by Traci Hall
BILLIONAIRE
by the Sea
TRACI HALL
Copyright © 2017 Traci Hall
All rights reserved.
Cover Design ©Christopher Hawke - CommunityAuthors.com
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
A Note From the Author
About the Author
By the Sea
AMBROSIA by the Sea
KARMA by the Sea
PUPPY LOVE by the Sea
MASQUERADE by the Sea
HOLIDAY by the Sea
FESTIVAL by the Sea
DANCING by the Sea
FOREVER by the Sea
BLUE CHRISTMAS by the Sea
RETURNING HOME by the Sea
BLOSSOMS by the Sea
BILLIONAIRE by the Sea
SANTA BABY by the Sea
Chapter One
Michael looked out over the aqua blue Atlantic Ocean off of Ft. Lauderdale’s coast as if the answer to his dilemma might be in the white cap of a wave. Kayla, his personal assistant/right-hand man, stood beside him on the upper deck of his host’s 70-foot charter yacht. Her silky black hair caught a current before settling below narrow shoulders, her sleeveless turquoise brocade dress matched the deepening blue around them.
Four years ago, he’d started a software company that he’d grown to the billion-dollar mark. Not bad for a kid from Hayden, Idaho. Out of habit, he touched the Rolex on his wrist, a gift from his brother before his brother had died in the Middle East. What would you do, Mark? Sell, or climb higher?
“He’s coming our way,” Kayla said beneath her breath, referring to the man who’d invited them, Mr. Moriaki of Moriaki Industries. Michael didn’t turn around. Instead, he focused on the setting sun as it cast swirls of melted orange and raspberry cream across the turquoise sky. They never had sunsets like this in Provo, Utah. His company was outgrowing the industrial space he’d never thought he’d grow into when he bought it, and in a twist of fate, he’d been flown out to the east coast and offered more money than he could spend in a lifetime—if he was willing to give up the reins. “Better hurry,” she whispered, “he’s almost here.”
“Distract him with your smile.” A breeze off the ocean brought an instant chill. A warning?
Goosebumps prickled the skin on her bare shoulders as sea spray misted over the side of the yacht and Michael reached for the middle button of his dinner jacket. “Do you want my coat?”
“And cover up this Stella McCartney?” Kayla gave a delicate snort, amusement in her oval brown eyes. “I would rather catch pneumonia.” She’d perfected a bone-thin figure that showcased haute couture. “And die.”
“What was I thinking?” he asked wryly. She’d taught him name brands and personal style; taking him from the computer nerd he was at heart to someone she wasn’t embarrassed to be seen with in public.
“What are you thinking, that’s the question.” She glanced at him from beneath long lashes that he happened to know were mink extensions. Kayla kept her voice at a conspiratorial whisper. “If you agree to the deal, you can buy your own island. A small one, but still… If you decide to keep Micro Technologies, then we’ve got to think about growth. Either way, we need to prepare for change.”
He let the truth of her words wash over him and briefly closed his eyes. “You’re right.”
“You pay me to be right,” she said with a sassy wink.
Michael chuckled—it didn’t matter what he asked of Kayla, whether it be a last minute business presentation, or to organize a charity fundraiser, she made it happen. She’d grown the company with him since the beginning and he trusted her even more than his floor manager, Bob Roberts. “What do you think we should do then?”
Kayla shook her head, her sapphire earrings shimmering. “Oh no, you don’t. You have to make that decision.”
“Tell me.” Michael vacillated between money in the bank and wanting to keep what he’d created.
She blew out a breath and checked to see where their host was at. “Mr. Moriaki got stopped to say hello—we have two minutes. My honest opinion? If it were my company, I would sell.”
The idea sat like rocks in his gut. “Why?”
“We’ve outgrown ourselves.” Kayla’s shrug was hardly perceptible, her hair ruffling in the breeze. “Branching out is not a guarantee that sales will support the cost of a move. If we stay where we are like Bob wants, we will stagnate. This buy-out is the most lucrative solution for the future.” She held his gaze, her brown eyes cool. “You’re acting as if Micro Technologies is your baby—but it’s a company. Not a child, Michael.”
