The Billionaire's Virgin Page 2

  “Mia?” Tony, one of the volunteers, was on the door and he smiled at her. “Are you coming in tonight?”

  Tony was one of the better volunteers. He didn’t ask questions and he didn’t try to force her into anything she didn’t want to do. He listened—well, mostly listened. When she’d started asking questions about how to find somewhere to live, he’d been helpful, explaining what things she had to get—birth certificate, social security number, bank account. Things she didn’t have, but needed to in order to get a place to live.

  He’d offered her accommodation too. In one of the larger shelters where she could have her own room, but she didn’t want that. She wanted something permanent. That wouldn’t blow away, or get moved on, or washed away in the next rainstorm. She wanted something that would be forever.

  She tried to peer through the doors without Tony noticing, because she didn’t want to have to explain why she didn’t want to go inside. But again, she couldn’t see anything.

  “I dunno,” she muttered.

  “It’s spaghetti. You like spaghetti, right?”

  Actually, she liked tacos. Spaghetti reminded her of her grandmother, and she hated to be reminded of her grandmother.

  Her stomach, the fucking traitor, chose that moment to growl, making Tony jerk his head toward the entrance. “Go on. You need to eat something.”

  And it was true, she did. The smell of food was thick and rich, and even though there were bad memories associated with the smell, her body didn’t care. It needed fuel. So she shrugged as if it didn’t matter to her one way or the other, and stepped through the doors.

  It was hot inside, the smell of food combining with the sour smell of unwashed bodies. Mia, used to it, barely noticed. She was too busy staring at the volunteers manning the counters where they dished out the food.

  He wasn’t there. Thank God for that.

  She settled herself, grabbing a tray and getting in line, standing there silently listening to the buzz of conversation from the people around her. She didn’t like talking to people, since they always asked too many questions, but she liked listening to other people talk. It made her feel connected in a way she rarely did.

  The line was long but it moved fast, and soon she was moving with her tray over to one of the tables, finding a place to sit that wasn’t too near anyone else, and eating quickly.

  There came a small eruption of noise by the door, more people talking then laughing. Mia, too busy eating, didn’t turn around. And then she heard it, the sound of a voice, deep and dark, smooth and warm. An expensive voice.

  Him.

  She hunched her shoulders and went very still, a primitive response to danger, sure, but it had kept her alive in the past. Not that she thought he was going to kill her or anything, she just didn’t want him to see her. Or, in fact, notice her in any way.

  The sound of his voice rolled beneath everyone else’s, cutting through them effortlessly as if he never expected not to be heard or anyone not to listen when he spoke. But it didn’t sound like it was coming closer, which was good.

  She scraped the last of the spaghetti sauce off the bottom of her metal tray. If she was quick, she’d be able to get out of here before he had a chance to notice she was here.

  Then every nerve ending in her body sprang to attention, the hairs on the back of her neck lifting. Because someone was standing behind her. Someone very tall. And she could smell something spicy and luxurious, a scent she had no comparisons for and couldn’t describe. A scent that made her hungry—and not for food, which was just downright confusing.

  She froze, dread shifting inside her.

  A hand came down on the table next to her, tanned, long-fingered, and very masculine. A hand with white scars scattered all over it. And there was something between those long fingers, something made out of midnight blue wool.

  “Here,” that deep, dark voice said. “You might find a use for this.”

  Then he left. She could hear him moving away, talking to someone else now, his voice fading, that delicious scent fading with him.

  She blinked, staring down at the thing he’d left on the table.

  It was knitted and soft-looking, and she had a horrible feeling that it might be a hat.

  Anger rose inside her, thick and hot, because she hated it when people gave her things without asking. Without thinking about whether it was something someone else might want and which then could potentially be stolen off her. She preferred not to have things at all because the less she had, the less other people viewed her as a target.

  She should leave it on the table, or better yet, throw it on the floor and wipe her filthy sneakers all over it, tear it up and destroy it. That way no one could have it.

  The old man a couple of seats away reached out to snatch it, and before she could stop herself, Mia found her fingers closing around the blue wool and jamming it in her pocket instead.

  It was so unbelievably soft she couldn’t make herself let it go.

  Damn, she was an idiot. If there was one thing living on the streets had taught her, it was that getting attached to anything at all was a bad move, because sooner or later you either lost it or someone else took it from you.

  Better to let the old man have it.

  But she didn’t take it out of her pocket and five minutes later, as she stepped out into the freezing night, she was still holding it.

  Chapter 2

  Night eight she wasn’t there.

  Night nine she was. And she wasn’t wearing his goddamn hat.

  She stood in front of him, holding out her tray, her gaze aimed squarely at the middle of his chest, that filthy orange monstrosity pulled down low on her head. No sign of the soft blue cashmere beanie he’d gotten Sandra, his secretary, to buy from Barneys on her lunch hour a couple of days earlier.

