from him except to share an
uninterrupted moment to enjoy their hot dogs and hot chocolates.  Snow drifts suddenly
flecked down upon them.  Maribel shivered again as a gust of wind swept through
the city like an invisible hand pushing them off of the street and out of the
cold.  He considered inviting her up to his apartment.  It was right there,
three buildings down along Michigan Avenue.  They could escape from the weather
and relax by his fireplace; he could tour her through his penthouse, then scrounge
out something from his refrigerator and attempt to make them dinner.  It would
be a pleasant way to finish Valentine’s Day, and at the end of their meal, they
could decide together whether or not she wanted to spend the night.  He peered
down at Maribel.  She looked up at him with her priceless brown eyes.  Suddenly,
he reconsidered all of it.  She was too good for him, too good for his superficial
world—and she deserved better than to be corrupted by it.  

Snowflakes
glazed her black hair and earmuffs like sugar.  He wanted nothing more than to
tow her into him and kiss her sweetness, but he knew he hadn’t earned the right. 

 “It’s
cold, too cold to spend any more time outside…” he said.  “We should think
about getting you home.”

Chapter Five

It
was a long drive back to her apartment on the North side. 

They
sat in silence.  Maribel felt his tension.  She knew he was thinking about
work.  When the Mercedes rolled up to the curb, the driver lowered the tinted
glass and acknowledged their arrival.  Maribel heard the driver’s exit before
seeing her own side door whisk open.  The driver held out his hand to assist
her, but she didn’t accept it.  Instead, she gazed back at Miles.  They had
barely spoken since their departure.

“Thank
you so much.  I had a lovely time.”

Miles
smiled—a reluctant, uncertain smile that made Maribel stop from exiting the car. 
Silence lingered between them.  He gazed at her with restraint.

“It
was wonderful spending time with you, Maribel,” he finally said.

She
understood the flat tone in his voice.  It
had
been a wonderful way to
spend Valentine’s Day, but now it was time for them to part ways.  They came
from different worlds, and now, they needed to return to them—separately.  He
touched her hand—briefly—before pushing her out of the car with his cold shale eyes. 
She forced a smile and extended her hand out to the driver who pulled her out
of the car and away from Miles.

 “Maribel!”
a voice cried out from the building. “Is that you?”

“Yes,
Emma Jean.” Maribel looked up at her neighbor, who was dangling precariously
out of her third-story window, wearing a red feather boa and festive headband
with two bobbing hearts.  Music and gleeful laughter filtered down from her apartment
like invisible confetti.

“What
are you doing out there in that fancy ride?” Emma Jean called back, inebriated
and squinting past her near-sighted vision. “And who the heck is that?”

Miles
slowly lowered the tinted windows of the Mercedes and peered up at Emma Jean.

“Well,
hello there, Mr. Handsome Mystery Man,” Emma Jean waved and blew Miles a kiss.
“The party’s up here.  C’mon on up…”

Maribel
looked back at Miles’ designer suit and stormy eyes.  It looked like she had
been kidnapped by the mafia. 

“And
you, Miss Martinez.  I’ve got your name tag already.  I’ve been waiting for you
all afternoon.  You can’t have a Melrose Place Christmas party without our sweet,
sensitive Allison Parker.”

Maribel
glanced back at Miles who was still attempting to make sense of her drunken
neighbor.

“Melrose
Place—it’s a ’90s-Aaron-Spelling-nighttime-soap-opera-melodrama-TV show-themed-party,”
Maribel tried to clarify, then shook her head.  “Don’t ask…”

“C’mon
up, already,” Emma Jean drawled at Miles.  “I’ll make you a name tag, too.  That
suit is just perfect.  You can be Jack Wagner/Dr. Peter Burns—my nemesis.”

Suddenly,
there was a crash from inside the apartment. Emma Jean pulled herself back from
the window ledge and called inside.  “Are you all catfighting Heather Locklear style? 
Or just being clumsy?” Her inebriated laughter trickled down upon them, and
Miles peered over to Maribel.

“You
wanna come up?” she offered with a shrug.

“Nemesis?”
he asked, his eyebrow arching with curious amusement. It was the first time the
ice had thawed between them since escaping the bitter cold at Millennium Park.

“You
billionaires indulge in octopus cooked in its own ink and expensive wine.  The
rest of us have Melrose Place,” she sassed. “Are you up for it?”

 Miles
hesitated.  It was the first time Maribel saw him betray indecision.  She tried
not to seem impatient, but billionaire or not, she didn’t want him to come if
he wasn’t going to enjoy himself.  Finally, he exited the car, then pulled back
inside, only to emerge with a black duffle bag and his black dress coat.

“Take
the rest of the night off, Andre,” Miles said to his driver.

“Sir?”

“Don’t
worry.  I’ll take a cab home.  Take the night off.”

Andre
smiled and nodded with appreciation. “Thank you, sir.”  He quickly circled back
around to the driver’s seat, slammed the door, and peeled away from the curb, leaving
Maribel and Miles to face the uncertainty of Emma Jean’s party—together. 

Maribel
led him to the heavy front door of her apartment building and into the foyer. 
She heard Miles’ footsteps, trudging up the carpeted stairs behind her, and
wondered how long he would last there…
Five?  Ten?  Maybe fifteen minutes, if
Emma Jean had a decent bottle of imported rum or whiskey. 
As they ascended
to the second floor, the swelling music and nasal crooning of Meatloafs’ —
I
Would Do Anything For Love (But I Won’t Do That)
overwhelmed them.

Five
minutes.  Definitely five minutes—max,
Maribel felt certain.

When
they arrived up to the third floor landing, Maribel pointed out her apartment door
across the hallway.  “I live there.  You can leave your things there in the
corner.”

Miles’
eyes surveyed Maribel’s snow boats next to her porcelain gnome in
beachwear—both resting atop a pink rubber floor mat.  He didn’t seem convinced.

“Don’t
worry… everyone in this building is poor, but we don’t steal.”

“I’m
more worried about the rats,” he shot back.

Maribel
eyed at him.  He broke into his sly smile, and settled his things onto the
floor.

 “What’s
in the duffle bag, anyway… stacks of hundred dollar bills?”

“Pajamas,”
he joked dryly.

Maribel
hid her smile.  It was impossible to read him, but she knew one thing for
certain—their playful connection was back. 

 “Let’s
do this already,” he nodded towards Emma Jean’s half-open door.

Maribel
and Miles pushed into Emma Jean’s vintage two-bedroom apartment, its entryway
and living room crowded with guests—all sporting Valentine’s Day hearts on
their foreheads or cleavage, and all animated by the whirling strobe of a
silver disco ball hanging from the ceiling fan.  They passed a card table, its
barren food trays and empty punch bowl signaled they were late to the party.  Suddenly,
there was a burst of jovial laughter and a physical jolt of bodies that forced Maribel
and Miles towards the half-empty couch.  An older couple sat on the opposite
side, lip syncing along to the music with a spatula and a cheese grater.  Emma
Jean rushed up to Maribel and Miles, and slapped them each with a name tag. 

“Peter
and Allison… I’d like you to meet Donna, a.k.a tough-taking, but emotionally wounded
‘Jo Reynolds and her biker hottie boyfriend, ‘Jake Hansen’.” 

Miles
sunk down next to them onto the couch and shook hands with the overweight man
wearing an Ozzy Osborn T-shirt, black jeans, and black leather biker vest. 

“Dr.
Peter Burns,” Miles introduced himself without a beat, “and this is Allison
Parker,” he said, referencing Maribel’s name tag before abruptly towing her onto
his lap.

“Oh,
you’re a devious one, Dr. Burns,” Donna gasped over her miniature bottle of
cooking wine.  “They brought you into Season Four to stir up trouble at the
hospital.”

“Like
there wasn’t already enough trouble,” overweight biker Jake rolled his eyes,
exasperated.

“Because
of
moi
, Mr. Satan himself.” Emma Jean returned from the kitchen and
handed over tumblers to Miles and Maribel.

Miles
leaned in and read aloud from Emma Jean’s name tag. “Dr. Michael Mancini?”

“Call
me—‘Dr. Michael,’” she puckered her lips, flirtatiously. “I steal your job as
director of the hospital, and in return, you throw me out a window.  Look at
him, Donna…isn’t he the perfect Jack Wager/Peter Burns with those dreamy blue
eyes and everything?”

“I
always loved Jack Wagner from the
Bold and the Beautiful
,” Donna
confirmed.

Miles
winked at both women and threw back his tumbler. 

Maribel
peered inside it. “What is it?” she asked Emma Jean.

“Honey…what’s
left!” Emma Jean cried out with a cackling smoker’s cough, and disappeared back
into the kitchen.

Uncertain,
Maribel glanced at Miles, who crunched down on his ice. “C’mon, Miss Parker. 
Don’t be such a goodie, goodie.”  He bounced her on his knee to encourage her
to drink up. 

“Oh,
I like him already,” Donna nudged Maribel.  “But don’t tell Dr. Mancini.”

Maribel
wasn’t convinced.  She knew Emma Jean, and knew she wasn’t above serving rubbing
alcohol if it was the only thing left in her apartment.  Maribel sipped from
her tumbler. 
Wow, it was strong—impossibly strong
.  Miles, on the other
hand, emptied his drink like it was water and relaxed his head against a fluffy
pink pillow in the shape of a piglet.  He peered into Maribel’s eyes.  His lap
was firm.  He supported her back with the steady strength of his right arm. 
But his gaze was flat and fading.  Emma Jean was right.  He did have dreamy
blue eyes, and for a moment, Maribel wished he would whisk her up into his arms
and carry her out the door.  

Suddenly,
a champagne cork exploded.

“Just
found another bottle behind the dog food bag!” Emma Jean announced.  All her
guests applauded with cheers.

The
commotion caused an enormous Great Dane to roll along the base of the couch,
seeking shelter from the uproar.  She greeted Miles with a friendly whiff.  

“Hey,
girl,” he said, and nuzzled the dog with reassurance.

“That’s
Petunia,” Emma Jean made the introduction while handing off Daisy cups of
champagne. “You must be very
special because she normally doesn’t kiss
strangers.  But she does have a soft spot for dreamy blue eyes—just like me.”
Miles downed the champagne and relaxed more.  His gaze drifted over to Maribel.

“I
have dogs.  Three,” Miles confessed with regret. “But I pay a professional to
take care of them because I don’t have time to ever see them.” He let Petunia
lick his face with a generous kiss before she departed in search of her
favorite squeaky mouse. “I pay professionals to do everything for me,” he added
with bitter laughter, “except be me.  Hopefully that’s still worth doing
myself.”

Maribel
peered at him.  He seemed so vulnerable and wounded.  With a gesture of
compassion, she ran her fingers across his hair.  He took her hand into his own
and held it.  His eyes fixed on her with intensity.  She recognized that
gaze—she had seen it when she modeled the necklace for him in the department
store, and when the snowflakes fell upon them at Millennium Park.  Slowly, cautiously,
he leaned forward and snaked both arms around Maribel’s waste, securing her closer
in his lap.  Then, he towed her entire body into his chest and kissed her lips.
 His strong hand ran over her knit stockings and down her calves, then back up
to her face as he held her chin and covered her mouth with his own, tonguing
her fully, completely, without apology or restraint until she submitted herself
to him—not because he forced her to acquiesce, but because she hoped for more.

“Can
we go to your apartment?” he petitioned with a whisper, his forehead dropping
against her shoulder, signaling an impenetrable yearning for something only she
could grant him.

“Yes,”
she heard herself whisper back.  Then, she felt him lift her into his arms with
a dominating force that made her realize there was no turning back.

He
pushed them both through the crowded living room and out into the empty
stairwell, and deposited her in front of her apartment door.  Maribel fumbled
through her purse for her keys.  She felt Miles’ impatient hands encircle her
from behind, slipping off her coat and kissing her ear lobe.  His hot breath exhaled
down her neck where his nose traced the edge of her scoop neck sweater.  She
sensed what he wanted—he wanted her completely.  She unlocked the door, but
dropped her keys when he embraced her and shuttled them inside the dark shadows
of her apartment. 

Should
she turn on the lights or leave them off
?  Maribel barely had
time to consider it before she felt his hands sweeping off her sweater to expose
her black lace bra. 
Off
, her mind repeated,
off
,
off, off,
off, off
as she returned his advances, kissing him deeply and loosening his
tie while he unbuttoned his coat. 
Off, off, off
, she thought as she
attempted to unbutton his business shirt, but stopped, distracted by the sensation
of his smooth chin and tongue flowing across her bare shoulders, down and
around her belly button, and back up over her cleavage.  She ran her
fingernails through his dark hair and watched his strong shadow against the
ceiling as it pulled down the straps of her bra before delving his mouth deep
into its cups to suck on her nipples.  Maribel closed her eyes and accepted his
mouth with a submissive exhale.  She couldn’t remember the last time she had invited
a man into her apartment, much less allowed him to strip off her sweater, peel
down her bra, and suck her dry, the way he was sucking her off now.  But she
didn’t want to remember anything—anything except the exhilaration of being
devoured the way that he was devouring her.