Kayla’s points were all valid. Should he do it? He’d poured his entire heart and soul into the business, and what for?
Her smile widened in welcome and she turned her attention from Michael, her free hand outstretched. “Mr. Moriaki! You have a stunning yacht. Michael and I were just discussing how much nicer the weather is here.”
We were? Kayla was skilled at the polite conversation he detested. A lot of folks had observed that they worked very well together, played well, and looked good, too—why not take it to the next step?
But he valued Kayla’s opinion too much, her way of looking at a situation, to chance ruining a working relationship with sex. Besides, as beautiful as she was, he wasn’t attracted, plain and simple.
At thirty-five, he was young enough to wait for an attachment and old enough to understand that it might not ever come. He’d witnessed the travesty of relationships gone wrong and refused to commit to the wrong person. His brother had been the same way. For all Aunt Sugar’s faults, their aunt hadn’t let them starve and for that he was grateful. Michael closed that door to his memory and turned to face their host.
Mr. Lin Moriaki was not quite as tall as Kayla, so Michael guessed 5’4”—though his lack of height was no impediment to shrewd business skills. Sixty, according to the bio Kayla had given Michael to read on the flight over, he’d made his billions by acquiring young companies and merging them with his own. Black hair with silver at the temples, sharp blackish-brown eyes, pale skin. A shark.
The man’s white-toothed smile brought Michael’s protective instincts to the fore.
“I am pleased that you could join us for a sunset dinner on the ocean. Nothing is more breathtaking than God’s own work,” Mr. Moriaki said. His Japanese accent was barely discernible in his correct English.
Invited to a formal dinner, Michael wasn’t surprised to see about forty other guests on board, all garbed as if for an evening at the opera. Suits for the men, and glittering dresses for the ladies. Were these Moriaki’s business associates? Family? Friends?
After they’d left the dock, a waiter had come around with wine, champagne or vodka. Michael hadn’t accepted a drink, too uncertain about his answer to the proposed buy-out to confuse the issue with alcohol—now he wished he’d taken a tumbler just so he had something to do with his hands.
“I agree.” Kayla sipped from her champagne flute and smiled flirtatiously across the rim at Mr. Moriaki.
He turned to look for his son, a young man of thirty. That info had been included in the bio as well and Michael made a note to self to give Kayla a bonus. “Ryo, come greet Mr. Livingston and Ms. Spence.”
Ryo excused himself from a couple he’d been talking to and joined them with a handshake and easy grin. Brown hair and dark eyes, like his father, but somewhere in the gene pool he’d gotten height. Just under six feet, Ryo was a man of calcu
lated style, his dinner jacket a deep charcoal rather than black. He assessed them within seconds and lingered over Kayla’s hand before his dad cleared his throat.
A reminder that this was business? Or was the elder Moriaki worried that Michael might take offense?
“You are joining us from Utah?” Ryo asked. The heir to the Moriaki fortune spoke with no accent at all, probably bred out at boarding school.
Michael nodded. He’d moved from Idaho to Provo to start his software business because the place was teeming with graduates from Brigham Young University. Great minds led to great ideas. He hadn’t been sorry in his choice.
“I love to ski,” Ryo said. “Especially the Alps.”
Kayla dimpled in approval. “I hit the slopes all the time—but Michael would rather work than play.”
Actually, he just didn’t like skiing since his accident in college but that wasn’t polite dinner conversation. A gong sounded and the party guests started down the central stairs like a herd of designer cattle.
“Shall we?” Mr. Moriaki fell into step next to Michael, following behind Ryo and Kayla. “I don’t ski, either, Mr. Livingston. Too busy—but a man needs balance, to maintain perfect health. Perhaps once you sell Micro Technologies, you can find the time.”
