“I’m half French,” I joked.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Everything.” I beamed at her annoyance and proceeded to something I knew she would totally find irresistible. “Je pense que tu es très belle. Profiter de la nuit avec moi.”
I was right. The woman practically melted like warm butter in my hands. She stared at me and tried to take my advice about the inscrutable expression, but her eyes gave her away. And if that wasn’t a dead giveaway that she liked me, she showed it in her body language.
She swallowed hard and bit back a smile. “What did you say to me?”
“I said ‘I think you’re very beautiful. Enjoy the night with me.’”
She swallowed hard and brought her hands together, keeping her gaze fixed on mine.
“How about you stop judging me? Trust me, I’m not the enemy. We could pretend we just met here at this bar. I offered to buy you a drink, and now we’re waiting to place our orders. Then we get to know each other. You might even accept the fact that you like me.” I gave her my best sinful, seductive smile. She blushed and tucked her hair behind her ear, showing off the little stud that sparkled against her skin. “More questions tomorrow. What do you say?”
She gave me a small assessing look, bit the inside of her lip, and seemed to back down.
“Okay.”
Victory.
Chapter 5
Billie
The man was weird and impossible.
Quirky, blunt, and forward.
Cocky.
Yesterday, I thought a man with heart was the kind of guy who would do it for me. But Mr. Gorgeous here proved me wrong with his cockiness.
He wasn’t the full-of-himself type I usually couldn’t stand. He was the other kind. The kind I hadn’t come across too often in my life.
He was the kind that used charm and turned that into cocky, and before you knew it, you’d agree to anything. Not that it was that hard for me.
I’d struggled to keep my focus when I first saw him sitting in the booth with his legs crossed and that cool composure like he owned the world.
He’d worn a white button-down shirt, a crisp black jacket, and pants to match. His hair was slightly ruffled but in a way that showed it was styled to look that way, and he’d trimmed his beard.
Those piercing eyes had taken me in, and my brain turned to soup.
Then, as if his appearance wasn’t bad enough, the way he looked at me did all manner of sinful things to my body. Sinful reactions, sinful thoughts I’d be in confession for a week for, and possibly more than that.
Then… of course, there was the French. The man spoke French. To me.
He spoke French to me, and my poor body gave up at that point. The whole time, I’d had to keep bringing back to the forefront of my mind the fact that this was the guy who was causing all the trouble I currently experienced in my life.
Until he said he wasn’t.
It was weird. Really weird but somehow, I found myself trusting what he said, and now I was sucked into this little game of his where I was on an actual date with him, and tomorrow there would be dinner.
God.
What the hell? It was crazy, and I was crazy for agreeing, but I needed the story. This was my story.
And…
Shit, okay… I couldn’t lie to myself and say that I didn’t like him.
The waitress brought our drinks and set them down on the table.
I got a mojito. He ordered red wine.
“This is more of a wine date, you know that, right?” He smiled.
“Wine’s too strong for me.”
He chuckled. “But you can have rum?” He gestured to my drink.
“It’s a dash, and the fruit and mint balance it out.” Truthfully, wine had more of an effect on me, quicker. I didn’t want to end up drunk and crazy and doing something I’d regret in the morning.
“Okay, whatever works. I just think you don’t want to share a bottle of wine with me.”
“I don’t,” I fessed up and tried not to smile but failed when I thought of the last time I’d drunk wine. It was on a trip to Vegas last summer with Zoila and a few of our friends from college. We met up with them every month to do something. Summer was always big. Last summer, we all drank so much, and I went crazy on it. I woke up in a barn on the outskirts of the desert in a candy stripper uniform. To this day, I still can’t remember how I got there, or where I got the uniform.
“You’re smiling. It’s nice.”
“I was just thinking.”
“About what?”
I looked him over. There was no way I was going to share what was on my mind, but I would, however, try to ease in my questions to him. Two could play this game.
“Is the project the reason why you came back from Europe?”
“Yes.”
Good, this was working.
“How long do you think the whole thing will take?”
He leaned forward and gave me that sexy half-smile. “No.”
“No to what?”
“You aren’t going to try and trick me by filtering in the questions you prepared to ask.”
I frowned. “The same way you tricked me into being on this date with you?”
“Sweetheart, it’s different.”
“How is it different? It’s like blackmail. If I leave, I won’t get my questions answered and everything will go to hell.”
“Don’t feel that way.”
“There’s every reason why I should feel this way.”
“Nope.” He shook his head and gave me a confident look.
“Why no?” I was real interested to hear his take on this.
“Because, sweetheart, if we’d met under different circumstances, I would have asked you out anyway, and you would have said yes.” He chuckled. There was that cockiness mingled with charm again. “I’m just working with that and doing what our alternate selves would do.”
“How do you know I would have said yes?” I one hundred percent would have said yes, but I hated that he knew that.
“The way you look at me.”
