The Stubborn Billionaire (a Muse novel)

by Lexxie Couper

  James found Clinton spread on the guest bedroom floor the following morning, an empty pill bottle near his open hand, and a letter addressed to Sienna on the coffee table.

  By the time the Dyson’s private physician had arrived, his anger and pain had been firmly under control. Sienna Roberts had made a mistake fooling with the Dysons, but she would learn. He’d see to that. Justice would be served.

  He pulled in a deep breath and stared at the view beyond his office window. Dark thoughts swirled through his head, thoughts he’d harbored for almost half a year. So why did they unnerve him so much now?

  His plans for Sienna Roberts had been formed that night, six months ago. The following day, he’d put those plans into action without hesitation.

  The last words Clinton said to him came back to haunt him again, just as they did every day.

  “She turned me down, brother. I guess this Dyson wasn’t good enough.”

  He ground his teeth. He needed to remember why he was doing this. He couldn’t lose sight of that. Six months of learning everything he could about Sienna Roberts may have somewhat confused the impression he’d first had of her, six months of wondering why she hadn’t moved on to another target with money, but he had to remember Clinton’s words about her. He had to remember what she’d done, no matter how beguiling and innocent and…and…nice, damn it, she seemed. No matter how much she affected him.

  After spending a grueling three hours in the office gym last night, he’d headed back to his house at Point Piper. Two hours of pacing the floorboards, an untouched Scotch in his hand, and a tight heat in his body had ended when he’d given in to the urge throbbing through him and entered his bedroom.

  A drawing hung on the wall, expensively mounted and framed, the sole artwork in the room. He’d stood in front of it for a long, still moment, the tight heat he despised building in his body with each second that passed.

  The drawing…

  A woman. Captured in soft pastels. Naked. Gorgeous. Intoxicating.

  Sienna Roberts.

  Clinton had drawn her on her back, her ankles resting on the head of the four-poster bed on which she lay. The burnished copper of her hair fanned the rumpled sheets, a shining halo of fire that made him burn. Her hands were tucked between her thighs, concealing that most very intimate part of her body but leaving the maddening curve of her breasts completely exposed. The contradiction sent him crazy. It always did.

  Sienna Roberts was making him crazy.

  He kept the artwork close. To remind him of the fate of his brother, and who exactly was responsible. He’d studied it every night since Clinton’s death. Thought of Clinton’s words, “I guess this Dyson wasn’t good enough.”

  He’d told himself the drawing was in his bedroom to keep him on task. However, he now found himself wondering if it wasn’t there for an entirely different reason. One that had little to do with revenge.

  Letting out a sharp sigh, he opened his eyes and pushed himself from his chair and walked over to the window. His office comprised the entire northern corner of the top floor of the DMC main office building. It commanded multi-million-dollar views of Sydney Harbor, views that normally set his mind at ease.

  “Not today.” He scowled. Not for a while actually.

  Not since he’d first laid eyes on Sienna.

  She’s playing me. Remember what she did to Clint.

  She’d made a mistake fooling with the Dysons. But she would learn. He’d see to that. He’d deliver retribution. The Dyson way.

  He would lead her on and make her feel like the world was hers, and then bring that world down around her in an almighty crash. Just like she had to Clinton. He would use her and cut her loose. The same way she had Clinton. He would take complete and utter possession of her body and her mind, and then reject her and leave her life shattered. The same way she had Clinton. He would carry out his plan. He would see that justice was done.

  The way he’d promised his brother he would.

  Sienna Roberts didn’t stand a—

  The door to his office opened, shattering the dark, disquieting thoughts. Jaw knotted, he turned.

  Harvey Dyson strode into the room, attired in an impeccable suit, his steel-gray hair slicked back from his hawkish face. “James.”

  “Dad.”

  “I didn’t find you here last night.” Disapproval turned Harvey’s smug smile to a frown. If there was one thing Harvey didn’t like, it was people not meeting his expectations. Those people suffered.

