Christmas With Cassandra: A Billionaire Holiday Tale Page 5

  Jasmine slapped her phone on the table as soon as the line went dead. Ethan grabbed the back of her chair and nearly dumped her out of it. Her yelp could be heard throughout the house, although by that point the help had long learned to recognize yelps of genuine distress and yelps of marital joy.

  Jasmine didn’t know it yet, but that was a yelp of the latter kind.

  “I’ve got half an hour before I have to make another call,” Ethan growled directly into his wife’s ear. “How about you and me get dirty on the couch in my office?”

  “Um…” Not only did this come out of nowhere, but that music was… jarring, to say the least. She was so perturbed that she barely registered being picked up and hauled out of the den, her husband’s phone still blasting whatever it pleased. “Did you know that we were talking about one of your ex-girlfriends and this is why you’re acting weird?”

  “How is wooing you with pop music weird, my flower?” Ethan kicked open the door to his office and promptly kicked it shut again. Jasmine landed on the nearest leather couch, her husband hovering above her, every muscle between his hips and his neck flexing beneath his tight T-shirt. “And what ex-girlfriend? You have to be more specific.”

  She was torn between being hypnotized by those pectorals and the teasing that commenced once he had her where he wanted her. “Someone named Cassandra,” she managed to say. “Remember her?”

  Ethan bit his lip, one hand gripping the leather behind Jasmine’s head and the other pawing the collar of her outfit. If he didn’t get her breasts out of her clothes within five minutes, the afternoon was a wash – and Ethan never washed away his afternoons. “I vaguely remember someone fitting that name.” Vaguely? More like he remembered her as clearly as the day they first met at a mutual friend’s banquet. Cassandra had arrived with that lost kitten look that had garnered Ethan’s attentions immediately. He was a sucker for women who were quiet yet fiercely intelligent – most of his dating history said as much. What he hadn’t anticipated was a month’s worth of feverish sex in between bouts of catching his tentative girlfriend crying in his bathroom and tirelessly writing entries into her Moleskine journal. When Cassandra was high on life and passion, she was bursting with it. But when she was hit with a specific kind of darkness, nobody could help her, least of all Ethan. They had parted ways because, quite simply, he had hired a new assistant who promised to be a lot less complicated both in and out of bed. (That was until she showed up in his office to spit on him one day.)

  Jasmine held him back before he could completely devour her. How many minutes were left until that stupid call he had to make halfway around the world? Twenty minutes? That was barely enough time to get inside his wife and please them both. It had been three whole days since they last made love. Three whole days! How was Ethan supposed to hold himself back from the throes of marital sex?

  Wives. They always expected way too much of their husbands.

  “She’s coming back to town according to the grapevine.”

  “And I care why?”

  “Because apparently we’re both supposed to care.”

  Ethan barricaded Jasmine against the couch. A pitiful sound fell from her lips. Not one of weakness, but one holding the sheer amount of power she pulled behind his scenes. Ethan didn’t care how many people made fun of him or looked down on him for marrying a woman like Jasmine. He loved her, damnit, and she was the only woman in the world who could make him feel as silly, as alive as this. Had someone like Cassandra done that for him? No way. She was the kind of woman Ethan hated dating the most: an heiress. They wanted everything a certain way. A certain amount of worth. Ethan had to constantly be on alert around heiresses, most of all the ones like Cassandra who had grown up with vast amounts of wealth. He felt sorry for her when he heard the rumors about her misfortunes, both physical and mental. But his sympathies ended there. What she did with her life was her business. What was it to him? Not like they were ever truly in love. Just lust. A lot of misguided lust, or at least on Ethan’s behalf.

  Not like with Jasmine. That was lust worth pursuing. Right now. He had to pursue it right now, before his dick went nuts.

  “I don’t care about any woman but you.” His erection strained against his jeans, but that didn’t prevent him from speaking sweetly to his wife. Ethan knew that was the ticket to making Jasmine happily open up to him and the quickie he offered. “You, you, you. You and me on this couch thinking only about each other. Or not thinking at all. That’s cool too.”

