Billionaires In Love (Vol. 2): 5 Books Billionaire Romance Bundle

by Glenna Sinclair

  When Devon climbed into the driver’s seat of the SUV, looking no worse for wear than before, I gaped at him.

  “What?” he asked, putting the vehicle in drive and pulling away from the herd of people still snapping photos.

  “Is that what it’s like to be you?” I asked. “Is it like that all the time?”

  “They were pretty eager today,” Devon said after giving it some thought. “It’s probably because I’ve been out of sight for a while. No one’s gotten a photo since the breakup. Well, except for that fine one you snapped in the hotel room in Dallas.”

  I shook my head. “Eager is how you would describe that? Devon, that was an assault.”

  He patted my hand. “You’ll get used to it.”

  “I don’t want to get used to it. I hated that. Do you seriously have to deal with them all the time?”

  “Not all the time,” he said. “I can sneak around a little bit, but once they get wind of me, I get followed for the majority of the outing.” He shrugged. “It’s better when it’s fans instead of paparazzi. The fans are, at least, genuinely happy to see you. Makes me feel fulfilled.”

  “What was with all the offensive questions?” I asked. “That isn’t right. Didn’t you hear what they were asking?”

  “I’ve learned to tune it out.” We turned off of a main strip and the land started to get a little hillier, wilder. It was hard to believe that there was still space for undeveloped land in this part of the most populous state. It was gorgeous—tangles of trees and rocky outcroppings.

  “They were asking if we were fucking, for your information,” I said.

  “They say offensive shit like that all the time,” he said without so much as flinching. “What they’re looking for is a reaction shot. The worse you look, or the weirder, the more money they’ll get for the photo.”

  “Why? Don’t people want to see you happy and looking good? Isn’t that interesting for them?”

  “Not interesting enough.” The houses we were passing by were enormous. How in the world did people need so much space? “I always look good in movies, on red carpets, at appearances. People pay to see the unpolished side of me. Does he look drunk? Perfect. Does he look pissed? Perfect. Does he look like he doesn’t know where he is? Perfect. Then they can spin whatever clickbait headline they want to online and earn ad revenue.”

  “That sounds…awful,” I said. “Why would you put yourself through it?”

  “It’s not so bad,” he reasoned. “Everyone has to make a living. One time, the paparazzi caught me…um…adjusting myself.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “Headline: ‘Hollywood’s Highest-Paid Hero a Public Masturbator.’”

  “Jesus.”

  Devon laughed. “Yep. Took Chaz a long time to bury that one. I had to make all these friendly appearances, my hands firmly glued at my sides, until my slate was wiped clean. I don’t even adjust myself in private anymore. I’m rid of that habit.”

  “Devon, that’s not funny. That’s awful.”

  “You learn to laugh about it,” he said. “There’s no use crying. Poor little rich boy, right?”

  I grimaced. “I guess I didn’t really understand the kinds of things you go through on a daily basis.”

  “Well, I’m rewarded for them,” Devon said. “I have enough money for whatever I want, and I make people happy, one way or another.”

  “It’s a high price to pay.”

  “I’m used to it. We’re nearly there.”

  I didn’t know what to expect when it came to the place where he lived, but when we drove up the winding path to Devon’s house and it finally came into view, I laughed, certain I was being tricked.

  “What’s funny?” he asked me, confused.

  “This isn’t your house,” I scoffed. I was so sure that it was an elaborate prank, Devon driving me out to some museum or historically significant castle before having a laugh and returning to some more conventional mansion. This place was palatial, perched on bluffs carefully manicured to look wild and windswept, overlooking a canyon that drew my eye to the coast. The view was gorgeous, but the house was overwhelmingly beautiful. It was too fancy to live in. I was sure of it.

  “This is my house,” he said, pulling just short of the multi-car garage and putting the SUV into park.

  “Nobody’s allowed to live here,” I said. “You can’t fool me, Devon. This isn’t a house. It’s a…a chateau. I don’t know.”

