One Night With a Billionaire

by Jessica Clare

  “I’ll recap it in three words for you: You cannot sue.”

  Her head throbbed in time with his voice. Kylie squinted at him. “Huh?”

  “I’ll repeat it. You cannot sue, Miss Daniels. It says explicitly in your contract that any injuries or mishaps while on tour are paid for by the label. We’ll cover your hospital room. We’ll cover any prescriptions and the cost to get those stitches removed. But that’s all we’re paying for. And your contract states quite specifically that you cannot sue Miss Petty.”

  Not that Kylie was planning on suing, but this guy was making her feel like she was the one at fault, and she didn’t like it. “You do know she hit me in the head with my flowerpot? And that was after she was caught going through my purse?”

  He put the contract back in his briefcase and rustled a few papers. Just those small noises made Kylie’s head throb. “I have spoken with Daphne prior to coming here. I am told by Miss Petty that it was provoked.”

  “P-provoked?” Kylie stumbled on the word. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “You agitated her, Miss Daniels. According to staff, you were arguing with her over makeup choices before she found your phone, and when she did, it set her off.”

  “She was snooping. As for what set her off, why not blame the drugs instead of me?” Kylie protested, shocked. Her head was throbbing even harder. “We were talking about shades of lipstick. That’s not arguing.” She shook her head. “You know she’s on all kinds of things right now? Her mood’s all over the place.”

  “That’s another reason why I’m here. We need to discuss your agitation of Miss Petty.”

  “M-my agitation?” Was this man serious? He couldn’t be serious.

  “Yes. You signed a conduct clause.”

  Her head hurt. Her vision swam, and she wanted to rub her temples, but she was pretty sure that would only make things ache more. “I don’t understand. What’s a conduct clause?”

  “It’s a clause we’ve recently added into all staffing contracts. One, I might add, that you happily initialed without reading, I’m guessing.” At Kylie’s silence, he continued. “The clause states that if your actions or conduct interfere with the tour or Miss Petty’s ability to perform, you can be held liable for damages.”

  Kylie felt sick. “Damages?”

  “That is correct. As of right now, Miss Petty is refusing to perform her show tonight. We have rescheduled it for forty-eight hours from now, but if she still refuses to go on, ticket sales will be lost. The label will be looking to recoup those losses. And since you signed a contract stating that you would have no personal conduct that interfered with Miss Petty’s ability to perform . . .” He gave her that horrible, thin-lipped smile again. “You see where I’m going with this.”

  She was going to throw up. Her stomach lurched unhappily, and spots were beginning to appear in her vision. Her head pounded like Daphne’s drummer was behind her, banging away. “I don’t have any money,” she whispered.

  “It’s cost the studio several thousand dollars to reschedule the concert. Just so you know, we’ve taken that from your contracted fee. I’ll leave the receipts here at the bedside.” He pulled new documents from the briefcase and set them down on the table next to the bed. “You’ll see that we’ve been quite fair.”

  “I—is that all you need from me?”

  “No. Furthermore, I will do my best to convince Miss Petty that she needs to continue with the shows scheduled. Right now she is talking about canceling the entire tour. I’m sure you can agree that no one wants this. Since you are contractually obligated to act in a way that will not distress Miss Petty, I assume you will cut off all ties to Mr. Archer?”

  “You mean until the tour is done?”

  “I mean completely.” He pulled out another piece of paper and put it in Kylie’s hands. “This is the amount that the tour stands to make for the record company.” He pushed another piece of paper into her hands. “And this is the amount that Daphne will cost us if she does not finish her tour. Which she is now threatening to do.”

  Kylie squinted, but she couldn’t make out the exact number, just that it had lots and lots of zeroes. Way more than Kylie’s bank account had. Her stomach roiled harder.

  “In light of the situation, the label is willing to forgive all costs related to this incident as long as you promise to end all contact with Mr. Cade Archer, as it is upsetting Daphne.”