  “Tell you what, husband.” Jasmine put two firm hands on his chest. A motion that was both inviting and kept him at a protective distance. “You turn off that music and we’ll have all the sex you want for the next fifteen minutes.”

  As much as Ethan enjoyed the greatest album of 2016, he enjoyed sex with his wife even more. Carly Rae Jepson had come to save pop music, but the Canadian chanteuse could not save his marriage if Ethan refused to make love to his wife to any sound but the grunts and hurried moans they made. No other woman entered their minds. Not even Cassandra, who could not have possibly ran away from Ethan as the father of this supposed child of hers.

  For that was not the only thing playing at the couple’s collective consciousness. Their big year of entering the union of husband and wife was coming to a close, but 2017 was sure to see them making a decision bigger than themselves. Not even Ethan’s pesky vasectomy was going to get in the way of that.

  Scene 5

  The Warrens

  To assume that Monica Warren had not yet heard about Cassandra’s reappearance is to greatly underestimate the influence she commanded in the region. She was not only the wife of a multibillionaire and heir to an even greater fortune, but she ran a business that invited the other bigshots of the world to open up to the latest gossip over bottles of Cristal and Cuban cigarettes. She had heard more about Cassandra in the past year than anyone in the Welsh family. But, in truth, the only things she heard were from the past. Cassandra’s ex-lovers had a tendency to bond over her when the alcohol flowed and scantily clad women promised them rebound sex. For the right price, of course.

  But Monica was a busy woman, especially at that time of year, and she had no desire to engage in any talk that had nothing to do with her personally. In the course of 2016 she had married and become a mother. As this would be her first Christmas commanding both important titles, she was determined to get at least something right.

  Like capturing every moment of her daughter’s first Christmas with a professional photographer. Because what else did one use a professional photographer for?

  “What are you doing?” she asked her husband when he held up his cell phone to snap a picture of their daughter in her brand-new elf costume. “We have a photographer here for a reason.”

  Henry regarded the middle-aged woman carting around a large camera with only passing interest. “And they’ll be swell pictures, I’m sure. But maybe Daddy wants some fuzzy pictures on his phone to peruse at his leisure?”

  As much as Monica did not want to stoop to his pedestrian level, she was immediately compelled to pull out her own cell phone and snap a shot of daughter Abigail the moment she pumped her stubby legs into the air and giggled at all the attention she constantly received as the prized heiress of the Warren Estate. One day Monica would have to curtail this attention to ensure her daughter didn’t grow up too spoiled and entitled (for it was impossible to avoid any entitlement at their prestigious level) but for now, she was content to fill her daughter’s baby days with nothing but endless love and adoration.

  If taking pictures with both a cell phone and a professional photographer meant it was so, then so be it.

  “When this fuss is over with,” Henry said, having pocketed his phone in favor of wrapping a doting arm around his wife’s midsection, “I’d like to see you in my office.” He winked at her before strolling away. “If it pleases my Princess.”

  Regardless of how stressed out Monica had just been, having her husband act so flirtatio
us in her direction always managed to calm her down. As it turned out, it often made his day as well – he was simply better at hiding his stress behind a carefully crafted façade. “It always pleases me, sir,” she said, just loud enough for him to hear above the rabble.

  On top of the spoiling, Monica would also have to one day figure out how to tell Abigail about her parents’ unique marriage. For not only were they one of the wealthiest families in America, but Henry and Monica shared one of the staunchest Dom/sub relationships around. Not exactly the easiest thing to explain to a child.

  Monica allowed herself a few more moments of fantasy before launching herself back into the fuss that was arranging baby’s first Christmas photoshoot.