  “Can I show you around and at least try to convince you I actually live here?”

  I followed him out of the car, still smiling and shaking my head, marveling at the lengths he went through to fool me as he fit a key into the front door and opened it.

  “I bet you know the guy who owns this place, and he lent you his keys so you could fool me into thinking you live here.”

  I wandered inside, ready to enjoy the sights before Devon told me the truth.

  “Here’s the kitchen,” he was saying, still looking at me like I was a lunatic. “I don’t do a ton of cooking, but I always meant to learn so I could do it in my downtime. Like when I’m retired. If that’s a possibility. Most people in this business never retire.”

  I explored freely, opening cabinets and drawers and doors. “Ooh, cleaning supplies. For your small army of maids?”

  “I like to clean myself,” he said. “It’s like meditation for me. And I don’t like anyone doing my dirty laundry for me. That’s how secrets get out.”

  “Aha.” I didn’t believe this for one minute. “Continue the tour.”

  “You still don’t believe I live here?” he asked, laughing. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “It’s too big for just one person.”

  “Well, you’re here, now. It’s the perfect size.”

  It was finally starting to sink in that Devon lived in an actual museum. He had photos and memorabilia from his movies mounted on the walls, autographs of classic movie stars he must’ve collected since he was a boy, books on all topics, souvenir scripts bound in rich leather with gold lettering.

  His decor gave the appearance of a man cave, but there was something comforting about low-slung leather couches and chairs, thick carpeting mixed with wood floors, shelves and walls and nooks and crannies filled with things he loved.

  “Okay, this might be your house, but I don’t believe you actually clean it,” I said. “It’s huge! How could you possibly have time for it?”

  “One chore at a time,” he said. “It’s good exercise, too.”

  This was a fairy tale. I was living in a real, live fairy tale.

  We cooked side by side in that enormous kitchen, filled with gleaming new appliances. He knew more than he let on, though he entrusted me with some recipes.

  “You forget that I cooked for Nana full time,” I said. “I’m a hell of a cook, Devon. Well, for health foods. I’m pretty rusty on soul foods.”

  “Chaz will love you,” Devon said. “He’s always on me to eat healthier. He says no amount of gym time will unclog my arteries.”

  “He’s right.” The steam rose from a skillet atop a burner, and I jostled its contents around. We were going to have a sweet and spicy stir-fry. It was one of the dishes I could most consistently get Nana to eat. She loved colorful food, and it was packed with carrots and bell peppers and the like.

  Sitting down at the countertop and eating a dinner we prepared together felt normal. Like we were just two normal human beings existing in the same space. There wasn’t the added, uncomfortable dimension of a movie star and a pizza delivery girl trying to find common ground. It felt almost as if we were a couple who’d been together for a long time, comfortable with each other, cooking for each other.

  “I like this,” Devon said suddenly. “I mean, I wanted you to come out here with me, but I really, really like this.”

  “It’s like we’ve known each other for a long time, isn’t it?” I said wonderingly, enchanted that he was feeling the exact same thing I was.

  “Tha
t’s just what it is,” he said. “You’re my old lady, June Clark.”

  “Okay, old man.”

  When he took me upstairs to show me where all the “magic” happened, magic did happen. We knew exactly what the other liked, the right tempo to stroke, the right things to murmur, the right time to push each other right over the cliff’s edge, tumbling down the other side together, sinking into each other. We fell asleep side by side, wrapped around each other, and I felt true peace.

  This was my life, and for the first time, I was confident that it was going to turn out well.

  Chapter 10

  “What is this disaster, Devon? Goddammit!”

  I awoke suddenly to shouting, which sounded like it was emanating from the kitchen.

  “Don’t give me that bullshit, Devon. Who is she? Where is she?”

  I groaned as I stretched, wondering what was going on. I checked my phone. It was barely eight in the morning. Was this what life with a movie star entailed? Early morning shouting matches? The sun was barely up. I buried my head beneath two pillows and tried to go back to sleep.

