Once Upon a Billionaire: Blue Collar Billionaires, Book 1

by Jessica Lemmon

  It took two hours and a lot of sifting through racks before I found a dress that wouldn’t break the bank. The top is sleeveless, black sequins leading down to a skirt cut high in some places, low in others. It reminds me of the dress my salsa instructor wore when I was into that sort of thing. It’s a bit over the top for this event, but I couldn’t help buying it after I tried it on. It moves with me when I walk, the layers of skirt floating behind me. Pretty, if a little showy.

  I didn’t pair it with the Louboutins. In the event Nate shows up tonight, I don’t want to appear overeager. I popped into a Lowz Shoe Depot and bought a gold pair of high-heeled sandals that loop at the ankle. They’re killing my feet, not gonna lie.

  My hair is down and wavy, and my lips are muted pink. I’m approachable and friendly. Daniel meanders away from me, off to the side, and busies himself checking his cell phone every thirty seconds. He really is bad at this.

  An hour into the event, I wish I would’ve worn the butter-soft Louboutins over the cheap, plastic-but-made-to-look-like-leather pair. This is the price of pride, people.

  There are no chairs or tables, so guests mill around, drinks in hand and small-talk. I’ve been mingling for an hour. I’m bored, but not particularly pained by it. Evidently it’s like riding a bike.

  “What was your name again?” Bob Londers asks me. He owns the golf course that’s been a Clear Ridge staple for over sixty years. He’s opened several courses in Florida. He once played Augusta. I nodded politely through each of his stories. I secretly wonder if he ever played on one of my dad’s golf courses. Walter Steele built several with his stolen money. Bob is trying to impress me.

  “Vivian,” I answer. “I’m in the process of being certified as an inspector for the city, but I’ve been with the bureau for a while.”

  “Well, you belong somewhere more regal if you ask me.” He smiles and a similar frisson of panic laces through me as when Nate said something similar. Am I so obvious? But then he continues and I realize he’s not calling me out. He’s hitting on me.

  “I’m attending Jazzfest here in two weeks.” Bob’s eyes dip to my cleavage. “Will you be there, dear?”

  “Ah, sorry. Jazz isn’t my thing.” I signal Daniel to save me but his eyes are on his cell phone.

  “If I wasn’t married.” Bob shakes his head, his beady eyes traveling down my body. A pity date from a seventy-something golf course owner. Go me.

  “I appreciate the offer.” I smile and hope it looks sincere. Told you this schmoozing stuff is like riding a bike.

  I make a quick, polite escape and walk back to Daniel.

  “Thanks for the assist with Bob over there,” I growl. “He asked me out.”

  “Bob’s married.” Daniel tears his eyes from his phone and frowns at me. “Plus, what did you expect me to do? Rush over and say you were mine?”

  “Ew, no.” I offer an apologetic half smile. I wasn’t supposed to say that out loud. “I expected you to mingle. Isn’t that what we’re supposed to be doing here?” I’m growing increasingly uncomfortable the longer I’m here. Not only because of Bob, but that didn’t help. I’m suddenly itching to escape. Yes, small talk is second nature, but it’s also chipping away at my energy. I’m tired in my bones.

  “I’m only here because my boss made me come,” Daniel says.

  “Funny, me too.”

  “All of these people”—he gestures around the room—“build things. They come to us for permits. Without us, they couldn’t succeed. Which means we come to these little circle jerks—”

  “Gross.”

  “—and kiss ass for a few hours.”

  “How much longer should we stay?” I check the room again, just a casual sweep. No sign of Nate. I wonder if one of his brothers or someone else from the company came in his stead. Disappointment sinks into the pit of my stomach.

  “Are you looking for Owen?”

  I snap my head around and face Daniel who looks less accusatory than curious. “You two seem to have a connection.”

  I prop my hand on my hip, defensive since he’s right. “No, you two seem to have a connection. By the way, is that a new watch?”

  “No.” Daniel’s frown returns. “Is that a new dress?”

  I strike a pose. “Clearance rack. Fifty-nine, ninety-nine.”

  “Money well spent,” I hear behind me.