  “Lady Warren,” the head butler greeted with his somber expression. The man, in his coat and tails, stood at the front of the large room with a graceful nod of the head. Monica did not desire to pull herself away from her adorable daughter, nor did she want to be away from the action that was the flashes of lights and curt orders of a staunch photographer, but she knew the butler would not interrupt her unless it was important. So even though Monica would rather drag her knees through razor blades than tend to this matter, she went, head high and posture as impeccable as always.

  “What is it?” she asked brusquely.

  The butler gracefully lowered his head again. “Mrs. Cole is here to see you. She is waiting in the grand foyer for an audience.”

  Monica had lived in the world of billionaires (including ridiculously rich ones, even by billionaire standards) for a good chunk of her life, but she would never get over being spoken to as if she were real royalty. No wonder ninnies like her sister-in-law Eva often had to fuck off to their own private apartments in the city. Not only could they afford them, but it was imperative to not losing one’s mind or laughing so hard one choked to death. The Warrens’ head butler had been trained since his childhood to be the best at his profession. Nothing that came out of his mouth was something he didn’t feel anything but pride for.

  Laughing was not the appropriate reaction for Lady Warren to have.

  “You may show her in.” That was a concession Monica would only make for one of her dearest friends. Like Jasmine Cole, who was promptly allowed into the brightly lit room wearing a periwinkle winter dress with a plush white coat on top. Her hair was pulled back into a thick, black braid and dusted with diamonds. Not a look Monica had yet to get used to with someone like Jasmine, but it told her one thing: that Jasmine had planned on visiting her friend from the moment she picked out her outfit that day. Jasmine would not dress that splendidly for a foray into the city. The two of them may have been good friends, but even Monica was a level beyond Jasmine’s, in both experience and practicality. Just like Monica would never deign Jasmine with anything less than head-to-toe designer wear, Jasmine would never come directly to the Warren Estate without consulting her personal stylist first.

  “Wow.” Jasmine craned her head back. A diamond fell out of her hair, prompting the butler to quickly pick it up and hand it to Lady Warren before taking his leave. Monica had the diamond back where it belonged with one graceful movement of her wrist – before Jasmine stopped taking in the scene unfolding before her. “What’s going on in here? Bit late for a Christmas card photoshoot, isn’t it?”

  “We don’t do that, apparently.” Monica had seen old photos from her husband’s childhood, but the practice had been put to bed by the time the youngest Warren was in her teen years. Now the most they would consent to was a private Christmas portrait taken right before they sat down for the family dinner – to avoid the inevitable bloat. Monica often fondly looked at the one from 2015. She was three months pregnant in that photo. This year she would have a baby to hold in her lap. (There would also be Eva’s girlfriend to possibly add to the photo, although it was not custom to include lovers. Monica and Henry had been formally engaged by the time of the last photo.) “This is a little photoshoot I’ve put together for Abigail’s first Christmas. When you get the chance, you must see her in that elf costume. Custom made for her. I was so afraid she would be too big for it by the time the shoot came around. We had to delay it twice because she kept getting the sniffles.”

  Jasmine’s gaze was a mix of awe and apprehension, but Monica knew that look well. She would be right, too, to assume that it was born from Jasmine’s curiosity regarding motherhood. But, if she were to ask her friend, Monica would give her the same advice as she had given Ethan: wait at least two years before purposely having a baby after marriage. Seriously. She didn’t care how ready a couple thought they were to start purposely propagating progeny. What was the point if they didn’t take the time to truly enjoy their married life first? Monica Warren did not resent her daughter, but the timing was… unfortunate. She was lucky to have a husband as affable as Henry. Even when he was his strictest in the bedroom, he was still the cuddliest asshole when it came to matters of the heart.

  Both women stood off to the side while the photoshoot commenced. Nanny Matilda stayed the closest to baby Abigail to tend to her demands. Although Monica would never completely learn to let go of her mother hen tendencies, by this point she was comfortable with letting Matilda take over during stressful situations.