  Her head spun. So they were going to force her to give up Cade? “He’s going to want to hear from me—”

  “We can arrange for a new phone for you. You can send him a message telling him you no longer wish to see him.”

  Like Cade would buy that. Still, it was hard for her to think. Her head was throbbing madly, and there were papers with numbers and threats spread all over her lap. How could she possibly take care of her responsibilities if they were going to fine her this much money?

  How could she possibly avoid becoming a burden again? At this rate, she’d be back in a cardboard box under a bridge once more.

  She reached for her wedding rings, found them still on her finger, though all the others had been removed by hospital staff. Of course they had. She twisted the rings, turning the beautiful red ruby outward. Then, with a meek look, she showed Mr. Powers. “I married him.”

  “You what?”

  She winced and clutched at her head. “Vegas. We got married in Vegas.”

  “Oh.” Mr. Powers’s shoulders relaxed. “That’s easy enough to fix. I’ll draw up annulment papers. Vegas weddings are discarded all the time.” His glare fixed on her. “We don’t need to inform Daphne of this, do we?”

  “No,” she breathed, wanting to cry and puke all at once. “I guess we don’t.”

  “Good. I’ll be back tomorrow with some papers for you to sign. Daphne’s assistant is going to remain at your side to ensure you don’t receive any visitors or call anyone.” He gave her a tight smile. “I’m glad we could work things out, Miss Daniels.”

  “Sure,” she said listlessly. Her head hurt so badly that she wanted to scream.

  “Perfect,” Mr. Powers said. He gathered his paperwork and returned it to his briefcase, and Kylie closed her eyes. She wished he would just go away.

  She wished this entire situation would just go away.

  But when she opened her eyes again, Powers was gone, and Snoopy was gazing at her, an unhappy expression on her face.

  “I heard,” she said, her voice sympathetic. “The label’s giving you the shakedown because Daphne’s being a brat, huh?” She tucked the blankets around Kylie’s legs and then offered her a cup of ice chips. “While you’re in the hospital, too? That’s shitty.”

  Kylie took the ice greedily, putting a few flakes of it on her tongue to wet her dry mouth. She still felt as if she were going to vomit, but she wasn’t sure if that was the concussion or just her general misery over the situation.

  “So,” Snoopy asked. “Did you really marry that guy?”

  Kylie nodded, fighting back tears.

  “Forgive me for asking, but . . . isn’t he rich? Couldn’t you go to him and say, ‘Hey, the label’s being a dick and I need help’? Wouldn’t he help you?”

  “It’s not that simple,” Kylie whispered. “The label would charge me for all of Daphne’s tour. I don’t know how many millions that would be.”

  “Oh Jesus,” said Snoopy. “I’m guessing lots of them.”

  She nodded. “And we’re barely dating, you know? The wedding thing was a drunk fluke, a mistake.” Kylie twisted the ring on her finger. She didn’t want it to be a mistake, but it couldn’t really be called anything else, could it? They wouldn’t have made the same decisions sober. “I don’t feel like I can go to him with money problems when the money problems might run into the millions. Or tens of millions.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because . . .” Because then he might realize he likes me, but doesn’t like me quite that much. And because I’ll always owe him. He’ll always have
something to hold over my head, like the label is right now. And when things go south, as they inevitably do—always—I need to be able to stand on my own two feet.

  Because I’m tired of being someone’s burden. “Because I’m tired of owing people.”

  “I understand,” Snoopy said. She thumped into the chair next to Kylie’s hospital bed. “I don’t know about you, but I am mighty sick of this damn tour, Fat Marilyn.”

  Kylie winced and put her hands to her temples. Yeah, that small touch made her brain feel like it was about to explode. “Kylie. Call me Kylie.”

  “I don’t blame you. Fat Marilyn’s as shitty a name as Snoopy.” Snoopy looked over at Kylie. “My real name’s Carmela.” She shrugged. “I guess it could have been worse. She could have called me Pig-Pen.”

  Laughing hurt. Kylie giggled, but it soon turned into too much pain, and fresh tears blurred her vision. She closed her eyes and lay back on the pillow, wishing the world would go away.

