Billionaire's Amnesia: A Standalone Novel (An Alpha Billionaire Romance Love Story) (Billionaires - Book #9)

by Claire Adams

  "Another drink for the lady?" he oozed over to stand in front of me.

  "Make it two." Ginny popped up next to me, and I wrapped her in a long hug. "Well," she giggled, "either you've gone to the next extreme or you really want him to think you play for the other team."

  "I don't care. I'm just glad you came." I snapped up our drinks and headed for a little, round table in the corner. "I needed someone else's take on this place."

  Ginny eyed her chair, shrugged, and sat down. "A little out of the way, a little dark, and a little, ah, sticky," she shifted in her seat, "but the music sounds good."

  "Right?" I sat down and concentrated on the jazz trio. They had a loose and funky interpretation of the classic songbook, but I liked their style. If my drink slid down my throat too fast, it was just because I was wrapped up in the music. It had nothing to do with erasing that photograph of Penn from my mind.

  How could he have smiled like that minutes after our whole connection fell apart?

  "Corsica?" Ginny's soft voice broke into my thoughts. "You realize you're singing along, right?"

  "Am I off-key?" I asked, with a jaunty smile.

  "No," she said, slipping my almost-drained glass away from me. "It's just I don't think this band intended to have a singer tonight."

  "They should," I said. Why was my voice so loud? Maybe it was just in my own ears. "I could sing for them. Maybe I should sing for them."

  "Maybe you should shut up," a woman two tables over snapped.

  "And maybe you should mind your own business." I felt my eyebrows clash together in a tight frown. Maybe that was why there was a faint throbbing pain starting in my head. "I'm just trying to follow my dream here. You got a problem with that?"

  "Maybe you should get your friend under control," the woman told Ginny.

  I snorted. "Can you believe her? Bet she's all straight-laced and nine-to-five. Can you believe I ever wanted to be like that? Yuck."

  Ginny looked worried. "Let's talk about that," she said in a soft voice, "quietly while everyone else enjoys the music."

  "Music without singing. I could totally sing this song," I announced. I tried to stand up, but my feet didn't get the idea. The floor's too sticky, I thought.

  "Let the lady sing along, if she wants," the drummer called out with a wink. "She can right up here and sit on my lap, if she wants to."

  Ginny locked a hand on my arm and didn't let go until the set was over. Then, she relaxed just a bit, and I slipped free. Instead of heading for the stage, as she feared, I gestured to the bar and headed that way. Ginny joined me, and by some amazing silent stare, convinced the bartender not to serve me another drink.

  "Come on, Gin," I giggled. "I thought you wanted me to let go. I thought you wanted me to work on being a singer in a place like this."

  "Not exactly how I pictured it," she said.

  "It ain't no good life, but it's my life," the drummer said as he sidled up to join us.

  I poked a finger in his chest. "I know that song. Ella Fitzgerald sings my favorite arrangement."

  "So you really are a singer?"

  Ginny leaned over and gave him a fierce look. "She's just considering it. So we're exploring the places around here."

  The drummer took off his bowler hat and scratched his shaggy hair. My heart flipped as the wild tangles reminded me of Penn. "Well, if this place ain't your style, I could give you a few suggestions."

  Ginny politely wrote down the clubs and bars that the scruffy musician suggested. Then, she clamped a tight hand on my elbow and steered me to the door. "What has gotten into you?" she asked when we climbed outside into the fresh night air.

  "What do you mean?"

  "You're nearly drunk. You're hanging out in a seedy little hole with musicians that look as if they might live on the street. Are you telling me that's what you envision the rest of your life is going to look like?" Ginny hauled me to the street corner.

  I pulled back. "I might have to get used to it. If I refused to find a job that utilizes my college degree, then I'm starting at the bottom. I can work my way up."

  "Fine," she huffed. "I can respect that. But will you finally tell me what is making you so crazy? I know he hasn't called–is that what's bothering you?"

