The Wicked Billionaire--A Billionaire SEAL Romance

by Jackie Ashenden

  His hands itched, wanting to reach for her, to pull her into his arms. But he kept them shoved deep in the pockets of his jeans. Shit, she was amazing. Flamboyant and bright and so achingly lovely. He really should have given her something before he’d left. Some nice polish and a necklace or maybe a bracelet to add to her collection. A special piece so that she had something of him to wear on her special day. Though really, why he should want her to have something of him he had no idea.

  This was her day, not his, and there was no reason to want to involve himself. No reason he should be part of it.

  She got into the taxi and he got onto his bike, following along behind the cab as it made its way through the evening traffic to the gallery.

  Fifteen minutes later, he’d parked the bike and was standing opposite the gallery, watching the crowds begin arriving to her show. And there were actual crowds. He knew nothing about the New York art scene, but he was sure an unknown wouldn’t get anything like the turnout Grace was getting. The gallery owner must have had a lot of contacts in order to bring in this many people.

  He leaned against the streetlight, not sure what he was doing, since she was in the gallery now and nothing was going to get her there. It had been at least two days since de Santis had called off his dealers and Lucas had seen no one, so it was likely she was safe. How long was he going to keep following her?

  He needed to end this shit right now, get back to base.

  Yet he didn’t move as more people flooded into the brightly lit gallery.

  Music drifted across the street, the sound of laughter and conversation rising above the traffic. Looked like a goddamn party.

  You could go in, just take a look. She’d never know you were there.

  The thought wound through him, insidious. There were a lot of people there and she’d wouldn’t spot him if he was careful, though why he would go in he didn’t quite know. It would only be to support her, but if she didn’t know he was there what would be the point?

  Does it matter if she doesn’t know? This isn’t for her; it’s for you.

  Fuck, that was true. If he went inside it would be for him. It would be one last moment of connection to her, where he would be surrounded by her color and warmth and vibrant spirit. His last chance to be near her …

  What a pathetic piece of shit he was. He should be turning around and getting on his bike and getting the fuck out of there, heading back to base and what he knew. What was safe. For him, for her, for everyone who knew him.

  Yet that wasn’t what he did.

  He had no idea what made him cross the road and approach the entrance to the gallery. The asshole on the door made a big deal of the guest list, asking pompously whether he was on it or not, but Lucas just stared at him. “I was invited,” he said coldly. He didn’t want to give his name because he didn’t want any media attention. He also didn’t want Grace finding out he was here.

  The man made spluttering sounds, but Lucas simply stared him down until finally the idiot, totally intimidated, jerked his head toward the door.

  Lucas stepped inside.

  And realized for the first time that Grace wasn’t just good.

  She was a genius.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Grace stood in the corner of the gallery, one hand holding a glass of champagne, the other her little green silk clutch. It was a stupid accessory and she couldn’t understand why she’d brought it with her. It took up one hand, making it impossible to hold a drink and eat an hors d’oeuvre at the same time. Not that she wanted to do either of those things, truth be told. Not when she was so goddamn nervous.

  The gallery was packed and she was sure it was all a mistake. Craig had told her he’d managed to rustle up a crowd, but she hadn’t realized it was going to be such a big crowd. She’d asked him why there were so many people and he’d just smiled and touched the side of his nose, telling her the answer to that question was on a need-to-know basis only.

  Maybe he’d paid for everyone to be here. She was an unknown after all.

  She’d spent most of the evening being led around and introduced to a lot of people, gallery owners, critics, collectors, and a few other artists. She barely remembered their names, their faces a blur. After almost two weeks of being locked away in an apartment with only Lucas for company, she found all the people, all the attention, a little overwhelming.

  Apparently, people were liking her work. Apparently, they were liking it a lot. And she didn’t know quite how to handle that.

  Craig had wanted her to go stand near the painting she’d done in a frenzy those last couple of days in the apartment. The one that tied her whole “urban heroes” collection together. But she didn’t want to. In fact, she didn’t want to even go near it, because she knew that if she did people were going to ask questions about it. Questions she didn’t want to answer.

  She took a nervous sip of her champagne and looked down the crowded gallery to where that painting had been positioned. Craig had hung it on the back wall at the end, by itself. The other paintings were apparently supposed to draw you in, he’d said, and that last painting was the reward. The essence of the entire collection.

  He’d wanted her to explain it to him, but she hadn’t been able to and she still couldn’t.

  There were a lot of people in front of it and someone was gesturing, pointing out something.

  Her throat got tight, and even though she didn’t want to look, she couldn’t help herself.

  A man lay on his side on a wide white bed. He was naked, a white sheet winding around his beautiful body. Color fell over his skin, red and gold, shining on his blond hair and over the exquisite bone structure of his face. He was facing the viewer, the deep azure of his eyes almost mesmeric.

  He should have been a cliche, nothing special. A male model advertising aftershave or linen sheets or perfume. But the way the light fell on the man’s body, on his face, caressing every part of it, making him glow, took the painting beyond cliche. As did his expression and the look in his eyes. It was fierce, intense. Hunger and passion and heat, yet there was tenderness at the same time. One corner of his mouth was almost turned up, as if he was on the point of smiling, and you just knew if you waited a moment he would smile and it would be glorious.

