Love Not Money: An Interracial BWWM Billionaire Romance Page 4

  When I step out on to the patio in my bikini, he stands outside the pool, looking down at the beach. He wears only tight swim trunks. He turns to me and my breath hitches in my throat. I am aroused by his sleek body, the bulge of his manhood, the desire in his eyes. He holds out a hand. I take it and we step into the pool. We sit in the pool and face each other.

  “Are you having a good time?” he asks.

  I tell him how much I liked Aunt Thea and her restaurant.

  “She liked you, too,” he says. “People were surprised to see you and me together, of course. But I think when they meet you they realize that you and HomeU are separate from what Hannah did.”

  “What Hannah and Stavros did was have an affair.” My conscience will not let him continue to make Hannah the bad guy. But I am learning that I must admit, too, that Hannah’s choices jeopardized everything we had worked so hard for.

  “You’re right,” he says. “I have been angry at my father. But he was human and he is gone.”

  He kisses me. Soft and sweet and tender, at first. He lingers on my lips and I open my mouth to let him him. I feel the heat rise between us. His tongue pushes into my mouth, fast and complete. He covers my mouth and deepens the kiss. My whole body is burning. I pull my lips from his and pull away. “I cannot,” I say. I am not ready. It is too soon. “I cannot.”

  “Just sit with me,” he says. He turns me around and pulls me backward to lean against his chest. He wraps his arms around me. We look out over the moonlit sea. I feel him everywhere.

  Chapter Nine: Alisha

  I wake in a king-sized bed in a room flooded with light. I stand and look out a glass wall to the Caribbean Sea. I am grateful for this experience. I am nervous, too. I am worried about mingling with the rich and privileged. But I am worried about my feelings for Nikos, too. I am being careless in letting my attraction to him grow. I have to be more careful.

  I decide on a sundress and sandals and go to greet Nikos. He is looking very handsome in a loose-fitting shirt and cotton shorts. He greets me with a cup of coffee and a quick kiss on the lips. “Ready to do a little shopping?”

  The resort’s base color is white but all accessories – furniture, lighting, staff uniforms, even the Greek statues – are drenched in Caribbean colors. The grounds drip with flowering plants and vines and glossy green trees. Nikos slides his fingers between mine as we walk through the lobby. The staff’s greetings are genuine and warm.

  “The resort is based on the architecture of my Greek heritage,” he says as we walk through a shopping corridor as high-end as Palm Beach’s Esplanade. “When I conceived of The Antoniadis Kismet, I wanted to blend the Cycladic architecture of my childhood with that of the Caribbean.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  He smiles at me. “Nai,” He kisses my hand. “Panemorfi.” I do not need to speak Greek to get his meaning. I have only to acknowledge the way he looks at me to know he is saying I am beautiful.

  He leads me into an elegant boutique. The sign on the glass window says it belongs to Linda Arslan, Atelier. I recognize the name as an exclusive and expensive dress designer.

  A fortyish tanned leather wraith expertly curated from the top of her chic messy bun to the tips of her salt-pedicured toes floats to us. She is Palm Beach superthin and a perfect hanger for the gold goddess dress draped on her body. She tries to cut me down to size with an obvious and expert assessment of my discount attire. She wrinkles her nose and ends her perusal on my hand firmly ensconced in Nikos’.

  “Nikos, you naughty boy.” She squeezes her French manicure into his biceps and kisses him once on each cheek. “You haven’t called me.” She leaves traces of coral and the faint scent of perfume. Her diamond drop-earrings jingle. “You know I came every year to see dear Olivia. I miss her so terribly.”

  I guess this is Linda Arslan and she is the sort of women who pretends other women are invisible.

  “We all miss her,” Nikos says. “I’m glad you’re here. My girlfriend needs a dress for tonight.”

  Nikos does not stress the words ‘girlfriend’ but Linda’s death-grip on his biceps tightens. I like the way he operates. I smile at him and then grace her with the widest, most insincere smile I can manage. “Hello.”

  “Well, well,” she says as she turns to acknowledge me. “Girlfriend.”