  Xavier couldn’t believe he was irritated about it, and yet he was. Women normally loved it when he bought them stuff, they ate it up with a fucking spoon, giggling and fluttering their eyelashes and falling over themselves to thank him. Most of the time he even got laid out of it, not that he was interested in this woman in that way. He’d only wanted to help her.

  Apparently though, his help wasn’t good enough.

  “What did you do with my hat?” he demanded before he could stop himself.

  She said nothing, her sharp little face expressionless. She had the longest, thickest, black eyelashes, and for a second he thought he caught glimpse of bright black eyes staring up at him through them.

  Then she was moving on to the volunteer beside him, getting a helping of whatever overcooked vegetables they were serving that night.

  Why the fuck does this matter to you?

  He didn’t know and shit, it wasn’t going to matter anymore. He was going to Washington in a couple of days anyway, for a meeting with some more political bigwigs, and he had to be on his best behavior, which meant getting irritated with homeless women about how they weren’t wearing hats he’d brought them was a waste time.

  He smiled at the next person in line, a young guy with sores on his face and a manic look in his eye. “Soup for you, sir? Don’t mind if I do.” As he ladled out the soup. his gaze wandered back to orange-hat creature, unable to keep from watching her as she moved over to the tables and sat down, hunching her shoulders as if trying to make herself smaller.

  And for about the hundredth time since he’d first laid eyes on her, he tried to work out why she was so damn fascinating. She wasn’t pretty, she wasn’t beautiful. She was undernourished and probably filthy. But . . . Christ. There was just something about her. Even here, even surrounded by all these other poor people, she stood out. It was there in her eyes, in her sharp, intense features, a bright, burning light.

  Everyone here reeked of desperation, the same as they reeked of it in his own social circles. True, it was different in the penthouses on Fifth Avenue. It wasn’t about simple survival there, it was more about power: people were either desperate to acquire it or they were desper
ate to keep it.

  But it wasn’t desperation he got from her. He didn’t know what it was, didn’t really have any way to describe what radiated from her, but the closest he could come to it was . . . determination. She was a woman who knew what she wanted and was going out to get it.

  Yeah, he knew what that was all about.

  He stared at her as the next person came for food, not paying attention in the slightest as he slopped the soup into their tray. What the hell did a woman like her want? When you had nothing at all, what was the thing you were most determined to have? Was it simply surviving each day? Or did she hope for more?

  It had to be more. That kind of determination spoke of hope, which was a strange thing to think when you were standing right in the middle of such hopelessness.

  The line moved on and Xavier kept staring.

  There were no paparazzi outside now, everyone had lost interest in the son of the weapons billionaire dishing out meals at a homeless shelter. The only people left were two De Santis Corp bodyguards who’d insisted on following him down here, even though he could well look after himself. He’d been told they had to stay outside since they made people in the shelter uncomfortable, and he was okay with that. He didn’t think any of these poor bastards could pull a knife on him even if they’d wanted to.

  Then again, it would liven things up a little if they did.

  He was doling out the last of the soup, when raised voices drew his attention.

  A couple of people were having an altercation at one of the tables and he was concerned to see that they were having it very near his orange-hat creature.

  She stood up, scuttling back from the fight that was going on, cannoning into a rather frail old man who put out a hand to stop himself from falling, grabbing a handful of her orange hat. She made a small, protesting sound, pulling away from the old man as people went to help him, her hands reaching to settle her hat more firmly on her head.

  But not before Xavier caught a glimpse of something blue beneath the orange wool.

  She was wearing his blue beanie underneath.

  Something twisted inside of him, something hard and savage and primitive. A combination of fierce satisfaction and a kind of feral possessiveness that was completely alien to him.

  He’d spent much of his adult life not wanting anything and not giving a shit about anyone, so the intensity of this particular feeling should have worried him. At the very least it should have made him vaguely uneasy. But he wasn’t worried and he wasn’t uneasy, he only watched as she turned around and headed toward the shelter doors without even a glance in his direction.

  “Mia,” someone called, and he saw her check. But she didn’t stop, just kept going out into the cold night, vanishing into the dark.

  Mia. That was her name, he was certain. And she’d kept his hat.

  Night ten and he was there early, taking up his station behind the big bowl of chili that went on everyone’s tacos.

  He was supposed to be attending a meeting at de Santis headquarters to go over the latest test results for the body armor he was taking with him to Washington, but that could wait. At least, it could wait until he’d done his community duty.

  And seen orange-hat creature, aka Mia.

  But he was there the whole night, and she didn’t turn up.

  He refused to be disappointed. Absolutely fucking refused. And he absolutely fucking refused to worry about her either.

  Yet as he finished up at his food station, he turned to the guy who organized all the meals and asked, “The woman in the orange hat. I didn’t see her tonight.”

  The man blinked, obviously not expecting to be addressed, then he looked around the noisy dining room. “Uh . . . Mia you mean?”

  So, her name was Mia. “Yeah, her.”

  “No, I don’t see her. Sometimes she comes in and sometimes she doesn’t.” He shrugged. “Like they all do.”

  Xavier frowned, not liking the guy’s cavalier attitude. “Where does she go to then?”

