by Lexi Aurora
A tall brunette in a bikini, with new breasts and a pouty mouth advertising that it was not all natural, passed by and took his hand. “Come on deck and dance with us, Robert.”
“Later,” he said. He smiled at her, and she disappeared. Robert spotted Debra, his PA, near the door and waved her over. She was always where he was and absolutely loyal. She took care of everything for him, just as she’d always done.
“Sir?” Debra said. She was old-school respectful, something Robert used to like, but even that annoyed him lately.
“Call me Robert, Debra,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
Robert gave up. “I’m sneaking downstairs to my bedroom. Tell people looking for me I’m sick. I want to be alone for a while.”
“Yes, sir… I mean, Robert.” At least she was trying. It would take time.
Robert lay on his bed in the spacious bedroom fitted out with oak wardrobes and dressing tables attached to the walls for the rough seas his yacht sometimes encountered. He’d traveled in it to Greece and South Africa, even to Australia a few times. It was his home when he was not in Chicago in his lakefront penthouse on the twenty-fifth floor of one of the buildings he owned in the city. The ground floor was his gallery, Rive Gauche, one of the more prestigious in the country. Art was one of Robert’s passions, and finding and promoting new artists he loved was one of the few things in his life that still gave him real joy. He kept to the background though. He didn’t like being seen as the owner or the benefactor. Few people knew what he actually did, and he liked it that way.
He looked up to the ceiling, sighing. He was sick in a way. He had been for some time. What was wrong with him? Was he lonely? Could it be as simple as that? Lonely with people constantly around him.
Of course he missed his parents, but the accident had been over three years ago now. Surely he was over the initial shock of the loss. It was a tragedy when their private plane crashed in the Andes, but Robert sometimes thought it was better they died together. Theirs had been a love story like no other, one Robert could only dream of ever having, and he doubted either one of them would have survived happily on their own. Robert was an only child, so he often felt lost without them, but the way he felt lately was more than that. His life seemed so meaningless. Nothing really challenged him anymore. Everything was easy and unexciting. Living the playboy life had lost its fun.
He rolled to his side. Soon the yacht would dock and the crowd would leave and he would be free of them, at least for a while. He had the opening of the Dancy show at the gallery tonight. He loved her paintings and would like to purchase one or two tonight for his house in Paris, but he didn’t look forward to seeing the same vacuous people that always attended such functions in Chicago. They were always there more for being seen than for appreciating the art. They would, as usual, be fawning over him in the insincere manner he’d come to loathe.
But then he reminded himself of his plan, and a surge of excitement passed through his body. He’d thought of it some weeks before, and it had not left his mind since. He’d read a story about an employee at the Louvre who stole the Mona Lisa—Vincenzo Peruggia. Something about that stuck with him. He imagined himself stealing a painting; just the thought made his blood race with excitement, something he never felt nowadays. To plan and execute such a thing successfully began to fill his mind and, oddly, it gave him a reason for living, something beyond his normal life.
Tonight he planned to implement what he’d laid out for himself. Tonight he intended to commit a perfect crime: to steal a painting from his own gallery and not get caught. He smiled thinking about it as he slowly drifted off to sleep.
***
“Sir? Sir?”
Robert opened his eyes, confused. Where was he?
“Sir, sorry to disturb you, but we’ve been docked for three hours now, and I fear if you don’t get up soon you will miss this evening’s engagement.” Debra stood to the side, as if embarrassed, holding his tuxedo in one hand.
Robert sat up on his bed and looked out the window. He was still on the yacht. It was dark, the city lights sparkling in the distance. He felt refreshed though; the long sleep had been exactly what he needed. He checked the clock and saw it was already 8:30. He’d be late for the opening—he’d better get going. He had a big night ahead of him.
***
Robert couldn’t keep his mind still. All he could think of was his plan. Once the party was over and the crowd cleared out, when all was quiet, he would sneak back in and do it. Which painting would he steal? He decided since this was really just a practice run to see if he could get away with it, he would steal the painting that he’d purchased shortly after he’d arrived. It was small and in a good position in the gallery. And it would harm no one. The painter would have been paid, and he would not claim from his insurance for the loss. It was the perfect choice for his first attempt.
He milled around the crowd, trying to pay attention to the conversations about new business acquisitions or charities that were being started, gossip about who was sleeping with whom. He had interest in none of it.
Mrs. Vallier stood far too close to him and ran her hands up and down Robert’s well-defined biceps, felt clearly through his jacket while she talked. “You know we only just returned from Cannes. It was amazing. We missed you this year, Robert.”
She smiled at him, a smile meant to remind him of their rendezvous in a cheap hotel up the coast. Mrs. Vallier, though married and a few years old than Robert, was an energetic lover if little else.
“Perhaps next year,” Robert said, moving off.
