Billionaire With a Twist

by Lila Monroe

  “There’s nothing to walk away from. We only ever had a beginning. And it might seem like it matters to you now, but one day, you won’t even remember it.”

  “Ally—”

  “It’s done, Hunter.” I tried to walk away but he placed a gentle hand on my shoulder, attempting to pull me back toward him. I resisted his touch, keeping my body still and refusing to turn around.

  “Is this…is this really what you want?” he asked. “I’ll respect your choice if it is, and we can end this for good, but—”

  “Yes,” I said, my voice cracking at the lie. “It’s what I really want.”

  I turned and ran, Cinderella fleeing the ball, before he could hear me cry.

  Before he could realize just how much I wanted him to persuade me to stay.

  ELEVEN

  I muffled my tears through my hands, head bent over my desk in my semi-private cubicle.

  It didn’t make sense. I had won. Hunter had once again gone for my ideas over those of the Douchebros. Mr. Avery, my boss, had greenlit them too. I should have been happier than I’d ever been in my life. I was finally on my way to the top.

  But all I could think about was what I had left behind.

  I had steeled myself for the Douchebros’ heckling, and kept an un-amused smile on my face as they harangued me, letting their own immature complaints about a lack of sex and explosions in my concept speak for themselves.

  But somehow I hadn’t steeled myself against Hunter’s cool indifference.

  He had approved my concept while barely glancing up from his phone.

  He hadn’t met my eyes once.

  He had walked away in the middle of my attempt to thank him for going with my idea.

  His rejection hurt like nothing I had ever experienced before. I felt as if my heart were ripping in two, as if I were drowning, as I were falling forever, as if I had already fallen and broken every bone in my body.

  And now he was gone, back on a plane to Virginia, and I was stuck here in D.C. alone with my heartbreak, trying to cry discreetly so no one else would discover how upset I was.

  I was counting the hours till I could escape work and go home to family dinner. That’s how bad it was.

  #

  My dad passed me the mashed potatoes with a silent look of commiseration as my mother chattered on. We were both doing our best to get by with the minimum amount of nods and ‘mm-hmms,’ and eventually she would notice and there would be scolding. But for now there was food.

  Roast beef and mashed potatoes and braised greens and perfectly toasted rolls were arranged artfully on the best china, on a little pink checkered tablecloth that would’ve done Betty Crocker proud. And it was delicious. Almost enough to make up for the conversation.

  “And how often do you find a straight man who’s into historical costuming, I mean really—”

  Had I really thought this would be an escape? It was a commuted sentence at best.

  Mom hadn’t stopped congratulating herself since she sat down. It was the same old song: I was a huge disappointment, but Paige was perfect and so was her new man, whoever this latest one was who was joining us for dinner soon, and he was going to be the one to make an honest woman of her, and we would all just pretend that Mom hadn’t said the same thing about every other man she’d set Paige up with since junior prom.

  I swear, you’d need an archive to keep track of the polite fictions we keep current in my family.

  “And so successful, why, Paige will be set for life—”

  I wasn’t in the mood for this; not now when I was so heartbroken it was taking all the energy I had to keep from sobbing. I was sure this guy was like all the rest: blandly handsome, a mid-level job in a forgettable corporation, golf on the weekends and a second girlfriend in the Keys. For Paige’s sake, I would smile and pretend to believe that he could really be the one. Inside, my heart would be breaking for her, as well as me.

  “I think Paige should go for an off-the-shoulder wedding gown, and daylilies will make excellent center pieces—oh look, there they are!”

  The bell rang, and my mother sprang up to answer it.

  In the silence that followed, my father topped up my mashed potatoes. I topped up his greens. We gave each other matching looks of resignation, prisoners with extreme cases of Stockholm Syndrome.

  Mom bustled back in, grinning fit to burst. She gestured behind her.

  “Darlings, let’s extend our warmest welcome to Paige’s new beau!”

  I looked up, expecting Bland McForgettable—

  And my heart turned to ice, and then smashed into a million pieces.