  Devon’s responses had been calm enough that I couldn’t hear them from my vantage point, but whatever he was saying was growing increasingly louder.

  “Did I say you could fucking go up there?” he was demanding. “I swear to God, if you enjoy whatever it is that you buy with the money I pay you, you will stop right now.”

  I frowned at that—was Devon in some kind of trouble? And then the bedroom door burst open.

  “Wake up!” someone all but shrieked, and I’d finally had enough.

  “What the fuck is your problem?” I demanded, launching myself to an aggressive sitting position. “Do you know what time it is? I see you have a nice watch. Is it just for show? Did you never learn how to use it, idiot?”

  I was faced with Devon, who was grinning, and another man I’d never met before, whose mouth had dropped open to about his knees. He was handsome enough—if you were into hair gel and dubious tanning practices. But he was rude, and I was happy to have shocked him into silence with my diatribe.

  That’s when I realized I was naked, and giving both Devon and his guest quite the eyeful.

  I grabbed the covers around me and covered my face with a pillow once more—this time, with the sincere intent to smother myself and put myself out of my misery.

  “June, meet Chaz. Chaz, June,” Devon said, laughter in his voice. I was glad someone thought this was funny. I wanted to die.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, June,” Chaz said, and now I remembered his voice from the uncomfortable phone conversation I’d heard on the way back to Dallas from Hawaii.

  “Likewise,” I mumbled, my face still buried under the pillow.

  “Devon, may I please speak with you downstairs?” Chaz asked.

  “Why, certainly, Chaz,” Devon said, aping the polite tone his agent had adopted. “We’ll try and keep it down, June. Snooze it.”

  There was no way I was snoozing through this. No sleep for the mortified.

  The moment chatter resumed downstairs—at a much lower volume—I scrambled out of bed and into Devon’s T-shirt and boxers, the first items of clothing I found on the floor. Stealing across the thick carpet of the bedroom, I crept cautiously to the landing. I couldn’t see the kitchen from my vantage point, but I could hear what was going on down there.

  “If you’re going to bring someone new into the mix, you have to at least give me a head’s up so I can do some damage control,” Chaz was in the middle of saying.

  “There’s no need for damage control here,” Devon cut in.

  “Look at this and tell me there isn’t.” There was some faint clicking, like someone was working a phone or laptop.

  “That’s not a great picture of her,” Devon said after a long pause. I frowned. Not a good picture of who? I sat on the first stair and bent forward, my torso pressed against my lap, trying to see what they were looking at. No dice.

  “You’re not kidding, that’s not a great picture of her,” Chaz said. “Did you even read the headline? I like it even less. ‘Who’s the Rando Holding Hands with Devon Ray?’”

  “It could’ve been worse.”

  “It is worse,” Chaz shot back. “This is implying that you’ll hook up with anyone. It harms your brand. You’re supposed to be unattainable—every woman’s idea of the perfect guy, the one they can never have because you’re above them.”

  “Is that seriously my brand?”

  “You’re a perfect specimen of man, Devon,” Chaz said. “Of course that’s your brand. If you were going to drag some souvenir back from your little vacation, you should’ve warned me. I would’ve arranged to have you fly into San Diego. Sacramento. Tijuana. Wherever the fuck other than LA. You landed right in a nest of paparazzi. Hell, if you enjoy slumming it so goddamn much, I could’ve popped you all on a Greyhound bus from Dallas to Malibu.”

  It had become very, very clear that the item under discussion was me. Slowly, and as quietly as I could, I inched back up the stairs, standing on the landing even though I felt dizzy. What had I gotten myself into, and how could I get myself back out? I wanted no part of this life, analyzing every facet of appearances. It made me sick.

  I slunk back into bed and retrieved my phone. I knew it would be a mistake, but I had to do it. I had to know exactly what they were talking about. I searched the headline that Chaz had read aloud. My heart sunk immediately.