“I don’t look at you any different to the way I’d look at anyone.”
“Lies.”
“I’m not lying.”
“Yep, you are. Big time. Way big time. Big like a wave. A big Kahuna-sized wave.”
I laughed, and he smiled back at me.
“Okay, suppose I would have said yes. Is this where you would have brought me? A bar?”
He shook his head. “No. You… are more of a dancer.”
I pressed my lips together, wondering how he knew, then I remembered he had me checked out. “Your sources tell you that?”
He shook his head at me. “I checked basics, that’s all.”
“Basics?” I didn’t like the fact that he’d checked anything, but I understood why.
“Name, date of birth, where you live, where you work, family. Stuff like that. I know you like dancing because of the way you move.”
My lips arched into a smile. My father used to say the same thing to me. I knew what Chad meant, but I wanted him to elaborate. Something in me wanted him to clarify.
“How so? How do I move?”
“The same way a dancer would. Let me guess, classical ballet, and to move like it’s a part of you, you must have done it for a very long time.”
I was stunned. And impressed. “How do you guess?”
“My mother teaches ballet. She’s danced all her life. She teaches in Italy, in Verona, but she danced and studied here. She went to Julliard, taught for a while, and decided she wanted to do something different after she divorced my father.”
All so interesting. I kind of knew about his parents but had never given any thought to it. His father had remarried someone a little older than me. That wasn’t uncommon in those circles.
“Julliard,” I breathed and tamped down the memory of how badly I’d wanted to go there. At one time in my life, dancing was all I could think
about, and Julliard was a dream my heart had wanted.
He nodded. “So, am I right? Classical ballet?”
“Yes. You are correct. I danced for about fifteen years. I had to give it up when my father got sick. Couldn’t afford lessons anymore. It was worse after he died.”
He looked genuinely sad to hear that. “I’m sorry to hear.”
I offered a grateful smile. “Thank you. It seems like a lifetime ago. Anyway, I had to give it up. Journalism seemed like the more viable option for me.”
“You like that too.” I liked the way he stated things with surety and confidence, and that he was right.
“I do. I love it. I loved journalism and dancing. I think dancing was something I dreamed about doing because it allowed me to escape.”
“What were you trying to escape?” He looked me over with interest.
“Life.”
Dancing had been escapism for everything that went wrong in my life. I didn’t have the best upbringing. My parents had always been poor. They did their best, but it really was the limit. At one point, Dad got a good engineering job, and there was talk of buying a house in the suburbs. Mom was so excited. We loved our little apartment, but we all wanted more.
Mom talked about having a garden because there was only so much she could do with the little space we rented on the tenth floor of Windsor Estate.
But then Dad started getting sick. We didn’t know what it was at the time. We didn’t know how serious it would be. I was fourteen and didn’t really pay that much attention to anything.
Dad lost his job, and things started going downhill. I knew at the time I turned seventeen that Julliard wouldn’t happen because my parents wouldn’t be able to afford it. I got a job and everything, so I could pay for my dance classes, hoping I’d get a scholarship. However, that had been for nothing too.
It wasn’t enough.
It was then I started looking at other options and found journalism. It sparked creativity the same way my dancing did.
“What about you?”
“My gosh, she wants to know about me,” he mused, laughing.
“Well, you seem to know everything about me.”
“I know a lot, but not everything. The everything part is what I can’t wait to find out.”
Charming, very charming, and damn me, I was melting. Falling prey to the charm he oozed.
“I’m art,” he stated.
“What kind of art?”
“Drawing and painting, sculpting. Everything. I was always obsessed with it and decided to go into architecture because it allowed me to do everything. Build, design the ideas that came to my mind, and make them come to life.”
“Really?” He made it sound like he was creating life.
“Yeah. For me it’s like a life force. Creating something and making it unique.”
“I guess that’s why you’re on the project. That wasn’t me sneaking a question in, by the way. Just an observation.”
He smiled, and his eyes sparkled. “It’s why my father and brother need me on the project.”
It didn’t escape me that he’d made himself sound separate from what his father and brother wanted. It was evident in the way he talked and his explanation earlier.
I didn’t want to assume anything, but I sensed contention in the ranks. I also decided that he was probably telling me the truth. He had nothing to gain from this date, and he’d literally told me to write everything we’d discussed so far.
It showed openness.
I still had my reservations though. I couldn’t help that. Mom’s voice stayed in my mind, and I imagined she’d be livid if she knew I was on a date with the man who was about to turn her world upside down.
She would not like that one bit, and she’d most likely think I’d lost my mind.
“Don’t you want to be on the project?” I had to ask.
He smiled again. “Sneaking in another work-related question?”
“No, just another observation.”
“I loved the idea of building something new, but do I want to be on a project that could potentially cause a lot of pain and damage to people’s lives? Absolutely not.”
There, that was heart. That was the thing that gripped mine and opened me up to the interest I felt.