  Harvey Dyson was a hard man, cold, ruthless, and unforgiving—in both business and family matters. He’d forged a media empire from nothing and was arguably now one of the most powerful and influential men in Australia, controlling the majority of what people heard, read, and saw. On the way to this auspicious end, his marriage to his childhood sweetheart had dissolved, his school and university friends had turned away from his brutal ambition, and he’d come close to working himself to death more than once. He had no weaknesses and expected the same dedication and sacrifice from everyone around him, from his sons the most. If you didn’t make the grade, you were cast aside.

  James moved to his desk and sat down as his father took the chair opposite him. “I was in the gym for a while and then had some personal business to attend.”

  Harvey’s gray eyebrows rose. “Personal business, ’eh? She must be good to keep you from returning to work.”

  How would the old man react if told his only surviving son had spent twenty minutes only yesterday afternoon with the woman responsible for Clinton’s death? A surprisingly hot and thoroughly enjoyable twenty minutes?

  What would Harvey say of his plans for the sensual, manipulative artist?

  What plans are those? The plans to seduce her, or the plans to destroy her?

  The unexpected stab of guilt at that last thought surprised him. Why in the hell was his mind sending him mixed messages? Where had his cold hatred gone? What had replaced it? Interest? Surely not. And since when did he ever feel guilty? He leaned back into his high-back chair and leveled a steady gaze at his father over the desk. “Are you here for a reason, Dad? I thought you were in New York.”

  Harvey mimicked his movements, threading his fingers behind his head. “Got in last night. Thought I’d drop in and find out how things are going with DMC. And my son.”

  “Both are fine.”

  Harvey pursed his lips, his narrow-eyed inspection crawling over James. “So are you going to tell me who she is?”

  “No.”

  “Keeping secrets from your father? Tsk, tsk.”

  “She’s not your type.” Keeping the growl from his voice was harder than he thought. Why the hell was he feeling protective of Sienna?

  Harvey’s salt-and-pepper eyebrows shot up. “Now I am curious. Is this serious?”

  James changed the topic. The last thing he wanted was his father picking at the unnerving subject of Sienna “I’ve just signed Denison to join NewsWatch.”

  Eric Denison was Australia’s hottest TV anchor. Harvey had spied the edgy journalist on a rival network and had wanted him, like a junkie wants a hit, for his Current Affairs program. He’d tasked James with the job of signing him. Immediately.

  It had taken James an incredible effort to get the man. Denison was still young enough to have ethics, and naive enough to believe in the integrity of a contract. But James never took no for an answer. Ever. After months of courting and negotiation, he convinced the journalist to join the DMC team. Denison now belonged to Harvey and DMC, sucked in by the power he assumed would come with the move. And seduced by the money waved in front of him.

  James had discovered a long time ago that when it came to morals and ethics, everyone had a price in the end.

  What will be Sienna’s?

  “Damn, son.” Harvey’s burst of glee bounced around the office. “Well done. How much has he cost us? No. Don’t tell me. I don’t care. He’ll make it back and then some.”

  “If he doesn’t?”

>   Harvey’s gray eyes turned vicious. “His career’s dead.”

  James smiled without humor. Heaven help Denison if he failed to meet Harvey Dyson’s expectations. His father wasn’t kidding. He would destroy the boy’s career with just one phone call.

  An uncharacteristic chill rippled through him. He turned and studied the Sydney skyline outside. His father couldn’t see his discomfort. Harvey never thought twice about annihilating an enemy. It was a trait James had not only inherited but embraced. Hesitation and compassion were weaknesses.

  So why was he feeling unsettled about the possibility of a young journalist’s career being destroyed?

  Is that really what’s unsettling me?

  An image of Sienna whispered through his head.

  He ground his teeth. She was definitely an enemy of the Dyson family. If Harvey discovered Sienna’s fatal manipulation of his youngest son, she would never survive. He would be satisfied with nothing less than her total and utter destruction. People only suspected how ruthless his father was.

  James knew.

