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

by Talia Hunter

  She shook her head. “You’re crazy.”

  “Am I? You’re wearing bacon.”

  She gave a huffing guffaw of a laugh that triggered his own laughter. And they were still chuckling when the limo pulled up at the conference center.

  But the moment they walked into the ballroom together, arm in arm, all heads turned to look at them. It felt like a scene from an old Western, when an infamous gunslinger walks into a saloon making the noise instantly cease and everyone stare.

  Meghan froze, her hand jerking his arm. Her eyes were wide, gazing at the upturned faces. The entrance to the ballroom was raised, and the sea of people they were gazing down on all wore period costume. It was an ocean of froth and frills. An endless expanse of wigs, cleavage, lace, and skirts.

  “They’re staring,” she said, putting her mouth close to his ear so he could hear her over the music.

  “They’re all wishing they’d thought of wearing a meat dress,” he replied around his cigar.

  She squeezed his arm. “Either that, or they’re wondering how much you charge for a line of coke.” If he hadn’t known her so well, he might not have caught the quaver in her tone. As it was, he took the cigar out of his mouth so he could give her a reassuring smile. “You look gorgeous,” he said. “And delicious. Come on, let’s get a drink.”

  He led her down the steps onto the ballroom floor where they both took glasses of champagne from the tray offered by a waiter. The theme of the party obviously hadn’t included the music, because there was a DJ booth in the corner, and the DJ was playing Get Into The Groove by Madonna.

  The crowd was tightly packed, so Jackson took Meghan’s hand. “This way.”

  He led her to the bar on the other side of the room and looked around for the people he’d be meeting with. It was early, and there was no sign of them yet.

  “Want to dance, Lady Gaga?” he asked.

  “Sure.” She drained her glass of champagne and they left their glasses on the bar.

  When they got to the dance floor, the music had changed to the latest Ariana Grande song. He would have preferred a slow song to pull her close, but watching her dance was good too. She had a sinuous way of moving, and great natural rhythm. And those legs of hers were incredible. It was a crime against nature for her to keep them hidden in jeans. Although, come to think of it, her butt had looked delectable in her faded Levis. And if he had to choose between getting to admire her legs or her butt—

  Meghan leaned forward, mid-groove. “What are you thinking about?” she asked over the music. “You look so serious.”

  “A difficult business decision.” The music changed to a slower song, giving him the perfect opportunity to move closer and put his hands on her waist. “You know me, always contemplating the serious issues.”

  Meghan froze. Her body went rigid and he leaned back to look at her face. The color was draining from it and she wore a look of shock.

  “You okay?” He dropped his hands. “What is it?”

  “This song.” Her voice was choked.

  Jackson frowned as a male singer started crooning. It wasn’t anyone he recognized, but the tune was catchy. “What about the song?”

  “I can’t believe it.” Her fists clenched. “That despicable slimeball rat-fink bastard piece of shit.”

  “You know the guy who sings this?”

  “I have to talk to the DJ.” She whirled and stalked to the DJ booth, pushing through the crowd to get there. He followed, and saw her motion the DJ to lean over his equipment and tug his headphones off. She yelled a question over the music, but Jackson couldn’t make out what she said, or the DJ’s answer. He moved closer to hear her next question.

  “You don’t know his name?” Meghan shouted.

  “Some new guy.” The DJ yelled back. “Debut single, out today.”

  “Is it charting?”

  The DJ shrugged. “Hot off the presses. You like it?”

  Meghan stepped back, shaking her head so hard that her long, blonde Lady Gaga hair flew around her head. Then she spun to face Jackson. Her eyes glistened. “I can’t… I just…” She dragged in a breath. “I’m sorry, Jackson. I know I’m letting you down, but I need to get out of here. If I stay I’m going to punch somebody.”

  He caught her arm, frowning at the way she was trembling. “What’s wrong?”

  “Honestly, I can’t talk about it yet. I’m too damn angry.”

  Her cheeks were flushed. She looked like she was about to explode.

  “I’ll take you home,” said Jackson, leading her toward the door.