He stood before the painting he’d purchased, the one chosen for the night’s escapade. It was a small painting, little bigger than two of his hands wide. The naked woman, for all of the paintings were of gorgeous naked women in all of their beauty, lay across a rumpled bed. A red blanket was pushed to the side, and one of her arms was thrown above her head, her long blonde hair spread around her like a halo, her other hand cupping between her legs, a slight smile on her face. He loved everything about the painting. The woman looked satiated after lovemaking of the long and luxurious kind. He would enjoy holding the painting in his hands; he got excited just imagining it. Art should move a person, and this painting moved him.
He turned looking away from the painting, and there she was.
Across the room, a woman, with the same spectacular blonde hair as the woman in the painting. She was dressed casually, as if clothes were nothing to her, that her real substance was herself— who she was— not the accoutrements that money could buy. So unlike the other women that filled up the room. It was such a new and refreshing manner, Robert could not look away from her. She wore a white blouse with a bold silver necklace and little makeup except for a slash of bright red lipstick on her perfect, natural lips. She looked directly at him. She noticed he was staring at her, but she did not look away. Nor did she move toward him, as most of the women in the room would have done, the hunt begun. She stayed where she was.
The gallery was packed with people. Robert pushed through them to get nearer to this extraordinary woman. He was finally next to her, though she was facing away from him. The crowd pushed him into her, his body against her back, and he bent his face slightly toward her golden hair and thought how it smelled of sunshine and summer and fields of green grass. His body, against his will, was filling with adrenaline, the excitement moving through him just being near her. He could not remember ever being so affected by a woman. He felt lost in her somehow.
She turned to him, and she was more beautiful up close than she was from across the room.
“Hello,” she said. “I thought I saw you looking at me from over there in the corner. Did you want something?”
“No,” he said. “Only to meet you, I guess.” He held out his hand. “Hi, I’m Robert.”
She smiled at him and her face lit up, and his breath caught in his throat. Had he ever met such a beautiful woman before? So beautiful and yet she seemed completely un
concerned about it and the effect she was having on him.
“Hi, Robert. I’m Kim. Kim Davidson.”
Keep reading Bound By The Billionaire – it is available online, check Lexi Aurora’s author page for its availability.
PREVIEW: The Big Billionaire by Lexi Aurora
Sure, he doesn’t own me, but if you saw how much money he just invested into my idea, you wouldn’t think that.
All I ever wanted was to work for myself and run my own restaurant, but then Allan Dane walked in and made me an offer I couldn’t resist. I tried to fight, but I didn’t try very hard, or for very long…
What was there to lose? My boss was a monster, my love life wasn’t exactly setting the world on fire, and I was always on the verge of losing the crappy apartment.
But I had an idea and Allan heard it. Suddenly he was whisking me all over town, promising me the world, as long as I could follow orders. I followed, and Allan led me straight into his dark past. Now the only thing that scares me more than being burned is the thought of never feeling his touch again…
“Big Investor: A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance” contains adult language and situations. It is intended for a mature audience. HEA is guaranteed.
Chapter 1
Will this day ever end?
Just as I’m about to finally beeline out of the stuffy, overfilled room, someone grabs my hand.
“Not so fast, Blondie.”
At the sound of Geno’s slightly mocking tone, I suppress my urge to sigh. Instead, I turn around with the best smile I can muster.
“Yes?”
Geno’s grinning as if we hadn’t just spent ten straight hours teaching a bunch of unwilling amateurs how to cut carrots properly.
“There’s a customer who wants to speak to you.”
My smile hangs, but I glide over without a word to where his tanned finger is pointing. I know all too well how long a customer just wanting to “speak to me” can drag on—whether it’s a three-part fable of their cooking woes until they stumbled across Geno and me, or some compliments and picking my brain for every cooking tidbit I have, there really is no bounds to trying to get out of it, especially not while Geno’s hovering by like a delighted vulture. He doesn’t care how long after my shift I stick around, nor whether I like it. All he cares about is that we baby our customers to the point of ridiculousness so that we get a five-star review online and in all the famous cooking magazines. After all, “the customer is always right.”
This time, thankfully, it’s just a table of delighted tourists, who all clap their hands in glee and thank me profusely. And yet, every time I’m about to successfully escape, another one of them pipes in about their favorite part of the class, how they almost burned themselves, ha-ha, he-he, etc. All the while I stay dutifully frozen in place, with my smile plastered on, half hoping they can see how eager I am to leave so they will let me go in peace—it’s 5:15 p.m. now, and I don’t get paid for the extra time. But the whole group is delightedly oblivious, chattering on and on, not really including me—I’m just a symbol really. God, I can’t wait until I get my app developed; then I won’t have to deal with this nonsense anymore.
When I finally do tear myself away, I’m almost at the back of the restaurant when someone grabs my arm. I freeze. I twist around to see Geno. Closer to the back of the restaurant now, away from most of the patrons, Geno’s fake smile contorts into a scowl.
“What were you doing?”
I avoid his angry gaze.
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. Those people at that table at the front over there—those customers. You weren’t even pretending to be interested in what they were saying. You were rude, unconvincing, ungrateful.”
Now I dare meet his furious gaze with my own. I rip my arm away.
“Can I say something?”
