Tempting the Billionaire Page 13

  She nodded in agreement. “Maybe we should work on that before trying to complicate each other’s lives further,” she said, unable to overlook her hurt and offense at his words.

  He looked surprised, but then he nodded, as well. “Maybe,” he agreed.

  What are you doing, Ngozi? What are we doing?

  She descended the few steps, moving beyond him to stride across the space to open the front door. The chilly winter winds instantly pushed inside. She trembled as goose bumps covered her.

  Chance looked at her over his broad shoulder before he turned with a solemn expression and walked over to stand before her. “We never can seem to get this right,” he said, wiping away a snowflake that blew in and landed on her cheek.

  Ngozi had to fight not to lean into his touch. “Maybe one day we’ll both be ready for this,” she said, sadness filling her as she doubted the truth of it.

  They had taken a chance on each other and failed.

  “Maybe,” Chance agreed.

  With one final look shared between them, he turned and left.

  Ngozi gave not one care about the brutal cold as she stood in the doorway and watched him walk out of her life at her request.

  A warm hand touched her arm and pulled her back from the door to close it. She turned to find Reeds just as a tear raced down her cheek. Her feelings were not bruised because he had pointed out what she knew about herself—she flew under the radar in her personal life by putting on a facade to make everyone but herself happy. Having it presented to her on a platter by the man she loved had been embarrassing, but the true hurt was his inability to release Helena from his life and move on. That stung like crazy, and she’d be a fool to risk her heart when she wasn’t sure his wasn’t too bruised by another woman to love her in return.

  “It’s just a mess, Reeds,” she admitted, wiping away her tears and blinking rapidly to prevent any more from rising and falling.

  “You’ve been hiding your tears since your brother’s death, Ngozi,” he said, his wise eyes searching hers. “Shrinking yourself. Denying yourself. You were a child taking on the role and responsibility of an adult by trying to adjust her life for grown people. Now you’re grown, and you’re still doing it. And I’ll tell you this—I’m glad somebody finally said it.”

  Ngozi was startled. “Say what now?” she asked.

  “Listen, my job around here is to make sure the house operates well and the staff acts right. It’s not to cross the line and interject myself between the people who pay me and their daughter whom I adore, but I will tell you this—since your young man opened the door. They feel they are protecting you just as much as you feel you’re protecting them, and I think you’re all wrong for the way you’re going about it. Avoidance is never the answer.”

  And now Ngozi was confused, because she knew Reeds wouldn’t speak on personal family matters—especially if he wasn’t sure about his opinion.

  “Well, since it’s clear you overheard my conversation with Chance,” she said, kicking into attorney mode, “why should I risk my heart for a man who won’t let something go for me?”

  Reeds smiled. “And if he did? If he readily agreed to drop this lawsuit you’re so worried about, would you have been prepared in that moment to be the woman he is requesting of you—to stand up for yourself and demand your happiness in whatever way you see fit?”

  Ngozi quickly shifted through emotions. How could I love someone when I haven’t learned to fully discover and love myself?

  “I believe you have just put me at a rare loss, Reeds,” she admitted as he chuckled.

  “Now that is high praise, Madam Counselor,” he said, reaching over to squeeze her hand before he turned and walked away toward the dining room, presumably to ensure the staff had cleaned the area.

  She crossed her arms over her chest and rubbed the back of her upper arms as she made her way back to the den. Her parents were lying on the sofa together watching television. Her eyes shifted to the spot on the floor in front of the polished entertainment center. An image of her and her brother, Haaziq, sitting cross-legged replayed in her mind. They were dressed in nightclothes and laughing at some TV comedy as their parents snuggled.

  It was a memory that was hard to forget because of its regular occurrence in their life as a family.

  In the image, he slowly faded away and she was left alone.

  God, I miss my brother. I miss him so much.

  “Ngozi? What’s wrong?” her mother asked, rising from where she had been resting her head against her father’s chest.

  She smiled and shook her head, falling into her all-too-familiar role. “Nothing,” she lied, sounding fine but feeling hollow.

  “Okay,” Valerie said, reclaiming her spot. “You had an odd look on your face.”

  And just like that, a hiccup in their life, a spot of imperfection, was corrected.

  “Is your friend gone?” her father asked.

  Maybe forever.

  Ngozi nodded, feeling overwhelmed. When do my feelings matter?

  “Mama,” she called out, wringing her hands together.

  Valerie looked over at her. “Yes?”

  “I lied before,” she admitted.

  “About what?” her mother asked, rising from her husband’s chest once more.

  “I was thinking about...about...how we all sat in here every night, me, you, Daddy and... Haaziq, and watched TV before you would send us to bed,” she admitted, wincing and releasing a harsh gasp as one tear and then another raced down her cheek. “And how much I miss him.”

  Her parents shared a long, knowing look before her mother rose to come over to her and her father used the iPad to turn off the television.

  And at the first feel of her mother’s arms wrapping around her body and embracing her, Ngozi buried her face in her neck and inhaled her familiar scent.

  “We knew this was coming, we just didn’t know it would take so long,” her father added, coming close to massage warm circles on her back.