  “No.” She tugged out of his grip away from him. “Go and have your meeting. I don’t want to ruin this for you any more than I already have. I’ll try and cool off, and see you at your place later.”

  He grabbed her arm again before she could stalk away. “Wait. I’ll have the limo take you home.”

  “You don’t need to—”

  “You’re not leaving alone. I need to know you’ll be safe.”

  “Fine.” She took off toward the door, pulling him along with him as she wove through the crowd.

  He wanted to question her further, to get to the bottom of what had made her so mad, but that wouldn’t help her. It was clear she needed to be alone, to rage or shout or cry. Instead of pulling her into his arms and demanding to know what was wrong, he put her in the limo and instructed his driver to take Meghan home, then come back for him. “I won’t be long,” he told her. “You’ll be okay until I get there?”

  “That depends.” She gave him a tight smile. “Got any booze at your place, and do you mind if I drink it?”

  “The tall cabinet in the living room.”

  “Thanks. And sorry again for this. Not a great start to our arrangement, huh?”

  “Don’t worry about that. I’ll join you as soon as I can.”

  Jackson tried to push the puzzle of what had upset Meghan so much out of his mind while he had his meeting, which lasted almost two hours in spite of his efforts to hurry it along. But on his way home later, he looked the song up on his phone. The singer was a guy named Trey Finnegan, and this was his first single, released today. An album would be coming out in September.

  If this Trey character had hurt Meghan, Jackson would… He took a deep breath, forcing his fists to unclench. He was getting ahead of himself. First he needed to make sure Meghan was alright. Then he’d have vengeful thoughts about the guy who’d hurt her.

  When he arrived, Jackson strode into the house in such a hurry, he let the door slam loudly behind him. But in the living room, he found Meghan fast asleep on the couch, snoring softly. She was still in her meat dress, but barefoot now, with her discarded shoes and wig lying on the floor. A half-empty bottle of whiskey and a fully-empty tub of chocolate chip ice cream sat on the coffee table. The door’s slam hadn’t woken her.

  “You went straight for the hard stuff,” he murmured, bending to brush her hair from her face and wrinkling his nose at the whiskey fumes on her breath. “That’s just like you. No half measures.”

  She gave a little grunt, snuggled into the couch, and started snoring louder.

  Jackson fetched a blanket and drew it over her. He took the whisky bottle and ice cream tub away, replacing them with a large glass of water and some pain killers for when she woke up. Then he bent and kissed her forehead.

  “Sleep tight,” he whispered. “Tell me about the slimeball rat fink bastard in the morning.”

  Nine

  Meghan massaged her temples as she staggered into the kitchen. While she was asleep, a ravenous rodent had crawled in through her ear and chewed on her brain. There was no other explanation for the level of pain behind her eyes.

  And the song in her head? It sounded like a death metal band improvising songs for the musical Stomp.

  “Morning, sunshine.” Jackson was at the coffee machine, pouring water into the contraption. Loudly. In this terrible post-rodent-gnawing world, even the sound of water splashing was enough to make her wince.r />
  Not to mention that she looked like crap. The bathroom mirror had confirmed this sad fact, but Meghan hadn’t been able to do anything more to remedy it than stand under the shower and groan. At least she’d been able to change into clothing that didn’t resemble any food items.

  “Morning,” she croaked, although what she really wanted to do was pull a paper bag over her head and sob quietly in the corner.

  “You weren’t uncomfortable on the couch?” he asked.

  “I slept like the dead.” She leaned against the breakfast bar and considered pressing her forehead against the cool marble. “Maybe I am dead. No, scratch that, I wouldn’t feel this bad if I were dead. Still, I’m not sure I’m entirely alive.”

  “Coffee?”

  “Oh my God. I’d promise you my first born child for a cup. And my last born. And Jason Bourne, if you wanted him.” She collapsed onto one of the breakfast bar stools.

  “I think that’s a yes.” He hit a button and the sound of beans grinding made her wince even harder. But the coffee he handed her was pure nectar, and every sip sent life surging through her body and made her brain ache a little less.

