Cocky: A Reverse Harem Romance

by Ashlee Price

  He pulled out of me, and wrapped me up in his arms. Kissing me all over, nibbling on me, and reassuring me, somehow, that everything was going to be okay, in spite of all the doubts I might have had about the situation in which we found ourselves.

  For a bad boy, he really wasn’t that bad at all, where it mattered. And he’d given me a hope in life that I’d been missing for a long, long time now…

  DESIGNER FOR THE BILLIONAIRE

  A Billionaire Romance Novel

  (Contemporary Romance Novels)

  Book 1

  PROPOSITIONED

  By: Ashlee Price

  Description

  When Grazia Fabiola comes to the attention of billionaire Marshall Levitt, she doesn’t realize her life is about to change.

  Marshall is used to getting what he wants, and if he has to fight for it, then all the better. A self-made man, he appreciates that not everything in this life comes easily—and Grazia is the epitome of unapproachable.

  But the fight makes it so much sweeter, and when Marshall wants something, or someone, failure isn’t an option.

  Grazia’s life is complicated, and where there are complications, Marshall knows there’s an in.

  He’ll do whatever he has to do get Grazia into his bed; and with billions of dollars at his fingertips, he can do anything to get what he wants.

  Being at the center of a silken web, Grazia has to come to terms with this whole new world, because when a billionaire wants you and will do anything to have you, suddenly nothing makes sense, and a trip down the rabbit hole seems like a vacation…

  Chapter One – Grazia

  “He’s watching you again.”

  I can’t help but roll my eyes at my assistant. I can’t tell whether she’s jealous, encouraging, or out-and-out disgusted by the attention I’m getting from one of the charity ball’s most lauded and wealthiest attendees.

  It’s not that I don’t appreciate the attention, because I do. I am a woman, after all. But after a while, running around in these circles, you start to realize the attention isn’t all that flattering. The guys roaming around these events think the staff are good for one thing and one thing only… The day I become a man’s toy is the day pigs fly over a frozen hell—simply put, it ain’t gonna happen.

  My voice is dismissive. “Well, there’s not much for him to see. It’s nearly pitch black around here.”

  She snorts. “Then he has great night vision, because I swear to God, his head moves when you bend down.”

  Hard pressed not to snicker, I have to bite my bottom lip to contain my amusement. Jessie needs no encouragement as it is. She’s five years younger than me, granted, but her immaturity still astounds me. If her skills at organizing weren’t as impressive as they are, I doubt I’d have kept her on. Sometimes that immaturity has consequences, and with her, that manifests itself in an inability to hold her tongue. I usually keep her on a leash when we’re at events, have her trailing behind me where I can keep an eye on her, but there always seems to be that one time when my back is turned and I somehow hear her managing to insult someone. It’s inadvertent, but tell that to the many pissed off New York denizens left in Jessie’s wake.

  To be fair, if she insults them, they usually deserve it. And I figure if those insults make me laugh, then hell, how can I fire her?

  “Whether he’s studying my ass or wondering where I bought my shoes from, there’s nothing either of us can do about it, so let’s just get on with it. We have too much shit to do and not enough time to do it in,” I tell her, peering down at my clipboard and trying to see where we are in the schedule. I would love to switch on the flashlight on my cell phone instead of straining my eyes, but that would only draw attention to myself, and apparently I’m already on Marshall Levitt’s radar.

  My team and I are supposed to be ghosts at events like these. If the main benefactor knows where we’re at, then we’re not doing our jobs properly. Although if his eyes are on my butt, like I told Jessie, my hands are tied. Not like I can do much to hide it. “Goddammit, what’s the next lot?” I snap under my breath when squinting gets me nowhere.

  “The helicopter ride over the city.” Apparently Jessie has outstanding night vision too, because how she can see the list in the dark is beyond me. When I stare up at her in astonishment, she grunts and waves her tablet in front of me. In the dim back light, I can see the list of lots for the charity auction. “I swear to God, Grazia, you need to start using technology.” She draws out the syllables in the last word, obviously trying to make a point.

