The Billionaire’s Girl
Khardine Gray
Contents
Untitled
Khardine Gray
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Untitled
The Billionaire’s Girl
Khardine Gray
writing as
Bella Fontaine
The Billionaire’s Girl Copyright © 2018 by Khardine Gray writing as Bella Fontaine
All rights reserved.
Cover design © 2018 by Cover Couture
This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
The author asserts that all characters and situations depicted in this work of fiction are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
The following story contains mature themes, strong language and sexual situations.
It is intended for mature readers. All characters are 18+ years of age and all sexual acts are consensual.
Created with Vellum
Chapter 1
Billie
* * *
The gentle evening breeze lifted my hair as I walked up the steps to the civic center.
I hated coming here. I knew that probably sounded weird because it was part of the job.
While I completely loved being an investigative journalist, I hated this part. Press conferences.
Having to fight amongst the big fish, the top journalists who were always at the head of the line, hungry for the story.
I was hungry too. I just didn’t like the competitive streak sometimes. Sometimes that took away from the fun of finding a story worth writing.
Tonight was far from fun, and I would be hungry and competitive too because I had an element of advantage the others wouldn’t have.
It was such an advantage I didn’t even bother to get here early, like I normally would. Be there early and grab a good seat.
Tonight, I wouldn’t need a seat.
I assumed that once I said my piece, it would wreak havoc and the esteemed guest we were questioning would most likely flee from the exposé I was about to hit him with.
I went through the large revolving doors and headed straight to the upper hall.
I moved my hands over my dress to straighten out any creases and tamed my hair, so the wavy ends would hang over my shoulders.
Instead of my usual business dress suits, I’d opted for something more casual and sassy tonight. A simple blue summer dress under my blazer.
Not exactly warm enough for a chilly spring evening, but it worked for me, and I worked it. It was part of the lackadaisical appearance I was going for tonight. The blue was turquoise, and against my dark skin and light brown eyes, it popped and looked striking. Blue for me worked the same way red worked for most women.
And I loved having my long wavy hair down in the carefree manner I wore it in for work. Usually, for something like this, I’d have a ponytail or bun.
I spotted a few acquaintances I’d made over the years of coming here and other places for press conferences when I entered the hall, but I went to sit in the middle of the room that was already packed. I would’ve normally gone to the back, but this was a good spot.
The journalist next to me glanced at me as I put my purse in my lap. She gave me a tight-lipped smile. I gave her one right back.
I didn’t know her name but knew she worked for the Chicago Times. As did the two guys next to her, who were wearing Boss suits.
They’d be the first to start asking questions tonight, like always. I’d call them the middle sharks. The top sharks were three rows ahead of us.
They were from The Times. They got first pickings at everything.
I couldn’t knock the confidence that exuded from them. It came with working for a prestigious paper. I would probably be like that too if it were me.
But at least I was here with the same chance for a story as the sharks. Here representing the Chicago Chronicle.
I would never be the one to appear ungrateful to people who had taken me in when I probably didn’t have much of a shot anywhere else. People who saw my talents for what they were instead of the grades on paper.
My barely-there pass on some of my subjects at college was a blessing.
Of course, I would have loved to have graduated from Brown with honors like all my colleagues, but when you had to bounce between college and tending to a parent who was terminally ill, passing was a blessing.
It was my father, and God rest his soul, he lived to see me graduate, even attended the ceremony so we could get the picture of us together, then died three days later. It was cancer, pancreatic cancer.
It was hard, but the whole experience taught me to count my blessings, no matter how big or small.
Instead of wishing I had more and wallowing in sorrow because life had been terrible for me for a very long time, I was glad for what I had and worked hard so that I could have more.
Hopefully tonight would go down well as one of my hardworking attempts.
I was fueled by two things: One, I was hoping it would add to my impressive catalogue of stories I’d recently written for the Chronicle and earn me a raise. And two, I was here because it was the right thing to do.
My presence here was fueled by my desire to do the right thing and expose those who had ulterior motives.
People like the Arnauds. Wealthy, upper-class men who owned the state with their wealth and power and stepped on the less fortunate.
I wondered who would do the presentation for the company tonight. Conrad, the big cheese who ran the multinational property development investment company, or his son Patrick. Both were bad and corrupt in my books.
