EXES - A Second Chance Billionaire Romance Novel Read online

  It had been that way from the beginning, since the very first time he pinged her phone, stating that he was a friend of a friend who heard she might be interested in getting together for a drink. Alma hadn’t a clue who he was or which friend he was talking about, which is perhaps the reason she pretended to be someone else. Someone sexier. Someone sassier. Someone infinitely more interesting. And that’s how it all started…her anonymous affair with him. No names. No real-life details. Just deep intimate confessions and incessant dirty talk without the promise of it leading to anything more than superficial entertainment and the occasional sexting romgasm.

  “Alma?!” Her sister sharply snapped at her from across the table. “I asked if you’ve got a ten-dollar bill for a tip?”

  “Ten dollars?” Alma repeated, distracted by the third ping on her cell phone.

  If you expect to silence me with your silence, it won’t work…

  Alma waffled, torn between his texts and her sister’s intention to leave an outlandish tip.

  “The check is only five dollars.”

  “I know…but I’m leaving my phone number,” her sister replied, scratching the numbers onto the bill. That was so Conchita, she thought, engaged in casual sex with one boyfriend while always keeping open the full range of possibilities.

  He relentlessly pinged her again. I’ll simply interrupt your normal daytime life with every dirty thought I’ve had about lowering my mouth down between…

  Alma dropped her phone into her lap and blushed uncontrollably. His texts glowed back at her like both a warning and an invitation. What she was doing was crazy and risqué and completely out of her comfort zone, but it also felt amazing to throw aside every instinct of caution and prudence that had marked her life, and instead, pretend to be someone fearless and uninhibited—someone she rarely allowed herself to be.

  He had that effect on her. She had let him take them farther last night than ever before. He’d texted her the details of his fantasy—spreading her across her bed, legs dangling off the side, knees butterflied open, pleasuring her with a patience and persistence that changed the dynamics of her teasing sexual innuendos into masterful acts of submission and domination.

  She had assumed the role of his submissive last night, yielding to his unrestrained advances to finger her without mercy while tasting every drop of her desire for more and more and more…God, how she had so wanted more… More of his stern commands to release every inhibition holding her back. More of his dirty determination to gain her trust and cooperation so that she would text him—in graphic detail—how wet he was making her with every inching advance of his fingertips inside her. More of his persuasive assurances that he wasn’t going to stop until her thighs quivered from the prick of the stubble along his jawline as the heat of his warm tongue tested her sweetness and the vibrations of his hot breath hummed her into a state of unchartered ecstasy. Alma was the furthest thing from a whore…but with him, she was finally able to let go and invent the woman she had always longed to be.

  While Conchita distracted herself with freshening up her lip gloss in her compact mirror, Alma finally took the opportunity to text him back. I suppose that means you expect to hear from me again tonight?

  No, because I’m certain I can’t wait until tonight…

  He wanted her now. She could almost feel his intentions through her phone.

  She needed a way to keep him appeased. What if I promise to make the wait worth it?

  She imagined his needy sigh trailing after his next text. Tell me more…

  “Hey, what the hell is wrong with you?” Conchita said. “You’re completely ignoring me. I asked if you wanted me to walk back with you to Papi’s shop, so he could scold me instead of you for being away this long.”

  “No, I’m fine. It will be fine.”

  Conchita eyed the awkward way Alma was cradling her phone against her chest. “Who the hell are you texting, anyway?”

  “No one,” Alma replied. Anxious to ditch the diner before she lost his attention, she swept up her purse and heavy coat, pecked her sister on the cheek, and scurried away toward the diner’s front door. “See you later. I’ll call you after ButtLover and I meet up and exchange baking recipes.”

  “Whatevah, you snarky little bitch,” Conchita called back. “Just promise me if you decide to respond to ButtLover or AngelDevilMan that you’ll forward me all their naughty selfies.”

