Rocking The Billionaire (A Rich List Romantic Comedy Book 1)

by Talia Hunter

  When she froze in place, Jackson took her arm to lead her to the table, then pulled a chair out for her to sit down.

  It was such an old-fashioned courtesy, she couldn’t remember the last time a man had pulled her chair out. Maybe it was more common in his circles. Another reminder of how different they were, as if she needed it, faced with his multi-million-dollar view.

  All she could hear in her head was saxophones. Pink Floyd, again. Us And Them was a great song, but it was a shame Jackson kept inspiring it.

  “Do you like pork?” he asked.

  “Um. Sure.” She swallowed, staring back out at the harbor. Up here, he really was on top of the world. Like a king surveying the land he’d conquered.

  “Nice, isn’t it?” He nodded at the view. The way it had transfixed her must have been obvious.

  “Gorgeous. And a little unsettling.”

  He frowned, but before he could ask her to clarify, his chef came out with platters of pork, potatoes, and vegetables. The woman exchanged jokes with Jackson as she laid the food on the table, so at least they had a friendly relationship. The jokes made the whole thing slightly less weird.

  “You don’t see anyone from school anymore?” Meghan asked after the chef had gone back inside. Then she took a bite of her food and groaned with her mouth full. “Mmm, that’s good.”

  “I used to keep in touch with a few people,” he said. “Not for a while.”

  “What about your brother?” It felt a little hypocritical to ask, seeing as Jackson’s brother wasn’t exactly her favorite person. And she didn’t want Jackson to get the wrong idea and think she still had a thing for him. “Never mind.” She waved her fork as though she could brush away the question. “Forget I asked.”

  Jackson frowned. “My brother is married and lives in Dover Heights. He’s employed in my company.”

  That was surprising. At school, his brother had been more brawn than brains. “What does he do?”

  “Not much.” Jackson pressed his lips together. Most people probably wouldn’t have caught the gesture, but she remembered him well enough to pick up on the things he didn’t want to say.

  “But you pay Peter a salary anyway? And I bet he resents you for it. He’s probably angry you’ve done so well, when he was the one your father fawned over.”

  Jackson raised his eyebrows. “Was that a guess? I’m impressed.”

  “I remember what he was like. Besides, you should know I’m not just a pretty face.” She swallowed another gulp of wine and shot him a smirk. Now that she’d got over her shock at the view from his balcony, the wine was helping her relax. Truth was, she was lightheaded from it already. Probably because it had been a long day full of shocks, and she’d slept badly for the last few nights, too uncomfortable on her passenger seat to get the rest she needed. Alcohol always hit her harder when she was exhausted.

  “I know exactly how pretty you are. And how smart.”

  Feeling her face heat, she searched for a change of subject. “Do you know what happened to Mikey?” she asked, thinking of the drummer in their high school band.

  “Last I spoke to him, he was heading to New Zealand to get married.”

  “They got hitched? Good for him. Oh, and did you hear about Anne?”

  They swapped stories about old friends and classmates while they ate, and when they’d finished and the chef had cleared their plates and topped up their wine glasses, she sat back with a sigh of contentment.

  “That was the best meal I’ve had in forever,” she said.

  He studied her without speaking for a moment, then asked, “Have you been thinking about my offer?”

  “Of course. But I’m not sure about dressing up in period costume.”

  He leaned close enough that her entire body tingled. “If it’ll help you decide, I’m prepared to go to two thousand dollars.”

  “You don’t need to offer me more money. It’s not about that.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “Nothing. I’ll go with you to the costume party, at least. I just…” She hesitated, wondering whether she should tell him what she was feeling. If it weren’t for the wine, she probably wouldn’t even admit it out loud to herself, let alone the gorgeous squillionaire who kept trying to throw his money at her.

  She picked up her wine and drained it. What the hell? Better to talk about it and get it in the open than have all these feelings fighting inside her.

  “I’m a good singer,” she said flatly.