“I appreciate your generous offer, but I haven’t made up my mind quite yet.” Now that the stroke to his ego had waned—who wouldn’t be tempted by that many dollar signs?—he leaned toward no, despite Kayla’s advice. A definite change was needed, but maybe instead of selling, he could expand slowly, so as not to break the bank. Keep it local. Bob suggested buying the old shoe factory at the edge of the city and remodeling. The parcel of land was almost ten acres.
“What can we do to persuade you?” Mr. Moriaki stopped and let Ryo and Kayla walk down the stairs ahead of them. His demeanor hardened. “Every man has his price.”
“Do they?” Michael asked.
“More money?” The older man’s voice was as rich as his surroundings. Coaxing. “I can come in with a better offer.”
Maybe it was Moriaki’s tone, but suddenly Michael knew he wasn’t going to sell. He’d have Kayla draft a polite no-thank-you letter once the dinner cruise was over.
“It’s not that.” Michael stepped forward but was stopped by Mr. Moriaki’s hand on his arm. The two men poised at the top stair leading below deck to the dining area. Savory smells, spices and herbs, lifted upward. He met Mr. Moriaki’s questing gaze, letting him see his answer in his expression. “Your offer was fair,” he said, not wanting to create a scene.
Astute, Mr. Moriaki’s mouth firmed and his shoulders snapped back as he released Michael’s arm. “I see. Perhaps you should think again.” He pushed by Michael to hurry down the steps and Michael grabbed the gold railing to keep his balance.
I guess he isn’t used to hearing no.
Michael found Kayla seated toward the front of a long dining table that easily sat fifty people. Potted palms and indoor chandelier lighting made the yacht look like the Ritz. She patted the chair next to her—there was no time to talk, and no privacy, but he gave a small shake of his head. She winked and returned to her conversation with the Asian woman to her right.
A waiter immediately brought a flute of champagne, which Michael accepted with gratitude. His throat was dry. How often did a man turn down billions? What if he had just made a huge mistake?
Red-cheeked and too polite, Mr. Moriaki stood at the head of the table and thanked his guests for coming. They all seemed to be giving Michael furtive looks and he wondered if the wealthy businessman had hoped to announce the acquisition of the company before dinner, in celebration. Were these his board members?
Shit.
He hoped he hadn’t made the guy lose face or something archaic.
Kayla didn’t seem to realize that anything was wrong and lifted her flute in response to the wooden thanks, as did the other guests—Michael included. What else could he do?
Annoyed with himself for not handling the situation better, Michael drained the glass. A waiter handed him another. “Thanks.”
Dinner was served as if they were at a five-star restaurant. The rock of the boat became a soothing motion. Served savory soup made of a thin beef broth, then a ginger-dressed salad of red cabbage and red carrots. He swayed in his chair and had trouble cutting his lamb and gave up completely on the potatoes. Dessert, a rich chocolate mousse that glistened like wet mud. He dropped the spoon with a clatter of silver on china.
Through it all, Michael politely chatted with his dinner companions—Kayla to his right, and a gentleman from Norway with bushy eyebrows to his left—his vision swam and he had to blink to bring Kayla’s face into focus. It seemed there were times when he spoke too loudly in his own ears, the sound echoing. Was the boat rocking faster?
He braced himself against the table, certain he was going to fall. He spilled his coffee into his dessert, creating a muddy river, and burst out laughing.
“Are you all right?” Kayla put her hand on his forearm and leaned close, her large brown eyes filled with concern.
“Fine,” he said, or tried to say.
Something was wrong. His head seemed squishy. Which made him laugh more. He felt drunk, but he’d only had two glasses of champagne.
“Let’s get some fresh air,” Kayla suggested. Ryo, where had Ryo come from? stood behind his chair, and helped him stand up.
“Good idea,” he thought he said. The boat rocked crazily now, and he stumbled into the wall on the way to the stairs. He noticed that nobody else was affected and the man from Norway scowled his disapproval. Embarrassed, Michael slid against the rail, missed, and grabbed onto Kayla, who yelped in surprise.
