My Dark Romeo: The Unputdownable Billionaire Romance

A  week after Shortbread had pranced around in little more than a Post-It note covering her privates, I wined and dined Tom Reynolds at Le Bleu.

This meeting was long overdue. Last time, I’d canceled after Dallas channeled her inner Great Gatsby, throwing the mother of all house parties.

Today’s agenda included convincing Tom to reverse the DOD’s decision to grant Licht Holdings our forgone renewal.

Cautious optimism settled into my shoulders. Licht Holdings sat amid a PR disaster. With far too many fires to extinguish to fulfill the monstrous contract.

Jared slammed the brakes, narrowly avoiding a Tesla that cut him off.

“Ooof.” Shortbread careened into my side, sloshing sparkling apple cider onto my Bruno Cucinellis.

I jerked the bottle from her grip, sending it into the trash. “We’re minutes from the restaurant. Is this necessary?”

“I’m pregaming.”

“You’re spilling.”

And that brought me to the only downside of Tom inviting his wife—Shortbread had to tag along, too.

There was nothing wrong with my wife whatsoever. Stunning, entertaining, and sweet as sin, she provided a welcome distraction for Casey, who I doubted wanted to hear about drones, tanks, and semi-automatic weapons.

There was only one issue with Dallas—I could hardly think of anything other than burying myself inside her whenever she entered my vicinity.

Shortbread pouted, yanked tissues from the tight corset of her gown, and dabbed my loafers, presenting an unimpeded view of her generous cleavage.

“Dallas.”

“Hmm?”

But what could I say? Put your tits away before I spring a rifle-sized hard-on that’ll make Tom wish he never asked to see my weapons?

I extended a handkerchief. “Clean yourself up.”

Instead of using it to wipe the sticky cider off her hands, Dallas brought the square to her nose, inhaling my cologne. “You know, just because I agreed to come tonight, doesn’t mean I approve of your job.”

I swiped the fabric from her, collected her heeled foot, and dabbed the alcohol off her myself, ignoring her words.

“I mean, I don’t trust humans to take care of the planet, and all they need is literally not to suck. Why would I trust them with heavy artillery?”

“You’re not supposed to trust anyone with heavy artillery. That’s its entire purpose. The quickest war to end is the one that never started.”

“So profound.” She batted her lashes. “The Nobel Peace Prize is on the way. Make sure your suit is ironed.”

It infuriated me to no end that this was the woman I’d entrusted my truth to.

I knew she’d keep my secrets safe. That offered me absolutely zero comfort, seeing as I wanted to pinpoint, dissect, and devour each flaw of hers.

Anything to make her less appealing to me.

She had plenty of faults, too.

I remembered how easily I’d spotted them when she’d first moved in. But everything I’d detested about her—her rolling, loud laughter, her messiness, her uncanny ability to befriend anything and anyone, potted plants included—no longer irked me.

True, she wasn’t academically accomplished, but she’d read half the local library in under four months and whipped quips at a frightening pace.

She flaunted a knack for numbers, too, crushing Vernon in chess and Zeus on the Loose.

Her food obsession bordered on unhealthy, but her knowledge in all things culinary fascinated me.

Mostly, it disappointed me that my wife wasn’t truly lazy. She was just waiting to become a mother so she could channel all her energy into her spawns.

Presently, though, I discovered a good reason to be unhappy with her as we strode from the Maybach to my newly acquired restaurant. She was panting like she’d just finished a marathon.

“Must you breathe so loudly? Aliens can hear you from neighboring planets.”

“You believe in them, too?” She perked up before side-eyeing me, noting my flat expression. “Wait, you’re annoyed with my breathing now?”

I opened the door for her. “You’re young and, for an unfathomable reason unrelated to your lifestyle, seem to be in excellent shape. Why are you breathing so hard?”

“I’m breathing regularly, Rom. Maybe you’re just super attuned to me, so you can hear me even when I’m quiet.”

Rom.

My nickname spoken from her rosebud lips sounded like the most beautiful word in the English language. When Oliver and Zach called me that, I wanted to punch them.

“Keep dreaming, Shortbread.” I settled a hand on her back, leading her to our table. “And while you do that, don’t forget to be courteous, friendly, and well-mannered. I need Reynolds’s business.”

“Ugh. I planned on eating directly from their plates, but now that you asked…”

Tom and Casey already awaited us at the table. They weren’t alone. They brought—I shit you not—their toddler.