  Though the point hits home, I just sniff. “We’re incompatible.” And it’s the truth.

  “How can you be incompatible? My eighty-nine-year-old great-grandmother has a newer cell phone than you do, and my four-year-old cousin knows how to switch on her tablet without asking someone to do it for her.”

  “You’re talking yourself out of a job, Jessie. If I wanted to use technology, I wouldn’t hire you.” I cock a brow at her, amused when she just shakes her head at me, totally bypassing my pointed warning.

  I prefer to hire her to keep my diary in order rather than use a cell phone.

  Shuddering at the notion of storing all my day-to-day info on a motherboard, or whatever the hell they call it, I reach for my walkie-talkie when the auctioneer starts to call out for final bids and whisper, “Dave, I need you to start the projector in five, four…” As I let the countdown reach its pinnacle, the projection hits the back wall at the perfect moment: the banging down of the gavel.

  A sharp gasp rises from the crowd as the thirty-foot video footage overtakes the back wall. The flight over Manhattan, around the Hudson, and over the city skyline looks even more impressive than usual on such a large scale. And the picture quality is close to HD. Considering it’s the star lot, the grandeur is definitely necessary.

  “Looks good, doesn’t it?” Jessie asks, envy in her tone. “Imagine being able to use that as a taxi for the day.”

  Sniggering, I tell her, “I wouldn’t phrase it like that. I doubt you can use it to go and do your grocery shopping.”

  “No? You’re telling me that any of the bidders aren’t going to take advantage of having wings at their disposal?” It was her turn to chuckle. “You’re so naive sometimes, Grazia.”

  Amused at her lofty tone, I nudge her with my elbow and watch as the auctioneer starts to list the key features of the lot. Scanning the crowd to ascertain the interest, I can’t help but notice Marshall Levitt’s seat is currently empty.

  Considering it’s his donation, I suppose he’s not exactly interested. However, despite my words to Jessie, I have been keeping an eye on him.

  The last event I organized where he attended, a small dinner party for the new CEO of a tech startup that had just gone global, he cornered me in the dining room before the meal started.

  I say cornered, but I didn’t feel threatened. But he definitely singled me out with the notion of asking me something. I wouldn’t be curious as to his location now if he’d managed to disclose just what he wanted to ask, but Deirdre, the CEO’s wife, popped in desperate to ask me a question about the party.

  I haven’t seen Marshall since. Which means a talk is long overdue, whether I want it or not.

  Looking a little deeper into the crowd, and still seeing nothing, I carry on with my tasks. Jessie bustles along beside me, throwing in sarcastic comments here and there about some of the patrons, but I’m used to the background noise, and though most of her remarks are amusing, I’m too busy to take much notice.

  By the end of the evening, I’ve still failed to see Marshall in the crowd after that last time. The auction, though, can be considered a great success, and as an events organizer, there is no better music to my ear than praise from the rich and wealthy patrons of high society. They’re my bread and butter, after all. One good event leads to a handful of smaller ones and usually another of a similar size. Though this isn’t my calling, I have bills to pay, so more accounts is exactly what I need
to stay out of the red.

  Packing up seems to take as long as setting out has, and when Jessie starts yawning, I can’t blame her. “Late start tomorrow,” I tell her when, with another yawn, she picks up a box loaded with paraphernalia that we’re taking back to the minivan.

  “How late?” she asks eagerly, dumping the box in the back of the trunk to stare up at me with hopeful eyes.

  It’s like looking at a puppy, dammit. Sometimes, saying no to her is incredibly hard.

  I wrinkle my nose as I concentrate on tomorrow’s diary. “There’s that party at nine. We don’t need to be there until five. Get to the office for three.”

  She gawks at me. “Seriously?”

  “Christ, Jessie, anyone would think I’m a slave driver.”

  It’s her turn to wrinkle her nose at me. “I never said that.”

  “No, but you’re not denying it, either.”

