Reunited with the Billionaire Read online

  Seth saw less and less of her as the time for her departure drew close. She was worn out by the end of the day. The few times they did go out, Howard would come to the door, flash a practiced smile and say, “Don’t forget, Seth. Our girl can’t stay out too late.”

  As if he hadn’t figured that out for himself, Seth thought, his jaw tightening. He’d been more concerned about her welfare than Howard, when you came down to it. He wasn’t the one who had her skiing and lifting weights and doing leg lifts a thousand hours a day, her old man was.

  But Howard was his girlfriend’s father. He deserved respect. So Seth would nod and say yes sir, he understood, even though he didn’t.

  The road rose steeply ahead as it climbed the mountain. The plow and the sanding trucks had already been through. Seth downshifted, made it up and over the rise and into his driveway, but he didn’t pull into the garage. Instead, he shut off the engine and sat quietly in the gathering darkness.

  He’d never understood how Howard could push his daughter the way he had and not see what he was doing to her.

  Seth had finally told Wendy that one evening.

  “Honey,” he’d said, “don’t you think your dad’s overdoing things?”

  “He isn’t,” she’d replied. “He’s just helping me.”

  “Yeah, but you’re so tired….”

  Wendy, curled against him with her face buried in his neck, sighed deeply and snuggled closer.

  “Just hold me,” she’d murmured. “I love being in your arms.”

  He’d held her tighter and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

  “You can be there all the time,” he’d said huskily. “Just say the word and I’ll drive us to Vermont. We’ll go to the county clerk’s office the minute it opens in the morning, get a license, and by noon, you’ll be my wife.”

  Wendy had sat up and looped her arms around his neck. “We’ve been through this before,” she’d said with a little smile. “You know I want to marry you, but—”

  “But,” he’d said, trying for a light tone, “first you want to bring back the gold.”

  “I just want to go to Lillehammer and do the very best I can. Is that so wrong?”

  It wasn’t wrong at all. He knew that, and he told her so. After a while, he just kept his mouth shut. He didn’t want to quarrel with her, especially not with the Olympics so close. She didn’t need any more stress. Besides, he knew he’d miss her terribly while she was gone, and he didn’t want his memories tinged with bitterness.

  Instead, he made the most of those last few evenings together.

  Some nights they went to Pittsfield and took in a movie. Others, they just drove around for a while, maybe stopped in at the Burger Barn for a double order of the fries she loved.

  But the best nights, the ones he’d never forgotten, were when they drove up Sawtooth Mountain and parked in the little clearing they thought of as their very own. He’d turn on the radio, find a station they both liked, and take Wendy in his arms.

  “Seth,” she’d whisper, her voice going all low and smoky, and he’d kiss her, gently at first, then with more passion. Her breathing would quicken and he’d undo her bra, slip his hands up under her sweater and cup her breasts, so silky, so warm, so sensitive to his touch.

  Her soft moans were sweeter than the music coming from the speakers. The heat of her against his questing hand when he slid it inside her jeans was like flame. Together, they’d undo his zipper and she’d straddle him, kiss him as she lowered herself on him….

  “Hell.”

  Seth shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Terrific. He was a grown man thinking about kid stuff that had been over for the best part of a decade, and he was turning himself on.

  Impatiently, he climbed out of his truck and went into the house. The storm was over. Stars winked in the inky-black sky. It was going to be a cold, clear night. Maybe, he thought as he shrugged off his jacket and tossed his keys on the bird’s-eye maple table near the door—maybe he’d phone Jo, see if she wanted to grab dinner at the little place they both liked all the way down near Lee.

  And maybe it was wrong to ask one woman to dinner when you were having sexual fantasies about another.

  Seth blew out a breath as he undid the laces of his leather construction boots and toed them off.

  The day had begun so quietly. At nine, the only problem on his agenda had been how to fit in time to stop at Philo’s and take down a Santa Claus.

