Billionaires in Paris: An Alpha Billionaire Romance by Cynthia Dane Read Free Book Online

that he and I eloped in Vegas a few months ago?”
    An almost comedic amount of alcohol shoots out of my mother’s face. She chokes until she covers her pristine white napkin with red wine. “ What? ”
    “Don’t worry. We got it annulled. Neither of us were ready yet.”
    The relief descending upon the table would make you think I’m twelve and joking about being pregnant.
    “Kathryn.” This is the most serious I’ve heard my mother in years. “Don’t you dare do that to me. For all you know I’ve got a bad heart like your grandmother did.”
    More information I never knew. “I’m serious about the other things, though. We’re having many conversations about marriage.”
    My mother will not look me in the eye.
    “It would mean a lot to me if you would come to our wedding one day.”
    I have surprised even myself, since this is the closest I’ve ever come to saying I’m going to marry that man one day. But I am resolute in my conviction. Mother won’t have any idea that I’m blustering. Marrying Ian? Really? Are you kidding me? Don’t even go there!
    I’m expecting my mother to react in any other way than how she does. Namely, she tosses her napkin down and stands up, reaching for her coat.
    “Where are you going?” Is she seriously leaving? I’m not done yet!
    Her coat slips over her arms. “I am not in the mood to deal with your childishness.” Her purse snaps into her hand. “If you want to ruin your life like that, Kathryn, be my guest. I’ll have no part of it, though. Don’t let me have to tell you that I told you so.”
    My mother’s a monster, isn’t she? A real, certified monster.
    “Do take care of that ring. Or sell it. I don’t care. At the rate you’re going you might have to in order to cover the costs of your future divorce.”
    I’m too gob smacked to say anything or otherwise defend myself. My mother glides out of the room without another word. I feel like I’m five again, chasing her down the hallway of my family home and begging her to pick me up, hold me, anything.
    “Ladies don’t do that, dear. They certainly don’t beg or pander. Aren’t you supposed to be a little lady?”
    I’m not supposed to beg for her attentions, let alone positive ones. I’m not supposed to beg for anything. It’s unladylike. Unfathomable. A great way for men and their ilk to take advantage of you.
    Isn’t that why I turned out the way I did? I don’t need my mother’s team of shrinks to figure that one out.
    However, it would be nice to have another napkin. This one is about to be covered in tears.

 
     
     
     
     
    Chapter 7
     
    IAN
     
    Can you believe that there’s an app for taking a picture of your cat and turning her into a thousand dollar replica?
    I’m doing it right now.
    “Even when you’re a picture, you’re a shithead.” Fellow cat owners, you know that “shithead” is a term of endearment for our feline friends. I’ve got this picture of Saoirse, my cat, flopped over on the floor going nuts for cat nip. She looks like she’s seen things, man. If I don’t have a life-size replica of this beautiful moment waiting for me when I return to America, then my life has not been worth living.
    Except the picture won’t process through the app. You know, this app that shows lots of kids with their dogs and old ladies mourning the passing of twenty-year-old Fluffy. Then there’s me, a thirty-year-old billionaire alpha male, already blubbering at the thought of his tawny baby not waking up one day.
    This replica will solve everything!
    …I may be a little drunk.
    What the hell else does a man do in Paris at eight in the evening? If I were single, I’d be out flirting with someone, or at least hitting up one of the lounges where a guy like me could find amazing drinks and even more amazing conversation (if not mediocre-to-great sex with a local Parisian.) I’m not single. I’m happily spoken for, except my intended is currently having dinner with her toxic