The business was family run with ten U.S-based offices and offices worldwide.
Chicago, however, was the flagship company.
Aside from the greatness in the company, if there was something up in the real estate world, Conrad’s and Patrick’s names would be thrown in somewhere.
Always.
It was like some quest to conquer, which was no bad thing, I supposed; it was just the bad connotation that came with it.
And there was always, always some sort of scandal that saw one of them in the papers.
Conrad not so much these days, but Patrick for sure, especially since FHM listed him as the tenth most eligible bachelor in the world. The man was worth millions, and yes, even I would admit that he was gorgeous, but beautiful faces with ugly hearts were the ugliest things to me.
There was already a rumble
of chatter across the hall, but then, suddenly, the excitement grew.
It was time. The journalists in the front stood, and flashes of light from cameras going off almost blinded me as I looked ahead.
“That’s Chad Arnaud,” the woman next to me said with keen interest.
The man who walked up to the podium immediately caught my attention.
He caught my attention in a way that threw me off kilter, and for a few moments, I’d forgotten why I was here.
Those bright, bright blue eyes were enough to do the trick. They were blue like the Caribbean Sea. I remembered from a trip as a child to St. Lucia when we visited my great uncle. The piercing, vapid color of the sea was what got me back then.
That same color got me now as I stared at this guy.
With his dark blond hair that had been cut into a sharp faux hawk and his short beard that enhanced the angles and planes in his face, he stole my breath away.
There were only a few times in my life when that had ever happened.
This was perhaps the most memorable because I was on a damn mission and shouldn’t be ogling the enemy.
Beautiful faces with ugly hearts. Chad Arnaud was Conrad’s other son. The one we didn’t hear much about. I didn’t know what the story was with him as to why, but that wasn’t my concern.
Gorgeous as he truly was, I doubted he was any different from his father or his brother.
And if he was doing the presentation tonight, he would unfortunately be on the receiving end of my blows.
“Welcome, everyone,” he began in a rich, cool voice that carried with a presence over the room.
It was deep and masculine, strong and alluring.
“Thank you all for coming. We’re excited about this project and hope it will bring something good to the community. It has always been our goal to provide the best, and we intend to do so with our launch of Arnaud Heights, and entire complex of affordable luxury apartments.” Everyone started clapping. Of course, they would. It all sounded like such a wonderful thing.
Chad continued like he liked the sound of his voice. It was nice, but everything he said was bullshit. “It’s our way of bridging any gaps in our communities, providing quality to all.”
What a big load of fucking bullshit.
Bridging gaps and affordability for luxury apartments.
I couldn’t even laugh, and if I managed it, it wouldn’t be a laugh of humor. It would be cynical and full of sarcasm.
“Thank you. Your excitement fuels us. I’ll now take questions.”
That was my cue, and I seized it.
“Do you sell that shit to everyone?” I spoke loudly, cutting into the woman at the front who’d just started to say something.
Everyone looked back at me in shock.
Chad, Mr. Gorgeous, zeroed in on me and fixed those eyes on mine. We were about ten meters apart, but when he looked at me, it felt as if he was right in front of me. It was the intensity. Then, instead of looking appalled like everyone else, he smiled down at me.
And God, my mind slipped away again.
The smile revealed a cleft in his chin and dimples.
An uncontrollable blush swept over my skin and cascaded throughout my body.
“No. Didn’t you like what I said?” he asked, smile brightening.
All eyes were on me. Curious, watchful eyes.
“It sounded really good. In fact, it’s almost believable that you guys actually care about the community, but you don’t.” I shook my head.
Someone gasped behind me.
Mr. Gorgeous clasped his hands together as he leaned onto the solid wood of the top of the podium.
If not for the lascivious smile he gave me, I would have compared him to a pastor giving a sermon for Sunday Service. Someone like Pastor Bailey, Mom’s pastor, who she thought was an angel incarnate from heaven.
This guy here was definitely not that, and I was very interested to hear what the hell kind of comeback he’d have for me.
“I would love for you to elaborate. There must be a reason why you think we don’t care.”
The poor guy. He didn’t know that was an invitation to unleash the secret I knew the Arnauds were hiding.
