Chased by the Billionaire 1

by Stella Blaze

  I reached down and picked her up, grabbed a bottle of Evian from the fridge and went off to my bedroom. I put Dory on the bed, slipped out of the Dior dress and then hung it up in my closet. I’d get it dry cleaned and properly stored in a new garment bag when I sent out my dry cleaning on Thursday.

  I removed my makeup, combed out my hair and then slid under the covers with Dory. She curled up against my hip while I checked emails on my laptop: a couple confirmations of bills that were automatically paid; a reminder from Lance about tomorrow’s appointments; and two booty-call e-mails from some past hot times—I sadly had to send them “I’ll be out of town” declines.

  What good would it be to crash and burn with men who knew the old sex goddess me?

  And anyways, they’re not the…

  They’re not the man you want?

  I bit my lip and closed up my laptop.

  I didn’t want to think about what I really wanted. I really wanted a condo on the ritzy Gold Coast of Chicago. I really wanted the Chicago Art Council to offer me a chair on their committee—not just invite me to their stupid ball.

  And you want Jackson Burk.

  No. I do not want Jackson Burk.

  I don’t want to ever see, hear or…

  Taste?

  Touch?

  Argh!

  I don’t want anything to do with the bastard!

  Of course you don’t…

  No. I don’t.

  But I kept flashing back to the way he had looked at me. Like he used to look at me before that night in my dorm room.

  Before I’d ruined it all…

  I shook my head. I hadn’t ruined anything. He was the asshole that walked out on me.

  Just because he suddenly shows up and wants to see me again doesn’t mean anything.

  Nothing at all!

  I reached over for my super secret stash of Dove milk chocolate minis—they’re inside the fake Faberge egg next to my iPhone recharging station—and popped one in my mouth.

  Heaven…

  I grabbed my TV and Roku remotes, clicked to what I wanted and then snuggled down in my covers. Dory wriggled until she was comfortable by my side.

  A giant pink cartoon neon sign flashed on the screen and eighties synthesizer music blared.

  The word was Jem, and the J was topped off with a bright pink star that shattered as the theme song to Jem and the Holograms began and I sang along.

  Don’t judge me! In a world where cartoons are made for boys of all ages, but only for little girls, a young woman has little to choose from—but with an internet connection she can find what others have left behind.

  Jem was one of those things.

  I savored the Dove chocolate melting on my tongue as my favorite episode played.

  The Bands Breakup.

  Jem’s sister and band-mate, Kimber, left the band and joined forces with Stormer, a member of the rival band, The Misfits.

  Every time Jem’s boyfriend, Rio, took her in his arms I felt a tug in my chest.

  I’ve watched this episode a hundred thousand times in my lifetime, and nothing like this has happened before.

  I ended up turning Jem and the Holograms off and surfing the Amazon Prime menu.

  Shakespeare in Love?

  No.

  He’s Just Not That into You?

  Big no.

  Love Actually?

  Hell no!

  All good movies, but the last thing I wanted was to think about romance.

  Black List?

  What’s that about?

  “James Spader’s mesmerizing central turn as Raymond “Red” Reddington, who after spending 20 years brokering deals for the world’s most sinister criminals, now helps the FBI catch them.”

  I clicked on the current episode and watched a semi cute couple during breakfast. The woman was distant while the man cooked for her. He then knelt on one knee and asked her to marry him… again.

  Romance…

  I rolled my eyes.

  I was about to go back to surfing for another show when the man left and the wife tore the apartment apart in a riveting fit of anger.

  Interesting…

  Next she met up with Spader in some sort of tactical room and started screaming at him to tell her what he knows about her husband.

  Ooh, a husband with a fabricated past, who tricked her into falling in love with her.

  The bastard!

  I could so relate.

  I watched that episode, really enjoying the female FBI agent’s violent tendencies and James Spader’s utterly charming performance, and then started the series from the beginning.

  I fell asleep with Dory on my chest and the Roku remote in my hand.

  Chapter 8

  The next morning came. I can’t say I had a restful night sleep. I kept having sex dreams, and the man in them bore a striking resemblance to Jackson. But I had never seen Jackson naked, so… there were parts of him that my mind made up for me.

  I needed to purge all thoughts of Jackson Burk from my mind. So, I took a nice long early morning run to cut my sexual stress. Getting laid in a dream only makes not getting laid in real life that much worse. The nervous energy was building up like a pressure cooker.

  If I didn’t release some of that pressure soon, my lid would blow off… or something like that.

  So I ran for five miles instead of my usual three, and then gave Dory her breakfast and a much enjoyed brushing. I showered and changed into a gorgeous caramel beaded halter cocktail dress by Anthony Vaccarello that came halfway up my thighs, a matching pair of Napa Laces stiletto pumps by Tom Ford, and then picked out my color block Fendi clutch.

  I pulled my long hair up into a twist on the back of my neck.

  I looked cool and confident… even though I was still antsy—my fingers kept fiddling with the hem of my skirt—and feeling hot flashes from my run.

  Or so I was telling myself.

  Honestly, I really did think Jackson would get the hint. He’s the one who ended it back at Dartmouth. And now he was a grown man. He would leave me alone.