  I buried my face in my hands as the sidewalk started to spin. The two strong drinks I had before Ginny arrived to save me were swirling through my head too fast. "No. I don't want him to call. I don't want to talk to him ever again. You know I saw them together?"

  "Who?" Ginny asked.

  "Penn with that perfect heiress. All smiles and a perfect pose plastered all over the high society websites. He's with her. He probably always wanted to be with her."

  The admission cleared my head long enough for me to grab Ginny's hand. "I'm sorry. Thank you for coming to pick me up."

  "Let's get you home," she said. "We've got to see if we can fend off the hangover you have coming your way."

  Whatever magic Ginny tried to work failed because I woke up with a throbbing headache. No, it didn't just stay in my head, but radiated up and down my back with each breath. I had never felt so sick in my life. I curled in a ball, stretched out, rolled over, and then sat up, but there was no escaping it.

  I was so hungover that everything hurt. Especially the fact that I remembered everything. Even my dreams.

  I had dreamt Penn and I were on a trail and he was walking too fast ahead of me. I tried to catch up, tried to climb as high as he did, but I kept stumbling, getting bruised and cut along the way.

  I started to sniffle over the symbolism, but I smelled coffee. Ginny had placed a Thermos of coffee and two aspirin next to my bed with a note. "You'd do the same for me," was all it said.

  I snuffled over the kindness of that and choked down the aspirin. After a few minutes of slow sipping, the caffeine hit my bloodstream, and I started to believe I would live. I slipped my feet out of my tangle of bed sheets and placed them square on the floor.

  I couldn't just lay in bed and ache all day. It was time to move on. Penn had moved on, as those photographs clearly showed, and it was time that I figured out how to do the same.

  I heaved myself upright and slowly shuffled to the shower. With clean clothes on and my wet hair tied back in a messy bun, I was ready to figure out my life. So, I sat down in front of my laptop and started a job search.

  It didn't matter that my heart clutched at every boring and methodical job description I read; I couldn't morph into a successful singer overnight. And Ginny was right; I was not cut out for the nightlife.

  What I really needed was some miracle crossover, like a hotel with a nightclub attached. Or maybe I should just join a cruise line show. That would solve the problem of rent and ensure that I would never run into Penn Templeton again.

  I reread the cruise line posting again and pulled up my resume. With the addition of my limited singing engagements, I could be a good fit for the job.

  I started humming as my fingers flew over the keyboard. The tune was one of my favorites, one of the first songs I sang with Penn's father accompanying me on piano. I remembered seeing myself in the reflection of those stunning windows and thinking that that is how I wished everyone could see me. Free, smiling, and singing like it was the only thing in the world.

  My hands slipped off the keyboard. At least one good thing had come out of my random foray into the seedy jazz clubs of San Francisco: I had a few real suggestions from a real musician.

  Suddenly, it was all I could think about. I clung to it as the first clear thought that had not been pierced by sappy memories of Penn Templeton. I found the scribbled list that Ginny had given me and started to research the places online.

  The last painful ebbs of my hangover disappeared, and the weight that had settled on me as I considered the cruise line job suddenly lifted. I opened my mouth and sang along with the radio as my fingers typed along in happy rhythm.

  Ginny found me a few hours later, and her face was shocked when she pushed open the door
. "I thought you might be curled up under the blankets watching old movies," she said. "That's what I'd be doing."

  "Thank you for the coffee and aspirin–and for making sure I got home before I made a complete fool out of myself," I said. I slipped the gold earrings in place and twirled in front of the mirror. "How do I look?'

  Ginny took in the wild, abstract on black print of the sheath dress and shook her head. "I like it. I like it a lot; I just can't believe you're in it."

  "Why?" I asked. "Too flashy?"

  "No. No," she said. "You look wonderful. It's just I saw that dress at the big store just off the highway. I thought you never bought clothes there."

  "I'm on a budget, but I still wanted to make a good impression. This works, right?"