  Chaz was right—the photo was awful. It had been taken in the terminal at the airport. One of my eyes was halfway closed, the other bulging open, dazzled by the flashes. My mouth was agape—no poker face for me—at the spectacle, my dark hair limp beneath the hat that didn’t quite hide enough of my face. And I was clutching Devon’s hand like I was terrified. Of course, I had been terrified, but I wish it hadn’t been so effectively captured in the photo.

  I looked like an idiot. Worse yet, the whole world saw it.

  “Don’t look at that garbage.”

  I hurriedly shut my phone’s display off, but it wasn’t before Devon had seen what I’d been ogling.

  “Seriously, June,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed and putting his hand on my knee. “That shit will only make you feel bad.”

  “Well, I do feel bad,” I said, my voice shaking. “I wish I’d had sunglasses, like you.”

  “This is my fault,” he said. “Chaz is right—I shouldn’t have dragged you through the airport like that. I know better. I know what it’s like. It’s just…I’m used to it. It’s an ugly thing to be accustomed to, but that’s just my life. It’s not yours, and it was a shit introduction to LA.”

  I shrugged. “Well it’s over now.”

  Devon hesitated. “That’s the thing, though. It’s not over. Especially not now. It’s kind of just getting started.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, trying to ride out the sickening feeling of my stomach dropping out from under me.

  “People are going to try to figure out who you are,” Devon said. “I’ll be followed specifically for the chance to get a photo of you, to get you to react to awful questions so the photo can be purposefully terrible. You’re probably the highest bounty in Hollywood right now.”

  “Bounty?”

  “Photos of you will probably fetch a higher price than photos of me,” he explained.

  “Oh.” That didn’t sound pleasant at all.

  “This isn’t really what you had in mind, is it?” Devon asked unhappily. “I’m so sorry, June. I know what you must be thinking.”

  “How did I get into this and how do I get myself out of it,” I intoned, rubbing my face with my hands.

  “Chaz has an option,” Devon said, but I shook my head.

  “I heard what Chaz said. He said you’re slumming it with me.”

  “Chaz was being a dick because he was upset,” Devon reasoned.

  “I don’t trust him.”

  “I do.” Devon tucked a piece of my hair back behind my ear.
“I’ve known Chaz longer than I’ve known anyone in the business. You can call him a dick. That’s reasonable. But he’s a dick who knows what he’s doing, and that’s invaluable to me.”

  “What’s Chaz’s suggestion?” I asked. “Hide my ‘rando’ face in a paper bag the next time we venture out? Never go out? I bet that’s it. He wants me to begin a hermitage.” I was supportive of that second idea. Devon’s house was big enough that I was sure I’d get lost in it. It would be impossible to be bored. I would never have to face the music, growing fat and pale—but protected.

  “No,” Devon said. “Chaz says you should face everything head-on, and I agree.”

  “What?” I spluttered. “Just let the paparazzi take shitty photos of me and the Internet write shitty stories? No, thank you.”

  “He suggested you should do an interview.”

  “That sounds even worse.” I could only imagine the types of questions I would field, the statements that would get taken out of context, the anxiety I wouldn’t be able to escape for the duration of the ordeal. That was an idea that could only backfire.

  “If you let people know who you are, it’ll be on your own terms,” Devon persisted. “You would have control. Chaz knows this side of the industry intimately. He’d vet the interviewer—and the questions. He’d coach you beforehand. This is what he does. This is what I pay him to do.”

  “I don’t think I want to do this.”

  “I don’t think you have much of a choice,” Devon said gently. “Think about it, June. If you try to remain anonymous, they’ll never leave you alone. This is the best option. Do the interview.”

  “Is this what it’s like all the time?” I asked mournfully. “Is this your life, worrying about what people say about you, how you look, who you’re with?”

  “Fame and fortune come at a pretty steep price,” he confirmed. “I’m sorry I dragged you into it.”