The Billionaire’s Forbidden Desire(14)

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“We were wondering—” the entrepreneur said hesitantly.

“The idea may have potential, assuming the costs can be kept down.” It was a stock answer. “Send me the slides and let me study them again before making up my mind.”

“Yes, of course.” Everyone scribbled on their notepads.

Dane glanced at his watch. Two p.m. “Anything else?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“Well then.” He got up and left, his wide strides eating up the distance between the conference room and his office. Restlessness rode him, and he resisted the urge to rub the back of his neck.

His assistant straightened at the sight of him. She was impeccably put together with a sleek French twist and a neat dark navy blue skirt suit. Anything less wouldn’t be tolerated in his office. “Good afternoon, sir,” she said.

“Anything from my lawyers?”

“No.” She frowned. “Would you like me to call them?”

He shook his head. “Clear my calendar for the weekend. I’m going to—” He caught himself before he said too much. He wasn’t going back to that beach in Mexico. Sophia probably wasn’t even there anymore.

And even if he were to go, and she was still there…then what?

“Sir…?”

“Never mind. Leave my weekend as is.”

“Yes, sir.”





Chapter Eight


Dane grimaced as he made his way to the cemetery. The only thing worse than attending a funeral was attending one in the Pacific Northwest. The weather there was disgusting. Gray. Rain. And more rain. Fog. The dead deserved a courtesy of sunshine on their way to the other world.

He’d meant to arrive earlier, but the traffic had been horrendous. Some idiot had skidded off the road and of course everyone else had slowed down to rubberneck. You would think that they’d be more blasé, not to mention better drivers, living in a water-drenched area like this.

The shitty weather made him think of Mexico…which was ridiculous. He had no idea why everything these days kept reminding him of it. What possible feelings could he have for Sophia when it’d been almost three years now? It wasn’t like him to let his mind linger over a woman.

Was it because she’d been a virgin?

As quickly as the thought came, he dismissed it. That couldn’t be. He’d had virgins before. And his interest had always soon waned.

If he wanted, he could probably find Sophia again. The place where she’d stayed undoubtedly had a record of its renters. But then what? How ridiculously awkward would it be for him to just show up at her doorstep like some stalker—or worse, a lovesick fool.

Hi! You didn’t get pregnant, so I thought we should have a three-year anniversary meet.

He shoved his thoughts of her aside and focused on why he’d come to this god-forsaken location in the first place: Rick Reed’s funeral.

It wasn’t difficult to spot the plot set aside for the man. Dane was the sole Pryce to attend, but only because he was in Seattle and Salazar thought he should for the sake of appearances. Geraldine had also agreed, albeit grudgingly. Rick wasn’t the one who’d wronged her, even if he had married Betsy Ford, who had taken Geraldine’s husband Julian Reed from her all those years ago.

Geraldine hid it well, but she was still bitter about the way Julian had dumped her for Betsy. Three beautiful children hadn’t been enough to ensure that he wouldn’t stray. In Dane’s opinion their parting was a blessing in that it freed Geraldine from a crappy marriage, but women could be irrational about stuff like that. And that was the only explanation for the simmering anger his aunt still harbored against Betsy and her children.

The Pryce family never associated very closely with the other Reeds—there was never a reason to—and thankfully they weren’t a prolific lot. Rick had been Julian’s half-brother and had a serious inferiority complex, but for some reason he’d decide to marry Julian’s second wife Betsy within a month of their divorce. The idiot had apparently never realized he was taking his brother’s leftovers.

Dane stopped at the sight of the grieving family. Betsy was there, of course, and somewhat familiar—a trim blonde with a beautiful face kept young by an abundance of Botox and surgical help. She stood with a hip cocked, feet encased in a pair of fashionable high-heel boots. She dabbed at her eyes daintily with a handkerchief and let out an occasional sob, like she was a star in a tragic movie.

Next to her was a younger woman who barely reached Betsy’s neck. Unlike Betsy she wore a black one-piece dress that reached an inch below her knees and sensible flat booties. Her shaking hands covered her face, and Dane tilted his head. Something about her tugged at his memory, and he had the most absurd urge to go put his arms around her.