  “You’re a fantastic singer.”

  She made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “I was born with a distinctive voice and a good ear. Sure, I’ve had lessons, practiced, and worked hard. But still, that talent was given to me.”

  The candlelight was reflected in his dark eyes, bringing a hint of warmth to their black depths. That warmth kept the words coming, in spite of the way they wanted to catch in her throat.

  “So, I started with a big advantage in life,” she said. “Yet here I am, twenty-nine years old and so broke I was sleeping in my car.”

  He started to say something, but she touched his hand to stop him. The impulsive gesture felt intimate, like a lover’s caress.

  Before she could pull her hand back, he captured it, trapping it in his warm grip. Probably a bad move to let him keep it, but now he had it, she didn’t want to take it back. Especially because it felt so good when his thumb stroked her skin.

  “I’ve made a series of bad decisions that have led to where I am today.” She kept her tone matter-of-fact so he wouldn’t think she was whining, or feeling sorry for herself. “I’m not making excuses, and I can’t blame my lousy agents or my ex-boyfriend, because I’m the one who trusted the wrong people. And I think deep down, the reason I’m hesitating about taking your money is that from now on, I need to make better decisions and do what’s right for me. And I’m not sure being around all this is a good idea.”

  She motioned her head around, indicating his mansion with its ridiculously amazing view. He was included in the motion. The more time she spent with him, the more attracted to him she was. Another distraction from getting her life back on track.

  His brow creased. “What is it about my house that makes you uncomfortable?”

  “It’s so different from real life, it feels wrong.” She let out a breath, frustrated by not being able to find better words to describe how she felt. “It’s like how I write songs. A feeling comes to me, and there’s a kind of melody in it. An idea wrapped up in a simple tune. I take that piece of music, and the feeling, and build on it until I have an entire song with verses, a chorus, and lyrics. But if the starting point isn’t right, if that first, simple melody is no good, then it doesn’t matter how many guitar solos I add, or how great the lyrics are. It’ll never be any good.”

  His frown deepened. “You’re saying my house is like a bad song?”

  “I’m saying it’s distracting. Your song is yours, and it’s loud. How can I write my own music when all I can hear is this?” She waved her free hand at their surroundings. Was she making any sense at all? Probably not, but there was no changing the metaphor now. Not when she was already neck deep in her music analogy. “What I’m saying is, I need to stop adding guitar solos and find my own melody.” She gave her head a little shake. “I can’t believe at twenty-nine I’m still figuring out what kind of tune that is.”

  His lips twitched. “So my house is a guitar solo. That’s the first time anybody’s described it like that.”

  “I know, the whole music metaphor got away from me. But you know what I mean?” She tugged her hand out from under his. He was on the opposite side of the small table, but they were both leaning in, so his face was close. The light from the candle made him all dark angles and hard edges.

  Now his hand was free, he moved it up to her face instead, brushing his fingers over her cheek. “There’s one thing I know,” he murmured. His hand moved under her curtain of dreadlocks and found the back of her neck. Then his lips we
re on hers.

  He kissed like he was a flame and she was his fuel. His mouth was hot and demanding, his tongue not just claiming hers, but owning it. Her world narrowed to the feel of his lips, the roughness of his chin. The taste of his breath. And oh God, that cologne.

  When he drew back a little, she realized her heart was trying to break free of her chest, her body was pressed forward as though she were trying to force her way through the table, and her thighs were clenched against a rush of lust so intense it made her dizzy.

  “The candle.” He moved back to blow it out. “It was about to set your hair alight.”

  She dragged in her breath, running her tongue across her lips and tasting him there. What just happened? Hadn’t she been explaining how she couldn’t let herself be distracted?

  “I’m sorry,” she managed, forcing herself to stand up, though her legs were wobbly. “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

  He cocked his head. “Another guitar solo drowning you out?”

  “More like a full-scale orchestra with kettle drums.”