  Safely out of the diner and striding down Wacker Avenue toward her father’s antique shop, Alma shivered as a gust of Chicago wind pelted her back. It was already April, but still the Chicago River had chunks of floating ice. Her heart beat wildly and her body was aflame with yearning for the pleasure he promised behind every word of his texts.

  You’re making me wait for your response—again. And I’m not a man who’s used to waiting. I’m a man who’s used to getting exactly what he wants when he wants it.

  Alma felt her alter ego taking over her personality. She wasn’t sure why he was the one who inspired her sassy, sultry side; she simply knew she loved embracing it.

  Well, revise your expectations, sport. It wouldn’t be any fun if I was always available whenever you wanted me.

  She sent her tart reply, invigorated by her own ability to both tease and defy him. As she scurried along the broad sidewalk, her rapid pace easing the anxiety of waiting for his response. When the vibration buzzed in her hands, she looked down at the message.

  I don’t want fun. I want to control every part of your body and make you so wet that you’ll beg for me to slide myself into you.

  A flush of heat rose up between her legs, kindling her need for a release, the same way it did last night when he brought her to the brink. But despite all their sexually explicit exchanges, they hadn’t yet crossed over into the fantasy of full-on intimate intercourse.

  She hurried under the elevated tracks as the Brown Line train screeched across its rails, like a banshee warning her that she was no longer a schoolgirl getting to third base behind the bleachers during halftime of a football game. She was a thirty-year-old woman—recently divorced and perhaps a bit too desperate for validation that she was still a sexy and desirable woman—and now, for better or worse, she was trapped in this addictive web of secrecy and fantasy, seeking out affirmation of her sexual self-worth from a complete stranger.

  When she finally glanced down, he’d already sent another text.

  Plan on answering my phone call at midnight.

  A phone call? As always, he was pushing the boundaries of their affair and asserting his control over her. Quivering with anticipation, she silently acknowledged the dangerous consequences of his proposition—extending their sexting affair into the unguarded reality of conversation. But that was exactly what excited her about him: his demanding way of tempting her to explore everything she had to offer him.

  Alma could see the antique shop just ahead of her. She stopped in her tracks, yearning to respond with something, anything to ensure that he would keep his promise.

  Midnight is a long time to wait. Be prompt or don’t bother to call at all.

  Alma closed her eyes, unable to believe how natural it was for her to conjure up a bold, vixen voice—much less actually use it.

  Without missing a beat, he zipped back his reply.

  Don’t disappear until you tell me where I can send you something special for tonight…

  She repeated his request in her mind. Something special?

  …name any location and I’ll have my driver deliver it there.

  With her mind in a whirl, she halted along Wacker Avenue. There was no way she was dumb enough to give out the number of her condo building or the address of her father’s workshop, but the notion of a physical gift from him intrigued her. What could he possibly want to give her?

  Think, think, think…She had to come up with an answer quickly, a place she knew well, a place where she could easily visit after work, a place where a public package could be left anytime—without being n
oticed—and in turn, where she could pick it up without being noticed. And maybe even somewhere symbolic—a place that would say something about her.

  She thought about her favorite book aisles in the Harold Washington Library or the secluded antique rooms in the basement of the Art Institute. But then, the grand image of an even better possibility floated through her mind.

  The Tiffany Ballroom in the Cultural Center, she texted him with finality. In the corner on the eastern windowsills. There’s no public event tonight, and no one will notice it there. I’ll pick it up before the building closes at six o’clock.

  Good. It will be there for you and I expect you to be wearing it when I call tonight.

  Alma shut off her phone and cradled it against her heart.

  Who was he and how did they come this far? She had no idea, but the only thing that mattered was that she yearned for every fantasy he promised her.

  Chapter Three

  Arriving at her father’s antique shop, Alma thrust her entire body against the wooden front door, stuck by the spring frost. The old-fashioned shopkeeper’s bell jingled above her head. Bright, airy, and ringing with anticipation, she thought. In fact, she was so distracted by her own glee that she caught herself singing along to the Bach concerto filtering out from her father’s vintage radio. As she hung up her scarf and coat and returned to her workbench, she hummed the famous refrain, reminding herself of how much she preferred Bach to Mozart.