  “That’s so good.” This time her groan was one of pleasure. She put both hands around the cup, hanging onto it as though she were dangling over a hellish pit and the cup was her only lifeline. Which in a way it was. “Last night’s solo whisky session? Worst. Idea. EVER.”

  “I’ll make eggs,” said Jackson. “You’ll feel better once you’ve eaten.”

  “You can cook?”

  He shot her an offended look. “Of course. They’re eggs. Last I checked, I didn’t need a Michelin star to throw them in a pan.”

  “Sorry. I just thought, seeing as you have a chef…”

  “You like your eggs fried?” He bent to take a pan out of the cupboard. “By the way, the correct answer to that question is yes, because that’s the only type I know how to make.”

  The way she was feeling, she wouldn’t have thought it would be physically possible to manage a grin. But she surprised herself. And it didn’t even hurt. Much.

  “Want bacon?” he asked, pulling some out of the fridge.

  She screwed up her nose. “Are you trying to remind me of last night?”

  “The worse the hangover, the greasier the food required to fix it. That’s a proven fact, and you can’t argue with science.” He laid several rashers into the pan.

  Meghan sighed. “Listen, I’m sorry about bailing out on you last night and breaking our agreement.”

  “I was worried about you.” He poked the rashers with a pair of tongs as they started to spit. “You’re okay?”

  “I’m mad as hell, and my sweat smells like whisky, so the answer to that question really depends on your definition of ‘okay’.”

  “It was the song the DJ was playing, wasn’t it? Your ex-boyfriend is the singer?”

  “It’s my song.” The words came out too loud and too angry. She softened her voice. “I wrote that song. I was going to sing it on my first album when I got a record deal. He stole it from me, and now it’s his hit single and the title track to his new album. He didn’t even ask if he could use it. And if he had asked me, I would have told him exactly where and how far he could shove it.”

  Jackson was frowning, tongs in hand, ignoring the bacon which was starting to crisp. “You were right. He’s a despicable slimeball rat-fink bastard piece of shit.”

  “Exactly. And you want to know why we broke up? He had sex with my agent. And now she represents him instead of me, and she got him a record deal, and he has a hit single with my song.” She dragged in a deep breath. “And if you know any assassins who are prepared to work for free, I can give them an address.”

  “Sue him. I’ll pay for a lawyer.”

  “I don’t have any proof it was my song. I was in such a hurry to never see him again that I left behind all the notebooks I wrote my songs in.” She drank the last of her coffee and put her cup on the counter with a sigh. If she kept dwelling over what Trey did, she’d never have any peace. “He’s probably burned the evidence by now. Besides, I’m still in a hurry to never see him again. I’d rather let him keep the song than have to deal with him.”

  Jackson turned off the stove and took the pan off the element. Then he came around to her side of the breakfast bar. As she swiveled her chair to face him, he reached out and stroked her cheek. “He stole your success.”

  She nodded, a lump forming in her throat. His eyes were tender and his hand gentle. If anybody understand how low she felt about what Trey had done, Jackson did.

  “And now you’re gone, he can’t steal any more of your songs,” murmured Jackson. “So, the rest of his songs will be terrible, and his album will flop, and all the reviews will say what a shame it was that such a promising young talent turned into a one-hit-wonder.”

  Meghan managed a half-smile. That was a comforting idea.

  “He’ll always know he only got his five minutes in the sun because of your talent,” continued Jackson. “He’ll know that he didn’t deserve it, and it’ll eat away at his self-esteem until he starts lashing out at everyone who cares about him, driving them away. After a while, he’ll turn to drink and drugs, and he’ll go downhill fast, until he dies a sad and lonely death. And the only person who’ll turn up to his funeral will be the washed-up, bitter agent who tragically lost her career after his album failed so dismally.”

  Meghan laughed, leaning her cheek into his hand. “You’re making me feel a lot better than the whisky and ice cream did.” Truth was, the lump in her throat had disappeared as quickly as it had formed. Now her heart was busy picking up its pace, and her hangover had faded into the background.