  He nodded, like he magically understood what she was saying. Kind of a miracle, when she only half got it herself.

  “You don’t have to leave. We could have desert and coffee.” His voice was so composed, it was like their kiss hadn’t affected him at all. If her lips weren’t still reliving every glorious moment of it, she might think she’d imagined it.

  She took a step back. “Thank you, but I’m really tired. I should go and get some sleep.”

  He gave her a cocky smile that was lifted in one corner. It seemed to say he’d already made up his mind to possess her, and if she hadn’t figured out she was his yet, she was being slow in the uptake.

  “Sweet dreams,” he murmured.

  Only two words, but they were filled with a world of suggestion.

  Six

  The next morning, Jackson was getting dressed after his shower when he heard dishes clatter in the kitchen. Checking the time, he saw it was too early for his housekeeper. When he opened his bedroom door, he caught a delicious smell. Was that butter sizzling in a hot pan?

  He finished pulling on his T-shirt and padded barefoot into the kitchen. Meghan was at the stove with her back to him. She was also barefoot, wearing jeans and a black shirt, and humming to herself as she flipped pancakes.

  Pausing in the door for a moment, he admired her runner’s build. Her long dreadlocks were tied up into a complicated knot that showed off the long, elegant line of her neck. She swayed slightly as she hummed, moving in time to a tune he wasn’t sure he knew. Perhaps one she’d made up? When he’d known her, she’d always been writing songs.

  “Hey,” he said.

  She glanced over her shoulder. “Morning. I hope you don’t mind me invading your kitchen and raiding your fridge, but I thought you might like a cooked breakfast.”

  “I thought you were a musician,” he said in a mock stern tone. “Do you know what time it is? You’re breaking every stereotype in the book being up this early.”

  “I know, but the bed was really soft and I’m not used to it. I dreamed I was in a padded coffin. Everybody thought I was dead, and I was too comfortable to tell them I wasn’t. I was just going to let them bury me, can you believe it? In my dream, it was better to be buried alive than to have to get up.”

  He slid onto a stool at the breakfast bar. “That’s why you got up?”

  “Wouldn’t you?” She turned, holding a plate of steaming pancakes. “Tell me you like a big breakfast.”

  “I usually just have coffee.”

  “Really?” She put the plate down in front of him and handed him the syrup. “But all the best foods are breakfast foods, like yogurt, and bananas, and pancakes. I’d rather miss any other meal but breakfast.”

  “The pancakes smell good.” He poured a generous amount of syrup over them and took a bite. “And they taste as good as they smell.”

  She put another plate down and took the stool next to his. “If you don’t bother with breakfast, does that mean you have a big lunch?”

  “If I’m home, Selina fixes me a sandwich.”

  “Your housekeeper, right? I met her yesterday.”

  He nodded. “My chef only cooks my evening meal, unless I have guests.”

  She swallowed a bite of pancake, her eyebrows raised. “How many women does it take to look after you?”

  “Only three. No, wait. One of the gardeners is a woman, too. Make that four women and two men. Plus my security guards and driver.”

  “I didn’t realize you were so high maintenance.”

  “With people to take care of everything else, I’m free to concentrate on work.” He put his knife and fork down and got up. “You want coffee?”

  “Sounds great.”

  While he was prepping the coffee machine, Selina came in. His housekeeper had been wiping her hands on the apron tied around her ample waist, but she stopped abruptly when she saw them.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Brent. I didn’t know you and your guest were in here.” Like Freya, Selina always called him Mr. Brent, though he’d suggested numerous times that she call him Jackson.

  “You want to join us for pancakes?” asked Meghan, hooking her thumb at the feast on the breakfast bar.

  “Oh, no.” Selina’s brow creased at the shocking suggestion. “Thank you, but I’m afraid I have work to do.”

  “You sure?” Meghan asked. “There’s plenty. And breakfast’s the best meal of the day, don’t you think?”