Thus, a flurry of cooing and kissing ensued.

Casey immediately gushed about Dallas’s hair, dress, eyes, and general existence.

Meanwhile, my wife physically snatched the toddler and cradled it to her chest. “Who do we have here?”

“Freida. Her nanny bailed on us last minute.” Casey sighed. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Mind?” From the extent of Dallas’s outrage, you’d think Casey just suggested a couples swap. “Children are my passion, and this one is just extra delicious, aren’t you, sweetie?”

Despite that last sentence potentially landing her in the FBI’s watchlist, a twinge of pride pricked my chest.

I studied Dallas, seeing her from a stranger’s eyes. Her beauty remained unrivaled. Yet, more than her looks, I admired her endurance, sweetness, brash honesty, and devotion to children.

I wasn’t so arrogant as to think she was content with what we shared. She wanted more. Feelings. Romance. Dates. Heirs.

She deserved all those things, too. But the only way I could grant them was to let her go, and I refused to do that.

The mindless chatter began as soon as we settled into our seats. Little Freida—curly haired with a yellow plaid dress—sat in Dallas’s lap and ate squished food from between her fingers.

I asked after Tom’s parents, golf tournament, and drone-flying hobby, all of which I cared about a little less than Kanye West’s opinion about marginalized minorities.

Through bits and pieces, I overheard Dallas and Casey discuss the grave matter of surgical brow lifts.

Idiotically, and for no reason other than my inability to let the matter be, I tuned out Tom Reynolds, whom I’d courted for weeks, listening to Shortbread’s conversation.

Her steady breaths lingered in my ears, accompanied by her boisterous laughter, the crunch of her complimentary bread, and the little gulps her throat produced as she sipped a pink martini.

The way she blew raspberries into Freida’s neck and stroked the child’s shoulder every time she fussed.

Was she right? Was I simply hyperaware of her?

The very thought made me shudder.

It took me a while to slide in to business mode, but once I did, I forgot Dallas’s existence. She seemed to amuse the Reynolds females.

I made a mental note to reward her cooperation in the form of fucking her.

I’d be smart about it. Now that I knew her period cycle, I’d fuck her when there was little chance of getting her pregnant.

“I’m going to be honest. Things aren’t looking well for Licht Holdings.” Tom blew out air, shaking his head once we finally cut to the chase. “I doubt they’ll be able to honor our contract even if we were willing to overlook the public outcry to boycott them. Which, I have to say, the Secretary of Defense isn’t eager to do. Cameron Lyons is Georgian, if you might recall.”

I poured Tom another glass of wine. His words were silence to my music-allergic ears. “Have their productions reduced significantly?”

“I’m not in a position to discuss their business with you. You know that as well as I do, Costa.” Reynolds scanned the heavily jeweled diners, voice lowering. “But with their Newsham manufacturing base shut down and another one in Alabama under heavy investigation, I just don’t see how they can pull it off without missing the deadline by months. We’re talking a backlog that could cost the Pentagon billions.”

“We’ll be able to take their load and hit the deadline. Perhaps even hand over some equipment early. As you may be aware, we just recruited five hundred workers at our Smethport factory. Call it the Prophecy of Dry Bones. The resurrection and restoration as you return to your promised land—Costa Industries.”

If things went my way—which they historically had—the DOD and Reynolds would have no part of their contract fulfilled. Costa Industries would be long gone by then. Duly crushed, liquidated, and dormant.

I didn’t care one bit.

As Dallas loved to point out, I was in the business of death and intimidation.

Reynolds nodded, stroking his chin. His daughter gurgled in the background. “I’ll talk to Lyons. He initially wanted to try Licht Holdings for their attractive prices, but that’s out the window, so I’ll see what we can do—”

A loud bang exploded in my ears.

The double entry doors collapsed on the floor.

People shrieked. Utensils and champagne flutes shattered to the hardwood in a symphony of broken glass. Waiters dove, seeking safety under tables.

Four men dressed in cargo pants, black Henleys, and balaclavas tromped through the restaurant.

I immediately recognized them as the ring of high-end robbers responsible for terrorizing Potomac. Still uncaught, after all this time.

Next to me, Dallas shoved Freida behind her back with no regard for her own safety.

A robber pointed to the ground with the tip of a Savage 64F. “Phones on the fucking floor or everyone’s dead.” Dozens of iPhones boomeranged toward his feet.

