Her Billionaire Beast (Her Billionaire CEO Book 7)

by Jewel Allen

  “Isa?” he said.

  “Yes.” Her voice was uncertain.

  “I apologize for my outburst,” he said.

  “I apologize too.”

  He didn’t think it wise to keep pressing the point. He moved forward with his cane and found his usual spot at the table. But he didn’t sit down.

  “We should go into the kitchen,” he said.

  She touched his wrist, removing the cane and placing his hand on her shoulder.

  His beastly heart melted. Over her simplicity and gentleness. Her kindness.

  Horatio met them at the door. He asked, in Spanish, “Are you coming into the kitchen, sir?”

  “Yes, we are, so you’d better not have left it a mess.”

  “I am tidy to a fault, sir. And you know it.”

  “I was just teasing you.”

  “Did you and the miss have a spat?”

  “If we did, it’s none of your business.”

  “I hope it’s something that can be sweetened by the chocolate.”

  “I’m afraid it’s not that simple. How did you know, anyway? I thought we had long ago given up the thought you were psychic.”

  “You aren’t smiling, and the miss isn’t much either.”

  He winced. “Well, I did kiss her. Against her will, apparently.”

  “Mmm,” Horatio said. “That explains a lot.”

  Horatio moved away too quickly for Alejandro to berate him.

  “Can I sit by you?” Isa asked.

  “Of course.”

  He passed his hand over the table, until it landed on the plateful of churros. Picking one up, he urged her to start.

  There was a loud crunch, matched by her emphatic, “This is so good!”

  “Cook makes good churros,” he said, taking a bite of the soft, warm pastry.

  “Mmm hmm.”

  “Dip it in chocolate. It’s even better that way.”

  “First thing I did.”

  They chatted amiably, until most of the churros were gone and the clock struck one o’clock.

  “We’d better get some sleep,” she said, yawning. “We’ll have a full day tomorrow.”

  He stiffened with anxiety, and forced himself to relax. “Dulce sueños,” he said. “Sweet dreams.”

  “Thank you.” From out of nowhere, a soft kiss landed on his cheek.

  “What was that for?” he asked, when he recovered from the surprise.

  “As a thank you.”

  He wished she wasn’t going to bed yet, so he could continue to hear her voice, to smell her perfume, perhaps to even touch her hand. But he would look foolish and he hated looking foolish. After she left, Horatio bustled in.

  “The churros seemed to have sweetened the night,” Horatio said.

  “Perhaps,” Alejandro said.

  Making his way through the house, he climbed the steps, each one heavy and bearing down on him. The farther he got from the kitchen, the more alone he felt. Finally, he reached his wing and was about to head for his bedroom when he had a thought.

  To his right was his studio door. Entering the room, he shed his jacket and searched for the tools he needed.

  Horatio would rebuke him for working in his formal dress, but Alejandro didn’t want to be bothered having to change. He just wanted to paint.

  He thought for a minute, back to the conversation he and Isa had in the car. He wouldn’t be able to tell what the colors were, but he could still work with dark and light values.

  As he was about to unscrew a tube of paint, his hands froze.

  Dark and light values.

  He set down the paint tube and picked up a pencil. When was the last time he’d used charcoal? He wasn’t fond of the medium. It smudged easily and of course he could only do black and white, employing negative space.

  “...silver trees in the moonlight...”

  The snatches of conversation returned to him, floating like gossamer through his mind. Her voice, so close and dreamy. He had said he wished he could see her, but he had.

  Her supple body, reclined in the seat, her arms moving overhead. He could tell by the movement in his failing eyes. He should have asked her what color dress or blouse she was wearing.

  And then he remembered, as they kissed, the satin brushing against his shirt, making a crinkling noise, sliding across his clothing.

  Those kisses.

  He took a deep breath, not knowing where to start. Not for lack of self-confidence, but because his mind was suddenly overcome by recollections of Isa in his arms.