  Ngozi enjoyed the warmth of their comfort, and cried like she had never cried before.

  Chapter 9

  Three months later

  Chance leaned against the wall of the hospital with his hands pressed deep into the pockets of the dark denim he wore. As hospital personnel moved past him in completion of their duties and he ignored the scent of illness and antiseptic blending in the air, Chance eyed room 317.

  On the other side of the closed door was his father.

  Jeffrey Castillo.

  He’d never seen him. Never met him. Never known anything about him except he was his father.

  Over the last ninety days, he had made his life one adventure after another. Helicopter skiing in Alaska. Diving with sharks on the Australian coast off a megayacht. Shopping at the House of Bijan in Beverly Hills. Kayaking in Norway. Watching the grand prix in Monte Carlo. Skydiving in Dubai.

  And then he’d received an inbox message on Facebook from a woman introducing herself as his father’s wife and letting him know his father was terminally ill and wanted to finally meet his eldest son. That was the day before, and now here he was. Chance hadn’t even told his mother.

  I don’t know why I’m here.

  Pushing up off the wall, he walked down the length of the corridor to the window, looking out at the cars lined up in the many parking spots and at the traffic whizzing past on the street.

  He froze when he spotted a tall dark-skinned woman climb from a red car and make her way toward the hospital’s main entrance. His gut clenched until the moment he realized she was not Ngozi.

  “Chance?”

  He turned from the window to find a pretty round-faced woman with a short silvery hairdo paused at the door to his father’s hospital room. It was his father’s wife, Maria. She gave him a warm smile as she walked up to him.

  “You
came,” she said.

  “I haven’t gone in,” he admitted.

  Her eyes showed her understanding of his hesitation. “If you decide not to, I won’t tell him,” she said. “The man he is today is not the man he was before. Life has caused him to change, but that will never top how you must have felt growing up without his presence in your life.”

  Chance liked her. Empathy was always a bridge to understanding and respect.

  “Does he know you reached out to me?” he asked, looking down the length of the hall to the closed door.

  She shook her head. “No, I didn’t want to disappoint him if you—or the others—chose not to come.”

  Chance went still with a frown. “Others?”

  Maria nodded, bending her head to look down as she opened her purse and removed a folded, well-worn envelope with frayed edges. She pressed it into his hands.

  Chance allowed his body to lean against the wall as he took in the list of three names in faded ink—his and two more. “And these are?” he asked, looking at the woman.

  “Your two brothers,” she said, offering him a gentle smile.

  Chance deeply frowned. When he was younger, he was optimistic enough to wonder if he had sisters and brothers. Age and the passing of time with no such knowledge had led to him not caring and then not wondering about it all.

  “Jeffrey and I also have a daughter, Chance,” she said gently. “Her name is Camila.”

  His father. A stepmother. And three half siblings.

  Chance shook his head, not quite sure of anyone’s intention and whether he was ready for a new family. “I need time,” he admitted, folding and shoving the envelope in his back pocket.

  “I understand,” Maria said. “Please keep in mind that your fath—that Jeffrey is very ill, and this may be your last opportunity to see him alive.”

  He nodded as his emotions whirled around like a tornado.

  “Ma?”

  He looked down the hall at a tall, slender woman in her midtwenties, with short jet-black hair and a shortbread complexion, standing in the open doorway to room 317. He knew from the lean beauty of her face and the similarities in their look that she was his sister, Camila. Camila Castillo.

  “I’m coming,” Maria said, giving him one more smile filled with her desire for him to meet his father before she turned and walked to her daughter.

  “Who is that?” Camila asked, swiping her long bangs out of her face as she eyed him in open curiosity.

  “Someone who knows your father,” Maria said, offering a hint at the truth but successfully evading it.

  Both women gave him one final look before entering the hospital room and closing the door behind them.

  Quickly, Chance strode down the middle of the hallway, his height and strength seeming to make the space smaller. He felt pressure filling his chest as he pressed the button for the elevator with far more vigor than necessary. Coming there had become more than he bargained for. Once on the elevator, he pulled the frayed envelope from his back pocket and lightly rubbed the side of his thumb against the faded block lettering that he assumed to be that of his father.

  A name on an envelope wasn’t much, but it was more of a thought than he’d ever imagined his father to have spent on him.

  Chance stopped the elevator doors from closing and stepped off, making his way back down the hall to room 317. The door opened, and Camila exited. He stepped out of her path, but she stood there looking up at him even as the door closed behind her. “Excuse me,” he said, moving to step past her.

  “You look just like my father. Are we related?” she asked in Spanish.

  Chance froze and then stepped back, causing a nurse to have to swerve to avoid bumping into him. “My bad,” he apologized.

  The pretty blonde gave him an appreciative look. “No problem,” she stressed before continuing on her way with a look back at him over her shoulder.

  The door opened again, and Chance’s eyes landed on the gray-haired man lying on the hospital bed. He had but a brief glimpse as the door closed. He was surprised his heart pounded with such vigor.

  Maria eyed Chance and then her daughter.