  She started to smile. "It definitely works. You make that dress look like a million dollars."

  "Thanks," I said.

  "So…" She blocked the door as I tried to breeze past. "Where are you going?"

  I laughed at the worried crease in her forehead. "Not back to where we were last night. This place has a great reputation."

  Ginny peered over my shoulder to where I pointed to my computer. "I've heard of that club. There's a five-star restaurant attached to it. Do you have a date?"

  I snorted. "No. No thank you. I've got something better-an audition. Turns out the list that guy gave us last night led me to a forum where different bands can post for new members.

  “There's a little combo that needs a singer. When I called, it all went well. I sang over the phone! And then they told me to meet them there tonight. I'm going to sing with them and see how it goes."

  "You've got an audition?" Ginny pressed two excited hands to her mouth to stop from squealing.

  I nodded. "For a paying gig. I'm going to be a singer."

  Chapter Twenty

  Penn

  "Penn, I know you are going to say this is only because of my recent recovery, but I really think a change of pace would do you good, help you clear your head. If you can't cancel this next business trip, the least you can do is meet your father and me in Monterey for the weekend afterwards. We should talk. I love you."

  I erased the voice message from my mother. It was the third one like that she had left since the charity ball. I was busy with work and hardly had time to listen to her long, rambling messages, but they stuck with me.

  How was I supposed to clear my head if everyone kept bothering me?

  Phillip was insisting on more happy hours than usual. Bill and Tamara had invited me over for countless dinners. And if my assistant asked me one more time if I was getting enough sleep, I was going to knock him out.

  Sleep was the farthest thing from my mind. Work was everything. We had the new fall lines to premiere and the holiday catalogs to settle. Then there was the huge list of potential new products, each one waiting for me to review them.

  No one understood why I was determined to test every one personally, but I kept reminding them that that is how I built my company in the first place.

  Still, the simmering heat of the desert was not very appealing. I faced a three-day trek across Joshua Tree with nothing but a light pack and the latest water-filtering technology. I was going to prove that I could survive using nothing but the fetid standing water left from the rain or the ground water I managed to dig up. I would test the pH of the water and rate the filtration systems accordingly. By Thanksgiving, we would have an entire new line of products, perfect for stocking stuffers.

  Christmas, I thought with a wince. How was I supposed to face my parents at Christmas without-

  I cut off the thought and stalked around my car to unload my pack. My assistant sat inside the cool, temperature-controlled luxury interior and yammered away on the phone. So far, he'd settled three labor disputes, expedited two cross-seas shipments, and hired a new vice president of sales. All while I had stared at the desert with my thoughts wandering miles away.

  I kept thinking about my house in Monterey, leaning on the kitchen counter in the early morning, just waiting for Corsica to come bounding through the door, energized from her run. My mind drifted downstairs to where she had sung like an angel while my father played my sadly neglected baby grand piano. She had shone, actually shone under the recessed ceiling lights, her hair lit up like a halo.

  "How can you not be frowning about the weather? I can actually feel all the moisture being sucked right out of me. I'm going to need a facial," my assistant sighed. He reluctantly shut the car door and joined me at the trunk.

  "Who says I'm not frowning about the weather?"

  Jason cocked an eyebrow. "You're about to tell me it's the perfect forecast for your equipment test: dry and hot. But that's not what you're frowning about."

  "I swear to God, if you ask about how I've been sleeping one more time-"

  "I don't need to ask. You haven't been, and I'm sorry, but it's showing. And you really should be sitting in on the sales meeting tomorrow. Your new VP starts tomorrow."

  I thought about it, long enough for Jason to give me a hopeful smile. Then I shook my head. "How can I announce that our new angle is 'every camper for himself-self-sufficiency in every climate?' It'll mean a lot more if I say it fresh off this trek."

  "You won't be so fresh on the other end," Jason said with a wrinkled up nose.

