Billionaire's Match novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: Wine on Her Face

Brittany eats dinner with her husband, his secret wife and the boy they made her raise; she agrees to let Celia move in, and the boy throws juice in her face.

Dalton reached the hospital in under twenty minutes.

He came down the corridor in a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled, and his face was open, worried and tender.

"Brittany. Oh, God. Let me see."

He opened his arms.

She stepped back before he could touch her.

"Don't."

He stopped, hurt crossing his face. "You're in shock. It's all right. I'm here."

She nearly laughed.

Six years of that face, and she had never once looked for the lie in it.

"I want to go home," she said.

In the car he tried twice to take her hand.

Twice she moved it to her lap.

"Are you still angry about this morning? Whatever it was, tell me and I'll fix it."

"I'm not angry," Brittany said. "I'm entertained."

He glanced over, confused, then smiled and let it pass.

"We have an important guest tonight. I told the housekeeper to cook everything you like. You'll feel better once you've eaten."

"I'm sure I will."

The villa stood on the river bluff, five thousand square feet of glass and pale stone.

She had picked the tile for the front hall herself. She had worked unpaid for four years so he could afford the stone.

The moment the door opened, she heard laughter upstairs.

A child's, high and bright. A woman's, low and warm.

Brittany looked up the staircase.

Celia Hartwell came down it in a teal knit dress, one hand holding Teddy's.

"Brittany! Dalton said you were in an accident. Oh, your poor head."

She crossed the hall and took Brittany's face in both hands, gently, turning the stitches to the light.

She smelled of the same pear soap Brittany remembered from the advisor's office at school.

"I brought a lemon tart from that bakery across the river," Celia said. "The one you told me about once. I hope it's still your favorite."

Brittany had mentioned that bakery to Dalton, not to Celia.

She noticed it and set it aside. She was too tired to notice more.

"Thank you, Ms. Hartwell," she said. "It's been a long time."

"Celia. Please. You're not my student anymore."

Teddy stood against Celia's leg, watching Brittany with his chin down.

He was five. A small chip was missing from one front tooth.

For two years Brittany had made his lunches and read to him at night. He had never once said her name.

Now she understood why he held on to Celia's hand like that.

Dinner was on the long table by the windows. The housekeeper brought every dish Brittany liked.

Dalton served Celia first, then Teddy. Teddy cut his own meat without being asked to and gave Celia the best piece.

The three of them laughed together over the soup.

Brittany ate and said nothing, and nobody noticed.

Then Dalton set down his fork and turned to her with a soft voice she knew by heart.

"Brittany, I want to ask you something. Celia is writing a book about raising children, and she needs somewhere quiet. With the listing coming, you're stretched thin. I thought she could stay with us for a while."

He touched her wrist.

"She could help with Teddy. He adores her."

Brittany looked at him.

For five years the two of them had hidden in a back office. Now he wanted his wife in her guest room.

Under the table, Celia's foot moved against Dalton's chair. It was a small, familiar motion.

Brittany lowered her spoon to the bowl.

Celia spoke up quickly. "Oh, please, I'd never want to be a burden. Brittany, Dalton is only worried about how tired you are."

"No!" Teddy slapped the table. "I want Celia to stay!"

"Teddy," Celia said gently.

"Teddy, that's enough," Brittany said.

The two voices landed on top of each other.

"Of course she can stay," Brittany said.

She said it sweetly, and she watched the tension drain out of Dalton's shoulders.

"There's a lot of room," she said. "Teddy will love it."

Dalton smiled in relief. "Thank you. You're the most understanding person I know."

"I know," Brittany said.

Teddy picked up his glass of orange juice and threw it across the table at her face.

It hit her cheek and ran down her collar. The housekeeper gasped and came running with a towel.

"Teddy!" Dalton shouted, on his feet. "What is wrong with you?"

Teddy bolted for the stairs. Celia was already up, catching Dalton's arm.

"He's a child, Dalton. Let me go to him."

She glanced at Brittany, started to say something, and stopped.

Dalton turned back and reached for her face with the towel.

"Are you hurt? Let me see."

"Don't touch me," Brittany said. "I'll do it myself."

She dried her face and went upstairs to change.

After midnight, with the house quiet, she went down to his study to find the headache pills he kept in the desk.

The IPO prospectus lay open on the blotter, a stack of pages with Dalton's pen marks in the margins.

She turned to the page on shareholders and read it standing up.

Dalton Bevan, forty percent. A fund, ten. Employees, twenty.

And the last line, in black print: Brittany Faulkner, thirty percent, with full voting rights.

He had told her the shares were a formality. She had signed where he pointed and never read what she signed.

She read it now, twice, and began to smile.

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