  “Camila, I thought you went down to the café,” she said, reaching to press a folded bill into the younger woman’s hand. “Bring me something sweet to nibble on.”

  “But, Ma—”

  “Adios, Camila,” Maria said, gently nudging her daughter on her way.

  With one last long look at Chance, she turned and walked down the hall to the elevators.

  “You came back,” Maria said, squeezing his hand. “Come, Chance. Come.”

  Gently, he withdrew his hand, but he followed her into the room.

  “Mi amor, mi amor,” she said gently in a singsong fashion. “Look who is here, mi amor. It is Chance, your son.”

  Chance stood at the foot of the bed and looked at the tall and thin man whose gaunt features could not deflect that he looked like a younger, fuller version of his father. Jeffrey opened his eyes. They were slightly tinged with yellow and glassy, but he couldn’t deny when they filled with tears.

  Jeffrey reached out his hand to Chance and bent his fingers, beckoning him.

  For so long, when he was younger, he wondered about the moment he would meet his father. Never had he imagined it happening on his deathbed with cancer winning in the fight for his life. His hesitation was clear as Maria eyed him and then her husband. His father’s hand dropped some, as if the effort exhausted him.

  That evoked compassion from him, and Chance moved to the side of the bed to take his father’s hand in his own. His grip lacked strength. The scent of oncoming death clung to the air around him.

  “Forgive me,” Jeffrey said, his Spanish accent present even in the weakened state of his tone.

  Chance remained stoic even as he looked down into his father’s face. He didn’t know if his heart could soften to him. His mother had worked double shifts to make up for the help she did not receive from him. Even now, he didn’t know if she would feel betrayed by his coming to his father’s bedside.

  “Forgive me?” Jeffrey asked this time.

  Chance glanced across the bed to find Maria had quietly left them alone in the room. He shifted his gaze back down to his father. It was amazing that he could look so much like a man he had never met. His imprint was undeniable.

  Chance released a breath and looked up at the ceiling as the emotions from his childhood came flooding back to him. He clenched his jaw.

  The grip on his hand tightened.

  Chance looked down. “Why?” he asked.

  Jeffrey squeezed his eyes shut, and tears fell as he shook his head.

  Chance hoped to be a father one day. He knew he would do better than his own sire because he would be present, scolding when needed and loving always, but if he made a misstep, he would hope on his deathbed he would be forgiven. He believed you had to give what you hoped to receive for yourself.

  “Te perdono,” Chance said, offering this stranger the clemency he requested.

  His father pulled his hand to his mouth to kiss the back of it and then made the sign of the cross as he gripped it. “Gracias,” he whispered up to him.

  He had learned through the loss of the woman he loved that vengeance was a drawback he refused to let hinder his life again.

  * * *

  Passion Grove was truly home.

  Ngozi adjusted the large oil painting she’d hung above her fireplace and then stood back to observe her handiwork. The artwork was alive with the vibrant colors and matched the decor of her new home in the affluent small town. It was a rental, but the Realtor said the owners may be interested in selling the four-bedroom, four-bathroom Colonial early next year.

  Regardless, for the last month it was home.

  “When did you get so Afrocentric?”

  Ngo
zi sighed at the sound of her mother’s voice behind her. “I don’t know, Ma, maybe my name inspired me,” she said as she turned and eased her hand into the pockets of her oversize coveralls.

  Her father chuckled from his spot relaxing on her bright red leather sofa.

  Valerie gave him a sharp eye that only made him laugh harder. “With the new hair and all this artwork everywhere, you really are taking us back to the motherland,” she said, touching a large wooden African ceremonial mask that hung on the wall by the door.

  Ngozi touched her faux locks, which were twisted up into a topknot. “My house, my way, Ma,” she said, coming close to kiss her cheek before moving past her to close the French doors and unfortunately cut off the breeze of April air drifting in from outside.

  “You know, this new and improved Ngozi is a lot chattier,” Valerie said.

  “Well, I like it,” Horace said, rising from the sofa.

  “Me, too, Dad,” Ngozi agreed, looking around at the spacious family room, which had been the last of the areas she decorated.

  For the first time in a long time, longer than she could remember, Ngozi had the same confidence and tenacity that made her a conqueror in the courtroom in her personal life. She enjoyed living her life by her gut instincts and not just by what she thought others wanted her to do or to be. Not living to please others was freeing.

  Her parents, particularly her mother, were adjusting to discovering just who their daughter truly was.

  Valerie winked at Ngozi. “If you like it, I love it,” she said.

  Ngozi had discovered over the last ninety days that her parents weren’t as strict and judgmental as she’d thought growing up. She’d never felt so close to them.

  The night she’d opened up about Haaziq, they’d discussed the impact of his death on their lives. She’d discovered that they tiptoed around her just as much as she placated them. In the end, they were a family trying to cope with a death and just didn’t know how to do it.

  Now if a memory of Haaziq rose, no one shied away from the thought, and instead they would share a laugh or just reminisce on the time they did get to have him in their lives. And if they were moved to a few tears, that was fine. They grieved him and got through the moment.