Billionaire's Secret: The Complete Series

by Simone Sowood

  “I lost my commission, and Lawson doesn’t even care,” I say, my voice descending until I’m blubbering by the time I finish. I wipe my eyes on the backs of my hands, smearing fresh paint on my cheeks.

  “That’s terrible. You lost the commission at the mansion?”

  “Yes. Kelso and Lawson knew each other. They’re rivals, and Lawson used me to get at Kelso.” I’m not sure how much of that she understands, given how difficult it must be to make out the words between my sobs.

  “How awful of him. You poor thing. Don’t worry, dear, the thing about men is it hurts when things go bad, but there’s always another one around the corner.”

  I sob even harder. I don’t want another one. I want Lawson. At least I did. I can’t imagine how another man could ever make me laugh as much as him. Or make me feel the way he made me feel.

  “Your emotions are apparent in these paintings. They’re actually quite powerful. I know abstract isn’t normally your thing, but I bet you can sell these.”

  “Great, I’m like Taylor Swift.”

  “Who?”

  “She’s a singer who makes a fortune writing about all her breakups.”

  “Well, there you go. You can be the art world’s Taylor Swift.” The comment makes me laugh, and lightens my mood.

  “What do I do?”

  “You keep painting. I know you’re heartbroken about losing that commission, but I don’t think you have to worry too much. I just got back from seeing Gordon, and he said he gets at least a phone call a day asking about you. Now the Texas couple and a man from Ohio are demanding the right to outbid whoever offers to buy your next work. With a bidding war going on, who knows how much they’ll go for.”

  My mouth drops open. I can’t believe that my art really, truly, finally seems to be getting noticed. I would love to concentrate on the work I want to do instead of what Kelso wants me to do. Especially his stupid pussy painting.

  In bed that night, I once again drench my pillows with tears. I can no longer resist, and turn my phone back on. It immediately dings with several missed phone calls and texts, all from Lawson.

  Phone me.

  You don’t need Kelso with your talent.

  Why do you believe Kelso over me?

  I would never hurt you.

  The last text is from noon. Eleven hours ago. I can’t bring myself to read all the earlier texts and switch the phone back off.

  Would he hurt me? I sigh through my sobs. There’s no way to know.

  It doesn’t matter anyway. Like Ava and my college professors and so many of my art friends insisted on a million times — the rich don’t belong in our worlds, and we sure as hell don’t belong in theirs.

  Until I met Lawson, I’d always believed their arguments.

  The connection I’d felt with Lawson made me stupid enough to believe that they were wrong; that I could be in his world, and he in mine.

  I laugh through my tears, remembering our first date, and how I made him take me to the cheapest restaurant I could think of, just so I could judge how out of place he was in it. I told him it was because I wanted to go somewhere fast as an excuse to get him to go. Did he realize what my real reason was?

  Lawson did okay in it, at least it seemed that way at the time. Probably my head was too clouded from the overwhelming desire to kiss him to notice any different.

  As for me in his world, well, Kelso showed me what it’s really like when he cornered me in his bedroom. Lawson used me to get to Kelso.

  Even if he didn’t know about my working for Kelso beforehand, he sure took advantage of my employment as soon as he could, when he came into Kelso’s bedroom and, and…

  And gave me the most mind-blowing experience of my life.

  My body warms just remembering it. His touch, his voice. Everything seemed to be focused on pleasuring me. Was Lawson’s real pleasure in knowing we were in Kelso’s bedroom? Did he know Kelso would come home and walk in on us?

  The whole idea, all the possibilities, make me so angry — so incredibly frustrated — that I can’t fall asleep at all.

  The Interview

  (Lawson)

  It’s six in the morning and I’m pacing my kitchen. Skye’s ignored all my phone calls and texts. There’s no point in going over there just to sit in her driveway and stare at a closed door again.

  But there’s no fucking way I’m giving up on getting her back.

