The Boss and the Brat: A Billionaire Romance

by Frost, Sosie

  Mackenza surveyed her disaster with a victorious grin.

  “I want to thank you all for your patience and attention.” She gestured towards me. “If you have any questions, I’m sure Cameron would be delighted to speak with you. The floor is yours, boss.”

  She closed the door behind her.

  The music pounded. The elderly danced. The men lost most of their manties in crevices which would forever redefine catwalk to run-away.

  And while some of the board approached the older ladies with a smile, and the others approached the men or picked out manties for their own, for the first time, I sat still in utter disbelief.

  Beaten.

  Because Mackenza hadn’t just destroyed her own company.

  She’d ruined her future.

  And for what? Pride? Vengeance?

  …Or because she’d acted out of a desperate denial of the truth?

  Maybe Mackenza hadn’t defied me out of hatred…

  Maybe she did it because she’d accidentally fallen in love.

  12

  Mackenza

  Just my luck—as soon as the best part of my presentation strutted their sexy asses into the boardroom, I got sick.

  But I didn’t think anyone noticed the morning sickness. Not even Cameron.

  Then again, he hadn’t the time to pay attention to me what with the general insanity of the lingerie, Ben Gay, and six male strippers.

  Served me right. I’d had my fill of sexy men. After all, fooling around with one of the most gorgeous and most desirable bachelors on the planet had ended only in trouble. Me hiding in the bathroom. Sick. Doing my best to regain some semblance of dignity even though I’d flushed every bit of my residual pride down the drain.

  If nothing else, I should’ve been commended for putting together such an eclectic show in four hours—including designing a brand-new luxury panty line specifically for men.

  Was it smart to antagonize Cameron?

  No.

  Was it funny?

  Unbelievably.

  Was it a good thing to do to the father of my child?

  I groaned.

  What the hell was I going to do?

  I slunk back to the office, face flushed, stomach twisting, head pounding.

  Never would’ve thought that creating life made a girl feel like death. I didn’t even have a business degree and I could tell that was a bad deal.

  My chair—the one on the wrong side of the desk—had wedged a spring right into my lower back. Between that ache and the panic-induced nausea, I’d hoped for a few minutes of quiet contemplation while I figured out what to tell Cameron.

  No dice.

  The door slammed behind him.

  It’d been many years since someone had made Cameron Mitchell this angry.

  Oh, he was going to have many firsts with me.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  I lifted my head off his desk and sighed. “I’m not sleeping on the job, if you’re worried.”

  He ripped his jacket off, nearly strangling himself as he attempted to loosen his tie.

  “You would’ve done a hell of a lot less damage had you slept through the meeting,” he said. “In fact, I wish you had.”

  “I can see you’re a little upset…” I met his gaze. The usual dark gentleness had swept away into a thorny, uncompromising stare. “But all I did was improvise on your plan.”

  “Improvise?” Cameron stormed to his liquor cabinet, forgoing a glass to take a shot of whiskey directly from the bottle. “You think that was funny?”

  “A little.”

  “You think it helped us?”

  “Depends,” I said. “Sure as hell helped the Senior-ita line.”

  He chugged again then set the bottle before me. “Drink. You’re gonna need it for this.”

  I pushed the whiskey away with a finger, tapping my bubblegum pink nail against the glass.

  If I could credit the pregnancy with one thing, it was that I no longer cared what people would think of me for wearing a garish color on my nails.

  They’d have a lot more to gossip about in a few months.

  “No thanks.” I refused the drink. “For more reasons than you realize.”

  “You sure?”

  I glanced at him. “Thanks, but I’ll just bite down on a stick instead.”

  “You have no idea how painful this will be for you.”

  He couldn’t threaten me with discomfort, not when my future included squeezing an eight-pound bundle of joy out of the barrel of laughs that was my uber-fertile uterus.

  “What the hell were you thinking?” Cameron paced the office. “What happened to the models?”

  “I found you models.”

  “Models born this millennium?”

  “You’re always so damned picky.”

  “You know goddamned well what girls I’d wanted for this show.”

  Which was all the reason I hadn’t commissioned them. “You didn’t enjoy the presentation then? I thought it went well. Martha’s getting more flexible after her hip surgery.”

  Cameron’s lips thinned into a scowl. “Do you have any idea the damage you caused?”

  “To what?” I asked. “Our reputation? Believe me, Cameron. You’ve already done enough damage. I presented the Senior-ita line because that’s what this company does. I was saving it from you.”

  “No. You’ve ruined it yourself.”

  Just once, I wondered what it might’ve been like to meet this man outside of the company and merger. When we might’ve simply enjoyed each other without guarding ourselves to any ulterior motives.

  I probably would’ve ended up the same way.

  Pregnant.

  Confused.

  Frustrated.

  Or maybe…

  It would’ve been amazing.

  “Lingerie will never work,” I said. “You would torch our history and destroy our customer base all while pretending you could sell it for more money than we’ve ever seen. But no one will want to touch this company once they see how we’ve sold out. The investors will realize this is a bad idea. The customers will buy elsewhere. You will have done nothing but destroy my family’s legacy.”

  “And now your family won’t have a future if you don’t fix this.” His words grunted between clenched teeth. “I thought we had an understanding.”

  That was news to me. “Just because we slept together?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you think would happen?” I stood, arms crossed. “Did you honestly believe that taking me to bed would tame me somehow? Make me submit to your desires and your business plan? Did you think your dick was that big and that good that I would compromise all of my ideals just to get another ride?”

  Cameron shrugged. “Well…yeah?”

  I inhaled a quick breath. