The Billionaire’s Handler (7 page)

“No way. I'm thrilled we're doing this. But I'll learn on my own money. Period.”

He shot her a look. “Whew. You're getting tougher all the time.”

She was used to his teasing, but this time it itched. Just because she'd been through a stretch when she was overwhelmed didn't mean she had no character or strength or skills. Just once, she'd like Maguire to see that she didn't need or want to be treated like Waterford crystal.

By the time they reached the infamous casino, she was buzzed. Maguire cupped her elbow as he escorted her past fountains and lights, and into the heart of the casino. The buzzed sensation intensified, just from the warmth of his hand on her arm. From the way he walked next to her, as if they were a cou
ple. From the way her pulse did musical scales—in several pitches—just from being this close.

“So…do you have any ideas which games you'd like to play? Or like to learn?”

“Hey, I can hold my own at a card table. Trust me.”

“I do trust you. The way I'd trust a lamb at a slaughterhouse. If you just wait here for a minute, I'll get us some chips. You pick the game—anything you want is fine by me.”

“Baccarat,” she voted.

“Yeah, I watched that James Bond movie when I was a kid, too. You tired?” he asked swiftly when she stumbled.

“No!” It was possible, very unlikely, but possible, that she'd been wearing her new shoes nonstop for a little too long and her feet were a wee bit tired. But admit that to Maguire, and she'd never hear the end of it. “I'll just wander around while you're getting the chips, okay?”

“Sure, but stay in sight. This is safer than an alley in a big city, but there are still sharks here. They just look nicer. I want you to have fun—but we're not putting you in any situations where you have to worry.”

She couldn't have been less worried. She picked a baccarat table, and wedged herself between a woman draped in sapphires and a white-tuxed Japanese
gentleman. There were no seats together, but Maguire had a spot at the end. The gaming table was one of the most crowded. The dealer, Carolina thought, spent more money on a hairstylist than she did. Was cuter, too.

She settled down on the velvet bar stool, not just prepared to have some fun playing the game, but to prove to Maguire that she wasn't such a sissy or a wuss. Granted, he'd seen her in bad shape, but that was before. Days ago. Aeons ago.

It seemed as if a lifetime had passed since she'd known Maguire. There'd been life before she met him. And life since. And “life since” was all that seemed to matter.

The dealer shuffled, dealt. Maguire's eyes met hers across the table. “The noise level bothering you?” he mouthed.

She shook her head, amazed at her own answer. Of course, all the casino noises were friendly, not scary. But it was only a couple weeks ago when she'd shrank from all noise. It was amazing to her—how much had changed. How much she'd changed.

The dealer dealt her a natural five—a potentially great card. She glanced at the chips Maguire had given her, and abruptly realized that her smallest chip was fifty dollars.

She almost had a heart attack. Got over it. And carefully bid a single chip.

Maguire picked up a face card in the deal, which in this game was the same as a zero. Still, anything could come through with the second card.

Carolina waited her turn. When the dealer sent her a second card, she shrieked—delicately—to reveal it was a four, making her two cards a natural baccarat. The dealer chuckled at her enthusiasm and paid her chips.

Twenty minutes later, Maguire burst onto the balcony with a grim face and alarmed eyes. “My God. Where have you been?”

“Just here. Enjoying the night.” She could see how worried he looked. “Hey, I'm sorry. I was trying to give you some space so you could play. And I was happy enough, just enjoying the sights and sounds from the balcony here—”

“But you just won. Why'd you tear off?”

“Because I won.”

“Huh? You won one hand.”

“Well, yeah.” She cocked her head, unsure what he was driving at. “I just made five hundred bucks on a single hand, Maguire. Why on earth would I bet again and risk losing that?”

He scooped an arm around her shoulders and shook his head. “C'mere, big gambler. I'll buy you one more glass of wine before we pack it in.”

“I'll buy! I'm the rich one tonight, remember!”

Oh, that smile, she thought. The hint of whiskers
on his chin just made him look more roguish. He came through with the wine, and they both leaned back, inhaling the lights and warm night. “I saw another Porsche,” she told him. “Yellow like a banana. Or maybe like a yellow submarine.”

It was getting easier to woo smiles from him. Easier to get him to talk, let go a little. Eventually they wandered from the lighthearted to the more serious.

“You know what? I was thinking,” she murmured.

“Women shouldn't do that. Men always get in trouble when that happens.”

“Oh, good. You're scared.” She leaned against the balcony, felt the cool concrete against her thighs, felt the sparkle of moonlight and fairy dust from this magical place. From being with him. Here. Just the two of them. “Brace yourself.”

“Okay, I'm braced. Tell me what's on your mind.”