  There are many ways I can take that statement. But I am here to stand up for myself and my clients and Linda Arslan is an Elliott: Nikos owns the island, the airport and the store we are standing in. Her livelihood depends on his goodwill. With my hand in Nikos’s, I have the advantage of her. “Alisha Padgett,” I say “Are you the shopowner?”

  “Designer.”

  “Of course.”

  So now we both know where we stand. She returns a smaller no less insincere smile and touches my hand as if it were a dead fish. “Lucky girl.” She laughs, tinkly and breakable.

  I give Nikos a smile as adoring as any K-pop fan. “Lucky guy,” I say.

  Her thin lips disappear and cracks appear in the coral. “Follow me,” she says as she turns away. “Jenny, bring the aqua crepe-back satin, the cap-sleeved metallic, and the sequin embroidered.”

  A young woman scurries between the dresses hung artfully around the minimalist space as I follow Linda to the dressing room. I do not have to be a psychiatrist to figure out that Linda’s relationships with women only go as deep as their pocketbooks. But she knows her style. All the dresses are lovely off the hangars. But the aqua sleeveless bias-cut cocktail length dress in crepe-back satin with a boat neckline and a back that drapes open to my waist is the sexiest dress I have ever stepped into. Linda is tight-lipped as I stand on the fitting platform and she tapes adjustments to the dress. “So, how did you meet Nikos?”

  “He sued me. I’m the CEO for HomeU.”

  Her shock is genuine. “I didn’t realize you could date during litigation. Isn’t that unethical? Or, I guess, HomeU would never do anything unethical.”

  “Nikos dismissed the lawsuit when he realized Hannah and HomeU did nothing wrong. I was ecstatic. You have to admit he’s very handsome.”

  She snorted. “I didn’t notice.” She arches an eyebrow. “No ring, though.”

  “Not yet,” I say with a smile and a wink. But I cannot deny another truth. “This is an absolutely stunning dress.” I imagine she would like to continue being catty, but she cannot deny the compliment. “It is the sexiest dress I have ever stepped into.”

  “Thanks. I knew it was the one for you when you walked in.”

  My smile at her is genuine. But she turns away without acknowledging it. “Jenny will tape those adjustments and then I guess you should come out and let Nikos see it. Take your time.” She turns away and leaves the room.

  I look at myself fully in the mirror. I am excited for Nikos to see me in this dress. Look at me, Alisha Padgett, looking a little like I might fit into your world.

  Jenny smiles. “You look like a princess.”

  “I feel like one.”

  Jenny quickly and expertly alters the dress. Then she steps back and out of the way of the mirror. I can see myself. I feel beautiful and special. I know it is only money and it is only a dress. But I fear, sometimes, when I am down or when I fail, that where I came from and what I did back then makes me wrong and shameful. I look in this mirror and I suddenly know without a doubt that I am not those things. This is just a dress. It is only money. But I have fought my way up through ugliness and fear and pain and all you see when you look at me is this woman. This person. Me. My character – not my history – is who I am. I want Nikos to see me. I am nervous. This is more than vanity. I want him to want me.

  I follow Jenny out to the showroom. Nikos sits in an armchair facing the dressing room. Linda sits on his lap, straddling him, her back to me, her gold goddess dress hiked up her thighs. She and Nikos are kissing.

  Chapter Ten: Alisha

  Nikos’s eyes are open as Linda kisses him. He sees me. I hear Jenny gasp. Of course,
this was all a farce. I am a fool. How quickly I became arrogant, sure of myself, contemptuous of Linda Arslan because Nikos held my hand, kissed me, and called me his girlfriend. This is just a dress.

  Nikos rises in that fluid motion I identify only with him.

  Linda rolls down his body and to the floor. “Hey,” she complains. Her feet stick up in the air, a beetle on its back.

  What was warm humidity on my skin turns cold. I hear the click, click, click of the ceiling fan. I have not moved.

  Nikos steps over her and prowls toward me. He rests his hands on my waist. But his hold does not force me to stay there. His eyes do. His gaze is focused and intense. He wants to control my reaction through the force of his personality. A tinge of wariness, an ever-so-slight guardedness in his eyes, hints at an insecurity that arrests me. He is unsure of what I will do. “What you are thinking, do not think it of me.”