  My beaming sister had come in arm-in-arm with Hunter Knox.

  TO BE CONTINUED...

  What happens next? Hunter and Ally’s story continues in BILLIONAIRE WITH A TWIST: PART TWO, available September 16, 2015

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  Do you enjoy fun, romantic reads? Read on for a sneak chapter of THE ART OF STEALING HEARTS by Stella London, available September 30, 2015.

  Meet Grace and St. Clair: she’s an aspiring gallery girl, he’s the sexy billionaire art collector. Together, they’ll discover a world of romance in the hot new series by Stella London!

  THE ART OF STEALING HEARTS available September 30th!

  CHAPTER 1

  My mom taught me that art is everywhere; you just have to look. “Keep your eyes open, Grace, and you can always find the beauty,” she said, filling our small apartments with gorgeous paintings and bright colors, pointing out shapes and compositions as we walked city streets. Her love of art inspired mine, but right now my heart and head are pounding under the stress of running late, so it’s hard for me to notice anything pretty about the traffic literally standing between me and the chance of a lifetime.

  “Um, excuse me?” I pipe up from the back seat of the immobile taxi cab, anxiously looking at the driver slumped in his seat. He ignores me.

  I check my watch again: 8:41 am. Crap! I bite my lip to keep from yelling. Crapcrapcrap. I’m supposed to be at Carringer’s Auction House in nineteen—make that eighteen—minutes. First BART was late, and now I’m spending the last of this week’s tips to be trapped in this smelly cab, sweating under my best business outfit. My only business outfit.

  After a year of dropping off resumes and talking up gallery owners and museum directors, I’d nearly given up hope of finding a job in the art world until last week when the best auction house in San Francisco called me. Carringer’s deals in the most sought-after and highly-valued art and antiquities in the world: French Impressionist paintings, Chinese ceramics, Native American head masks, Greek sculptures…I get chills just imagining the masterpieces that flow in and out of those vaults. If I’m late to this interview, the first opportunity I’ve had in months might slip away and I’ll be serving spaghetti and meatballs at my waitress gig until I permanently smell like marinara and am too old to remember the specials.

  “Sir?” This time I rap insistently on the plexiglass separating me from the driver. He eyes me in the rearview mirror. “I’m super late. Is there a short cut or something you could use?”

  The minute hand on the watch my mother gave me jerks forward again and we’ve gone less than a block. Why aren’t we moving?! As if the obvious answer wasn’t right outside my window, honking and spewing fumes and inching along like snails on their way into the financial district’s high rise office buildings.

  The driver just laughs at me. “What do you think?”

  I think you smell like someone Febreezed over a cigar shop. But it’s the number one rule of waitressing: rudeness never pays. “How much further is Gold Street?”

  The cabbie shrugs. It’s 8:43.

  “Is it close enough to walk?” I press him.

  “Sure,” he says. “Everywhere is close enough to walk to eventually.”

  Scr
ew this. There is no possible way for me to arrive looking cool and collected as planned anyway since my makeup probably already looks like a Jackson Pollock, and I’m not going to let some stupid traffic keep me from my dream. “Here,” I say, tossing a pile of ones onto the front seat and scooting out the door. “I’ll take my chances.”

  The cab driver rolls his eyes. “Maybe ten blocks,” he says. I inhale a deep breath of crisp ocean air, steady my purse on my shoulder, and start jogging.

  Immediately, my sensible yet stylish heels feel like vice grips on my toes. My feet are used to day-long shifts in sneakers, and it’s hard to run in a skirt, but I can’t give up. My carefully blow-dried hair is getting wind-whipped and frizzy, and my bangs are sticking to the sweat beading on my forehead.

  “Sorry! ‘Scuse me! Coming through, please!” It’s like running an obstacle course in heels.

  I dodge through the crowd, trying not to think about the frazzled and sloppy impression I’m going to make. In the meantime, I force myself to focus on the beauty of this city: the long shadows of the tallest buildings, the modern architecture, the sunlight reflected and refracted off a thousand windows, the blue sky beyond. I love San Francisco, even though right now it is not loving me back.