  Before Skye, I lived my life alone. Sure I have my sisters, but they’re the only ones I could relate to.

  All the other women I’ve dated were only interested in my money, so I used them for a good time. Not once did I ever connect with one of them. They were either shallow or vacuous or only interested in agreeing with whatever I said for fear of pissing me off.

  Skye’s different. She isn’t afraid to challenge me, or offend me. I love how passionate she is about life, and how much she cares about other people. Skye keeps me grounded, and constantly reminds me how privileged I am. Plus she keeps my head from getting too big.

  I could listen to the sound of her laugh for all eternity.

  Not to mention the sounds she makes when I have her in my arms.

  I’d given up on ever finding anyone. Figured it wasn’t in the cards for me to ever get married. I was fine with that, until I met Skye.

  Now I can’t imagine my life without her in it. More than anything, I want to share my life with her, in all her crazy artistic glory.

  I chew my nails down to the point of pain while I try to think of a way to fix the situation. I keep coming back to one thing: Skye thinks I’ve ruined her career. The best way forward is to give her career a real boost.

  It’s almost seven and I phone my assistant.

  “Hi Lawson.”

  “Hey, I’m just checking on the Skye Simmons paintings, does the gallery have more in yet?”

  “I asked Gordon to phone me as soon as anything comes in.”

  “Phone him and ask, just in case he’s forgotten.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Great, thanks. Make it a priority and let me know as soon as you talk to him.”

  I end the call but can’t put the phone down. My housekeeper pours me another cup of coffee and I retreat to my home office.

  The gallery doesn’t open for at least two hours. This may well be the longest two hours of my life. I can’t even think about how long the rest of the day will be. I’m almost tempted to drive over to Skye’s, but come to my senses. It would only be a useless trip to sit in her driveway.

  Instead, I try to distract myself with work. That lasts thirty minutes before I descend into creating a battle plan for taking down Kelso.

  The gallery may not be open yet, but Julie always is.

  “Ugh, isn’t it too early for a phone call from you?” my sister says into the phone, her voice groggy.

  “I needed to update you on a situation.”

  “Lovely. Good morning to you too.”

  “Good morning. From now on, my objective is to suck every penny from Kelso I can. I don’t want to settle. I don’t give a shit about making it neat and tidy, I want to bankrupt the asshole.”

  “Fucking hell, Lawson. Really?” she whines.

  “Yes, really. Why are you complaining? You’ll be able to retire from the extra legal fees.”

  “It’s going to take years.”

  “No skin off my nose. I need you to set me up a secondary company for me, from now on all new hotels will be run through it. As for the old stuff, I know I’m guaranteed to win, so tie up this thing and grind him down as much and for as long as you can.”

  “This sounds personal,” she says and sighs.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Care to fill me in on the situation? As your lawyer, I need to make sure this is in your best interest. And as your sister, I need to make sure you’re okay.”

  I quickly fill her in, leaving out the finer details of our time in Kelso’s bedroom.

  “Fine. Since I think this’ll
blow over and you’ll change your mind about it, I’ll send him a letter today notifying him that the offer to settle has been rescinded.”

  “Perfect, I can always count on you.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  We talk a little longer, mostly about Skye but also about Kelso. I even told Julie how I showed Skye my room dedicated to my charity. If she’d had any doubts about my vendetta against Kelso, they’re gone now.

  I hang up and checked my watch. The gallery still wouldn’t be open for at least an hour. I force myself to concentrate on my work.

  The new luxury hotel that I just opened locally is doing far better than I’d anticipated. I was supposed to go by yesterday afternoon and meet with the manager, before the thing with Skye happened. After some deliberation, I decide to go by today as a way to distract myself from her.

  “Lawson,” I say answering the phone. I know it’s my assistant, but it’s how I always answer.

  “I just spoke with Gordon. He doesn’t have any more of her work yet. And he’s got a waiting list. Plus, two of those people have demanded rights to outbid other buyers.”