  My heart jumps. I’d know that voice anywhere. I spin around and face Nate Owen, who seems to have a penchant for sneaky entrances. He’s mouthwatering in a dark suit and a black tie with a subtle pattern. It could be the same Armani he wore the day I met him, or perhaps it’s a different one. I imagine his billionaire’s closet holds a slew of expensive suits.

  “Owen,” Daniel says, his back straightening.

  Nate dips his head in silent acknowledgement.

  Daniel’s eyes shift from Nate to me. “I’m going to grab a drink and say my goodbyes. Vivian, feel free to leave whenever you’re done here.” He pauses before walking away. “But since it’s time and a half, no longer than another hour.”

  He hustles off, moving his arms like they’re propelling him.

  “Guess you’re stuck with me, then,” Nate says.

  “Are you still here?” I swallow the last of my sparkling water and place the empty on a tray of discarded glassware. My heart races, the attraction between us ratcheting up now that he’s standing next to me. I remind myself entanglements with anyone are a bad idea, and with Nate, possibly the worst idea of all, but I make no effort to move away from him.

  His mouth pulls into an entirely too attractive half smile. “Let’s find you a real drink. This crowd can take care of itself.”

  He offers an arm. I hesitate momentarily before I slip my hand over his jacket sleeve.

  “How much did you pay Daniel to sign off on your permit, again?” I ask, desperate to steer us back to choppier waters.

  “I didn’t bribe him,” he says, sticking to the same story. “Owen Construction made a generous donation to a cause he cares about.”

  “Daniel cares about something?”

  “Every man has their price.”

  We walk along the fancy parquet flooring, overhead lighting reflecting on the shiny surface. The cream and black and gold pattern is 3D and almost dizzying if I watch my feet. I avert my attention to the art on the wall. Paintings of men and angels and naked women and dragons line these halls.

  At the bar, Nate orders a bourbon, neat. “Vivian?”

  “Dirty martini, vodka.” I don’t miss the subtle cringe from Nate. “What’s wrong?”

  “Olives.” His big shoulders shudder, and I can’t help laughing.

  “I promise not to kiss you later.” I don’t know why I said it, but when he gives me his undivided attention, I’m glad I did.

  I’m not the only woman in the room who’s noticed him. Tall, fit, well-dressed. He stands out. The backdrop of sullen paintings and rich folks falls away. There is only Nate. Only me.

  This is why I looked forward to seeing him. It’s been a long time since being under someone’s attentive gaze has felt this welcome. We have this… Is connection the wrong word?

  The bartender hands over our drinks and Nate tucks a large bill into the tip jar. My glass is so full I have to take a sip to avoid spilling it on my toes.

  “I was hoping you’d be here,” Nate tells me, proving he’s more comfortable with transparency than I am. We stop in front of a painting and pretend to study it. Or, well, I’m pretending. Maybe he’s contemplating the meaning behind the woman standing on her porch looking out at a desolate field.

  “Didn’t have your fill of me at dinner?” I like flirting with him. I tell myself it’s harmless.

  “No.”

  That one word carves a path of longing into my chest. I’ve felt unwanted for a while. Or wanted for the wrong reasons. For a magazine interview. For a ghost-written autobiography. For a consultation on the movie based on Walter Steele they’re peddling around Hollywood right about n
ow.

  Suddenly warm, I take a gulp from my glass and change the subject. “How can you not like olives? They’re so…briny.”

  “You said it.” He makes a face that makes him look a lot younger. Like, thirteen.

  “When’s the last time you had one?” I challenge.

  He lips pull into a grim line like he’s figured out what I’m about to request and he’s already unhappy about it.

  “If it’s been longer than seven years, you should try one. Your taste buds can change, you know.”

  His dark expression remains. I happily offer my glass.

  He sighs and it sounds like it comes from the depths. For a moment I think he’ll refuse. To my delight he takes the plastic skewer from my glass and eyes the bulging, dripping olives with disdain. I watch as he licks his lips and his throat moves reluctantly. Then he takes an olive with his teeth, rolls it on his tongue, and bites into it.