  One. More. Block. So. Close. I can almost see the brass carvings and scrolled handles on the thick auction house doors as I cross Gold Street and round the corner…and smash right into the muscular chest of a man coming from the crosswalk.

  I shriek at the same time he says, “Whoa, there,” like he’s a cowboy, except he’s as posh and polished as can be. He holds his coffee cup out in front of him like a bomb and I see the brown liquid dripping down his blue tie and white shirt.

  “Oh my God!” I grab some clean tissues out of my bag. “Here, let me help,” I say, reaching for his tie, but he’s already shaking it out. Luckily, most of the drink seems to be splattered on the concrete.

  “It’s fine,” he says, catching my hand. “There was too much sugar in that latte anyway.” He looks at me as our fingers touch, his eyes flecked with shifting shades of blue like Van Gogh’s night sky and just as mesmerizing. I want to paint them, but then I remember my priorities.

  “I’m sorry about the spill, but I really have to go.” I check my watch. “I’m running late for an important meeting.” I start to turn away, feeling guilty, but his voice stops me.

  “So this is a run-by coffee-ing, then?” He has an accent. British. Sexy.

  I turn back, unable to keep from checking him out again. He has a mouth that looks like it was carved by Michelangelo, perfectly shaped lips that smile at me and highlight the sharp cheekbones as sculpted as the famous David’s. It’s like his face belongs in a museum. Whoa, there. “Should I call the police?” he asks.

  I smile despite my hurry, sure that my face is turning strawberry red. I’d love to stay and flirt with this gorgeous man, but there’s no time. “Look,” I say, backing away. “If you give me your card, I’ll happily pay for the cleaning bill, but I really do have to run.”

  He falls in step beside me like we’re old friends. “Oh, no,” he says, loosening his tie as he easily matches my sprint. “Don’t you worry about this old thing. I’ve been meaning to donate it.” He tosses it in a trash can as we speed down the sidewalk and I can’t help but notice the triangle of smooth chest showing now that he’s unbuttoned his collar.

  “It mostly missed my shirt, which is good because the public tends to frown on shirtless businessmen.”

  I imagine him shirtless and almost walk into a mailbox.

  “That was a joke,” he says, smiling.

  Over the smell of salty sea air and car exhaust I catch the fresh, soapy clean scent of him. “Oh,” I say, avoiding a pothole, and thinking that no one would frown at that body. “Funny.”

  “This meeting must be a big deal,” he says. “If you’re too distracted to converse with a handsome man.”

  “It really is,” I say, separating from him just long enough to weave around a woman walking a poodle. “Life-changing actually. It’s a job interview at Carringer’s.”

  “Ouch,” he says, putting a hand on his heart in mock anguish. “Not going to bite on the handsome line?”

  “Oh!” Flushed, party of one, please. Thank God for the cool air. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just—”

  “So you’re admitting you do think I’m handsome?”

  “I admit nothing,” I say, laughing.

  He grins. “My kind of girl.”

  I stop to catch my breath as we arrive at the gorgeous façade of the Carringer’s Auction House building. Time to bid farewell to Mr. Charming. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little disappointed to see him go.

  He smiles at me face-to-face and oh dear God, he has actual dimples. “Good luck with the interview.”

  “Thanks,” I say, my gaze flicking to my watch one last time. It’s 8:54.

  “You’ll knock ‘em dead,” he says. I nod, trying to paste a confident smile on my face.

  I face the doors I’ve been dreaming about opening for the last week—well really, for the last twenty years—and feel hopeful again. I have five minutes to get inside and pull my shit together so I can show these people what I’m made of.

  One last thing first. “Are you sure I can’t replace that tie I ruined?”

  “Tell you what,” he says, his eyes twinkling. “I’ll swing by here next week and if you’re working, you can buy me a coffee.”