Everyone dead?

By an outdated hunting rifle?

Wouldn’t bet on it.

And while interrupting my meeting, no less.

Irritated, I draped an arm around Shortbread, who tucked Freida against the wall, sliding both our phones on the Bocote planks.

I’d read the news. Knew what these morons were about. They robbed fashionable, rich diners, took cash from registers—not much, this was the twenty-first century, everyone paid by card—and left victims scandalized but unharmed.

Unlike the previous places they’d raided, the minute I bought Le Bleu, I’d installed a Costa-owned security system so advanced and sophisticated, the cops must’ve left before the robbers even entered the premises.

External security personnel monitored our cameras twenty-four seven.

Shortbread’s skin chilled.

I squeezed my grip around her, pushing her head under my chin. Not because I cared, but because it looked great in front of Tom and Casey. Who, by the way, appeared stricken with horror.

Casey shot Shortbread grateful stares for hiding Freida. The toddler shook, but my wife made funny faces to stop her tears.

“Hands in the air, everyone.” Another robber with a Glock raised his arm, shooting at the ceiling. The clown hit the chandelier, which crashed at his feet, causing everyone to scream and cry.

“Now I’m going to go to each table with my friends here, and you’re going to hand over everything you have that’s worth shit. Jewelry, watches, cash, fucking coupons. And you’ll wait with your hands where I can goddamn see them until I get to you, or I put a bullet through your head.”

I turned to Dallas. “Do as he says. Nothing bad will happen to you.”

Her throat bobbed with a swallow, though she didn’t sob like Casey, who crumbled to hysterics that rivaled the other diners’.

I’d long suspected my wife was what Gen Z ridiculously referred to as a bad-ass bitch.

As always, I was right.

The robbers worked quickly, grabbing everything of value and pouring it into backpacks. The one with the Glock reached our table, while the three others milled around, emptying pockets and bags.

Casey yanked off her rings, as well as her earrings, necklace, and Chanel clutch, sliding it to him. Tom and I offered our wedding bands, watches, and the little cash we carried.

Dallas handed over her engagement and wedding rings, a bracelet, and a Birkin. Freida was still hidden behind her back, away from view.

She glowered at the masked man like a disapproving teacher. Laughter fizzed in my throat. She was giving him sass at gunpoint.

Classic Shortbread.

“The earrings, too.” The man behind the balaclava pointed at them with his gun.

Shortbread fingered the simple pearl stud, shaking her head. “No. I can’t do that. They belonged to Grandmomma. And she died—”

“I don’t give a flying fuck about how your mee maw kicked the bucket. Hand the earrings over, bitch.”

What was she doing?

Being sentimental and sweet. The things you mock her for so often.

She splayed her fingers flat on the tablecloth. “I’m not giving you my earrings.”

Freida began to cry. The shrill shriek echoed off the walls like a bullet.

“Sweetheart.” I didn’t call her by her name, since it’d be dumb to tell them who we were.

“No.” She tucked the child under the table and glared right into that asshole’s eyes, issuing an unspoken challenge.“Shoot me if you’d like. But you’re not getting my grandmomma’s earrings.”

His face twisted in rage, visible even through the black fabric. “I’m going to fuck you up.”

He raised his pistol to hit her. Dallas slammed her eyes shut, bracing herself for the pain that never came. I’d blocked the barrel an inch from her face.

I held it in a death grip. “I’m going to make a pen holder out of your fucking skull if you so much as glance in my wife’s direction.”

He jerked the gun back, sweat staining his balaclava. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“I said what I said. Put the gun down and walk away.”

Freida wailed harder.

Frankly, I couldn’t fathom Dallas’s fascination with children. They were incredibly loud for their size.

“I’ll shoot the bitch if she doesn’t give me the earrings.”

“Come on, T. We gotta go.” Urgent calls from the rest of the robbers made “T” swing left and right, panicked.

His esteemed colleagues already hovered by the door, backpacks slung over their shoulders. An arsenal of police sirens wailed, assaulting my ears and signaling the end of this nonsense.

“Not before she gives me the fucking earrings. I will shoot her fucking kid.”

He thought Freida was ours.

That made Dallas really lose it. She rushed to unfasten her earrings.

“No.” I put my free hand on her arm. “Your earrings stay.”

“T, the fuck are you doing?” a robber cried out. He sounded young.

“She’s not going to disrespect me.” T pointed his Glock at Shortbread.

