Billionaire Novelist 3 : The Wicked Redhead and the Billionaire Novelist(6)

I followed him to the bedroom and watched him crawl into the bed for a post-writing nap. I wanted to crawl in beside him, but he did look tired, and I wondered if he'd even slept the night before.

I pulled the blanket up and tucked him in, which seemed to amuse him as much as it confused him.

"You think I'm cute?" I said.

He got his arms free and pulled me down for a kiss. "Very."

"You're somewhat cute yourself."

"Says the woman holding my platinum credit card. Surprise, surprise."

I straightened up with a jolt, my head spinning from the movement. "I don't like you for your stupid money."

"Would you date a forty-something guy with no job, no house, no prospects? Would a hot, college-educated girl like yourself do such a thing? Just some schlub who works at a sporting goods store?"

"That's preposterous. I'm not even going to dignify that with a response."

He waved one hand at me. "Have fun shopping with my credit card, Tori."

Angrily, I turned and stormed out of the bedroom.

I stopped.

Words and ideas were battling inside my mind. I had a feeling, but didn't know how to put it into words.

I came back into the room and stripped off my clothes. Smith didn't say anything as I got dressed to go shopping.




 

 

There was something important I needed to say to him, and I'd say it, but first I was going to do exactly as he'd requested. I'd never been to Montreal before, much less shopping in Montreal, and I was going to have fun and spend Smith's money if it killed me.

The driver's name was Claude, and he seemed chipper, practically bouncing as he ran around to let me in the passenger side. He seemed to be the same guy who'd driven me to the hotel the night before, but I hadn't been in a super chatty mood.

Claude had a French accent, which made everything he said sound like he had his lips pulled tight to his teeth, yet it wasn't over the top like the waiter's thick accent.

"Good morn-eeng," Claude said, his ice-blue eyes attentive.

"It's still morning?"

"It eez 'alf past eleven," he said solemnly. Claude was a handsome man, with thick, black hair and a gold wedding band. Lucky wife, I thought.

The midday sun was hot on my bare calves. I'd worn the cornflower-blue dress that Smith said matched my eyes, with a pair of dressy flats that wouldn't slow down my shopping. As always, I'd slathered on sunscreen to prevent the production of additional freckles on my pale skin. I usually tried to avoid being out in the middle of the day during the summer, but the sun on my legs felt blissful.

If I couldn't be touched by Smith, the sun was a decent alternative.

Claude opened the back door of the town car for me, at the same time as I reached clumsily for the handle of the passenger door at the front. I clapped my hand to my forehead and apologized as I shuffled over and climbed into the back.

"The car's not yellow, so I forgot," I said, laughing. "I'm not used to having a driver."

"Maybe I should paint zis car yellow," he said with a wink. "It would be cheery. And the look on Mr. Wittingham's face, it would be priceless."

"Do you always drive for him when he's in Montreal?"

"I drive for him in any city. Where he goes, I go."

"Really." I put on my seat belt and tapped my fingers on my leg as Claude crossed around the vehicle and got in the driver's side.

He must have been reading my mind, anticipating all my intrusive questions about the mysterious Smith Wittingham, because before I could say a word, he said, "Of course, where I drive my boss is confidential. As are all the details of my employment." He gave me a friendly smile in the rear view mirror. "But I think we will have a very nice time today. I know all the most wonderful places for ladies to go shopping."

"Are you going to park the car and come in shopping with me?"

"If you would like me to. If not-" he held up a book of crossword puzzles "-I have my puzzles. Now, where are we going? Jewelry? We could go to Birks. Clothing? There is a Chanel boutique at Holt Renfrew." 

"Oh." My heart started to race. "Um. Holt what-now?"

"It is a chain, like Saks or Barneys," he said. "I also know of some smaller boutiques. Local designers. You can buy Chanel any day when you're in New York."

"Honey, I can't even buy knock-off Chanel from a street vendor. Hmm. Then again, I have his shiny credit card, so Smith is buying today, which seems fine in theory."

He chuckled. "Some things are not so confidential, you know? You have been dating Smith for how long now, one week? You must know he is on the Forbes billionaire list. If he has sent you shopping, he will not be like the typical boyfriend who makes the gasping face at the price tag."