  That was how he liked things. Simple. Easy to figure out. He’d had enough complexity to last him a lifetime after Wendy’s accident. All those endless, mind-numbing days when he’d paced the corridor of the hospital in Oslo, going crazy because she’d been unconscious and all he could do was sit by her bedside and clutch her hand. Then going even crazier because when she’d finally opened her eyes and regained consciousness, she’d turned away from him.

  “She’s not herself,” Gina had told him. “She’s just not herself yet, Seth.”

  Two terrible weeks later, Wendy still didn’t want to see him. The flowers he’d sent her filled other rooms. The notes he’d written lay in the trash basket. She wouldn’t take his phone calls. And, at last, a weeping Gina brought him a note in Wendy’s own hand.

  “I’m sorry,” she’d written, “but I don’t want to see you anymore. Please. Go away.”

  He hadn’t wanted to believe it. She was upset. He understood that. She’d come close to death. Now she’d learned that she’d be in a wheelchair. Forever, the doctors said, though nobody who knew Wendy really bought that. So, okay. He’d swallowed past the lump in his throat, written her a last, long letter telling her that he would give her all the time she needed, that he wouldn’t rush her, that he loved her with all his heart and always would. When she was ready, he wrote, he’d be there. Because he knew—knew—that she really loved him.

  Seth walked slowly through the house to the dark kitchen. He snagged a cold bottle of ale from the refrigerator, unscrewed the top and took a long, soothing swallow as he made his way into the glass-walled living room with its view of the valley and the mountain ridge beyond it.

  How wrong could a man be? He’d poured out his heart in that last letter and Wendy hadn’t even opened it. She’d sent it back with a note scrawled across the flap.

  “I don’t want you waiting for me,” she’d written. “I’m sorry, Seth, but the accident opened my eyes to the truth. What we had was just kid stuff, and now it’s over.”

  Still, he’d hung in for a long time, telling himself she’d change her mind. The turning point had come months later. He’d phoned Gina to find out how Wendy was and to ask when she was coming home.

  “She’s not,” Gina had told him gently. “She needs some very specialized rehabilitation. There’s a place in France, just outside Paris. She’s decided to go there.”

  That was the day he’d finally admitted that the girl he’d loved had changed into a woman he didn’t know. A little while later, he’d realized it was more than that. Wendy had gotten it right. What had been between them had been kid stuff. Hot, horny teenage sex that steamed up the windows and made your toes curl, but nothing more. She’d figured out the truth before he had, thanks to the jolt of reality the accident had provided.

  He’d needed his own jolt of reality to get on with his life. At first he’d packed up his things, loaded them into his old pickup and taken off for parts unknown. He bummed around the country for a while, as aimlessly as when he’d turned eighteen—washing dishes in Tennessee, picking beans in Arkansas, clearing a fire trail in the Wasatch Mountains, until he woke up one morning and realized with a start of surprise that he was homesick for New England and Cooper’s Corner.

  Seth put down the empty bottle, tucked his hands in his back pockets and watched a fat ivory moon rise over the valley.

  He’d headed for the Northeast, got an off-season job at a lumberyard. It sounded like something a guy with muscles and no particular training could do. He hoisted two-by-fours, cleaned up, del
ivered stuff to construction sites and carpentry shops. After a while, he realized he liked the smell of wood and the feel of it under his hands. The guy who owned the lumberyard was into carpentry, and Seth took to hanging around and watching him work.

  One thing led to another. Before he knew it, he had a skill, not just a job. Now he had a thriving business and a home he’d built from the ground up, and the woman he’d been seeing for a couple of months had made it clear she’d be interested in a more permanent arrangement.

  A smile curled his lips. He went back into the kitchen, put the empty ale bottle in the sink and reached for the phone. It wasn’t too late to call Jo. Seeing her tonight might be just what he needed. She’d come to mean a lot to him. She was a good woman, bright and warm and kind….

  Except she wasn’t Wendy. His body, his being didn’t catch fire when she was in his arms, and he never felt the sweet contentment that came of just holding her after they made love.