  Because he’s gorgeous and he made me feel better and I’ll probably never see him again, I’m suddenly brave. I say, “Off the record, I would definitely call you handsome.” I wink at him and enjoy the surprise on his so-totally-more-than-handsome face as I stride away from him and toward my waiting future.

  Inside, my bravery falters: this place is seriously impressive. A huge lobby with a polished marble floor, white marble columns reaching to the ceiling, and holy crap, an actual Rodin sculpture in the middle of the room. I stare at it, awed, until I notice a short, brisk-looking woman holding a clipboard. I nervously approach. “Hi, I’m Grace—”

  “Bennett? You’re the last to arrive.” She guides me out of the lobby and pulls me toward the main auction hall as I fiddle with my skirt and make sure my blazer is on straight.

  “Do I look okay?” I ask but she ignores me and opens the doors.

  She shoos me inside where a woman in a sharp black two-piece business suit is speaking to the dozens of men and women my age already standing behind tables stacked with papers and glossy photo spreads. She stops and glares at me as I make my way to the only empty table, closest to her.

  I whisper, “Sorry,” but she ignores me. The Armani-clad dude next to me who has enough gel in his hair to grease a wheel rolls his eyes.

  “As I was saying,” the woman in charge continues, pausing to glare at me again, “I am Lydia Forbes, head of personnel. As far as you’re concerned, that makes me lady fate herself. For one of you, this internship will change the course of your entire life.” Thanks for the reminder. “The rest of you will continue searching for the elusive pearl to launch your career.” I think I might hyperventilate, but the rest of the candidates in their expensive clothes nod along as cool as robots.

  Lydia continues as she paces the room. “In front of you, you’ll find descriptions and photographs of ten objects that represent the types of fine and decorative arts typically auctioned off here at Carringer’s. You have exactly thirty minutes to identify and appraise each piece, and then you will be interviewed.”

  My pulse races like I’m still jogging, but there is excitement mixed in with my extreme anxiety. I get to look at beautiful art. And even though I’m nervous, I also know that all those years I spent studying my brains out in order to get my arts degree (while still holding down a full time job) are finally going to pay off.

  Lydia stops in front of me, drums her French-tipped nails along the edge of my table. “Each of you has an excellent resume, but only one can be the best.�
�� She gives me a little sneer as she walks away, and I feel like my heart might pound out of my chest, but I know I can do this. Mom would tell me take three deep breaths and then go. I hear her voice in my head: “Everything slows down; you can focus.”

  Lydia’s sharp heels sound like cat claws on the floor. “Your time starts now.”

  This is your dream, Grace. I take three deep breaths and dive in.

  “Last summer I went to Italy for six weeks, but now Rome feels so provincial, you know?” a snooty-looking brunette with perfectly straight, shiny hair sitting next to me says.

  I’ve been in the salon—too luxurious to be called a waiting room—outside Lydia’s office for nearly an hour. Art adorns the walls, each piece worth at least a hundred years of my salary. Worry knots in my stomach as I hear more and more of the other candidates talk about their family compounds on Cape Cod, and all their mutual friends from boarding school and Ivy League colleges.

  It’s like a window onto a completely different world. They even use the word summer as a verb, as in “Where did you summer?” which is how this conversation next to me got started. The only places I’ve ever “summered” were on the patio with my mom, lemon juice in our hair for highlights, with the occasional trip to the community pool.

  “Oh, Chelsea,” girl number two says. “Just because the guy you laid in Florence never called you back doesn’t mean Italy has been ruined.”

  “Please, Angelica, you’re only going abroad because your daddy said you couldn’t laze around his Hamptons house again this year.”

  “He forced me to apply for this internship too,” Angelica pouts. “Some old buddy of his knew someone here, blah, blah.” Blah blah is how this girl refers to connections I would kill to have. She has no idea how lucky she is. “Daddy thinks my Yale degree makes me a genius, but I know I failed that assessment just now.” She pats her blonde hair-sprayed bun. “I didn’t even know what that rod thingy was! It looked like a broken curling tong to me.”