  Why not? Has he not shown me who he is? He filed a sham lawsuit against a business that seeks only to help the homeless. He manufactured a witness to bolster his fake claims. He suckers me into coming on this weekend populated with Olivia’s friends. He kisses me to keep Elliott away. He feeds me like chum to one of Olivia’s friends.

  Linda has risen to her feet behind him. She watches us.

  Has he shown me who he is? He was honest about his parents’ marriage. He revealed the emotional hurt he still nurses. I remember that woman I just saw in the mirror. He brought me to her. I came here for a reason. I came for myself and my clients. I came here for Hannah. I am stubborn. I choose the woman in the mirror. I choose Nikos. I let myself smile at him. I put my palm against his cheek. He closes his eyes.

  “I believe you.”

  He huffs out a relieved breath. He cups my face in his palms and opens his mouth against mine. He breathes me in. I breathe him in. Tongues and slight adjustments of our heads. This is not a prelude. This is not a step on a path. This is the step. This is the path. When the kiss ends, we stay with our lips against each other. Heat and yearning. We look each other in the eyes. I keep seeing him more clearly. I see the boy inside the man. I feel protective. I ruffle his hair at the nape. I just want to be touching him. He closes his eyes and turns his mouth into my palm. I think he says, “Mine.”

  “Hm?”

  He looks at me and says, “Do you like this dress?”

  I like this man. “I didn’t graduate from high school. I never went to the prom. This dress feels like the best prom ever.”

  I feel like a princess when I come out of the bedroom in the dress. Nikos looks very handsome in a casual slim-fit linen suit. He is holding a corsage of black and burgundy and chocolate flowers. “They are local wildflowers,” he explains. “I asked Aunt Thea for some ideas and she made this for you.”

  I cry. Even though it might mess up my makeup. He slides the corsage on to my wrist. He kisses me. I cup his face in my palms and kiss him back with all the emotion I should be holding back. This is one of the most thoughtful, sweetest things anyone has ever done for me.

  We go down in the elevator together. I know I am smiling foolishly. I am holding his hand. He leads me under a tall, arched doorway into a stately room with soaring frescoed ceilings above bamboo beams and murals. The room feels like a cross between a medieval mead hall and Swiss chalet. It is a communal room that opens to a stone-floored courtyard flanked by palm trees and bougainvillea-covered trellises. There is a bar on one side and an empty space in the courtyard between the last table and the stage. The tables are arranged in a long square “C” that faces the beach. The courtyard is warmly lit by wall sconces and tiki lamps.

  Guests fill elegantly-decorated tables. Aunt Thea flits among them. She waves at us from across the room. We make our slow way through the room because Nikos must stop at every table to acknowledge his guests. He keeps my hand in his. I can feel some of the guests’ curious and assessing gazes on me. I feel like a couple. I am Cinderella at the ball. Linda Arslan sits at a table. She has grace to look embarrassed when we approach.

  “You make my dress look stunning,” she says before either of us can say anything.

  “Your dress is stunning,” I say.

  She comments on the corsage and I explain Nikos’s thoughtfulness.

  “You know,” she says. “I never went to my prom, either. But I made all my friend’s dresses for prom.” There is an awkward moment and then we smile at each other. Genuine smiles, I think. “Good luck,” she says. “Think of me for the wedding dress.”

  “Your table is this way, Mr. Antoniadis, Miss Padgett.” The uniformed concierge indicates our path as a group of men dressed in cotton loincloths and women dressed in short cotton skirts and halter tops stream onto the stage. Their bodies are painted in bright colors and they are ornamented with jewelry made from shells and beads.

  “This is the Arawak Ireño,” Nikos says as we sit. “That means Arawak Children. This is their origin story. We intended this event to be similar to a Hawaiian luau. Mom and Aunt Thea worked with Caribbean universities to create the show. We wanted it to be historically accurate.”