  “Holy shit, that’s awesome.”

  “Awesome? It’s going to cost you way more. I told him to add me to the list of people with the right to bid.”

  “Nevermind. Thanks for doing that. Julie will be contacting you soon about a new direction with the lawsuit.”

  I hang up.

  The news has given me the first hope I’ve felt since Skye shut the door on me. Drumming my fingers, my mind starts to race on what I can do with the news. I phone back my assistant.

  “Yeah?”

  “Can you take me out of the bidding war? I have several by her already.” The real reason is I don’t want Skye to be able to say that she’s only selling paintings because I’m buying them.

  “Okay,” she says, sounding confused.

  “But what I want you to do is set up a profile piece on her in the next Heywood Magazine.” We put a glossy magazine in all the rooms of our higher-end hotels.

  “I’ll get on that.”

  “And make sure they make it as glowing as possible. Have them include good photos of my pieces by her.”

  “Sure thing.”

  This time when I hang up, I’m actually smiling. I sit for a few minutes, visualizing the magazine spread on her. Our clients are all loaded and many love buying up new artists. If that won’t be a boost for her, I don’t know what will be.

  I’m about to change to head over to my newest hotel when a thought hits me. After a few minutes of Googling, I pick up my phone again.

  “Hello,” says a groggy voice.

  “Hello, is that Gale Simmons?”

  “Speaking.”

  “My name is Lawson and I’m writing a feature article on your daughter for Heywood Magazine, and wondered if I could interview you for the piece.”

  “You’re what?”

  “Skye Simmons, the artist, is your daughter?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s one of the hottest artists on the scene right now. People all around the country are on waiting lists to outbid each other for her work.”

  “They are?”

  “You’re her mother, are you not aware of that?”

  “I haven’t spoken with her in a while.”

  “Why’s that?” Will she admit the real reason? I doubt it, but I would like to hear it pass her lips.

  “Oh, we lost touch after she moved to California.”

  “How sad. You must miss her a lot. I bet she misses you too.”

  “Yes, an awful lot. I just never…” her voice trails off.

  “Well, what was it like having such a phenomenally talented child? What age did she start to show her promise?”

  “Oh, she always loved to color.”

  “I’ve interviewed many artists over the years, and know how important it is for the artist to be supported by family and friends. Was Skye able to count on you?”

  “Oh, uh, we’ve always been impressed with her abilities.” Whatever, liar.

  “Can you give me a soundbite for the article?”

  “Let me think. Skye always had a crayon in her hand from the time she was a toddler. Her whole life, all she ever wanted to do was draw and paint. She had no interest in doing things like going to the prom, only paint, paint, paint.”

  “That’s great. I’m going to be interviewing her next, is there anything you want me to ask her?” If she doesn’t get the hint now, I’m going to have to spell it out slowly for her.

  “Just tell her how proud I am of her. And that she was right for following her dreams.”

  “Gale, that’s the kind of thing you really should tell her yourself.”

  She is quiet for a few seconds. We talk for a few more minutes before I end the call. Satisfied, I head over to meet with the manager at my new hotel.

  On Display

  (Skye)

  I’m utterly exhausted from being up all night. It’s almost ten before I manage to haul myself out of bed. I’d been happy to lay in bed all morning, half asleep and pretending Lawson was holding me.

  It takes twenty minutes in the shower before I’m awake enough to know for sure I can get out of the scalding water without crawling right back into bed.

  I drag on the first underwear I pull out of the drawer. My hair is still wet, but I don’t care. I scrape it into a ponytail. It’s hot out, and I throw on a simple sundress.

  Now dressed, I finally allow myself to turn on my phone. Nothing. Not a single text or missed call from Lawson. My heart sinks.

  For whatever reason, I’d expected to have dozens of them. But zero? I guess that means he’s got the hint and given up, just like I wanted. That’s what I wanted, right?

  So why does the lack of messages hurt so much?