“I've been working with special kids for quite a while. I love it. I love them.”

“Is this the scary part? Because I'm pretty sure I already knew this.”

“I'm getting to the scary part. Sheesh. Give me a chance. So. I've worked in two schools and four different summer programs. The job I had this last year was the best, but you know what?”

“I'll bite. What?”

“Maguire…I can tell you why people didn't notice what was wrong with Tommy. People in my field are programmed, we're trained, to work with the problems that we understand the children to have. Most of the classes are understaffed and underfunded—but that's not the whole problem. Money never is.”

“Money never is? How can you be an American and think money isn't the solution to every problem? But go on. I have to hear where you're going with this.”

“Well…this is the thing. We have some great programs for special kids. But we also miss things because we have to be concerned with the diagnosis of what's wrong. No child totally fits a pattern. Even a child with limited IQ can have spots when he's brilliant. Even a child with a definite diagnosis can have other sides to his health, his character, that aren't defined by what's wrong with him. I'd like to take that to D.C.”

“Okay. Now you're starting to scare me.”

“Oh, I realize I don't have the power to do anything myself. But…I do have money now. I could bring some of the best minds together on my dollar. Look at the best of programs we have, how to work with the multiple dimensions of each child. Being an advocate for special kids… I could actually do that. With some money and some power. I could actually make
a difference at a higher level than just an individual classroom.”

Maguire shifted, straightened up. “All right. I admit it. I didn't dream you'd get here this fast. You're starting to get it, how you can carve out your own life, now, aren't you? You're revving your own engine. This is a good idea.”

“I'm a smart girl, Maguire. You doubted I would come up with good ideas?”

“I never doubted you were smart. I worried that the piranhas out there had beaten you down.” He reached out a hand.

She took it.

“Ready to head back to the hotel? We've had a long day.”

They had, but her heart was suddenly thrumming to bluesy rhythms. Maguire might not know it, but his evening wasn't completely over yet.

B
ack at the hotel, an open-gated elevator sent them to the third floor. Maguire could see that she was beat. He'd wanted her to have that kind of whirlwind day—so busy she didn't have time to dwell on fears or worries, but not so crazy that she'd get over-exhausted.

This hotel, like others in Monaco, went over the top on gilt and opulence. Not Maguire's choice of decors, but he'd be looking for the kind of place where Carolina'd feel pampered. The screw-up earlier in the day had been corrected. He plucked her key, 3543, opened her door and stepped in a foot, just to make sure the setup was correct.

The peach satin spread was turned down, a spray of Russian chocolates on the pillow, a dressing gown laid out. A light in the bathroom gleamed on the marble floor; soft lamplight pooled a welcoming glow by her bed. Two dozen peach roses spilled from an ivory vase. A basket of goodies—wine, cheese, fruit, snacks—was tucked on the far table.

Yes. All as ordered. Maguire backed out a step. “Okay, you. To sleep—for as long as you want to sleep. I'm in the next room, 3544.”

Carolina raised her eyebrows. “You're not in a suite with me this time?”

Maguire had gotten smarter in direct proportion to her becoming more dangerous. “I'm right next door, and there's a connecting door between us that's locked on both sides. If you need me, I'm a knock away. But I don't think you need anyone hovering close the way I was before.”

“You do think I'm stronger,” she said with a tone of satisfaction.

“I do. But you don't need setbacks.” And he didn't need to be any closer to that lithe body draped in black that clung in all the right places whenever she moved. “When you're ready to be out and about tomorrow, just knock on the connecting door. I brought work with me that I can do right in the room, so if you want to sleep all day, it won't matter to me. If you want to get up and moving, that's fine, too.”

“That's it?” she murmured. “No kiss good-night, Maguire?”

He saw the look in her eyes. Had to bolster a breath before coming through with a teasing, “Hey. Behave yourself.”

He let himself into his room, clunked down the key and kicked off his shoes. His mind was chanting mantras. Vanilla. Snow. Milk. Anything he could think of that would remind him of virgin white.

Carolina had formed…an attachment for him. He knew it. He refused to ignore it any longer. But she was vulnerable as satin, good from the inside out.

He'd been tainted from the day he was born.

He'd been in a position to rescue her, to steal her away to a princess life for a few days. Maguire got it. It was easy for her to see him as a knight in shining armor. But he was no knight. And he wasn't—and couldn't be—a serious part of her life long term. So it was up to him to make sure she didn't get hurt.

He yanked off the tux jacket, then the cumberbund and stupid tie. Bleach. Frost. Calcium. Pearls—no, not pearls, that texture and shade of white reminded him too much of her skin.