  Isn’t what I plan to do to her just as savage? As brutal? Build her up until she’s on top of the world and then destroy that world beneath her? Not exactly the actions of a compassionate man.

  A chill squeezed its way around his heart, a chill that had no damn place being there.

  “I’m off.” Harvey’s booming declaration shuddered through him. He sat motionless, watching his father rise to his feet. “Things to do, people to screw.” His father chuckled at his own crude witticism before heading toward the door. “Enjoy.”

  Alone, James rocked back in his chair, returning his gaze back to the window. His father screwed many people, both in the metaphorical and literal sense. Not a day went by without an article appearing in one of DMC’s rival media outlets condemning Harvey’s predatory methods. Most were true.

  James’s rivals accused him of being just as rapacious and heartless. It was, in his opinion, a compliment. In today’s cutthroat world, the weak wilted and died. He was not weak. And yet here he was, harboring doubt over his plans for the woman responsible for his brother’s death?

  What would they think now of Harvey Dyson’s prodigal son if they knew of the unnerving sense of guilt twisting through his gut whenever he thought too deeply about Sienna’s fate? James Dyson had a heart? Impossible. Unbelievable.

  No. It would do him no good if he did. A heart could be touched. A heart was a weakness. Sienna had it coming. He couldn’t feel guilt.

  He ground his teeth, staring at the city beyond the glass. “Bury it. Just bury it.”

  “Bury what?”

  He swung around to face the owner of the husky female voice.

  “Is there a family reunion that I’m not aware of?” He studied the blonde dressed in blood-red leather strutting toward him. “Or is my younger sister here to ask for money?”

  Lindsey dropped with her typical elegant disdain into the chair so recently vacated by their father and leveled a cool, gray stare at him. “So who are you screwing now?”

  “I’d thought you’d given up?” James threw a short nod at the slim cigarette between her lips, ignoring her usual greeting.

  “I’m going through a bitter divorce.” Lindsey blew out a thin stream of blue smoke, looking at him with defiant challenge. “I’m allowed a vice.”

  “I told you not to marry a surgeon.”

  “Very funny.” Lindsey pulled more smoke into her lungs. “Who are you? My big brother?”

  “How’s the divorce going? Are you going to drop the hyphenated name and just go back to Dyson?”

  “Let’s just say I’m glad I’m rich. It makes paying for the lawyers less painful.” She stabbed out the half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray he kept on his desk just for her, and then crossed her legs, leaning farther back into the chair. “And I like the sound of Dyson-Maher.”

  “Also helps Dr. Maher is the most benevolent medical practitioner this country’s ever known.”

  She shrugged. “The name does have a certain shine to it, I must admit. So, seriously, who are you screwing lately?”

  He shook his head, fighting the urge to fidget. “No one.”

  If there was one person in the world he couldn’t keep a secret from, it was Lindsey. She was a piece of work, but she’d looked out for him during the hell years of their parents’ divorce. In her conceited way, she loved him more than any other family member. If she kept pushing him now, if she asked the wrong questions, or the right ones…

  A smug grin split Lindsey’s glossed red lips. She was only four years younger than him, but at times, she acted like a jaded harlot of forty rather than the private-school educated woman of twenty-eight she really was.

  “I know that face.” Her voice turned to a low purr of delight. “There’s someone on the horizon. Who is she? Anyone I know?”

  “No.”

  It wasn’t a lie. Lindsey knew of Sienna, but she didn’t know her personally. Clinton had never invited his family to the apartment he’d shared with the artist. As far as James knew, he was the only living Dyson to have actually spoken to Sienna. But her name was well known in the family—Harvey and Lindsey knew her as the gold digger who convinced Clinton to stay at art school.

  Just that. Not the whole sordid story.

  “Oh, Mr. Mysterioso.” Lindsey smirked. “Exciting.”

  He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Very.”

  “Oh!” Lindsey sat forward in the seat, her eyes sparkling. “Oh, oh, I’ve got to tell you this. I was at Thomas St. Clair’s home last week, and you will never guess what was hanging on the wall of his study?”