  “Absolutely,” said Selina with a polite smile. “Maybe next time. Thank you.”

  His housekeeper disappeared in the direction of the laundry, and Meghan gave Jackson a sideways look. “You must be a whip cracker if she wouldn’t even take a break for pancakes.”

  “Hey, I’m not a bad boss. I let her take a five minute break every fourteen hours or so. Ten minutes if it’s her birthday.”

  Meghan pointed her fork at him. “Good thing my mother isn’t here or she’d think you were serious. She’d call Amnesty International and make plans to smuggle that poor woman out of here.”

  “Does your mother still feed stray cats?” he asked with a smile, remembering all the times Meghan would complain that the cats got better meals than she did.

  “Stray cats, the neighbor’s dog, wild birds, mice, rats, and the occasional possum. She’s more short-sighted than ever, and doesn’t realize how many creatures she’s actually feeding.”

  Jackson laughed. “You know the only reason I stayed with the band was because of those cheese pastry things she used to make us when we practiced at your place?”

  That was a bare-faced lie. He’d fallen so hard for the lead singer, it would never have crossed his mind to quit the band, cheese snacks or not. Back then, Meghan had worn a school uniform instead of a leather jacket, but her sense of humor hadn’t changed.

  Meghan gave a wistful sigh. “I miss those so much.”

  “These pancakes are good too,” he said with his mouth full.

  “Cooking breakfast was the least I could do.” She met his gaze with her clear blue eyes. She hadn’t lined them with black makeup this morning, but they were still arresting. They still captured and held him effortlessly. With those eyes, she could make him a prisoner any time she liked.

  “I’m going to accept your offer,” she said, her tone becoming formal. “I don’t need a trial run. You’ve been very generous, and I’d be crazy to turn it down.”

  “Good.” As this was a short-term business relationship, there was no reason to feel as pleased as he did. He kept his tone level and his expression bland by focusing on his breakfast rather than on her. “I’ll need to work late today, but I’ll pick you up at seven for the costume party.”

  “You’ll be at work all day?”

  Did she sound disappointed? Or was that wishful thinking?

  “Freya will be here,” he said. “She’ll make sure you have everything you need.”

  “Is it okay if I use your stud
io today? This could be a great chance to record some songs. If you won’t need me for anything during the day, that is.”

  “Of course. The house is yours. Only my office is off limits.”

  “Where’s your office?”

  The question sounded innocent, but it gave him an uncomfortable feeling. The last thing he wanted in his head was Derrick’s voice of paranoia, but he still heard it whispering to him.

  “The room with the locked door.”

  “I’m confused. If your office is here, where are you going today?”

  Another innocent question, and if it weren’t for Derek, he wouldn’t have felt another twinge of suspicion. Damn his operations manager and his grudge against women.

  “I have an office here, and one in town. Because I have meetings scheduled, going in will be easier.” He poured a little more syrup on his pancakes. “Don’t forget you’ll need to spend some time trying on costumes for tonight. Freya will help.”

  She grimaced. “Tonight will be the first time I’ll ever be dressed as a lady. With luck, it’ll also be the last.”

  With such distaste in her tone, how could he resist teasing her?

  “I’m looking forward to seeing you in long skirts and petticoats. And don’t forget to practice your curtsey, Lady Paige. If you’re going to stay in character, you’ll need to be demure.”

  He suppressed a grin at her expression. The party’s organizers could hardly have picked a theme less suited to Meghan’s personality. But wasn’t that the point of wearing a costume?

  “Laugh all you like.” She arched her eyebrows. “It won’t be so funny when you have to struggle into a frock coat and those skin-tight leggings they used to wear back then. Lord Brent won’t look any less ridiculous than Lady Paige.” Now it was her turn to smirk. “In fact, the more I think about it, the more I’m looking forward to it. Gentlemen wore lots of frills, didn’t they? I can hardly wait to see you in a shirt with a lacy collar. You’re going to look adorable.”