Romancing the Billionaire (6 page)

Of him pushing her onto her back and doing just that.

She cleared her throat and crossed her arms over her breasts, staring mutely out the window. Her stupid nipples were responding again, and she knew her panties were wet, all from that dream. She hated that. Her loins needed to remember how badly he'd treated her in the past.

“We're almost there,” the driver said, turning in to an old subdivision.

“Thank you,” Jonathan replied. He looked over at Violet. “Shall I take the lead?”

Like she wanted to be in charge. “Be my guest.”

He nodded and seemed to visibly tense as they approached her old house. An old memory of Jonathan rose in her mind. He was an extremely focused person, but when given a task he was excited about, he seemed to grow in intensity. She remembered that, and the determined set of his shoulders was bringing back a wealth of memories that she wanted to forget.

They pulled up in front of the house and Violet stared at her childhood home. It seemed smaller and much older than she remembered. The house had been blue when she'd lived there and was now a cheery yellow with ruffled curtains in the windows. The tree she remembered in the front yard was nothing but a stump.

“Let's go,” Jonathan said, opening his door and getting out of the car before the driver could get out to open the door for him.

Violet hesitated, but when Jonathan moved to her side and opened the door, she followed him. Memories were just that—memories. No need for her to be upset over them. Still, it was hard not to see her childhood home and imagine her mother inside, sobbing out of depression and unhappiness. And when she wasn't crying, she'd been drinking. Violet couldn't remember which one was worse.

Jonathan offered her his arm, as if they were heading to a social event.

She gazed blankly at him and ignored it. “Let's just go, all right?”

He shrugged and headed to the front door. “I'll do the talking.”

That was fine with her. She walked up with him and stood quietly as he knocked on the front door. This was, well, it was just odd to her to walk up to her childhood home and knock, waiting for a stranger to open the door. “What are we going to do if no one's home?”

He considered for a moment. “Break into the backyard and bribe the police if we get caught?”

She stared at him. Was he joking? It was hard to tell with Jonathan. Sometimes he was deadly serious about the strangest things. “I wouldn't answer the door if I saw us here. We look like we're trying to sell someone something.”

He flashed a grin at her. “I'll sell the owner a sports car for a dollar if they let me in that backyard.”

“Of course you would,” she muttered.

They both fell silent as they heard the sound of the chain and turned back to the door.

A wrinkled little old woman in a floral muumuu and with her hair in rollers answered the door and gave them a sweet smile. “May I help you?” Her gaze went from Violet to Jonathan, then seemed to linger there. “Are you . . . ?”

He extended his hand. “Jonathan Lyons, ma'am. Have you heard of me?”

The woman giggled and placed her fingers in Jonathan's hand. “Oh, my. You're that man with the cars, aren't you?”

“That's me.”

“Is this for television?” She peered around them, looking for cameras, and seemed disappointed to see none.

Jonathan grinned. “No, ma'am. I need to ask a favor of you. May we come in?”

Two minutes later, they were in Violet's childhood home while Jonathan talked to the owner and explained to her why they were visiting. Violet stared at her surroundings uncomfortably. Her memories of this house were dark floors, tightly drawn drapes, and sadness. This house was just as cute inside as it was outside. Light, airy colors and open windows filled the living room with sunlight and cast shadows on the knickknacks that filled dainty shelves along the wall. A small table with Queen Anne chairs sat under one of the windows, and a rag rug decorated the retiled kitchen floor.

“So you want to dig up a tree in the backyard?” She peered at Jonathan curiously, and then her face lit up. “You're with that nice man who came here last year, aren't you?”

Violet turned at that. “Last year?” Had her father planned things that far back?

The woman nodded. “A gentleman asked me if he could bury something under one of the trees in the backyard. Told me a lovely story about it meaning something to his daughter.” She shrugged. “I thought he was a little cuckoo but harmless.”

A reluctant smile spread across Violet's face. “Cuckoo was a good description for my father.” She wasn't so sure about harmless.