He needed white words that were, well, wilters. Nonsexual. Like…frost. Whitewash. Toothpaste. He undid his cuffs, then started on the shirt buttons.

Abruptly he heard the knock on the connecting door.

He went over, and unlocked his side. “What? Are you sick or…?”

His voice dropped when he saw her. She'd slipped off the black pants and top. Pulled on a satin nightgown in peach and lace. Her feet were bare, her makeup washed off, and the expression in her eyes was a hundred percent ticked off.

“You said I could have what I wanted. That I needed to be strong enough to stand up for what I wanted. Well, damn it, Maguire. I want my good-night kiss and I want it now.”

Okay. She was cute. But he could turn on the tough button any time he needed to, could get as heartless as he needed to be, any time.

At least usually.

The damn woman.

She stepped up, stepped in, clutched his open shirt in her small fists and took. Her lips trembled, even as they pressed. Her hands were coward-cold. And the swishy lingerie was killer-sexy, but she was ironed-tight against him as if fearing he might actually see any of that soft, vulnerable flesh.

He told himself to think about snow, damn it. Calcium. Milk. All those pure white turnoffs. All those reminders that Carolina was confused, very unsure what she wanted or needed right now.

Only…her hands dropped to his hips. She brazenly palmed his butt, nesting him closer to her. Naturally,
his body responded as if prodded by a firecracker. That was her, the firecracker, with the little hot fingers and the little hot tongue.

That tongue slipped between his teeth, found his tongue, retreated. Came back for more. She made a sound, a groan like a she-cat, then rubbed her breasts against his chest as if they were itchy and rubbing against him was the only cure for easing that itch.

White, he told himself firmly.

And then,
Think white, Maguire.

She didn't seem aware that winding herself around him invariably threw them both off balance. There was a moment when they both would have fallen—if he didn't reach out to steady her. That's all he did. Put his hands on her arms. Only for that millisecond. But even though he was chanting “white” at the top volume of his conscience…

Armageddon followed.

“Okay.” He tore out a breath. “Okay, now. Carolina, listen to me—”

“No.” That was all she said. No. And then she pushed him. Backward. Into his bedroom. His setup was similar to hers, maybe navy blue instead of feminine colors, but the same king-size bed, side couch and chair, all the usual suspects of an ultraluxurious hotel room.

She didn't look or care, as if whether she fell against chair legs or table sides was completely
beneath her notice right then. Pushing him. That's all she was into. And when the back of his knees located the bed, she gave him one more little push and then tumbled on top of him, straddling him, leaning over with closed eyes to find his mouth again.

He had to get a grip. Get control. A man like him wasn't seduced. Ever. Didn't relinquish complete control with anyone. Ever. And that maxim was a mighty
never
where Carolina was concerned. So that was why he put his hands on her again.

It wasn't to sweep her beneath him. It was to stop her, from rubbing against his crotch, from dancing her satined body in the opening of his tux shirt, from breathing in her scent, her tongue, the desire beading off her in torrents.

Only, something went wrong.

He intended to push her away. He was outstanding at pushing people away, had his whole life, only somehow… Magic? Miracles? Bad luck? She seemed to twist at just the wrong time, so that he ended up on top of her. And once she was beneath him, her slim legs rose up and high, clasping around his hips, inviting him in, teasing him closer, closer. She arched her back, so the brush of her breasts could cause him more torment. Her skin heated. Her damn mouth started trembling again. She made that earthy little wicked groan again.

Finally, from the scrabbled, scrambled contents
of his brain came some words. “Okay. Okay. This is okay. For a few minutes. Nothing wrong…”

“You're darned right there's nothing wrong. This is as right as anything I can ever remember.”

“Just because…this is a little unexpected…doesn't mean we've done anything…unforgivable…”

“Yet,” she qualified, and ruthlessly took a nip from his neck.

“Yet? Yet?”

“I'm about to do something unforgivable,” she promised him. “With you. Only with you.”

“Now, Carolina—”

“I don't care if you respect me in the morning.”

“Now, Carolina—”

“What? You think the whole world's going to crash if you take off the good-guy hat for a whole ten minutes? Or is it that you need an engraved invitation?”

He didn't need an invitation. He needed something, someone, somehow to knock some sense into his head, but once she said “ten minutes,” he lost it. What little brain he had left. Ten minutes? That's all she thought it'd take to be made love to? Made love with?

Hell, she might as well have tossed a red scarf at a bull.

The slightest shift and tug, and he was enabled to
remove that delectable, fragile slip of satin off her skin, and then he had her naked.

His senses both blurred and sharpened. He expected the peaches and ivory…not the sizzling heat and impatience. He expected the same-as-innocent…but not the brazen I-own-you-Maguire bravado.