Geno and I turn around to see the speaker, a customer we didn’t notice at a booth nearby. Though how we didn’t notice him is a miracle in itself; the man is, hands down, the most gorgeous guy I’ve ever seen. Model-sculpted face, dark curls the pride of any hairstylist, he’s wearing a black suit, and his piercing blue gaze is locked on me. Running a Rolex-watched hand through his hair, his gaze flicks to Geno.
“May I speak to your chef?”
Geno’s scowl immediately inverts into a placating smile.
“Of course, sir, of course!”
And then he’s gone, leaving me with the gorgeous man who I definitely didn’t teach today and yet still seems strangely familiar. With one finger the man beckons me over, and with wobbly legs I make my way to him and sit across from him. Plopped on the red plastic booth there, I can only gape at him with a half-stupefied stare. I’m too exhausted and starving for this.
“I’ve had your food before.”
“Oh?”
He grins, showcasing a line of perfect white teeth.
“Here in the restaurant, Picklebucket. And my buddy, Gerald, I don’t know if you remember him—big guy, dopey kind of smile—he came here. Before he would screw up Kraft dinner, and now, thanks to you, he’s making edible dishes: casseroles, pies.”
As I continue to stare at him stupidly, he explains “So I came here. To learn how to cook.”
The lightbulb lighting up in my head, I nod, smile.
“Great. You can just talk to my boss, Geno. It’s actually the end of my shift now.”
But when I rise, he does too.
“Why do you let him talk to you like that?”
“Who—Geno?”
The man nods, those too-blue eyes tracing the contours of my face, looking for something I’ll bet isn’t there. I avert my gaze.
“Geno means well. He’s taught me a lot; he just cares more about the customers than his own chefs.”
The man’s face appears as unsatisfied as I feel at my own response.
“Besides, I’m just biding time here until I can find an investor for my app.”
At my admission slipping out, I feel my cheeks redden as I avert my gaze again.
“No way.”
“Forget I said anything.”
But when I start to walk off, the man’s cool hand grips mine. When I turn to him, he looks as surprised as I feel and releases my hand.
“Sorry. I just—I’m an investor and have been looking for a new opportunity.”
The man returns to the table, sweeps his hand across from him where I’d been sitting before.
“Why don’t you sit down and tell me about your project?”
I pause. Really, at this point that’s just about the last thing I want to do. I’ve got a throbbing headache and a roaring stomach ache, but there’s something about this man, about what he said. I don’t know why, but I know instinctively that I should stay.
“Here.” The man fishes something out of his pocket. “Why don’t I give you my business card and you come by my office to talk more when you have more time?”
Once again, I’m speechless. Because the name on this card suddenly explains why this man looked familiar; he is familiar. Sitting in the booth less than two feet away from me is none other than Allan Dane, notorious billionaire, womanizer, and tabloid fodder.
Now he’s rising, passing by me.
“You know where to find me.”
And then he’s gone, leaving me half-stupefied. I find myself sitting back in the booth, staring at where he’d been sitting mere seconds ago, turning his card in my hand. Something tells me this may be the most important card I’ve received in a while—and the most dangerous.
Chapter 2
At home, a quick nap and half a BBQ chicken are enough to revive me. Angel is curled up on the couch with Popper, both of them casting pitying looks at my sprawled form on the other couch. Angel tosses me the chip bag, which I just manage to catch.
“Another long day?”
I dig around in the Lay’s bag for a minute, getting myself a nice big handful before responding.
“Yup, you know how Geno is. It’s not
a real workday unless you’ve been held back at least ten minutes’ overtime with no pay.”
Angel tut-tuts, a red curl falling in her face, which she tucks away as she looks at me.
“You dropped this on your way in, I think.”
Face-to-face with the card, I manage a dismissive wave of my hand.
“Yeah, I met the Allan Dane today. Just strolled on into Picklebucket and asked to talk to me.”
Angel jerks to attention so suddenly that poor Popper half leaps half tumbles off the couch in fright.
“What?”
I lean down to gesture Popper over. Once his little wiener dog body has reached me, I pat him.
“Yeah, crazy, right? Apparently, he wanted some cooking classes with me, so I told him to talk to Geno. When I let it slip that I needed an investor for my app and practically ran out of there, though, he handed me his card and told me I could come by his office to talk my project over.”
Now Angel’s gaping at me, her slanted eyes practically bulging out of her head.
“No way.”
I laugh.
“That’s what he said.”
Angel gets up and flops on the couch beside me. She picks up Popper and plants him on her lap, running her long fingers absently over his sleek brown coat.
He looks so well and fat now, I almost forget what he looked like when we found him on the street: the patches on his fur that were missing, the frightened look in his eyes.
Angel’s voice breaks me out of my reverie. “So, are you going to go?”
I shrug.
“I don’t know. This is Allan Dane we’re talking about. I just want someone to back my app; I don’t want to be the star of some crazy tabloid spread involving starlets and drama galore. Besides, Geno would flip out if I tried to leave.”
Angel is silent, though I can feel her insistent gaze drilling into me. Finally, she speaks.