“He told me to expect you in the future. Lovely man.” She gave Violet a sweet smile. “Spoke so nicely about his pretty daughter, too.” Before Violet could scoff at that, the woman continued. “Well, come on, then. I don't mind. Do what you like, just don't touch my daylilies.”

“We won't,” Jonathan assured her.

They made their way out to the backyard, and it, too, was transformed from Violet's memories. For a heart-stopping moment, she worried that the tree would be gone. Not that she cared, of course, but she didn't put it past Jonathan to come up with another sort of scheme to keep her at his side while they tried to figure out where the next lead would take them. But Violet counted trees and realized that the slim cottonwood she'd staked out as a child was, in fact, still there, just thicker and taller.

Drawn to it, Violet headed forward, looking for the mark she'd made when she was young. Jonathan followed behind her, and when she got to the tree, she ran her fingers along the upraised ridges of the bark. There, faintly among the ridges, was her drawing. It did look like a squashed bug. Just a bit. Violet smiled to herself. Huh. “This is the tree.”

“Mind if we dig at the base?” Jonathan asked the owner.

“Go right ahead,” the woman said with a tittering laugh. “You're sure this isn't for TV?”

“I'm sure,” Jonathan said with a chuckle. “Got a shovel?”

Violet waited as Jonathan got a few gardening implements from the owner, and then he returned to the tree.

“Dig here,” Violet told him, pointing at the front of the tree. That had been where she'd hidden her Etch A Sketch back when she was a child, between two upraised roots. She stepped back and watched as Jonathan dug, all of his casual friendliness gone once more in the face of his focused intensity.

He didn't have to dig far. Violet figured as much. After all, her father had wanted it found. A few shovelfuls of dirt in, Jonathan clanged against something, and all three of them paused and bent over to see what he'd uncovered. He leaned down and brushed the dirt away from a small metal box, then pulled it out and held it out to Violet. “Do you want to do the honors?”

She waved him away with a hand. Violet would never admit that she was a little curious, herself. “This is your party. You go ahead.”

He examined the box for a moment, holding it up. To Violet's eyes it looked like a plain lockbox. She half-wondered if they'd find an Etch A Sketch inside, and her heart twanged painfully.

But when he opened the box, Jonathan reached inside and pulled out two thick cream envelopes with her father's familiar red wax seal. “One has my name on it, and one has yours.”

Violet stared at the envelope with her name on it. She was surprised her hand didn't tremble when she reached forward and plucked it from his grip. She didn't open it. Not yet. Instead, she waited as Jonathan tore his open, his eyes that dark, sharp intense stare that made her shiver and remember her dreams from earlier.

He flipped the paper open, scanned it, and was almost disappointed. “Just one word.
GLIRASTES
. I'm not sure what that's referring to.” He showed her the paper, his gaze turning to her. “What's yours say?”

Reluctant, Violet flipped hers over and gently eased the seal open. Her heart thumped as she saw her father's familiar, crabbed cursive writing with certain letters bolded. There were eight lines of it, and she scanned it and then began to read.

“I me
t
a traveller from an antique land

W
h
o sa
i
d: “Two vast and t
r
unkless legs of s
t
on
e

Stand in th
e
desert.
N
ear them, on the
s
and,

Half sunk, a shat
te
red visage lies, whose frown

And wrinkled li
p
and
s
neer of cold command

Tell that its sc
u
lptor well those passio
n
s rea
d

Which y
e
t su
r
vive, stamped o
n
th
e
se lifeless things,

The h
a
nd
th
at mocked them and the heart that fed.”

Violet frowned down at the paper. “Poetry? Really? You got a made-up word and I got poetry? Was my dad on crack in his last days?”

She looked up and to her surprise, Jonathan's face was lit up with recognition.

“What?” she asked warily.

“‘And on the pedestal these words appear,'” Jonathan murmured, getting to his feet and dusting off his jeans. His intense gaze held hers. “‘My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings: look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'”

Her eyebrow went up. “Ozymandias?”