  A chuckle escapes her. “We’re just very busy, that’s all. When there’s work, there’s work, which is all for the good.” She shrugs. “But I certainly won’t complain about an afternoon start.”

  “What’s this about an afternoon start?” Dave asks, joining us with two overlarge and stuffed-full bags in his enormous paws.

  Jessie giggles—she has a huge crush on Dave. “Grazia’s decided to play nice and let us sleep in.”

  I roll my eyes at her antics. Not only does her voice sound so sugary sweet it’s a wonder Dave doesn’t catch diabetes by osmosis, but the way she’s pushing into him, swaying her body into his, well, either Dave is very, very dumb or completely uninterested.

  Though the man is a lighting and technical genius, I think it’s the former rather than the latter. Dave’s one of those salt-of-the-earth guys who have no idea when it comes to women.

  One of these days I’ll end up matchmaking, I know it. Because, hell, if I leave it up to these two, I’ll still be watching them giggle and guffaw at each other when I’m drawing my 401K.

  Shaking my head at my own ridiculousness, I open the minivan and climb behind the wheel. Lauren, Amanda, and William—the rest of my staff—all pop up, various containers in their hands. They stack them in the trunk while I check my email and wait for them to do their thing. They’ve all worked for me long enough to know the score, so I know I can take a breather while they organize the trunk.

  The content of my inbox is both a blessing and a curse. I started organizing events as a favor to an old sorority sister, who had more connections than brain synapses and couldn’t organize a party to save her life. Word slowly but surely spread after what can only be classed as an epic soiree one night until I’d accrued a reputation of my own. One that rivals some of the bigwig firms in the city.

  But it isn’t my passion. It pays the bills because my other love, fashion design, doesn’t.

  Every event I organize robs me of the time I need to hone my craft, which is in desperate need of honing, truth be told. It’s been a good six weeks since I actually sat down behind the sewing machine, and at least two weeks since I designed anything other than a seating plan for a party on my lists.

  Any hope that I can get some serious time behind the sewing machine tomorrow morning disappears at the sight of my inbox. My email boasts three more events: two definites from regular clients and then a third from no other than Marshall Levitt. Not that the email was written by him. God forbid. It was his PA, writing on his behalf. Somehow, I know the job is mine even though he’s requested an interview with me. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if Marshall has conjured up the whole thing simply as an excuse to work with me one-on-one.

  As big-headed as that sounds, you have to understand just who Marshall Levitt is. He gets what he wants. Tenacious as a bulldog with a string of sausages being wafted before his nose. In this case, I get the feeling I’m the knockwurst.

  Though the thought makes me grin, I shrug it off. I’m nobody’s sausage. Even if Marshall is attractive and one of New York’s most eligible bachelors, there’s a reason he’s earned that title—he’s perennially single. Undoubtedly, he wants it to stay that way, which means I’d only ever be a notch on his bedpost.

  Something that would never happen.

  With that reasoning, I can calm any qualms I might have about being at the focus of a billionaire tycoon’s attention.

  Yeah, right. If that’s true, why have butterflies suddenly taken residence in my belly?

  Shit, I hate lying to myself. It’s so damn pointless.

  “More events?” Jessie asks when there’s a lull in her flirting with Dave. She peers over my shoulder and nudges me from thoughts of tech entrepreneurs with more money than sense.

  I don’t bother to cover my PDA because usually she’s the one who wields it, and she does a far better job than me. “Yeah.” I pass her the phone and, realizing all my crew are in the van, stop idling and set off.

  Though it’s the early hours of the morning, the traffic is still bona fide nuts and requires far more concentration than it should. As I drive, the rest of the crew chats and discusses the event—for ‘discuss’, read ‘bitch about the partygoers’, and Christ, there’s so much to bitch about—and Jessie talks to me about the bookings we’ve just received. It’s a testament to how good we both are at our jobs that within a handful of minutes of reading the clients’ emails we’re discussing some of the finer details of the proposed parties.