  Jackson was wearing a casual shirt that did nothing to hide the width and strength of his chest. His eyes were warm with sympathy and his lips looked enticingly soft. He’d obviously just showered and shaved, and his cologne was even better than the smell of coffee and bacon in the air. With him standing so close, it was easy to forget about everything but the feel of his palm on her skin.

  “All he’s done is proven that your songs are good enough to be hits,” Jackson said softly. “It’s only a matter of time before your talent is recognized. Your career is going to be long and brilliant, and soon you won’t even remember his name.”

  His face drifted closer and his hand stroked from her cheek down to her arm.

  “Whose name?” she whispered.

  Then his lips were on hers. She tasted the coffee on his breath and leaned forward into him, wanting him. He moved closer to deepen their kiss. His tongue met hers and the way it felt made her whole body shiver.

  But they weren’t close enough. She found her feet, pushing up from the stool, sliding her hands behind his waist. He tugged her up even further, his arms around her, pulling her body against his.

  She felt his hardness, his need for her, and an answering need flooded through her. Maybe this hadn’t been part of her plan, but it felt too good to stop. Besides, the plan didn’t start until Monday. Until then, she could let herself succumb to temptation.

  Pushing up his shirt, she ran her hands over the hot skin of his back. Too many clothes. She needed to put her legs around him, to feel him between her thighs. Could she undo his—?

  Footsteps sounded in the doorway. Jackson let her go. As he stepped back, she felt the loss of his body like one of her own limbs being wrenched away.

  “Oh.” It was Selena’s voice. “I’m sorry, Mr. Brent. In future, I’ll knock before I come into the kitchen.”

  Jackson’s eyes were still on hers and so dark with lust they were setting her on fire. “It’s alright, Selena.” He dragged his gaze to his housekeeper, and it was only then that Meghan could let out her breath and sag onto the stool.

  Selena stepped back to the door, then hesitated, looking at the frying pan. The bacon had shriveled and was probably cold by now. “Would you like some help cooking breakfast?” she asked.

  “I’ve got it.” J
ackson waved her away. “Thank you.”

  He went back to the stove and turned the element on. “I need to leave soon anyway,” he said, glancing at Meghan. “My first meeting’s at nine.”

  “That’s okay.” She laughed a little shakily. “I probably tasted like old whisky.”

  “More like coffee.” His lips quirked. “Well, okay, there was a hint of whisky too. You tasted like an Irish Coffee.”

  She flushed. “I overdid the sorrow drowning last night, but I’ll make it up to you at tonight’s party. No more nasty surprises. Tonight will be all about you and whatever business stuff you need to do.”

  He moved the bacon to one side of the pan and cracked in the eggs. “Tonight, I’m meeting with the telco I told you about. This is an important meeting, and your job will be to butter up his pregnant wife.”

  “Got it.”

  “It’s formal wear, and Freya will help you organize a dress. Otherwise, you’ll be by yourself again today, I’m afraid. Will you be okay spending another day in the music studio?”

  “Sure.” She tried not to wish he wasn’t going to be out all day. “I’m getting lots of songs written, though it’s weird being there by myself. I’m used to the energy of a band.”

  “You’re lonely?”

  She shook her head, laughing at herself. A couple of days ago she was sleeping in her car, and now she was whimpering about not having company for a few hours? “Ignore what I just said. I get to spend all day in the best studio in the world. I’m not going to complain about a thing.”

  “I could see if I can find you somebody to work with.” He got out a plate and slid the eggs and bacon onto it.

  “Or you could come home early and play with me.” She flushed, hearing how suggestive her words sounded. “I mean, you could play while I sing.” She cleared her throat. “Anyway, what are you doing today?”

  “An endless number of meetings. A lot of company heads are here for the conference, and Freya’s been dealing with a logistical nightmare trying to fit more meetings in than there are hours in the day.”

  He put the plate of eggs and bacon in front of her, and she frowned. “Is it all for me? You’re not having any?”