  Grace swallowed and tore her gaze away from it. She knew exactly what that painting represented

  The painting represented the missing pieces of herself, the parts she’d always held back, kept safe. Passion and, more important, love.

  She took another sip of her champagne, distractedly scanning the crowd, helplessly looking among all the people, unable to stop herself.

  He wasn’t here; of course he wasn’t here. Not that she expected him to be, and maybe that was a good thing. He would have hated to see himself in that painting, the essence of who he was displayed for the world to see. The essence she saw every time she looked at him.

  Maybe she shouldn’t have done it. Ever since she’d left the apartment and gone back to her own pokey little place, the paintings crowding in on her, she’d debated whether including the piece in the exhibition was the right thing to do.

  Looking at it hurt, because she missed him so badly. And in the few days before the exhibition, she’d had to cover it with a sheet so she didn’t see him. So she wouldn’t be reminded of those precious few days with him. Not enough to build a relationship, yet apparently quite enough to fall in love.

  But she’d decided that she couldn’t not include the piece. She wanted the world to see the man he truly was, the man she’d come to know that week in his apartment. Passionate and intense. Protective and caring. A man who felt so much. A man who felt too much.

  It was necessary to include the piece in the show. Vital. Because he was one of the heroes. He was the man she loved.

  Her throat constricted like someone was strangling her and she had to take another sip of her champagne.

  This exhibition was supposed to be her crowning glory, the point she’d been working tow
ard for years, her very own New York show. And she was supposed to feel good about it. Thrilled. Excited. She was supposed to be pinching herself and unable to believe it was really happening. Her big “fuck you” to her father.

  But her father was dead and so was her only other main supporter—Griffin. She hadn’t spoken to her mother in years and the only other person who meant anything to her wasn’t here either.

  So she didn’t feel thrilled or excited. She didn’t want to pinch herself. She didn’t even feel good. All she could think was, ‘what’s the point’? What was she trying to achieve? Proving that she was good enough to people who were dead and to one man who didn’t care. Great. Wonderful.

  If this was her crowning glory then why did she feel like utter shit?

  “Grace.” Craig appeared beside her. “You should be down the end next to that painting. What are you doing hiding away in the corner?”

  “Just taking a break.” She tried to smile but knew it wasn’t convincing.

  Craig didn’t seem to notice. “So exciting!” He clutched her arm. “Do you see the red dots all around? People love your work. I knew they would, I knew it.” Flashing her a glance, he jerked his head toward the painting of Lucas on the back wall. “They all want that one, though. Are you sure that’s not for sale? I’ve had some major offers on it.”

  “No.” She didn’t even have to think about it. That painting wasn’t for sale and it never would be. “I’m not selling. I don’t care how much they offer for it.”

  Craig shrugged. “All right. I did tell them that, but you know some people. Think they can buy anything if the money’s right.” He gave her a grin. “They all want to know who modeled for you too.”

  “No one,” she said automatically. “I made him up.” Lucas Tate wasn’t as well known in the media as his brother, but he was still recognizable. So it was interesting that no one had recognized him in her painting. Then again, maybe it wasn’t so surprising, since the man he was in the painting wasn’t the man everyone knew.

  Craig gave her a skeptical look but didn’t comment. “Are you ready for your close-up? I’m going to announce you soon.”

  Ah, yes. He wanted her to give some kind of speech. Unfortunately, she had no idea what she was going to say. Perhaps she could simply sidle away and pretend she wasn’t here?

  Over by the door to the gallery, there was a small kerfuffle.

  She turned her head to look, frowning as she spotted a police officer talking to the man at the door. The doorman was pointing in her direction and sudden foreboding clutched at her, though she had no idea why.

  The police officer looked at her, nodded to the doorman, and then started heading in her direction.

  “How odd,” Craig murmured. “What are the police doing in my gallery?” He made a tsking sound. “If Sebastian has been doing coke in the men’s room again I’ll kill him.”

  But Grace wasn’t listening. The foreboding was winding deeper, pulling tighter as the cop approached them. She couldn’t have said why, but there was something familiar about him, something that made her feel cold.

  “Can I help you, Officer?” Craig asked smoothly, the very epitome of the urbane art gallery owner. “Is there a problem?”

  But the officer ignored Craig completely, focusing on Grace instead. He was wearing sunglasses, which was weird, mirrored aviator shades that reflected her pale face back to her. “Grace Riley?”

  Was it . .? No, it couldn’t be. Not the fake cop who had nearly gotten her to open Lucas’s front door. Lucas had dealt with him, hadn’t he?

  “Yes,” she said, trying not to sound hesitant. “That’s me. What can I do for you?”

  “I need you to come with me please, ma’am.”

  Craig frowned. “Now? Can’t it wait? I’m just about to do a big announcement.”

  The officer didn’t even turn his head. “Now, ma’am.”