Something strange happened in my chest in that moment. An eddy of frenzy. An intolerable appetite for blood and violence.

I shot up, blocking his view of Dallas. He stumbled back when I got in his face, pushing him off. His friends ran away, leaving him behind—cowards—while he struggled to regain his balance.

I snatched the gun by its barrel.

“Stop!” T tried jerking back his weapon. “Fucking let go.”

“I told you not to threaten my wife, did I not?” I pushed the gun downward and snatched T by the throat with my free hand, squeezing so hard his eyes bulged out of their sockets, pink and round and petrified. “Play stupid games, win stupid prizes. Nobody threatens my wife and lives to tell the tale.”

He gurgled. Foam bubbled out of his mouth. In the background, I registered the sirens nearing, people gasping, and Dallas begging me to stop.

But I couldn’t, even if I tried.

All I could think about was how he’d aimed his fucking gun at her, all because she wanted to keep her grandmother’s heirloom. A grandmother I’d never meet.

There were so many things about her I didn’t know, and this idiot almost ensured I’d never discover them. If he did something to her…if he hurt her…

I clasped his throat so tight, I felt the bones inside it strain, on the verge of breaking.

“Oh, Lord,” Dallas shouted, just as the robber collapsed to the floor beneath me from lack of oxygen.

I didn’t think he was dead.

Brain damaged, maybe.

No great loss, considering his less-than-intelligent actions so far.

“Romeo.” Dallas sprang on me, clutching my shoulders.

She handed Frieda to Casey when she saw my face.

“Are you okay?” She cupped my cheeks. Her hands shook. Those beautiful hazel eyes glittered with tears. “Please, please, tell me you’re okay. Tom called 9-1-1. The ambulance is on its way.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about this punk. For all I care, he can die right here on my floor.”

“Not for him. For you!”

For me?

I inventoried Dallas first.

Arms. Legs. Neck.

Everything seemed intact.

A sudden burst of pain struck my left arm. The same left arm that now felt like deadweight. Like it no longer belonged to my body.

I looked down and realized I stood in a pool of my blood. My gaze rolled up to my arm. I’d been shot. Grazed, to be more accurate.

Well, this was inconvenient.

As the adrenaline subsided, pain began trickling in.

Dallas waved a hand in front of my eyes, trying to capture my attention again.

“Hello?” She tapped the center of my forehead. “Anyone in there?”

I tore off some of the tattered fabric. “Fortunately, there’s a great deal of distance between the bicep and the brain.”

“A bullet hit your arm.” She fawned over the gnashed skin, jumping from side to side as if it would vanish at a different angle. “How can you be so calm about this?”

“Would running around hysterically with tears streaming down my face close the open wound?”

“Do you test your own products or something?”

No, but I’ve survived worse fights.

Dozens of cops burst inside and collected the knocked-out man beneath us, cuffing him. A commotion of people swirled around me, with Reynolds and two cops trying to push them away to give me space.

I detested attention, especially the positive kind.

One of the police officers pulled Dallas aside. She kicked, yelling at him not to touch her, refusing to leave me. A fact that surprised and delighted me.

With my uninjured arm, I drew her to my chest. “My wife stays.”

The ambulance arrived soon after. A paramedic ushered me inside, cutting through my clothes to reach my wound. We both examined it through sober eyes.

Shortbread stood beside the open doors of the compartment, growling like a guard dog at any reporter who neared.

“Looks like a shallow wound. I could use some stitches, but it seems like a scrape.” I nudged the paramedic’s hand away. “I can do it myself. I don’t have time to play around at the hospital for hours.”

He dabbed the wound with antiseptic. “Protocol says you have to accompany us to the hospital.”

“Fuck your protocol.”

“You can’t—”

“Are you going to take me against my will?”

“No, but—”

“Then, I can.”

Dallas’s head whipped toward us. “You should get this stitched.”

The sheer worry clinging to her voice thrilled me, which was how I knew I was completely and utterly screwed.

“I will. I know what I’m doing.” I hopped out of the ambulance, making my way to our Maybach, where Jared awaited. “Come, Shortbread.”

She looked torn between trying to convince me to go to the hospital and doing as I said. In the end, she seemed to remember her husband answered to no one, not even her, and joined me.

When we slipped inside and I bled all over my leather seat, shirtless, Jared didn’t ask any questions.

He knew his place.

Shut up and drive.