“Shelley,” he said excitedly, and his hands gripped her arms and he pulled her into his arms. “It's Shelley!”

She was going to ask him to explain when he grabbed her and pulled her against him in a quick, brisk kiss of excitement. Before she could chastise him, he pulled away from her, grinning, and turned and grabbed the elderly woman and gave her a big smacking kiss on the cheek. “Shelley!” he pronounced again.

The elderly woman tittered.

Violet didn't laugh. It was a nothing kiss. Just excitement.

Still, Violet's cheeks flushed as she remembered her dream from earlier, and Jonathan's mouth between her legs. She forced herself to remain outwardly indifferent. “Do you mind explaining what you mean by ‘Shelley'?”

Jonathan turned back and gave her a brilliant smile, his solemn face lighting up in a way that made him impossible to look away from. “Percy Bysshe Shelley,” he explained. “He wrote the poem ‘Ozymandias' when he saw a statue of Ramses the Great in London.”

“So,” she said thoughtfully, tapping the paper on her hand. “Knowing my father, we're either to follow the rabbit trail after Shelley himself and go to London, or research Ramses the Great. What does your clue have to do with any of this?”

“No idea,” Jonathan said, that boyish smile still on his face. “But I'm positive there's a connection somewhere. We just have to figure it out.”

“Mmmhmm.” Violet nodded, staring at the paper. She traced her finger over the lettering. “Some of these characters are darker than others. That must be part of the clue.” She folded up the letter; she'd figure it out later. Right now, she couldn't stop thinking about that brief press of his mouth against hers. Damn it, what was wrong with her? One day in his company and she was salivating over him just because he ate a good pussy? Jesus. Did she have no morals? He
abandoned
her when she was nineteen and pregnant. Why did she care if his eyes lit up when he was excited about something, or if he'd been a great kisser? None of that mattered if he was a terrible person, and he was.

He was just like her father, using people for his own means.

She glared icily at him when he smiled back at her, determined not to be swayed by his charm. “So now you're going to drag me off to London, I take it?”

His exuberant expression died slowly, his face smoothing. “Unless you think we should start with Egypt?”

Violet shrugged. “I'm just the hired help. You're the one calling the shots.”

He nodded, lost in thought, and tucked his letter into his jacket. He turned back to the owner of the house and gave her another charming smile. “I cannot thank you enough, madam.”

“You could give me one of those fancy cars you sell,” she told him, and then tittered behind a liver-spotted hand, her curlers jiggling.

He bowed over her hand as if responding to a command. “It's done. I'll have one delivered.”

Her eyes widened into two circles. “I—Mr. Lyons, I didn't mean—I was just teasing—”

“I know,” he said. “But I shall insist.” He took her hand in his, kissed the back of it, and grinned. “Cherry red?”

She gave him an awestruck nod.

Again, Violet had to resist the urge to roll her eyes. If the man was going to give a car to every person he ran across, he'd be broke in days. That was no way to run a business, Violet thought grumpily.

They thanked the woman once more and Jonathan texted her information to his assistant, and then they headed back out to the waiting car.

Once they were inside, Jonathan grabbed her and dragged her across the seat toward him.

“Jonathan—”

His mouth covered hers, and he kissed her again. Shocked, Violet remained frozen as he pulled her against him and his lips coaxed hers apart. Memories blasted through her, along with his kiss. Memories of his excitement on the dig; he'd never been more turned on than when they had an breathtaking discovery. Adrenaline made him hard as a rock, whether it was from archaeology or something else. It appeared that adrenaline was pumping through him right now, and he'd forgotten that she hated him.

She tried to pull away, but his tongue slicked against hers, and she weakened. It coaxed into her mouth, firm, decisive thrusts that were just as intense as the man himself. His hand moved to her nape and he held her against him, groaning her name between hot, fevered kisses. “Violet. God, Violet.”