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A soft smile curves her lips. “And you did, didn’t you?”
“I did.” I don’t try to hide the satisfaction in my voice. “They wrote a feature on me shortly after I made my first billion.”
“Wow.” Her smile widens, revealing those cute dimples. “Mr. Bond must be so proud of you. Do you still keep in touch with him?”
“I did. Unfortunately, he passed away a few years ago. Pancreatic cancer,” I explain, my throat tightening.
I did everything in my power to help him, but neither the world-class doctors I hired nor the experimental treatments I paid for could arrest the deadly disease.
It was the most powerless I’d felt as an adult.
Emma’s smile disappears. “I’m sorry. That must’ve been a terrible loss for you.”
“Thank you,” I say evenly. “He was a good man.”
My only consolation is that his children and grandchildren will never have to struggle financially, thanks to the seventy-million-dollar trust I set up in his name, explaining it to the lawyers as a lottery he’d won shortly before his death.
The waiter comes by to clear our plates and bring out the dessert menu, and I use the distraction to push away the lingering grief. I’ve never spoken about this with anyone, but somehow, it felt right to confide in Emma, to have her know the real me, not the sanitized mask I show to the world.
The waiter leaves, and Emma glances at the dessert menu for a second before setting it aside.
I smile wryly. “Let me guess. Not hungry?” Now that I know she’s trying to keep her portion of the check to a minimum, I can pretty much predict what she will and won’t order.
“I actually had dinner—well, half of it—before I got your latest gift,” she says. “Speaking of which—”
“If you don’t mind, I’m going to get the baklava,” I say, as if I didn’t hear her. She’s going to try to refuse the books again, and I’m not about to let that happen. “It’s amazing here, the best I’ve ever had.”
She blinks. “Of course, go right ahead.”
I smile wider and motion to the waiter. “The baklava, please,” I tell him when he hurries over. “And bring two plates. We’ll share.”
“Oh, I’m not going to—” Emma starts, but I hold up my hand as the waiter rushes away.
“It’s only fair. I shared your ice cream, so I owe you at least a bite of my dessert,” I say with utter seriousness.
“But—”
“No buts. And I’m getting the dessert on my portion of the check. You’re not the only one who believes in fairness.”
“Oh.” Her small white teeth worry her lower lip. “Okay then, I guess I can try a bite.”
I conceal a satisfied grin. This might be a small thing, getting her to share my dessert, but it’s a step in the right direction. Before long, I intend to be paying for all our meals, as well as anything else she might want or need.
First, though, I have to cure her of her fear of being like her mother, one bite of baklava at a time.
The waiter returns, bringing the dessert. Before she can say anything, I cut a piece and put it on her plate. “Try it,” I urge, pushing the plate toward her, and she forks the honey-layered pastry into her mouth.
It doesn’t get the orgasmic reaction that the halloumi did, but my cock still hardens as she chews and swallows with a blissful expression on her face.
Fuck. I really have to get her to my place before I attack her in public like the sex maniac I’m turning into.
The baklava is small, so we make quick work of it, and then I motion for the check. Emma grabs it again, and I let her, though it pains me to see her carefully count out the bills for her portion.
In the investigator’s report, there was a section on her finances—the miserable state of which makes it even more insane that she’s doing this.
Finally, the bill is paid, and I lead her out of the restaurant, my hand resting on the small of her back.
“Where’s Wilson?” she asks, looking around for the car. “Or are we taking a cab?” Then her eyes widen, her cheeks flushing as she realizes what she’s implied. “Never mind, I forgot you live nearby. I’ll just take the subway home and—”
“We’re less than four blocks from my place, so I gave Wilson the rest of the evening off,” I say, turning to face her. Capturing her small hands in mine, I gaze at her upturned face. “Emma, kitten… I want you to come home with me.”
34
Emma
I don’t know what I expected from a billionaire’s residence, but Marcus’s penthouse in Tribeca is like something from another world—a world I’ve only seen in glossy magazines and TV shows about the lifestyles of the rich and famous.