  “I’m sorry for dropping in unexpectedly,” Jasmine apologized. “I woke up this morning and was already thinking about visiting. So after I finished running my errands, I had my driver bring me here. I should have called…”

  “No worries.” Monica set aside any negative feelings she felt toward this situation. Was it unthoughtful of Jasmine to show up unannounced during a busy season? Probably, but Monica wouldn’t hold it against one of her dearest friends. There was no point, and she was doing her best to keep up the Christmas spirit for her daughter’s sake. “What brings you to my humble yet chaotic abode?”

  Jasmine tore herself away from the impressive scene unfolding before them. Thus far Abigail had not kicked up a fuss, but that could be attributed to the lack of bright flashes on the photographer’s part. “I wanted to ask you about something. Well, someone.”

  Monica attacked her slouching posture by forcing herself to become more rigid. “Dare I ask?” She had a decent idea already, assuming her sources were telling the truth.

  “Do you know someone named Cassandra Welsh?”

  She had been afraid of that. As well as she should have been.

  “Yes,” she flatly said. “I knew her well enough. We traveled in many of the same circles when I was with Ethan.” She conveniently left out the other boyfriend’s name, but it was heavily implied. Jasmine wouldn’t mind being reminded of her husband’s former affair with Monica anyway.

  “I had never really heard of her before today. But apparently she’s coming to town, and it’s a big deal.”

  “Who told you this?”

  “Nadia.”

  “I see.” Monica’s potential sister-in-law was not without her gabbing faults, huh? “And who did she hear that from?”

  “Her girlfriend.”

  “Great.” If Eva was spewing it as truth, then it probably was. Or at least it had enough veracity to get Cassandra near a plane, even if she never stepped onto it. “Just what our happy little community needs. Ms. Welsh spreading her misplaced love and adulation for every man she comes across.”

  “Wow. So it’s that bad?”

  Monica shrugged. “She dated Ethan after he broke off our arrangement. Honestly, I saw it as a rebound. He could say whatever he wanted about not being interested in a ménage situation, but no man can walk away from a heavy relationship and not have his next be a rebound. I’m sure Ms. Welsh latched onto that the moment she heard he was available.”

  Jasmine cleared her throat. “He told me it wasn’t serious between them.”

  “And it wasn’t. Didn’t I just say that it was a rebound?”

  “So why is it such a big deal to people?”

  What else could Monica do other than sigh? “Ms. Welsh had her demons. Some of them worse tha
n the last. She had a tendency to… leave paths of emotional destruction in her wake. Someone always paid for her breakups. If not her former partner, then at least someone close to them.”

  “Is it true that she finally moved because she had a miscarriage?”

  “I honestly have no idea. I hadn’t even heard about a supposed pregnancy until the moving rumor mill went into effect.” Monica was then quick to reassure her friend. “Ethan can’t be the father, if there is even the chance. The timing is all wrong, and besides, you know he had a vasectomy. He had one before even I met him.’

  Jasmine received a phone call that implored her to be at some office by a certain time. She thanked Monica for her answers and once again apologized for showing up when it was least convenient. Monica assured her that everything was fine between them before showing Jasmine to the wing exit. She then returned to her daughter’s photoshoot to find Abigail on the brink of being a fussy baby.

  The photographer insisted on a break. Matilda took the baby to calm her down and perhaps – yes, most definitely – change her diaper. Monica was inclined to follow baby and nanny into the other room before remembering her husband had wished to see her in his office when she had the chance. Now was as good of a time as any.

  Henry was in his office, as promised. While he was on the phone when Monica unceremoniously arrived five minutes later, Henry wrapped it up quickly and hung up before his wife could get cold feet about what she intended to ask him.

  “Are you upset?” Sometimes it was most inconvenient having a husband who was so in tune with her emotional state. Not that Monica envied women who had husbands who couldn’t care less, but… “Come here, Princess.”

  Monica tapped her red nails against her palm before obeying – because that was most certainly a command uttered from her husband’s lips. That was fine, though. Commands gave her purpose. Commands allowed her to retreat from the pressures of the world and instead live in one where her only function was to love and serve the man before her.