  But about half past noon I felt a little pang of disappointment that the gallery phone wasn’t ringing off the hook with an irate Jackson on the other end.

  But by one Lance and I had finished up our take out Chinese lunches, and I’d emailed Jill about the monstrosities hanging on my gallery walls.

  She called me back at one-thirty.

  “Trust me. The show will be a success.” She sounded out of breath. “How did your appointment with old Musty Pants go? Are you on the list?”

  I bit my lip. “No, that old bastard is a complete snob.”

  Jill cleared her throat.

  “After your little zombie turkey blunder,” I warned, “I’d be careful what you insinuate.”

  “Insinuate? Me?”

  “Yes, you, Miss Smarty-Pants. And no, you’re not changing the subject so fast. I have rotting, man-eating turkeys on my walls. Even if every Walking Dead geek in Chicago comes and buys one, it will still be in the papers, and the critics and my fellow art dealers will eat me alive.”

  Jill made a sound in between a groan of pain and a moan of ecstasy.

  What the hell was she doing?

  “Are you having sex?” Here I was in the middle of a sexual drought that would kill most women, yet my zombie-turkey loving roving-talent-scout was getting her buck on like a…

  Jill giggled. “No, boss lady, I’m getting my back adjusted. I was just rock climbing with your next new artist.”

  I sighed. “Another new artist? I don’t think I can take another new one.”

  “Trust me,” Jill said, sounding chipper and refreshed—maybe I needed my spine realigned? “This guy’s not well known yet, but he will be. He’s… well, I’ve never seen such radiance in a painter’s work before.”

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were sleeping with this guy.” Which was practically impossible. Jill was married, in love with her husband, and they had a three yea
r old daughter.

  Yeah, but anything is possible.

  “You have sex on the brain,” she said. “You need to get that looked at before it rusts.”

  “Jill…”

  “And I promise, you’ll be heralded as the art dealer that discovered the next big art star. Angel Lassiter.”

  I scoffed. “Angel Lassiter? Is that his real name?”

  “That’s what his mother tells me.”

  His mother? “How did you meet his mother?”

  “I went to night school with her sister, Marlena. I met Angel’s mother through Facebook and saw one of Angel’s paintings posted on her wall. I’m sending it to you now.”

  My email pinged and I opened the jpg. I leaned back in my chair and stared at the canvas before me. It was of a lake at sunset, of a woman lying on the end of an old wooden dock, her shoulders bare as she sat up on her elbows.

  It’s an overused subject: a woman sunbathing near a body of water. But the way the light illuminates everything, even how she’s pushing her hair back with her free hand, the elegant though realistic length of her bare legs, and how the sun sets the pond ablaze in the background.

  And all those exquisite shadows…

  All that mixed with vibrant colors somehow muted to a perfect glowing patina.

  I had to shake the daze from my voice before I asked, “So when do I meet him? When can I see the rest of his work? Does he have a site?”

  “No site. He was pretty mad at his mother for posting the painting you just saw… but I got him to see how much that was going to help him. He works as a welder part time and never thought his paintings would see the light of day.”

  So this guy really was an undiscovered talent.

  “Oh, and you’ll meet him at Crawford’s showing in two days. He lives in Chicago, so you two can set up a viewing then.”

  “Oh, great. I get to woo a rising star with zombie turkeys on my walls? Why am I not killing you again?”

  “Because I’m making you loads of money, finding you brand new talent and you love me.”

  That was all true. She was great at her job—the zombie turkeys notwithstanding—and I did adore her on a personal level. That’s why I had snapped her up when my best friend went on extended maternity leave.

  But…

  “Well, I’m cooking tonight,” Jill said in a satisfied, sing-song voice. “So I’m heading home. I’m off to San Francisco on Friday. I have a hot lead on a widow that paints amazing houses.”

  “She paints on houses?” Maybe I was working her too hard. “Like murals?”

  “No, silly. She paints houses she sees in real life, and changes things. Puts them in a hurricane, sets them on fire, makes them fall apart. That sort of thing.”

  “Oh. Well, have a nice night with the family.”

  “I will. Bye.”

  I put my cell phone down and then realized that Lance had abandoned me and was cheerfully chatting up a customer out front.

  Someday that man was just going to take the place over.

  I checked my makeup, got up, smoothed down my skirt, and went to see what he was doing.

  I stopped at my partially open door when I heard Jackson’s voice.

  I felt a surge of pure joy travel through my body. I gasped and took a few halting breaths.

  But then my brain caught up with what was happening and I felt my hatred for the man rekindle. He just didn’t get it. I never wanted to lay eyes on him again.

  Maybe this time Lance would dislocate something on him…

  But I noticed that Lance didn’t sound distant or threatening.

  He was laughing.

  He was flirting.

  And, goddamn it… so was Jackson!

  Jackson Burk was flirting with my gay assistant!

  I peeked out the halfway open door and saw the two of them. Lance was seated at the reception area and Jackson was standing on the other side of it, leaning over it and making meaningful eye contact with Lance, his smile simply lecherous.