  Seth cursed and slammed the phone back into its cradle.

  He was wrong. It was too late to phone Joanne. It was too late to do anything except take a shower, climb into bed and try his damnedest to fall into an uncaring, dreamless sleep.

  CHAPTER THREE

  AT EIGHT O’CLOCK the next morning, Seth had a cup of strong coffee in one hand, the day’s schedule in the other and the kind of headache that made a person consider decapitation as a cure—proof, as if he needed it, that life didn’t always give you what you wanted.

  Instead of the solid night’s sleep he’d hoped for, he’d tossed and turned until the blanket and sheets were knotted. Eventually, exhaustion won, but instead of finding rest, he’d been drawn into a turbulent sea of bad dreams. Finally he’d said to hell with it and tossed back the covers. That was when he’d discovered that somebody with a sledgehammer had set up shop inside his skull.

  Three aspirin, tossed down his throat as soon as he’d staggered to the bathroom, had yet to chase away the pain. A hot shower followed by a blast of icy water hadn’t done it, either. Seth took a swallow of coffee, hoping a belt of caffeine would do the job. He had a nine-thirty breakfast appointment with a guy he’d met on the slopes a couple of days ago. They’d been the only two people crazy enough to take on Deadman’s Run at dusk. Afterward, over brandy-laced coffee in the lounge, they’d introduced themselves.

  “Rod Pommier,” the guy had said, narrowing his eyes as if he half expected the name would elicit a reaction.

  Seth had recognized the name—he read the papers—and he knew Pommier wanted privacy. That was fine. As far as he was concerned, the doctor was just another skier.

  “Nice to meet you,” he said. “I’m Seth Castleman.”

  They shook hands—Seth liked Pommier’s firm, no-nonsense grip—and went back to talking about skiing. After a while, they talked about Cooper’s Corner and how laid-back the town was.

  “People seem friendly but not nosy, if you know what I mean,” Rod said.

  Seth smiled. “That’s typically New England.”

  “I get the feeling that the president of the United States could show up with a pair of skis on and it wouldn’t cause a ripple.”

  “Actually, it would depend on whether he was a Democrat or a Republican.” Both men laughed. “But I know what you mean,” Seth said. “This is a small town with an old-fashioned attitude. Don’t get me wrong. Gossip’s the lifeblood of the place, especially if you live here, but if you want to be left alone, nobody’s going to bother you.”

  Rod looked up from his coffee. “Am I getting a message here?” he asked pleasantly.

  “You mean, do I know who you are?” Seth grinned. “Sure. You’re a skier who just happens to be a doctor in his spare time. Does that about sum it up?”

  “It sure does,” Rod said, and Seth could almost see him relax.

  They bumped into each other on the slopes again. The second time around, Rod said he’d heard Seth was a carpenter. “And a guy who makes damned fine furniture,” he added. “I’m staying at Twin Oaks. I admired a walnut table in the entry hall and Clint Cooper told me it was your work.”

  Seth nodded. “Yeah. That piece came out pretty well.”

  Rod smiled. “Clint told me you’d say something like that, but he says the truth is, you’re good.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Hey, it’s not immodest to admit it if you’ve got talent.” The men’s eyes met and Rod grinned. “The danger is in letting the rest of the world know it.”

  They shared a chuckle, talked some more, and then the doctor mentioned he’d been looking at an old ski chalet with a fantastic view. It was for sale but it needed a lot of work. He described the location and Seth said he knew the place.

  “I’ve seen it from the road. From what I’ve heard it’s sound, structurally, but the inside—”

  “Is a disaster.” The doctor sighed. “Yeah, I know. Dark, old, boxy. But there’s nothing around here that has a view to match it. The sun just about lights up the top of the mountain. And I feel…comfortable, I guess, in this town.” He paused. “I’ve been giving some serious thought to buying the place and rebuilding it. Gut the interior, get rid of all that dark stained pine and put in—”

  “Beech and maple. Draws the light right in.”