  No Cade. Not for her.

  She couldn’t even call him to explain. To tell him that he was wonderful, but she couldn’t be a burden on him. Not like she was to Jerred. Not like her nana was to Kylie. She wouldn’t do that to another person. Maybe it was stubbornness. Or pride. Or both. But there were no choices. Nana Sloane needed a safe place to live where people could look after her and care for her. And Kylie was her only remaining family left, so it fell on her shoulders. That was the least she could do for the woman who had worked two jobs she’d despised to give Kylie a roof over her head, if not love.

  Then again, maybe it was a good thing that Nana Sloane hadn’t known how to love Kylie. Sometimes it seemed like love was nothing but burdens. Maybe she was lucky in that the label was going to step in and force all responsibility for her relationship out of her hands.

  But try as she might, she just couldn’t feel lucky.

  SEVENTEEN

  Cade checked his phone for the dozenth time in the last half hour.

  No messages. No texts. No e-mails.

  Frowning, he pocketed his phone again and tried to concentrate on the philanthropist at the podium, who was droning on in a dry voice about the differences in solar energy versus wind energy and how they could utilize both for newly built hospitals in remote locations, such as Foula and McMurdo in Antarctica. It was good information, and everyone around him looked fascinated, but all Cade could think about was his too-silent phone.

  It wasn’t like Kylie to not even send him so much as a message. Or even a smiley face or two to let him know she was thinking about him. She had a lot of downtime on the tour, and so she tended to text on a regular basis just to chitchat and check in.

  But her phone had been silent for the last twenty-four hours. He’d tried calling but it had gone straight to her voice mail. Phone troubles, maybe. Maybe her battery had run out and she couldn’t charge it until she got back to her hotel room. He glanced at his watch, trying to decipher what time it would be in Portland, where Daphne’s next show was scheduled, and his location—Stockholm, Sweden. He was nine hours ahead. All right, then. It would be late, but Kylie tended to stay up late anyhow due to the tour.

  Maybe she’d fallen asleep? He’d wait until later and call her, just to check in.

  But eight hours later, the conference ended for the day. He shook hands and chatted with peers and other professionals. They’d all go out to dinner soon, and “work” would continue on into the night. This would be the perfect time to talk to Kylie. He excused himself from the crowd, wound his way through the busy conference center, and found a relatively quiet spot where he could get a few bars of signal for his phone.

  She didn’t answer when he called, though. Again, it went straight to voice mail. Again, Cade worried. He called Jerome.

  “Hey, boss,” Jerome said. “I was just about to call you.”

  “Oh?” Cade frowned, tensing. Jerome rarely ever called him, because he only liked to “bother” Cade for emergencies. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” Jerome said. “Just that you got an envelope this morning. Looks like it’s from a law office and it’s marked extremely confidential. I had to sign for it, but I didn’t want to open it if you were expecting some top secret information I shouldn’t see.”

  “I’m not expecting anything of the sort,” Cade said, fighting impatience. “Go ahead and open it. Listen, I need you to look up some information for me in regards to—”

  “Huh,” Jerome said, interrupting Cade’s thoughts.

  “What?”

  “Well, this is weird. It’s annulment papers.”

  His heart felt as if it had dropped to his feet. “It’s what?”

  “Paperwork to annul the marriage of Mr. Cade Christian Archer and Miss Kylie Anne Daniels. Reason: Impaired mental capacity due to drugs and/or alcohol.”

  He felt gutted. Completely and utterly gutted. “She won’t call me. She won’t text me. I don’t know what’s going on.”

  “There’s a note in here, too,” Jerome said, and Cade could hear him sorting through the paperwork. “Let’s see. It’s been printed on a computer. No handwriting or anything. And it’s on the law office’s letterhead. It says ‘Dear Cade, I can’t do this anymore. We both know we should have never gotten married. It should have been just the one night. I’m filing the annulment. Please respect my wishes and make no attempt to contact me. Yours, Kylie.’”

  “Bullshit,” Cade snarled.