Ryo narrowed his eyes. “Careful, man. Don’t hurt her.”
“I wouldn’t hurt her, we are friends,” he said indignantly. Michael heard the gibberish and winced.
“I made out the word friends,” Kayla said. “This is business.”
Maggie Kohl woke before dawn and shrugged into a two-piece navy blue swimsuit. She pulled an oversized tank top on as a cover-up, slid on her water shoes and left the house, careful not to wake her sister, Mindy.
Once outside, she attached her paddleboard to the wheels and pulley that created a cart and walked four blocks, passing the marina she co-owned with her sisters, to the ocean. The sky was a gorgeous twilight, a deep grayish purple that hinted at the morning to come while the sun slept on and the moon faded. Due to the rain storms, seaweed had gathered along the surf by the pier. The waves crashed against the shore, and she reconsidered going out—but the pull of the water tugged at her soul, and she wheeled her board to the sea’s edge.
Maggie and her sisters had been raised by their dad after their mom had died in a car accident—that driver who’d ran the red light irrevocably changed the Kohl’s lives. Her father had used the life insurance money to buy the marina he’d worked at, providing a stable home before dying last year from cancer. Never gave up smoking, not even when the doctors found spots on his lungs. Refused chemo, stubborn fool, but died a contented man—one who’d lived life on his own terms.
Bossy, right to the end. “Family is everything, Maggie. Watch out for your sisters—you connect them.” She was the middle of triplets. Madeleine was the oldest and Mindy the baby by a whole fifteen minutes. At 26 and five feet ten, none of them were actually babies. Her dad had made sure they could change a tire, service the boats at the marina, pump gas, and dive. All three girls were more at home on the water than out of it.
I miss you, Dad.
Maggie scuffed her water shoes along the sand, preferring to be barefoot, but the tread was too rough on the new paddleboard. In a month the surface would be perfect, and then she’d ditch the shoes.
Dropping the paddleboard with a soft thunk, she stretched her back and arms. The rougher waves would make finding her balance a challenge, but she didn’t mind getting wet if she happened to fall. A morning swim was all part of the fun.
Unhooking the
oar from the side, she scanned the shore for where the waves were breaking. Something cobalt blue against the gray, damp sand caught her attention.
What was that? A pail? A toy, or a towel?
Maggie set down the board and walked toward the barnacled wood of the pier post. Her heart leapt as she saw a pale muscular forearm and curlicues of damp hair matted to the skin. Oh, no.
She rushed forward, her summer camp lifeguard training flooding to mind.
Male, naked except for blue…not swim trunks, but silk boxers. Where were his clothes? She looked around but didn’t see anything else that might identify the man.
All of this took seconds to process and then she was on her knees in the sand. He lay on his belly, head turned away from her. His arm, outstretched, twitched. Reflex, or was he still alive?
She checked for a pulse on his neck and noticed how tall he was, his legs extended into the foamy surf. Was this a party gone wild? She couldn’t find a pulse. Checked again.
Thready, but there. Thank God. Maggie crawled over his body to the other side, noting his pale, lax face. A bruise had formed on his temple. His skin was as cold as the water swirling around them. How long had he been here, beached on the sand?
“I’m Maggie. I’m here to help you,” she said in a firm tone. Her eyes darted up and down the beach for someone who could call 911, but there was no one out this early.
His face was out of the water and he was breathing—barely. Maggie sat back, her mouth pursed in thought.
The paddleboard! It had a rope and she could position it flat on the cart rather than vertical. She’d pull the man to the marina where Madeleine was already at work; then call 911.
With a grunt, she dug her toes into the sand and flipped the unresponsive man onto the board. “I’m Maggie,” she said, in case he could hear on some level. “I’m here to help you.”
As she laid him on his back, arms crossed over his chest like a vampire in a coffin, she noticed his watch. The gold and black flex band seemed fancy. Would it hold a clue to his identity? She reached for it.