Babysitting the Billionaire(16)
Babies miscarried every day, she knew. And babies were born who were unwanted—the healthy fetuses came willy-nilly. Her baby had been sick, or wrong, or something.
It felt like every heartbeat for the past half a year had been a fight between her need to breathe and the weight of a great boulder pressing on her chest. His gentle pressure somehow added to her strength. She imagined herself pushing, pushing, the great rock to the side. It moved, grudgingly, a little bit. She could breathe. She sucked the air in.
She burped.
Reddening with embarrassment, she scrambled off his lap, pulling her knees into her. He only chuckled. “Getting the last of it out, are you?” His eyes were wet. “Any better?”
She took mental stock. “Actually, yes.” She cupped his knee. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He waggled his eyebrows at her in a wave she hardly thought physically possible. A small smile bloomed, and her sense of humor awakened.
“But I’m still not going to sleep with you.”
“Story of my life, it looks like.” He palmed her knee. “But have I made my point?”
She blinked, bewildered.
“Somebody needs a vacation. And I know just the place.”
****
Though his arms were full of groceries, Beau held the elevator door open for her with his foot. “I’ll take care of this stuff, and then change. You call work and tell them you’re out today.”
“Lie? Sadie always knows.” At the name, his smile faded.
“Tell—that one—that I’m a complete wreck, and you are very worried about me. I’m going to need round-the-clock babysitting if I’m going to make it to their damned dinner party.”
May watched him unload the boxes of coffee, yogurt, and potato chips. He certainly didn’t look like she should be worrying about him. He looked over his shoulder and caught her staring, and then wiggled his too-buff ass.
Heat spilled across her face and rushed down to pool in her belly. No, she shouldn’t be worried about him at all.
He mimed the sign for “phone” and then headed down the hall to his room. May made the call. Too bad she couldn’t text.
“Sadie. How’s our man?”
“He’s a wreck.”
“Was afraid of that. Man, I had no idea. He’s nothing like what Jane described.”
“I think I need to stay with him. Not come to work.”
“Agree. He’s not suicidal, right?”
“Mostly he’s just drunk, or sleeping off the last drunk.” Well, that would have been true for her, May thought.
“Sounds about right. Another problem: Can you get him here tomorrow around noon? Markus wants to meet him before the party.”
“They’ve never met?”
“We did the pitches over VoiP. So no, they’ve never been in the same room together.”
“And you’re worried?”
“As long as we’re both there to deflect, it should go well.”
“Should?”
“Well, we’ve kind of glossed over Markus’s political opinions. And some other things.”
May sank onto the sofa and closed her eyes. “I think I’ll need a long vacation after this assignment.”
“You and me both.”
Soon after, they were at the front of the hotel. The taxi driver held the door, and May and Beau slid in. The weather had held another day, high sun and low humidity. May wasn’t sure she wasn’t in some parallel-universe DC, but she wasn’t complaining.
“National Gallery,” Beau told the driver.
“You like art?”
“Of course. I expect you’ve been there, though?”
“It’s as familiar as my living room. And it was my second art library when I attended classes at the Corcoran.”
“Then you can show me all your favorites.”
The driver left them at the East Gallery. “It’s so beautiful out. We should go to the sculpture garden, but first, this way.” She took his hand without thinking. He twined his fingers among hers, locking their hands together.
Through the doors and past security, May tugged him past the stone garden and over to her favorite bronzed family portrait.
“This one.”
“The shapes, mathematical and also organic. How square it is, and yet there is flow. And I love the squished dog.”
“What’s it called?”
“Capricorn.”
He leaned around the big sculpture. A wide man, a king, made of squares and triangles, and a skinny queen, round and long. The king held a talking stick in one hand, a small version of the queen in the other. That arm rested on a sort of yappy dog, the roundest part of the bronze. “Max Ernst.”
“The splatter-paint guy?”