  I know when she finally reaches Marshall Levitt’s email because she blows out a wolf whistle. Considering her mouth is pretty close to my ear, the sound has me jolting and almost swerving the car into the next lane in surprise. “What the fuck, Jessie!” I holler, getting the car back under control.

  “Oops.”

  Amanda whacks her on the arm. “Watch what you’re doing, Jess. Christ, are you trying to get us killed?”

  “I’m just surprised, that’s all!” she bursts out defensively. “I told you Levitt was looking at you like you were a piece of prime rib and he’d been vegan for too long.”

  Despite my irritation with her, I snicker. Then groan. “Don’t make me laugh. I’m too tired to laugh.” And I am. The weariness has settled into my bones until I know the only way forward is for me to climb into bed the instant I get home to sleep it off. There’ll be no sewing tonight. Nothing that nurtures my soul rather than my wallet.

  Before I can grumble anymore, Jessie pokes me in the arm. “Watch out for him, Grazia. I’m telling you, the way he looks at you isn’t right.”

  “Like the way you look at a certain guy is right?” I scoff.

  I only make the comment because I know the others are back in full-on bitch-fest mode. When she pokes me again, I chuckle. “Don’t bring that up,” she warns. “Especially not to keep me silent. You need to know this, Zia. He wants you.”

  There are worse things in life than to be wanted by a man like Marshall Levitt.

  Even though I’ve never been one to appreciate money and power over character and sensibilities, I have to admit that, while I’m not interested in anything close to a one-night-stand, there’s a rush in knowing such a powerful man is pulling strings to get me alone with him.

  I guess that rush tells me more than I’ve already figured—I must be attracted to the guy too, because I already know I’m not going to turn down his offer of employment. If anything, I’ll be there simply out of curiosity now.

  That conversation he wanted to have with me was obviously pretty important, and now, it’s almost imperative I find out just what it is he wants.

  As Jessie falls silent, concern obviously making her pensive, I let my mind wander onto exactly what a man like Marshall could want from me, and more importantly, what I’m willing to let a man like him take…

  Chapter Two – Grazia

  “Miss Fabiola, may I speak with you?”

  The low tone sends shivers down my spine. For the first time in my life, I can understand the simile: like silk over gravel. It’s soft, sensuous, yet with a rumble that is utterly masculine.

  Gu
lping at how attracted I am to the voice, I turn around and see a man I noticed watching me earlier. He’s tall and rangy, but with a strength that I know was forged on a school athletic field. In fact, with his dark wavy hair, sun-bronzed face complete with strong jaw, and nose that was probably been broken during some game, he’s the epitome of the football players I’ve always crushed over but who have never, ever noticed me.

  I was a late bloomer—at least, that was what my Nonna used to say when I came home in tears at not having a boyfriend or angry that not a single one of my crushes liked me back. Seeing a man who appeals to both the young and older versions of me brings me back to the days when Nonna was still alive, and for that reason alone, I smile at him rather than casting a stern frown his way.

  Clients and guests sometimes think I’m free game. Like because I’m there organizing their party, I should reorganize them between the sheets.

  The guy holds out a hand. “I’m Levitt. Marshall Levitt.”

  I’d have to be a moron not to recognize the city’s latest hot commodity. And I’m not an idiot. He’s been in a couple of business magazines I subscribe to, and I’ve read the articles about his past. My supposition that he has the look of a football player is reinforced by a tidbit remember reading in one of those editorials. Not that much was mentioned about his past. I noticed that. When a question was geared towards his history, about the times that made him the man he is today, he managed to twist it around so that the only information his answer revealed was about current affairs and events.

  All told, I can’t deny that I admired his sneakiness.

  As well as him in a suit.

  Business journals don’t exactly have pinups on their covers all that often; they struck it rich the day they managed to get Levitt on their books, that’s for damn sure. I wouldn’t be surprised if women all over the planet, even those who didn’t give a damn about the business world’s movers and shakers, picked up copies just to drool over this guy.