  As we watch the Ireño, the staff serves for dinner a modern interpretation of traditional Greek cuisine created with seasonal, locally-sourced and imported ingredients. The cost of the plate of food sitting in front of me could probably feed ten people at HomeU for a week. I am amazed that so much money is spent on an occasion like this. I wonder how much of the food will go to waste. I ask Nikos what they do with their leftovers.

  He grins. “I think you will like my answer. All of my resorts try to operate on a zero-waste basis. The staff can take home whatever is not served. Leftovers are frozen and sent to food banks on neighboring islands. We haven’t made it entirely cost-effective or carbon-neutral, yet. But I have people working on it.”

  As the Ireño ends, Nikos excuses himself and steps up on to the stage where the band is setting up. A bandmember hands him a violin. He runs the bow across the strings. I watch a stream of women walk up to the stage to talk to him. Every so often Nikos will look over at me and find my gaze. He will smile. I can feel Aunt Thea watching us. I watch him as he greets and thanks his guests. He is handsome and suave. He is a dream. I admire him. It takes a lot of juggling to manage his company. But his employees are happy and proud to be associated with him. His guests and business associates feel appreciated. This lawsuit against a dead woman and an organization that only seeks to do good does not seem to mesh with the man I am coming to know.

  “He is not sure of you,” Aunt Thea says from her seat next to me. “You are not sure of him. That is not a bad thing in the beginning. My mother was afraid to go find my father in Greece. She wondered what people would think: Pitch-black woman carrying a brown baby looking for white man. But we never know what will happen unless we journey. He turned out to be a good father to me.”

  I look back at Nikos. I know Aunt Thea is trying to suggest a relationship between Nikos and me could last. But she does not know.

  “Nikos is not Olivia’s son,” she says as I look at him. “Did he tell you that?”

  “No.” I am surprised by her words.

  “He is not a child of her body. Stavros had been married before. Happily, to the woman who died giving birth to Nikos.”

  I looked toward Nikos. How was it that in all our discussions of family he had never mentioned this?

  “He never talks of it voluntarily.” Thea answers my silent question. I turn back to look at her. “Olivia was thirty-six when she married Stavros. She never wanted to be married and she never wanted children. But she did not like feeling so different. Like a freak. Only after she married Stavros did she learn that no amount of medical intervention could produce a child of her body. She tried to love Nikos. But all she saw when she looked at him was what she could not have. She became hard, and cruel. Her anger came between her and Nikos, and then between her and Stavros. Stavros would tell Nikos stories of how his real mother loved him. I think Stavros meant to help his son. But it made Nikos t
ry so hard to make Olivia love him. It was sad to watch. She did not know how to be vulnerable. I see the way Nikos looks at you. I see the way you look at him. He needs someone who loves him the way you know how to love.”

  “This is Sand and Sea,” Nikos says from the stage. “This was my mother’s favorite song.” The band plays a haunting song. Nikos accompanies them with a mournful yet exuberant violin. A few minutes into the song, another bandmember takes over the violin from Nikos. Nikos climbs down from the stage and walks to me. I can feel a tension rise in the room. Nikos seems oblivious. He holds out a hand to me. “Dance with me?”

  I can sense something is happening but I do not know what. I put my hand in his as I stand. Aunt Thea smiles at me, mouths “Go!” and makes a shooing motion with her hands.

  I go. Nikos leads me to the dance floor. I feel unprepared. No one else is moving to the dance floor. He wraps one arm around my waist and takes my hand in his. The dance is the most seductive dance I have ever experienced. He is not just seducing my body. He is seducing my mind and my will. I want to give in to him. There is silence as the music fades. When the dance is over we do not look at each other. I do not want him or anyone to see my face. I plant a fake smile as we turn to the crowd. I hear the musicians warm up for the Kalamatianos. Everyone meets on the dance floor. We hold raised hands and begin the dance.

  Chapter Ten: Nikos & Alisha

  I walk in and stop in the center of the room to admire the black sea through the glass. I feel lucky to be here right now. I feel Nikos come up behind me. He wraps his arms around me. I lean back against him. He rests his chin on the top of my head. We look out at the sea together. So strange that we should be here together and that it should not feel strange.

  “Did you enjoy your evening?” He drops his head down and puts his lips on the curve of my neck.