  Convincing him to do what he doesn’t want to do is oddly erotic. I imagine him doing what he wants will be even more erotic. He chews, his expression carefully neutral. An involuntary shift of his shoulders betrays him.

  He takes a long sip of bourbon to wash down the olive. He coughs and clears his throat. “God, Vivian. How can you put something like that in your mouth?”

  I lift the skewer and pluck an olive with my teeth before chewing merrily. “I’ve had worse.”

  Heat engulfs the space between us. Yes, the attraction hasn’t gone anywhere since our shared dinner—hell, since I first met him. He’s the last person I should entertain any kind of relationship with, but my body isn’t interested in heeding my brain’s warnings.

  Somehow I know sex with him would be an unbelievably satisfying experience.

  We move to the next painting. A dragon is being stabbed in the heart. The mournful look on the creature’s face makes me feel sorry for it. It’s cornered, unfairly, so the knight can have his fifteen minutes of fame.

  Definitely, I relate to the dragon.

  “What do you think it means?” Nate asks.

  I blink out of my musings. “I’m not an art critic.”

  He steps closer to me, but his eyes are on the painting. “You don’t have to be an art critic to appreciate art.”

  “No, I suppose not.” I take a breath and sift through my thoughts. “The dragon lives a peaceful life in a cave but there are men who hunt it. They want the beast unearthed, exposed. They believe the dragon to be evil when its only desire is peace.” I feel Nate’s eyes on me. When I look up at him he’s wincing.

  “That’s dark.”

  “Death is dark.”

  He nods and then says something I didn’t expect. “At dinner, you mentioned you were orphaned as an adult. Was it long ago?”

  When I’m silent for a beat, he shrugs. “Just curious.”

  “Mom passed about six years ago and Dad died last year,” I answer. Just the facts.

  “Were you close to them?”

  I shake my head automatically. “Not in the end. Not like your family. What about your birth parents? Were you young when they died?”

  He nods. “And in juvie.”

  “Why?”

  “Stealing from a convenience store a handful of times. My parents didn’t exactly keep the cupboards stocked.” He watches his shoes, his thoughts elsewhere. “They weren’t good people.”

  “Are you?” I tilt my chin to take him in. Even with his bulky features and UFC body, he seems like good people. And the speech he gave at the restaurant suggests his work is about more than money.

  “I’m trying to be,” he says. “But there’s a lot of ground to cover.”

  “I know what you mean.” I look back at the dragon, frozen in time mere moments from death.

  “We’re all lonely sometimes, Viv.” His voice is low and kind. When I face him his expression is raw with sincerity. My instincts tell me he’s more than a cardboard-cutout billionaire. Is he lonely too?

  “I want to show you something.” He tips his glass and finishes his bourbon, gesturing for me to finish my drink as well. Never one to shy from a challenge, and because I have no idea how to respond to his sincerity, I gulp mine down, enjoying the last olive for dessert.

  I walk with him through the crowd of well-dressed people in my on-sale dress and uncomfortable shoes. Unsurprisingly, heads turn. We garner male and female attention alike. The women fiddle with their necklaces and watch him with longing before sending me decidedly less favorable glances. I have the idea many of them wouldn’t mind a moment on his arm.

  Or in his bed.

  I can’t blame them. He’s tall, handsome, and powerful. He’s not wrong about loneliness. I’ve been there. Since I met him, though, that shadowed corner has seen some light. What I crave is attention, and yes, connection. I didn’t expect to find it in Nathaniel Owen.

  Navigating through this gallery and that, I ignore the throb of my toes in these shoes. Never again. Nate nods to the guards. I have a momentary fantasy in which I’m Rene Russo to his Pierce Brosnan in The Thomas Crown Affair, which only adds to the surreal-ness of this moment.

  We arrive at a pair of double glass-paned doors and Nate pulls a key from his pocket. “Lainey Owen—my mother—donated the roses.”

  He slips the key into the antique doorknob and opens the doors, gesturing for me to walk ahead of him. The courtyard is lit by iron lampposts shining softly overhead. I admire the night sky and wonder if he stipulated low wattage bulbs to allow for stargazing here as well.