  The foreboding sunk sharp claws into her. “Um, it won’t take long,” she said, prevaricating. “Can you give me five minutes?”

  “Ma’am,” the officer began.

  Craig’s hand tightened around her arm. “I’m sure five minutes will be enough, Officer. This is very important.” He began to tug her down toward the back of the gallery, where Lucas’s painting was.

  And then it seemed that a lot of things happened all at once.

  The officer’s hand whipped out all of a sudden and Craig fell to the floor. Grace opened her mouth in shock only for the officer to reach out and grab her, jerking her up against him.

  For a second all she could do was stand there, staring in horror at Craig lying on the floor bleeding from a head wound, the cop’s fingers holding her painfully in place.

  “You stupid bitch,” the cop growled in her ear. “You should have come with me when I told you to.”

  Her brain wouldn’t work and nothing was making any sense at all. Why would a cop have hit Craig? Why was he holding her now? What the hell was happening?

  You know what’s happening. It’s the same cop who turned up at the door, who Lucas apparently dealt with.

  Cold shock was beginning to work its way through her, flooding over her skin, freezing her blood, her lungs, her heart.

  The people around her were beginning to notice Craig now, more heads turning to look at the man on the floor, the ripple of shock moving outward over the crowd the way it was moving outward over her.

  “Don’t make a fucking sound,” the cop said savagely, and began to move, pulling her toward the gallery door.

  Through the shock and the fear, Grace was aware of one thing and one thing only. It looked like Cesare de Santis had not been as good as his word and had not called off his dogs after all. And that once she was pulled through that door she was dead. It would be over.

  So Grace did what any sane person would do. She fought.

  She jerked away sharply and it appeared he hadn’t been expecting her to, because she managed to pull herself out of his grip. But he was fast, grabbing her again, this time around the waist. She dropped her glass, the smashing sound drawing attention, then tried to elbow him in the face, kicking out behind her with her sharp heels.

  He cursed savagely and for a brief moment it felt like she was winning, that she was going to get away. Then something cracked across her cheek and pain exploded through her, making her gasp and tears start in her eyes. She stumbled; then an arm was gripping her far too tightly around her waist and something hard and metallic was jammed against the side of her head.

  “Move again, you little bitch,” the cop said pleasantly, “and I’ll blow your ugly fucking head off.”

  * * *

  Lucas felt tension prickle across the back of his neck even before he heard the gasps of shock. He’d felt it before that too. A gradual tightening in his gut that he’d learned over the years never to ignore.

  He’d been down near that painting she’d done, the one everyone was staring at, unable to process it. Intellectually, he knew that the painting was of him, but he didn’t recognize himself. The man was a complete and utter stranger to him.

  He’d stood there in the well-dressed crowd, in plain jeans, sweater, and leather jacket, unseen because if he didn’t want to be noticed then he made sure he wouldn’t be. He had his shades on for added protection and he kept his head down and his shoulders hunched. People ignored him, brushing past him like he wasn’t even there.

  But he heard them talk about the painting, about the use of light and color, and about how she’d managed to capture such an intensity of emotion. They were right, she had, and the longer he looked at the face of the man in the picture, into the man’s blue eyes, the more he wanted to look away.

  He didn’t know what disturbed him so much about it, because even though it was of him it really wasn’t. He’d never let that kind of emotion show on his face; certainly he never let himself feel it. That had to be something she’d imagined, surely?

  The crowd around him swirled, but he didn’t move, staring at the pic
ture, unable to pull himself away from it. It made his chest get tight, made it difficult to breathe. Made him … Christ, he didn’t know what else, but he should be turning around and walking out of this goddamn place before Grace spotted him.

  That’s when he felt it, the tension, like an icy current in a warm tropical sea. Then came the gasps of shock. He didn’t turn, scanning around for a place to stand where he’d be unnoticed and yet have a prime view of the gallery. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself, not until he’d figured out just what the hell was going on. There was a small alcove off to his right, where the lighting didn’t quite reach, so he made for it, sliding into the shadows as the sound of crashing glass rose above the crowd.

  Something was happening in the middle of the gallery, the sounds of violence, a woman’s scream, a man cursing. Shock was rippling outward through the crowd, people backing frantically away from whatever was going on.

  Another cry. He recognized it. Grace.

  His whole body went tight, every muscle clenching, and it was all he could do not to burst into action right there and then. But years of military training held him still because he had no idea what was going on and he didn’t want to move until he did.

  He spotted her as the crowd began to move away, standing in the middle of a rapidly widening circle. A cop had his arm around her, holding on to her tightly, and his other hand was holding something up to her head. Holy fuck. The muzzle of a gun.

  His heartbeat began to get faster and faster, a voice in his head screaming at him to take action, because she was in danger. It took everything he had to ignore the voice, because he couldn’t, not yet. Someone was holding a gun to her head, point-blank range. One move and it would all be over.

  She was absolutely white and there was a cut on one cheekbone, a rapidly darkening bruise. The fucker was starting to walk her back out of the gallery, while people stood around watching in shock. No one did anything. No one said anything.