  Back to this sketch, he corralled his mind viciously.

  She would be in the car, stretched in her seat, with rows of orange trees glinting silver in the moonlight.

  But how could he capture that?

  In the past, he would care about getting the approximate shape and look to his underlying foundation, but now, he did not have that luxury.

  Fear gnawed at him, as though he stood on the precipice of one of the castle battlements, looking down to his death. And yet it was just art. Nothing serious. No one would ever see this, if he could help it. No one would be able to critique him.

  He imagined their kiss, the feel of her lips against his. Her mouth was soft, full and sensuous. Her jaw had been prominent, pointed at the chin. Her hair fell around her shoulders in fragrant waves.

  For a few moments, his pencil merely hovered over the canvas. He had no idea of the time that passed, but desire for Isa overcame him again. He wished she could model for him but of course he could not take such a liberty.

  “Please, may I touch your lips. And kiss them? I can only tell its shape by that method...”

  Or maybe he could promise no kissing, if she would let him touch her face, his ears attuned to her breathing, coming shallow and fast.

  Alejandro sighed at his wayward thoughts. He plied the pencil on the canvas and made the first full stroke. The canvas, no longer blank, begged to have his imprint, begged to come to life.

  He grimaced and set out to the work, slashing, marking, rubbing, until he had carved out a living and breathing Isa on the paper. He didn’t know if the details matched, but he was only capturing her essence anyway.

  She was a cyclone, and he was an orchard in its path.

  She was a tsunami, and he was the unprotected coast.

  She was a flood, and he was the valley.

  As his movements slowed, Alejandro felt almost afraid. This obsession to create had returned to him. He had lost it as his vision failed, rejoiced to no longer have that burden, and found it once again. What did it mean that he could somehow make art this way? Was this his phoenix-like renewal, or would this have to be another secret burden?

  He thought of Isa seeing this portrait. It would be too raw for her to see or appreciate.

  This must stay a secret.

  In the room, he searched among the tools and found a folded up piece of canvas, about the size of a baby blanket. He draped it over Isa in Moonlight, got out of the room, and resolutely shut the door.

  Chapter Twenty

  Isa slept magnificently in her luxurious bed and woke refreshed. It was a beautiful day, yet again, outside. She threw back the covers and ran to the window, admiring the sunrise.

  And then the kiss returned full force to her. The kiss that launched a thousand...sports cars. The kiss that shook the foundation of Rome. The kiss that tasted sweeter than churros.

  Ugh. She was acting like a teenager.

  Still, she indulged herself in a smile. No one was watching.

  There was a knock, intruding upon her thoughts. For one wild moment, she thought that maybe Alejandro was at the door. She looked down at her very un-sexy flannel jammies and raked her fingers through her unruly hair.

  Moistening her lips and forming them into an inviting smile, she opened the door. Ah, but it was only the maid, María.

  She said something in Spanish but Isa couldn’t understand. She wished, not for the first time, that they could have a common language between them.
But the maid’s non-fluency in English and her charming way of shrugging, didn’t have Isa annoyed for too long.

  The women laughed until María gestured with her hand to her mouth.

  “Oh,” Isa said. “Breakfast?”

  “Sí!” the maid said happily. “Desayuno.”

  “Sí,” Isa echoed. “I will be down.”

  She took a quick shower, keeping her hair dry in a cap, styled it as usual, and dressed in a pair of khaki pants and a Mediterranean blouse her mother had gifted her from one of her trips to Greece.

  Isa’s heart pounded excitedly as she made her way to the breakfast room. Her sandaled feet padded softly across the stone floor. She heard his voice before she could see him, and her heart leaped in excitement. He wouldn’t be able to see her, but still. She patted her hair for a second and then entered.

  He raised his head, cocking as though to listen better, and then a sweet glow suffused his face.

  If she thought he was simply beastly, she may have been wrong.