  Rose bushes tower on my left and on my right. A stone path cuts through the garden and wraps around. I follow it, admiring the various-colored roses at every turn. They choke the air with their sweet, unique fragrance.

  “Beautiful.” I touch a pale peach bud.

  “Yes, very.” I turn to tell him to keep his cheesy lines to himself, but the words lock in my throat. He’s watching me, intent, his eyes blazing. He cups my hip with one hand, then lifts the other to my jaw. Then. He kisses me.

  His mouth is firm, surrounded by a rough five o’clock shadow practically invisible given its light color. I feel it, though. My eyes close when his tongue slides into my mouth. I don’t resist.

  I grip the lapel of his suit jacket with one hand and tug him against me. Heat surrounds me, infiltrates me, assaults me. His tongue tastes of bourbon and the faintest tinge of brine from the olive he ate.

  When his lips leave mine, his chest expands to take a breath. “That martini tastes better on you.”

  As lines go it’s a good one. I don’t hide my grin of appreciation.

  “You’ve stepped outside your comfort zone tonight,” he observes. I have. I drew attention to myself the moment I rested my palm on his forearm. All eyes were on us when I let him lead me away from the event. “Care to take it further?” His palm still warming my hip and my jaw, he dips his chin in the direction of the lit exit sign. “I’ll cover for you with Daniel. Tell him you stayed the whole hour. He’ll believe me.”

  “Hmm. You two seem chummy lately.”

  Nate’s grin makes that comment worth it. “Vivian Vandemark. You really do believe the worst of me, don’t you?”

  I lift and drop one bare shoulder. His blue eyes take in the move. He wants me. The feeling is mutual. And after that kiss, more like sixty-forty.

  “Stop denying yourself,” he murmurs with a cocksure tip of his lips. He pulls me closer, teasing with his mouth hovering over mine. We’re practically chest to chest but he doesn’t kiss me again.

  I’ve been denying myself for years. Truth is, I’m damn sick of it. My craving for him is visceral. He’s potent and he was also right. I’m lonely. We can take advantage of each other in the most delightful way…

  I don’t need a formal invitation but he offers one, mistaking my silence for hesitation.

  “Come home with me.”

  I shed my guard like a second skin, pressing my breasts to his suit and whispering my answer against his mouth. “Okay.”

  Chapter Ten />
  Nate

  I convinced Vivian to ride with me, promising to have her back to her car at the art institute by morning. She told me I was presumptuous, I admitted I was, and then she gave me a foxy little smile before sliding into the passenger seat of my Tesla.

  On the way to my place, we don’t talk much. The moment I confessed to her that we’re all lonely sometimes wasn’t a scripted attempt to draw her from her shell, or point out my own weakness. It was the truth. And whenever Vivian’s around, I find myself being more honest than I need to be. I’m glad I made the admission, though. Without it, I doubt she would have let me kiss her. Or agreed to come home with me.

  She’s given up resisting me. For the moment.

  Me? I have no interest in resisting her. She may be the flame to my hapless moth, but I have a feeling the burn will be worth it.

  The car ride is torture. Her legs are distracting, especially in a peekaboo skirt cut at different lengths. One moment she’s covered, the next she moves her leg and the material slips and gives me a view of one supple thigh.

  I weld my teeth together and force my attention on the road. I absolutely cannot wait to have her naked.

  Presumptuous or not, she’s coming to bed with me tonight. Not because I’m an arrogant prick accustomed to having his way—though, arguably, I am—but because Vivian takes what she wants. I respect the hell out of that approach. It’s one I use often.

  Inside, I hang my keys on a silver hook by the door. Hands in my pockets, I follow behind her, trying to see what she’s seeing for the first time.

  The foyer opens to the living room, the tall ceiling extending all the way up to the second floor. The living room and staircase are divided by huge panes of glass framed in black and complemented by glass coffee and side tables. The flooring is textured brown wood, which “lends the space warmth,” according to my decorator. A modern cream-colored sofa with bold navy blue decorative pillows invites anyone to sit, the shag rug beneath it begging you to slip off your shoes and wiggle your toes.

  Vivian does that next, after sinking onto a couch cushion and unstrapping her shoes. “These are the worst.”