  Hell. Could things get any more complicated?

  “This huge painting of a threesome.” Her smile grew licentious. “Very horny. Turned me on big time. You’ll never guess who the artist was. That bitch, Sienna Roberts. The very whore that Clinty was so hung up on.”

  A meat mallet began to pound on his gut, stealing any response he could make.

  He never should have arranged for St. Clair to receive one of Sienna’s paintings from the Mason Xavier Organization.

  Thomas St. Clair—one of the most successful authors in the world, and one of his friends—had gone crazy for the artwork. Why wouldn’t he? The massive oil painting positively thrummed with erotic energy.

  Lindsey curled her lip. “I’d buy some of her work if she wasn’t who she was. If she’s as sexual as that painting, I understand why Clint wouldn’t come home when Dad told him to.”

  “She is.”

  “Excuse me?” A stunned look fell over her face. He bit back a curse. Damn it, had he actually muttered that aloud?

  Throat suddenly tight, he gave Lindsey a level stare. “She is as sexual as that painting. More so, in fact.”

  Lindsey’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve met her?”

  “Three times.”

  She studied him, silent. The inspection drilled into his nerves. “Is she the woman you’re…”

  She didn’t finish the question. He didn’t move. Or blink.

  Lindsey sat back in her chair, a frown creasing her flawless forehead, a flicker of worry in her gray eyes. “Do you know what you’re doing?” Her frown deepened. “What are you doing?”

  Another unnerving stab of guilt hit him, adding to the turmoil of his gut. He swallowed, shoving the unwanted sensation aside. “Retaliation,” he answered, the word flat and sour on his tongue.

  “Retaliation?” Lindsey’s finely arched eyebrows rose. “For?”

  He shook his head, not ready to share his plans with her. “Just trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

  Really?

  Yes, he was. Vengeance for Clinton. It was as simple as that. If it wasn’t, Sienna Roberts had somehow gotten to him in the short time he’d spent in her company. Had somehow snared him with her raw sexuality and beguiling innocence.

  And if that was the case, he was in trouble. Because destroying someone was easier if you didn’t give a fuck about them. So
much easier.

  And cleaner.

  Chapter Four

  Why on earth was she still awake?

  Sighing in frustration, Sienna kicked at the tangled sheets and punched at her pillow.

  Looking at the glowing red numbers of the digital clock beside her bed, she moaned. 4:17 a.m.

  4:17 a.m. She’d been tossing and turning the whole night. God, why was she still awake?

  She refused to admit to the answer.

  Growling, she flung herself from the bed and stormed across to the kitchen. Stuff it. If she couldn’t sleep, she would at least use her time effectively. To hell with this lying-around-in-bed-worrying-about-some-rich-bastard idiocy.

  She paused just before reaching the refrigerator. Rich bastard?

  Damn it. So much for not admitting the cause of her insomnia.

  James Dyson. The rich bastard himself.

  Grinding her teeth, she opened the fridge and snatched out a bottle of water. As if her life wasn’t screwed up enough, now she had to deal with sleepless nights because one annoying, egotistical, arrogant bastard hadn’t turned up at her studio when he said he would.

  She slammed the fridge door, plunging the kitchen back into a gloomy darkness that suited her mood perfectly.

  A whole day on tenterhooks, dreading the appearance of the man, waiting for him to stride into her studio, had left her nerves frazzled. He’d told her he was coming back, had alluded they were going to have great sex when he did.

  A snowball had a better chance in hell than Dyson did of having sex with her. And she was going to prove that to him when he showed up.

  Every minute that had passed during the day, however, the gnawing fear she wouldn’t be able to resist him had grown, leaving her sick.

  It hadn’t just been the fear that she wouldn’t resist him that had nauseated her so much. It was also the deep, undeniable knowledge that she wanted him to come back. That she wanted him to throw her on the futon in her studio and take her to a level of pleasure she’d never been before.