  I rolled my eyes and slammed the trunk shut. "Luckily, there won't be anyone around for me to offend. You scheduled for a car to be left for me at the other trailhead. I'll check in morning and night by text; otherwise, you won't see me until I'm showered and ready for a day at the office."

  "There's nothing wrong with the office," Jason said. "You designed it. And you helped build it. I don't think a single person in your company would think twice if you started delegating all this macho-man, tough testing to other people. We get dozens of calls a day from world-renowned adventurers who would love to help out. Plus the thousands of unsolicited reviews that come pouring in to the website. How about we just get back in the car and go get an iced tea?"

  I laughed. "That sounds awful. I'll take my chances with puddle water, thank you very much. See you on the flip side."

  Jason watched as I marched down the trail and into the first stretch of arid land. The air was thick with heat, but the desert stretched out and the sound of the car door slamming reverberated over the ground I had crossed. My assistant drove away, but instead of the normal rush of adrenaline, I felt hollow. It seemed like I echoed as I kept my pace steady along the trail.

  Then, the song reached me. A faint breeze carried it from some far off campsite, but it hit me like a sharp upper cut. Corsica had sung that song. I remembered holding onto the railing, not believing that the same, snobbish woman I had run into on the dance floor stairs was now singing as if she was born with a jazz trio at her back.

  I shook it off and kept going, but the desert winds liked to carry sound. The song slipped back and forth across the trail. For the first time ever, I worried that the solo trip wouldn't give me peace–it was only giving me too much time to think.

  Three days later, I was still whistling that song as I got out of the shower. I had given in to one gnawing desire and gone straight from Joshua Tree home to my beach house in Monterey. It was irritating how Jason had predicted my change and already sent my clothes along. I yanked a clean T-shirt out of the top drawer and flung it over my shoulder as I walked to the kitchen.

  My gut clenched as I hoped to see Corsica there. My mind kept throwing out images of her everywhere I looked, and I wondered if it was like some toxin that I somehow had to flush. I chugged two tall glasses of water before turning away from the sink.

  "You're kidding me," I snarled as I looked up in time to see my father sauntering in the front door.

  "God, you do wear sunscreen, right?" Xavier asked.

  I looked down at the deeply delineated tan my hiking gear had left. "I don't worry too much about tan lines," I said and tugged the shirt over my head.

  "You could at least wor
ry about fading all those tattoos. They'll look even worse once they’re washed out."

  I ground my teeth. "Is there something you want, Xavier?"

  My father smiled wolfishly. "Don't let your mother know you forgot our plans."

  "Shit." I had completely forgotten she wanted to meet at the beach house. It was lucky my own sappy thoughts had dragged me there.

  "There you are!" Alice swept in the door in a long kaftan of bright turquoise. She had gained back the color in her face and some of the weight she had lost during chemotherapy. Her hair was thinning, but a wide band of bright, white silk covered it up.

  I came around the kitchen island to fold her in a hug. "You look great," I said, careful not to squeeze her too hard.

  "And you look pale, Penn," she said.

  I snorted. "He says I'm sunburned, and you say I'm pale. Can't you two ever agree on anything?"

  Alice grinned. "Yes, we can. We've set a date for our wedding."

  "He agreed to the drum circle and jumping the broom?" I asked, jabbing a thumb at my father.

  Xavier tugged down his tailored suit coat. "I'm only going to say this once, Penn; you're going to respect your mother's choices, and you're going to be nice about it."

  "Or what?" I snapped.

  We squared off, but my mother stepped between us with an impatient sigh. "You two are so alike, so stubborn and quick to mouth off. It's a wonder we ever have any decent conversations."

  My mouth went dry, and I turned away to get another glass of water. Ending up like my father was exactly what I was afraid of. I knew I had the same quick temper, the same tendency to work too hard and play too hard.

  It was probably lucky that Corsica had taken off when she did, or I probably would have ended up hurting her. I wouldn't have meant to, but I could imagine it happening.

  Like the mornings after when my father was so sorry, so crushed with contrition that he could hardly speak.