Red tints his cheeks, and I’m not sure if it’s anger or chagrin. “I left a meeting and went straight to the airport. I keep my wallet and my phone in my suit coat pocket, but I knew I’d get hot on the plane and take the coat off. I didn’t want them to fall out, so I locked them in the briefcase, which the attendant made me put at my feet. I rarely carry the briefcase with me when I fly and I was so focused on getting off the plane, I left it.”
“You must have an assistant or two—or twenty. You can use my phone to call one of them.”
“Thanks, but there are two numbers I know off the top of my head. One of them isn’t answering, and the other’s on an island getting married and I told her to turn her phone off for the occasion because I didn’t want to forget and call her.”
“You’d forget she’s getting married?” That sounds like something a billionaire would do.
“She’s been my right hand for more than a decade. It’s a habit to reach out when I need something—like when I find myself stranded in an airport with no money or identification.”
I’m still clicking around his site. “Can’t you contact people through the website? There are a lot of numbers and email addresses here.”
“I don’t employ the kind of people who would give my credit card number to anybody who calls the contact number claiming to be me,” he snaps, his frustration coming through again.
“Okay, so call your credit card company. Or do you pay people to remember your mother’s maiden name and the street you grew up on?” The look he gives me probably scares the crap out of people who care if he’s mad at them. I’m not one of them, so I shrug. “Just a suggestion.”
“I don’t have time for that. I need to get to Stowe right now.” His jaw flexes. “It’s an emergency.”
“Oh no. Did some fourth-generation small business owner refuse to sell his soul to you?”
I expect another of those potent glares, but he’s too busy looking around as if somebody’s going to swoop in and save him. People probably do that on a regular basis. “It’s a family emergency. There’s nothing in Vermont I want to buy.”
“With your charm and holiday spirit, I’m sure people will line up to help you,” I say, standing up because I’m about to walk away. I don’t want to end up in a ditch because I was listening to a poor little rich guy’s problems. I don’t have any cash on me, so there’s not much I can do for him. “Good luck.”
“Wait. You’re leaving, right? I’ll pay you to drive me to Stowe.”
I hesitate. “You already told me you have no money.”
“No, I told you I have a lot of money. I just don’t have it on me right now.” He stands, practically vibrating with tension. “I can get you the money within days. Before Christmas, so you’ll have time to buy more presents for people.”
I ask myself if any amount of money is worth spending two and a half hours—or more, depending on the snow—trapped in a vehicle with this man.
I already know the answer to that, though. And I also know the amount. “I’ll get you to Stowe. For one hundred thousand dollars.”
Chapter Two
Donovan
* * *
Having accumulated more money than I ever dreamed possible has taught me that people will always want a piece of it. Nobody even bothers pretending they’re going to pay for lunch anymore—not that I’d let them, but they could offer—and a former friend stopped speaking to me when I refused to buy him a second home in the Caribbean for his birthday. I don’t like it, but I’m used to it.
Maybe that’s why I can’t explain the soul-deep pang of disappointment I feel when the beautiful woman with the prickly attitude puts a six-figure price tag on helping me.
She has a cloud of dark brown hair barely restrained in a very messy bun by one of those fluffy elastic things. It’s red with a candy cane pattern, which matches the red sweater she’s wearing with worn jeans that hug her curves. Her eyes are even darker than her hair, and her naked but rosy lips draw my eyes even when they’re twisted into a wry smile.
Natalie Byrne would draw my eye anywhere we crossed paths. It’s unfortunate it happens to be here—in an airport I can’t leave without giving into her blatant extortion. Merry Christmas, I think with a sarcastic twist.
“Done,” I say, because I’m out of options other than waiting around this airport for an undetermined amount of time.
Her eyes widen, and I try not to think about how beautifully dark they are. “Seriously? You’ll give me one hundred thousand dollars if I drive you to Stowe?”
“Yes, seriously. Were you not serious?”
Natalie blinks and then gives a sharp nod. “Yes. I’m serious.”
“Let’s go, then.” There’s something else I desperately need, though, and I’m willing to swallow my pride to get it. “Any chance you’ll buy me a coffee for the road?”
“Sure,” she says easily. “I’ll add it to your tab.”