“Were you going to tell the community that you plan to tear down the entire block of apartment complexes that cover the expanse of East New Town to build your luxury apartments?”
That got his attention. Got it in a big way. It got everyone else’s too, and they started whispering amongst themselves in shock.
Instead of the sinful smile, he now gave me a curious look.
Seeing he had no answer, I continued my tirade.
“I’m sure you know those apartments are filled with some of the poorest and most needed members of the community, who will most likely be homeless after you throw them out of the homes they’ve lived in for decades. Elderly people in their seventies to nineties, single mothers who have to work God knows how many jobs to feed their children, families who are so below the poverty line they have no hope of ever having a good life. You say you want to bring quality to the community and bridge gaps, but yet you gave them a month to vacate the premises. A month.”
Oh, people were seriously talking now. The room instantly came alive with it, and all the reporters and journalists started throwing questions at him.
All at once, all in a rumble, with no coherence.
And yet his eyes were still fixed on me.
I didn’t know what bothered me more. The interest that flickered in his eyes or the effect he had on me.
It didn’t matter. I’d said my piece, and now it was time to go.
I turned on my heel and moved through the crowd that was trying to question me too.
And still, I could feel his gaze on me. It followed me all the way through the door.
I had done what I came here to do, and now he could go and guess how I came by the information.
He’d probably conduct the standard investigation people like him would do to see who leaked and ratted them out to the press.
But he would find no leak.
I knew what was going on because my mother had told me.
Mom knew everything.
It was all set out in her eviction notice she got two days ago practically telling her to get gone by the end of next month.
She was one of the tenants who lived in the New Town complex called Winsor Estate. That was one of the buildings they were going to tear down to build Arnaud Heights.
The apartment she lived in was where I grew up.
This wasn’t just about a job or an exposé for me.
It was personal.
Chapter 2
Chad
* * *
Maurice couldn’t get me out of the hall quick enough.
While I would have preferred to pursue the insanely beautiful black beauty, Maurice took me away from the ferocious questions the press threw my way.
I supposed it was good he was on the ball like that and could deal with the media in times like this, but tonight was one night I wished I’d stepped around his professionalism and did what I wanted to do.
Her revelation would spark an intense backlash, and I imagined we’d have to spend time calming people’s fears on what we were doing, but that wasn’t why I wanted to pursue her.
Not in the least.
The need to pursue her stemmed from my weakness for beautiful women. The fiery ones were the ones who got to me the most, and she’d most assuredly left a lasting impression on my mind.
“Hey, don’t tell me that nonsense,” Maurice argued on the phone. He was speaking to security. As if we could hold her for what she’d said.
Everyone was entitled to their opinion. The thing was, if what she’d said was true, then I was inclined to agree with her.
“Maurice, get off the phone.” I signaled to him and closed the door to the little office we’d retreated to behind the hall.
Maurice hung up and frowned at me. His pale skin was already too light, and
now it was paler and blotchy.
I’d known this guy practically all my life. We’d gone to college together, and our friendship was the reason my father hired him for the role of my personal assistant.
We might not always have been together due to my six-year absence from Chicago, but I knew when something was up, and I knew when he knew something was up.
“Come on, spill it.” I gave him a pensive look.
All I was told was, we had a great new project in mind to build luxury apartments on the east coast. It was Patrick’s idea, and Dad wanted me in on it because of my experience with real estate. I was given that information two weeks ago and flew in from Paris last night. No one said anything else to me about anything.
Patrick and Dad dealt mostly with real estate that was already in existence. Already built and probably in need of refurbishment or just to sell on as an investment.
I was an architect and had more experience with building things from scratch with the investment potential in mind. It was great that we each had our area of specialty, but not so great when they left important details out that could cause me to be eaten alive by a sea of reporters.
Fuck, they really had looked like they would eat me alive.
“Come on, Maurice. What the hell’s going on? Why wasn’t I given the full rundown?”
“You were supposed to be given all the details on Friday.”
Today was fucking Monday. I had plans to meet various people all this week to get the project on the move.
“Does that make any sense to you? Job aside, Maurice, you’re supposed to have my back.” I narrowed my eyes at him.
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