  “Good morning,” he said, his deep voice sending pleasurable shivers down her spine.

  “Good morning.”

  She joined him at the table and kissed his cheek.

  He smiled. “So last night wasn’t just a dream?”

  “I hope not,” she said.

  “What are your plans today?”

  “You.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Sounds...nice.”

  “It’s all work, of course,” she reminded him, even though she knew that he would be distracting.

  “Oh.” His expression faltered. “That.”

  “Yes, that.” She teased, “You didn’t think I was just going to go around on dates with you, or something?”

  “With the castle, you don’t have to. We have a swimming pool in the dungeons, a bowling alley on the main floor, a library on the third...”

  “That’s right,” she said. “Can we work there?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “That would be fantastic.”

  “I’m so glad you’re stubborn.”

  She laughed. “I’ve never had anyone tell me that before.”

  “If you hadn’t been obnoxious and bullied your way into my castle, you wouldn’t be here now.”

  “I wasn’t obnoxious,” she retorted.

  “No comment.”

  She swatted him playfully. He caught her hand in his and kissed the back of it. Her breath hitched.

  A server came around with orange juice, and he let her go.

  The sideboard of breakfast foods was fit for a banquet. There were huge strawberries and slices of banana and pineapple. The grapes were sweet and succulent as though they had just been picked. There were thick slices of delicately flavored ham and cheeses of various kinds, as well as yogurts with jams in sparkling jeweled flavors.

  They talked about inconsequential things. Isa wanted to save her questions about his life for later.

  “Are you ready?” Isa asked.

  He nodded and wiped his mouth with his napkin. His fingers were slender and elegant.

  “Do you play the piano?” she asked as they walked arm in arm through the dining room and out in the hall.

  “No,” he said. “I had no patience. I needed to memorize notes on the keys if I were to play, and I simply didn’t want to do that. It was like one time when I wanted to write a short story. I wanted the story now. Right this moment. Without any additional work.”

  “No additional work?” she gasped.

  “I meant, that it would simply pour itself out onto paper. That’s what I love about painting, that I could draw what is in my head and have it come fully-formed.”

  “I think I understand.” She squeezed his bicep, reveling in the feel of his muscles under her hands. “Unfortunately, I couldn’t draw, so that option was out for me.”

  “Sounds like we could be a team,” he said. Then his face fell. “Sorry. That was absurd. I won’t be illustrating anything anytime soon.”

  “Do you miss that?”

  “Frankly? No.”

  His words took her aback. “What? I expected you to answer differently.”

  “I have felt better and worse about my painting career. Right now, I’m fine letting it go. Ask me again in a month.”

  “Hopefully, I won’t be here in a month,” she said.

  She meant it as a light joke, but the words reverberated between them. She was leaving, this was a temporary assignment, and so why was she flirting with him as though they had a future?

  “I hope you will have a reason to stay on,” he murmured.

  She hoped so too.

  “Let me grab my laptop real quick,” she said as they came to the staircase.

  “I’ll stay and wait for you,” he said.

  As she came down the stairs, she watched him listening for her, like a boy eager for a friend’s arrival.

  They linked arms and walked on until they came to a large set of double-doors in the middle of the hall. They were a lovely ivory hue, carved with scenes depicting a wealthy family’s lifestyle—picnics, horseback-riding, lounging in a library...

  Alejandro grasped the door knobs and flung the doors open. Isa sucked in her breath. She had been here once, but the library’s grandeur still affected her as it did the first time.

  The room was a good two-stories tall, with giant drapes flanking huge windows that let in the south-facing light. The floor was carpeted all over with a plush material that made Isa’s slippers sink and leave an imprint. And then, of course, there were the books.

  Massive shelves, floor to ceiling, of books, books and more books. Not just any books either. They were the leather-bound kind, with gilded lettering. Most of them had Spanish titles, but some were in English. Tom Sawyer. Pride and Prejudice. Oliver Twist.