  The only thing I know to do is trudge into my studio. Without any plan, I set up three new blank canvases and prepare my paints.

  In a repeat of yesterday, I take out my emotions on the canvases. Reds, blues and grays are soon spiraling and intertwining with each other.

  No paint gets on the floor or walls. Instead, the painting is more delicate than yesterday. There’s less anger and more sadness. The longer I paint, the more despair ends up in front of me.

  Am I romanticizing him because he was my first? Or is it because he was the only person I’ve ever cared about as much as I care about my art.

  Or am I right in thinking I’ve been duped by him? That he used me?

  The more I think about it, the more angry red spatters begin appearing across my canvases.

  Lawson cost me the commission with Kelso, just like he cost me my job at Johnny’s. Things like that just don’t matter to the rich.

  It’s seems a little too difficult to believe he didn’t come up to Kelso’s bedroom to have sex. And to be found by Kelso, as a way to score points in the war between them.

  But I don’t want that to be true.

  Kelso was a creep from the day I started working for him. There was no surprise when he acted the way he did when I went back to his house. Just remembering him touching me sends a wave of nausea through my body.

  At least one thing isn’t in doubt: Kelso’s a creep.

  But he didn’t do anything to me until he walked in on Lawson and me. If that hadn’t happened, I would’ve been able to avoid him and finish the commission, collect my fat paycheck and put on a gallery show.

  Why did Lawson come to the house that morning?

  But the biggest issue of all is why doesn’t Lawson care that I lost the commission? He seemed relieved by it. Why doesn’t he care how important it is to me? That’s what really hurts so much.

  I glance over to the abstract paintings I did yesterday. I shake off my smock and pick up the canvas I think conveys the most hurt. Even though it’s abstract, there’s no mistaking the anguish I was feeling when I created it.

  Lawson won’t be able to miss the way he made me feel. And right now, I need him to acknowledge the wa
y losing the commission hurt me. I lay it in my trunk and get in my car.

  After a couple of wrong turns, I find my way to Lawson’s mansion. I get out the painting and balance it on one arm while I ring the doorbell.

  “Yes?” a man says as he opens the door.

  “I’m looking for Lawson.”

  “Mr. Heywood isn’t home, would you like to leave that for him?” he asks, nodding toward the painting.

  I pause, debating, deciding.

  “No, it’s okay. He asked me to deliver this into his hands. Do you know when he’ll be back?”

  “He’s at work now, I don’t know how long he’ll be.”

  I have to try. “Oh, is he at the office?”

  “I believe he’s gone to the newest hotel for a meeting.”

  “Thanks.”

  I flop back in my car and take out my phone. A quick poke around on their website and I have the address for the latest hotel. And it’s local! I’d figured it would be in Los Angeles or San Francisco or somewhere even further away.

  A local hotel is easy. I drive to it, wondering how big of a scene my presence will create. I don’t want anything public, that’d be humiliating.

  The hotel is super fancy looking. The kind of place only the rich can afford. It’s smaller than I’d anticipated, with a stylish Georgian front.

  Even though I shouldn’t, I leave my car parked in front of the entrance, I’m surprised there’s no valet parking.

  I grab my painting, balancing it on both arms, like I’m delivering pizza. My purse is slung over my shoulder. Halfway between the car and the door, my phone rings. I ignore it and stroll inside.

  The lobby is subdued. Vases of fresh-cut flowers fill the room with their scent. Busy rehearsing what I’m going to say, I vaguely notice pictures in heavy frames around the room. It feels more like walking into a home than a hotel lobby.

  Halfway to the front desk, I realize the painting hung behind it is one of mine. A glance to the left shows me two more of my paintings along that wall. I come to a standstill and shift my body to the right. Two more of my paintings hang there, between the blue hydrangeas.

  My jaw drops. I can’t move, my feet are frozen to the ground.

  Why didn’t I know Lawson bought my paintings from Gordon? And why are they here, in the lobby of this beautiful hotel?