“You’re an Arnaud. It’s your family’s business. Are you seriously going to go against them?”
“No more questions, Billie.” He leaned in close and smiled. “Save it for tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
He sat back and gave me a devilishly handsome grin that accentuated the sharp angles and planes of his exotic high cheekbones.
“Billie. Like Billie Holiday?”
I nodded. It wasn’t the first time someone had asked me if I was named after the 1930’s jazz singer. “Yes. It was my father’s idea. Both my parents love her music.”
A smooth smile inched across his lips. “You like jazz? I love jazz.”
“I love jazz too.”
“Tell me more. More about you. Billie, like Billie Holiday.”
God, the man was too charming for his own good.
Okay. I could do this.
Unexpectedly, we started talking about music. And surprisingly, our conversation took off from there.
The hours flew by and suddenly, it was almost eleven.
Eleven. A mere drink had turned into close to three hours of a get-to-know-you session.
He accompanied me on the limo ride home, where we continued to talk. This time, he was telling me about Italy, and I hung on to every word.
When the car stopped outside my apartment, he rushed out to open the door for me.
He reached out to take my hand, helping me out of the car, but when I stepped out, he didn’t let go. He kept hold of my hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. The combo of my hand in his and him towering over me scattered my nerves and created heat all over my body.
“So, what’s the verdict?”
“What verdict?”
“Are you going to accept that you like me?”
I blinked at him several times. “No,” I lied.
He chuckled. “Knew you’d say that.”
“So, why’d you ask?” I teased.
“Wishful thinking. When do you think you’ll let me know?”
I thought up a game of my own. “At the end.”
He looked confused. “End of what, sweetheart?”
“Your game.”
He gave me a look of mischief. “You’ll tell me well before then.”
There was the confidence again.
“If you wish to believe that, then believe it.” I offered a cool smile.
“Pick you up at seven from here tomorrow. I’ll send the limo.”
No point arguing and telling him that I would rather have lunch or something more businesslike. “Okay.”
His eyes darkened in the mingle of the moonlight and the streetlights. The bright blue turned to a darker afternoon shade, reminding me of twilight. His stare paralyzed me, and I didn’t move away as he leaned in and pressed his lips to my cheek.
His nose brushed against mine as he moved his head, and my poor heart stilled within my chest.
I thought he was going to kiss me, and so help me God, I thought I would have let him, but he stepped back and grinned.
“Good night, Billie, like Billie Holiday.”
“Good night, Chad.”
He winked at me and got back in the car.
I knew that as I watched the car drive away, the next few days were going to be quite interesting indeed.
A heck of a lot more than I’d thought.
I’d probably opened Pandora’s box the other night at the press conference.
Chapter 6
Chad
Billie, like Billie Holiday.
It had been awhile since I’d found myself taken with a woman. A very long time. Years.
Not that I hadn’t dated or involved myself in any form of relationships.
Most of my relationships
were short lived. A few months here and there, and that was because I couldn’t quite capture the essence of that chemistry that made a relationship click.
I kind of didn’t know how. My parents weren’t exactly the best examples either.
Dad always had a woman on the side, and I watched Mom stay with him for years and suffer from the embarrassment of some family scandal. Dad cheating on her with his secretaries, Dad cheating on her with her friends, Dad cheating on her with her own sister.
Fuck.
It was fucked up, and I never, ever wanted to be the kind of man who treated my wife that way.
Patrick was just like Dad. He wasn’t married, and I doubted marriage was ever going to be in the picture for him either, with the way he bounced from one woman to the next.
People assumed I was like them because I happened to have the same blood, but I wasn’t. Not by a long shot. And despite the way the media took my jovial personality to mean I was some billionaire playboy, I was anything but.
I doubted that Billie, like Billie Holiday, would have had any interest in me if she thought that was what I was like.
I’d seen the interest in her eyes, and last night, when she’d told me she’d tell me at the end, that chemistry I craved had rippled from her in waves.
I couldn’t get her out of my head. I’d thought about her all damn night and then some.
That some was now. When I should be prepping to face the wolves.
Dad and Patrick.
Dad messaged this morning before I arrived, requesting my presence for a meeting at nine thirty.
I went to my office first to think.
The stack of paperwork containing all the details for the project was to the left of my computer.
I’d managed to look through the thing yesterday but not fully. There was a lot to go through. All stuff I should have been given at least a few weeks ago. The info could have been faxed over to me while I was still in Paris. Then I could have gone over it. I would have for damn certain still come to the conclusion that it was all wrong, but at least I would have known.
Yesterday had been awful, and I knew I’d sown the seeds for Dad giving Patrick the company.
He’d fucking give him the whole damn business, and I’d be left with my 33.3% voting rights. I could imagine it now. I’d have to invoke the contractual disagreement clause every time Patrick and I disagreed. We’d be like a jury.
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