  “Whoa there,” Jerome said, surprised at Cade’s reaction.

  “It’s bullshit,” he said again. “Someone must have gotten to her. They’re pushing her to end this. We always say it’s just the one night, and it never is.” He shook his head, keeping his phone pressed to his ear as he began to storm down one of the hallways, heading for an elevator. “Kylie would at least talk to me. A text. Something. The fact that she won’t even answer her phone tells me something’s up. I need to talk to her in person. Can you book me a flight home?”

  “How fast?”

  “As fast as you can make it.”

  “You should probably charter something, then.”

  “Just do it,” Cade said, hammering the elevator button. “I need to see my wife before I sign anything.”

  —

  Sixteen hours later, an exhausted Cade arrived in Seattle, Washington. Daphne Petty’s next tour stop was Key Arena and he dozed in the back of the limo while waiting for the box office to open so he could pick up his will-call tickets and backstage pass. When the ticket window opened, he waited (rather impatiently) for his turn in line, then got his tickets and practically ran to the backstage area.

  Once there, though, he was stopped by a security guard. “Daphne Petty is not allowing anyone backstage prior to the show,” the guard said. “She needs her concentration. She’ll meet all fans after the encore.”

  Gritting his teeth, Cade pushed his way forward again. “I’m a personal friend of Daphne Petty,” he said, dropping her name even though he had no intentions of seeing her. “I’m sure she’d want me inside.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the man said. “We have our orders. No one inside until postshow.”

  Fuck this. He’d been patient long enough. With a snarl of irritation, he pushed his way down another hall and out of the building, looking for the loading docks. Kylie had told him that the employees often went and found a Dumpster in the back area to have a smoke at throughout the night.

  Sure enough, a woman with a “staff” pass was hanging out near one of the Dumpsters, talking to another girl. Both of them had cigarettes in their hands, and both of them stiffened at the sight of him. Encouraged, he rushed forward.

  The women stubbed out their cigarettes and started to rush for a nearby door.

  “Wait,” Cade called as they hurried away. He raced after them and barely managed to get to the door before they could slip inside. Pushing his weight against it, he said one single word: “Kylie?”

  They exchanged a look.

  “She’s no
t supposed to see anyone,” the younger one said. “The label’s clamping down hard on her.”

  “I just flew here from Sweden,” he told them desperately. “And if I don’t get to see my wife and find out what’s going on, I’m going to lose my mind. Please. I will pay you. Handsomely. I will buy you cars. Private islands. Whatever you want. Just let me in this door, all right?”

  They exchanged another look.

  “No, Snoopy,” the older one said. “You know this is some shit we don’t want to get involved in.”

  “Snoopy,” Cade said, seizing the opportunity. He pressed his back harder against the door, just in case they tried to move him. “You know my Kylie, right?”

  She looked uneasy, crossing her arms.

  “You’d tell me if she was hurt or unhappy, right? Because she’s not answering my texts at all, and I’m worried about her. I just want to know she’s okay.”

  The older woman stared at him, stone-faced, but he could see the younger one hesitating. After a moment, Snoopy said, “She can’t text you because her phone broke.”

  The older one threw up her hands in the air.

  “Her phone broke?” he asked, surprised it was as simple as that. If that was all it was, why all the subterfuge? Why the annulment papers?

  “Daphne stomped on it,” Snoopy blurted. “After she pegged Kylie with the flowerpot.”

  His entire body tensed. “What?”

  “Jesus. Here we fucking go,” muttered the older one. “Good luck getting rid of him now, Snoopy.” She scowled at the younger woman and shook her head. “I’m heading around the front. Fuck all this. You want to do this? It’s on you.”

  Snoopy looked uncertainly at the other woman as she walked away, but remained where she was. When the other woman left, she glanced at Cade. “My name’s Carmela, not Snoopy. And shit’s been bad for the last few days.”

  “What’s going on? What happened to Kylie?” Fear and anger warred for dominance. “Why did she hit Kylie with a flowerpot?”