  The man eyed him. “Why do you ask?” There was only the merest hint of suspicion in his tone, but Xavier caught it nonetheless.

  Jesus. What did the guy think he was going to do? If Xavier wanted a woman to screw, he wasn’t exactly going to go to the local homeless shelter to find one. “I just want to make sure she’s okay,” he said, pouring on the de Santis charm. “It’s been very cold the past couple of nights and if she’s out on the streets . . .”

  The man sighed. “There are beds here for people if they need them. But some of them don’t like it here. They don’t like being around other people or they don’t like the rules. A lot of different stuff. Mia is . . . independent. And stubborn. If she doesn’t want to be here, it doesn’t matter how cold it is, she won’t be.”

  Xavier didn’t like that. Didn’t like that at all. “It’s snowing. If she’s out there she’ll freeze to death.”

  “A lot of people freeze to death out there, Mr. de Santis,” the man said, and this time Xavier didn’t miss the thin edge of contempt in his voice. Directed at him, clearly. “But you can’t make ’em take a bed if they don’t want it.”

  Bullshit. You could make someone do anything if you tried hard enough, and clearly the volunteers at the shelter weren’t trying hard enough.

  Why should you care? It’s a tragedy, sure, but she’s just one woman. Besides, you’ve got Washington to get through. You can’t afford to get distracted now.

  That was unfortunately true. His father wanted this contract and if he didn’t land it, he could kiss his mother’s ranch good-bye.

  No way he was going to jeopardize that.

  Xavier nodded to the man then he got out of there.

  And tried not to think about Mia.

  Night eleven and he was late, coming in from a family dinner that had been the very definition of dysfunctional. And no, he hadn’t been using the shelter as an excuse, of course not. Lorenzo had been his usual cold, uptight self, arguing with their father, while Rafael had fussed around trying to keep everyone calm.

  He’d fucked off the first chance he had because he hated that crap. And quite frankly, being here, in the warm, mugginess of the shelter that smelled of stale food and sour sweat was a much more peaceful experience than sitting in his father’s overdecorated penthouse listening to his brothers argue about the company’s direction.

  He grinned at the people lining up in front of him. “Who’s for chilli?”

  No one replied, but he was getting used to that. In fact, it was kind of nice to talk and have no one argue with him or ask him what he meant by that, or question him about his political beliefs, and whether he thought delivering guns to the general populace was wrong.

  He was still talking about nothing to no one in particular, when he looked up and found her standing in front of him, staring at his shirt again.

  The weird, possessive thing inside him went very, very still. As if one wrong move would scare her away.

  He should ask her whether she was okay. Whether she had somewhere warm to sleep. He should remind her that the shelter was warm and she should stay there, because it was a lot safer than the streets.

  But he didn’t.

  “You kept it, didn’t you?” he said.

  She didn’t say anything, but again, for a brief, blinding moment, she looked up and met his gaze. There were tiny flames in her eyes—he could have sworn it—and he couldn’t seem to look away.

  “I know you did,” he went on, utterly captivated. “You kept it. There was a fight the other day and an old man pulled at that hideous orange thing on your head and you were wearing my hat underneath it.”

  Something flashed in her eyes, only for a second, then it was gone. Her thick black lashes came down and she turned away, not bothering this time to go to the next station for food, hurrying over to the tables to sit down to eat.

  “Mia,” he said quietly, just to say it out loud. She couldn’t have heard him—it was far too noisy in the dining room—but he saw he
r check slightly as he said her name.

  Finally. It wasn’t much and it certainly wasn’t what he was used to, but it was there all the same. A response.

  And what exactly are you going to do with that? What the fuck are you wanting from her?

  Did he have to want anything? Couldn’t he simply keep doing this? Coming to the shelter every night, talking to her, seeing what would get a response from her. It was a damn sight more interesting than any of the games he played uptown, with the experienced socialites he normally got himself involved with.

  You shouldn’t be playing with her. She doesn’t know the rules.

  Well, no, but it wasn’t like he wanted her for sex or anything. He was only curious about her and wanted to see what made her tick. In much the same way as he’d messed around with old bits of electronics and machinery when he’d been a kid. Taking them apart and putting them back together, or exploding things like he’d done with his chemistry set.

  Yeah, she’s not a chemistry set, dick.

  Xavier leaned on the counter, staring over the heads of the people at the tables, focusing on the flash of orange toward the back of the room.

  No, she wasn’t. But he was going to enjoy playing with her all the same.

  * * *

  Mia left the shelter as soon as she could, her heart beating fiercely, the food she’d eaten settling in her stomach like a lead weight.

  Snow swirled around her and she had to tug the lapels of her overcoat up to stop it from blowing down the neck of her shirt. But some got down there anyway, making her shiver.

  She hated being afraid, hated the trembling, quivering emotion that twisted inside her like a snake. He’d been watching her, seen the fight, seen the old man grab her hat and pull it down. He’d seen what she was wearing underneath and worse than that, he knew her name. How did he know that? Where had he heard it?