  Settling back into her work, Alma studied the kaleidoscope of colors through the magnified lens of her jewelry appraiser’s loupe. She delicately propped the windowsill onto her lap and meticulously cleaned the far right corner of the pane, revealing the silky opalescence of the stained glass hiding beneath years of soot and abandonment. Even though decades of dirt had dimmed the radiance of the window, she could still spot the signature artistry of the man behind its creation: Louis Comfort Tiffany. She pushed up the loupe from her eyes and redirected her headlamp onto the rejuvenated section of glass—luminescent hues of shimmering turquoise, lavender, and pink sparkled back at her, a mesmerizing scene of wild flowers ensconced within evergreen dappling. When she finished restoring the entire stained-glass window, she would reveal a captivating paradise—an Elysian forest or a mythical river of life—illuminated from behind from natural sunlight, seducing the viewer into believing that the promise and hope of a better world resided within its beauty.

  She was so absorbed in her work, she barely registered the sound of the bell. In the background, she heard her father ascend the basement steps and greet the visitor. After a few minutes of casual conversation, he called out to her.

  “Alma, please come here. Your expertise is needed.”

  She cringed. She knew her father had scheduled an appraisal appointment for that afternoon, but she had hoped she could work on her restoration project without being bothered. Although her father was the shop owner and an antique expert when it came to eighteenth-century European furniture and paintings, she was the expert on twentieth century jewelry and glassworks.

  “Alma, please…we’re waiting,” her father repeated.

  Fat chance, she could hear Conchita say, whenever it came to the possibility of their strict Argentinian father relaxing his expectations for his eldest daughter. Conchita got a pass because she was the younger, more foolish child, but never Alma, who had always assumed the role of the more dutiful, sensible offspring, especially since the death of their mother more than a decade ago.

  Reluctantly sliding off her stool, she carefully covered the windowsill and laid it across her work table.

  Alma gazed at her father and the guest through the magnification of her bug-eyed appraisals loupe.

  “Alma, please—” her father murmured, shielding his eyes from the spotlight of her bulky headlamp.

  “Oops, sorry,” she replied, fumbling to turn off the light. “I was just working on the restoration of a Tiffany.”

  Her head lamp awkwardly tilted to the side, its headband pulling her lopsided pony tail into further dishevelment.

  “Madame van der Meer, this is my daughter, Alma,” her father said, formally introducing them. “Madame van der Meer’s son is getting married, and she’s brought us a few family heirlooms to appraise before giving them to his bride as a wedding gift.”

  Her father’s tone was rigid and formal. He sternly peered at his daughter, conveying how important this particular client was to their business. Alma internally sighed. Every client was important. It was the reason why he’d been in the antiques appraisal business for forty years, since arriving from Buenos Aires as a young man. Everyone knew Enrique Castillo in Chicago. And everyone trusted him.

  She shifted her gaze to Madame van der Meer, an elderly woman with a beaked nose and aristocratic profile. She wore a full length black sable fur coat and held her chin above the impressive mink collar like royalty. If Alma hadn’t been dressed in her denim overalls and heavy leather restoration gloves, she probably would have given in to her urge to curtsy.

  Mechanically, Alma held out her leather glove to Madame van der Meer who shook it without fear of staining her thin, wispy hand with dust. But her father glared at his daughter’s oversight. “Alma, please—”

  When she realized her error, she promptly removed her gloves and curtsied in apology. Even in overalls, there was just no way around a curtsy at this point.

  “Louis Comfort Tiffany is one of my favorite nineteenth century artisans,” Madame van der Meer confirmed. “Are you restoring one of his Favrile lamp shades?”

  “No, a windowsill. A teenager found it in the basement of her grandmother’s house after her death and tried to sell it on eBay for fifteen dollars.”

  “Good heavens, no.” Madame van der Meer gasped as if she had just seen a horrible car accident.