  She circled around and realized she hadn’t spoken, when he asked, “Are you still here?”

  “Yes, yes. I just love it.” She looked around at the furniture. “Shall we start?”

  They sat near the window, where Isa could look outside, if she wanted to. The grounds seemed vibrant under the spring sun today.

  He took one overstuffed chair and she sat in another. She took out a recorder and her laptop, booting it up.

  “I’m nervous,” he said. “I don’t think I can just tell you about my life without knowing what you need from me.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, clicking open a document. “I can prompt you.”

  “That would be good.” He paused. “You said you’re also a writer?”

  “That was my original training. I wanted to write books and sell them through my father’s company. He’s a publisher too.”

  “Makes sense you’re doing the same thing.”

  “I guess.” Isa squirmed in her seat. Talking about her father made her feel uncomfortable. It reminded her that she’d never quite measured up to his expectations.

  Isa turned on the recorder. “So first of all, we’ll start with your earliest memory.”

  He stroked his chiseled jaw, which was rather distracting. Fortunately, he couldn’t see her gape at him like a schoolgirl. She forced herself to focus on her laptop.

  “I was three. In shorts and little suspenders. My mother wanted me to take a siesta. I didn’t want to. I wanted to...” He smiled. “Guess.”

  “Paint?”

  “Yes.”

  “She wanted me to lie down instead and pretend to be asleep. So I did. I lay there until our nanny was soundly asleep and snoring, and then I got out of the room. To get my paints. Mamá didn’t want me to get to them so she put my crate of paints way up on a shelf.”

  “So this was in a regular house, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you describe it to me?”

  His forehead furrowed. “Outside?”

  “No. Inside. As you would have seen it as a child.”

  “We lived in a coastal town near Alicante. There was the sound of gulls most days. The windows opened into the street.
Except for one room. That’s where the paints were.” His voice grew dreamy. “I climbed up the steps—a rickety set that was worn smooth in patches, cool under my feet. It was a hot day. The kind that melted everything. My hands were sticky with sweat as I held onto the rail.”

  “So the house was quiet, except for the gulls?”

  “Yes.”

  She typed a few notes. “Okay. Go on.”

  “I came to the room with the paints. Like I said, she’d put them up on a shelf where I couldn’t reach. I went on my tiptoes, but I wasn’t tall enough. I pulled up a chair, and that still wasn’t enough. From the chair, I stepped on a shelf and stretched to reach.”

  Isa caught her breath. “And?”

  “The whole shelf came down. On me, on the chair, on the floor.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “I could have died if I had hit my head a certain way. But I didn’t. Luckily, the chair broke my fall, and also bore the brunt of the shelf. The paint jars got smashed. The floor looked like an abstract painting.”

  “I’m sure by now everyone woke up?” Isa smiled.

  “Yes. The nanny, my brothers and sisters. Maybe even a dog or two. The pets got into the paints, which caused even more damage because the nanny chased them off, leaving colorful paw prints.”

  They laughed. When Alejandro was relaxed like this, he looked younger. And more attractive, if that were possible.

  Isa cleared her throat. “That’s quite the memory.”

  “No one could be too angry with me. I was just happily smearing the paint all over the floor and I had created a masterpiece.”

  “Oh?” her gaze returned to him.

  “I am half-joking, half-serious.” He hesitated. “I had pressed my palms against the colors and painted the scene outside the window.”

  “Just like how it was?”

  “Just like how it was. The blue, blue sky that hurt your eyes it was so blue. The white sand. Trees in the foreground. Even a mother with a baby in a carriage.” He smiled. “The nanny shooed everyone away and cleaned up, but left my painting on the floor. She wanted to show my parents.”

  “And what did they think?”

  His lips twisted into a rueful smile. “My mother embraced me and told me what a good little artist I was. My father took a picture of it and forbid everyone into that part of the house. He didn’t want my painting ruined.”