That was the whole problem. She touched, she stroked, she kissed, as if she owned. As if this moment was her inarguable right, to claim, to master. To
feel.
Everything. With him.

You just didn't walk into forest fires. Everybody knew that, coming straight out of the womb…except for her. She needed tenderness, yet demanded rough speed and roller-coaster tension. She bruised too damn easily, yet she bit and kneaded and pulled, with her mouth, with her hands, in a fight for…he didn't know what the hell she was fighting for.

He just knew that he wanted to fight with her. For her. His skin turned slick, his blood thick. The shine in her eyes was so fierce, so greedy. Any hesitation or caution on his part, she met with whispered dares. Real dares. Crazy, crazy dares. Like…to walk on moonlight with her. To dance on honey. To sing with their fingers. See? How impossibly crazy and silly she was? How life-young?

It was all total foolishness. Except…

Except…

That he couldn't remember, ever, having the chance to be foolish.

Couldn't remember, ever, letting his guard down, because he knew, he
knew,
how sharply a man could get hurt. How jagged a wound could be. How deeply a man could be scarred. If he didn't protect himself.

He just didn't know how to protect himself with her.

 

Carolina fell asleep, but only for a short time. She didn't want to sleep. She'd had enough rest for aeons. In some ways, she was discovering she'd been asleep her whole life.

And looking at Maguire was a heady way to enjoy staying awake. At first moonlight flooded in the balcony doors, making his skin look silver, the wild thrash of his hair making shadows on the far wall. His face, in repose, was the strong marble of statues, the whole Greek god thing.

After moonlight came that long, dark stretch, where she could barely see him, even the shadow of him…but she could hear his deep, quiet breathing. Feel the weight of his arm, his hand, when he tucked her close to him, almost inside of him…and how, even in sleep, he stroked. Soothed. Enticed.

Maguire was ultraskilled at locking up his emotions—when he was awake. He'd revealed so much, making love with her. She hadn't guessed before…
that Maguire was as vulnerable as she was. That he was risking as much as he was.

He'd been counseling her to go after what she wanted and needed—but had he ever done just that with his own life?

At least she'd risked opening her heart to people. Maybe too much. But Maguire was so, so alone.

Except for last night. She had no doubt at all about the love inside the man. The heart inside the man.

And now, after darkness came that predawn color, not gray, more like a slow seeping yellow, pearling the air, turning charcoal shadows back into inanimate things with color and life and depth. Dawn showed the stubble on Maguire's chin, the pleat of a sun-wrinkle around his eyes, the paintbrush-thick eyelashes. Even in the cool of the night, he hurled off the blankets and sheets. Somehow even in sleep, he'd kept her covered, but for himself, he kicked off any warmth—except for her. Out of nowhere, she'd find his arm sneaking around her again. Then his sigh of relief, as if finding her still there enabled him to go back to sleep again.

He slept nude. So did she. But he sure looked better in dawn light than she did. Which was when he suddenly opened his eyes and found her staring at him.

Maguire—her Maguire—wasn't a blusher. But a
little alarm seemed to shoot up his neck as if she'd caught him doing something…wicked.

Which of course she had.

“We didn't really do that,” he said, his voice still night-thick.

“Oh yeah, we sure did. Twice, I believe.”

A fingertip touched her cheek, his tenderness a direct contradiction to the sudden scowl ruffling his brow. “This wasn't in the game plan, Carolina.”

“Well, feel free to wallow in guilt, if you want. I won't stop you. But you might want to consider that…well, maybe I needed this. To heal. Maybe I needed to be made love to, specifically by you. You can just think of it as part of the job. Part of the project you signed up for.”

“You're not a job or a project, Carolina.”

She shrugged. “I don't want to hear a bunch of integrity-and-responsibility stuff. I want breakfast. A decadent breakfast. A seven-cheese omelet, overloaded with cholesterol, like real butter, and French toast, and fresh orange wedges…”

“Where are you going?”

She could see from his expression that he wanted a further serious morning-after discussion, so she slid out of bed. “The shower. My shower. While I do that, I'm hoping you'll order our decadent breakfast.”

“We will be leaving the room for breakfast.”

She didn't wince. Her brilliant smile didn't falter
either. But she got the message. He wasn't going to be alone with her if he could help it, not after last night.

He'd liked it, Maguire. Her. The sex. Being loved by her, with her. She didn't doubt that.

But he wanted her long term in his life like he wanted a sliver. He was here to fix her. That was all. To do the responsible thing and get her healed, before dropping her back in her real life and out of his hair again.

She got it, she got it.

But after last night, she was going to have a lot harder time pretending it was that simple for her again. Or ever could be.