  “Yes, that’s how I felt,” Alma agreed, comforted by the fact that Madame van der Meer shared the same horror that an authentic Tiffany stained-glass window had almost been sold for so little. “The family just thought it was an old dirty stained-glass windowpane from the grandmother’s church. But I tracked down the parents and convinced them to let me restore it, so that it could properly be sold at auction and pay for the daughter’s entire college tuition.”

  Madame exhaled in relief. “Well, then…it sounds like you’re the perfect woman to appraise my jewelry.”

  Alma gazed at Madame van der Meer, taking in her subtle European accent and the fact that perhaps she wasn’t just another rich client looking for reassurance that the value of her family heirlooms still made her wealthy.

  “My son is getting married,” Madame van der Meer continued, “and I’m seeking guidance on just the sort of wedding gift to give to his fiancée.”

  Alma felt the blood rise into her cheeks. Considering her own failed marriage, she hardly felt qualified to help pick out wedding jewelry.

  “No, please—” Alma insisted. “I guarantee you I’m the absolute last person on earth who should be doling out wedding advice of any kind.”

  But Alma’s father swiftly moved out from behind the counter. “Yes, of course, Madame van der Meer. We would be happy to assist you in any way possible.”

  Overriding his daughter with an attentive smile, he unsnapped the band of the crushed velvet jewelry roll and spread it across the lightbox on top of the glass countertop.

  “I’m quite enchanted by my son’s fiancée,” Madame van der Meer explained. “She’s very much unlike all his past girlfriends. She’s a spirited girl who is rather unimpressed by his wealth and status in the world. Exactly what my son needs to keep him in line. I would like to give her a piece of jewelry for the wedding. However, I fear she may not accept it unless it’s just right.”

  Alma gasped, taking in the rarity of what lay before her. “Is that an authentic Milan van Stein wristwatch?”

  With a wry smile, Madame van der Meer peered at Alma’s father. “You’re exactly right, Enrique. Your daughter does know her jewelry makers.”

&nb
sp; “Yes, of course.” Alma nodded, almost overcome with the feeling of such an exquisite piece of jewelry in the palm of her hand. “He was a jeweler who owned a prestigious shop in Amsterdam called ‘The Diamond House’ because he was known to design with only the finest cut diamonds in all of Europe. He made intricate rings, necklaces, and bracelets for the Dutch elite. But what is less well-known is the fact that he was also an incredibly skilled horologist.”

  Alma’s father shot her a glare. “Horologist? Qué es estó, Alma?” he questioned her in his native tongue, something he only did in front of clients when he didn’t want to reveal his own limited knowledge.

  “A watchmaker,” she clarified in English while repositioning the loupe over her eyes and investigating the detailed artistry of the feminine cocktail wristwatch. “I mean, I’ve read all about Milan van Stein’s masterfully crafted watches, but I’ve never actually seen a real one.”

  Under the magnification of the loupe, Alma scanned the piece’s art deco design, perfectly accentuated by endless baguette and round cut diamonds set within hand-engraved white gold filigree on a shimmering platinum band. She studied its distinct hexagonal-shaped dial and mother-of-pearl face, decorated with petite rubies studding each hour marker. Its winding stem was augmented with a brilliant sapphire—a signature van Stein touch. Alma held the wristwatch up to her ear and closed her eyes; its movement was flawlessly silent.

  “Milan and his wife were very much in love, you know,” Madame van der Meer said. “He designed each wristwatch specifically for her every year as a gift for their wedding anniversary.”

  “Lovely,” Alma whispered, as if for a moment she wished she could trade places with Milan’s wife. Then, she drew her loupe up onto her forehead and questioned Madame van der Meer with bewilderment. “But I don’t understand…finding an authentic Milan van Stein watch is incredibly rare. It’s true that he only made a handful of them, but they were all believed to have been seized from his jewelry shop by the Nazis after they invaded Amsterdam. Over the decades, only a few have been recovered. How did you get this one?”