  He wore no suit coat, or tie. He had on a blue silk shirt—which brought out his aquamarine eyes—with the top two buttons undone. He even had his sleeves rolled up to show off his bulging forearms.

  Diabolical…

  If he couldn’t intimidate his opponent, he’d flirt and charm his way through instead.

  And Lance was a sucker for skin.

  “You’ll have to show me how you did that last night,” Jackson said. “I was completely at your mercy, literally.”

  And here came the flattery—top that off with the imagery of getting to show Jackson his “moves”, and I was surprised Lance hadn’t offered me up hogtied and gagged.

  To his credit, Lance wasn’t falling for it.

  “I am enjoying this… immensely, but you know I’m wise to you, Mr. Burk.”

  Jackson didn’t as much as flinch. If anything his stare became deeper, more adoring—and then he reached out and straightened Lance’s tie.

  I could hear Lance’s intake of breath from where I was standing, and every muscle in his body tightened as Jackson played with his tie, his hands gently caressing Lance’s neck and shoulders as he patted Lance’s shirt collar down.

  Lance sat there for a few beats, staring wordlessly at Jackson. And then he stood up, turned on his heel and headed back to my office.

  He stopped for a heartbeat when he saw me standing there, but then just kept on coming.

  “I can’t take anymore. You two figure this thing out. He flirts like…” He shook his head and then passed by me into my office, and not too gently pushed me out the door. He shut and locked it behind me, locking himself in— and Jackson and me out.

  “Betrayer!” I called through the door and then turned to glare at Jackson. “That was so not right.”

  Jackson gave me one of those shrugs that mean nothing and everything all at once. “I know I’m no match for your ninja assistant, so I used some of my other talents.” His smile was smug.

  “The Talented Mr. Burk? Who will play you in the movie version?”

  He looked a bit offended. “Brad Pitt, of course.”

  Of course.

  I was about to say something scathing and hysterically mean… but then Jackson started walking toward me.

  The sight of all that muscle, of those broad shoulders and how he bulged in all the best places—it caused my nervous system to start to short circuit.

  I’m not proud of what I did next, but I knew I couldn’t let him get near me. With my mind hating him and my body sending S.O.S signals every time I saw him, I couldn’t risk letting him get too close.

  So I side-stepped and went around the other side of the reception area.

  I tried to look nonchalant about it, not walking too fast, but fast enough to get past him and make it to the exit.

  I didn’t look at him, but I could see him stop in my peripheral vision, and then change course as he realized what I was doing.

  “Liz,” Jackson called out, but I was already heading out the gallery’s front door, the little electronic bell that told us when a new customer had just come in chiming.

  Chapter 9

  Wind blew around and through me, coursing down the street, the breeze hot and wonderful. I took a deep breath and tried to relax, walking down the street as fast as my heels would allow. I heard the wind muffled sound of the bell again, and knew Jackson was following me.

  The bastard!

  Did he have no shame?

  After the way he treated me all those years ago, on that oh so important night, how could he possibly think I wanted anything to do with him now.

  And I didn’t.

  Well, my body did—I could feel the heat building under my skin and it had nothing to do with the sun or summer. It was all because somewhere inside me, I still wanted the man who was chasing after me.

  I slapped myself in the face, which made the woman walking toward me gasp and give me a wide berth. She probably thought I was a well dressed mental patient heading to my twi
ce weekly psychotherapy appointment.

  I walked faster, passing shop after shop, faking a smile and a wave to Vick at his newspaper stand, crossing the street at the end of the block and almost getting run over by a yellow cab.

  Okay, that pissed me off. I stood there for a few beats and stared the cab driver down, letting that anger suffuse my being, burning every pathetic, needy thought from my mind… but one.

  I was not going to run from this man. I’d had some of the most beautiful, wealthiest men in the world as lovers. I was a self made woman, successful and desired—even if I hadn’t had sex in three months, it was because I couldn’t get into it, not from lack of offers.

  And even though it still hurt, what he had done to me that long ago night, I hadn’t let that hold me down. I shed the tears, I ate the requisite chocolate and ice cream, I even cried on my best friend Susan’s shoulder about it—but I didn’t die.

  I moved on. I waited a month and a half, and when I finally felt like it was time, I lost my virginity to the sexiest professor on campus. It had been one of the most liberating experiences in my life, taking control of the situation, even though it had been my first time.

  And I didn’t tell him. Not this time. I kept my virgin status to myself.

  I had been in control.

  I flicked off the cab driver and stalked back across the street to where Jackson had stopped. He stared at me with a mixture of fear and awe.

  I was used to that, and seeing it in his beautiful aquamarine eyes, and written all over his ruggedly handsome face, made me feel more like me than I’d felt for some time.

  I circled around him, looking him up and down, studying the lines of his body, the width of his back, how his backside curved in, and then out to form his… well, he had one hell of a nice ass. Round but tight.

  I wondered if he had those little dimples at the base of his spine that some men have. I wondered if his butt cheeks had dimples as well.

  “What do you want from me?” I said as I came around his other side.

  He craned his neck around to look at me. “I want to apologize to you.”

  I kept circling him, stepping behind him once more. “Whatever for?”

  I watched his shoulders rise and his ribs expand as he took a deep breath.