  Rod raised his eyebrows. “Yeah. Exactly.” He sipped his coffee, then tapped his fingers on the table. “Could you drive over one morning and tell me what you think?”

  Seth smiled. “My pleasure.”

  They’d made an appointment for this morning. Seth had already cruised by the chalet a couple of times, getting the feel of it, and ideas had started coming. As many as could, anyway, until he saw the interior. He’d jotted them down in his notebook and was eager to discuss them with the doctor.

  There was still another hour and a half until it was time to meet Pommier. Thankfully, the little guy with the sledgehammer had gone from trying to bash his way out of Seth’s skull to merely tapping at it, so why stand around?

  Seth drained the last of the coffee, rinsed the mug and put it in the sink. There were things he could do before he left. He could start stripping the finish from the old cherry rocker he’d picked up at a garage sale. Work on the chest he was making for his bedroom. Drive out to that farm near New Ashford, see if the owner had made up his mind whether or not he wanted to take down his barn and sell the hand-hewn beams and weathered old siding….

  Who was he kidding?

  He grabbed his jacket and keys and hurried out to his truck. There was only one thing that really needed doing this morning, and he damned well was going to do it.

  * * *

  GINA MONROE SAT at the old maple table in her kitchen, elbows propped on its scarred surface, hands wrapped around a steaming cup of herbal tea. On impulse, she’d taken the day off from her job as a teacher at the local elementary school. Now she watched with satisfaction as her daughter tucked into a stack of blueberry pancakes she’d sworn she could never finish when Gina served them to her ten minutes earlier.

  Wendy forked up a mouthful dripping with maple syrup and melted butter. Gina smiled at the look on her face.

  “Good?”

  Wendy chewed, swallowed and dabbed at her lips with her napkin. “No,” she said, straight-faced. “I’m just making a pig of myself to keep you happy.”

  Gina grinned and thought how wonderful it was to have her little girl home again. It was the same thing she’d been thinking for the last two days.

  “Seriously, Mom, these are incredible.”

  “Well, we had a great blueberry crop last summer,” Gina said modestly. “Your father couldn’t keep away from the pick-your-own place just north of town.”

  “Is it still there?”

  “Mmm-hmm. And Daddy bought boxes and boxes of berries. I made blueberry pie, blueberry tarts, blueberry vinegar, blueberry liqueur—”

  “Whoa. Blueberry liqueur? That’s a new one.”

  Gina smiled as she rose and went to the counter. “Your father gave me a course
in herbal cooking as a birthday gift last year.” She spooned some fresh herbs into an infuser and filled her mug with water from the kettle. “More coffee for you?”

  “Yes, please.”

  She topped up Wendy’s cup. “I have some pancakes left. Would you like a couple more?”

  Wendy groaned and held up her hands. “I couldn’t eat another bite.”

  “Just one, maybe?”

  “Honestly, I’m full.” Wendy pushed back her chair. “I’d almost forgotten what an American breakfast was like. That was absolutely delicious.”

  “I’m glad. Oh, don’t get up, sweetie. Let me get those dishes. You just sit there and take it easy.”

  Wendy shook her head, collected her dishes and took them to the sink. “That’s all I’ve been doing since I got back.”

  “It’s all I want you to do.”

  “I’m not an invalid, Mother.”

  “Well, of course you aren’t. I just enjoy fussing over you.” Gina made a face. “And now I’m in trouble.”

  “Huh?”

  “You just called me `Mother.’“ She took two cake plates from the cupboard and put them on the table. “That’s always a danger sign.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mom.”

  “See? Now I’m `Mom.’“ Gina smiled as she took out forks and arranged them on fresh napkins alongside the plates. “`Mom’ is good. `Mother’ is a warning,” she said, opening the oven. The scents of cinnamon and nutmeg drifted out. “You ready for some coffee cake?”

  Wendy stared at her mother. “No. Yes. Is it that sour cream cake you used to make?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “In that case, maybe a sliver…and what in heck are you talking about?”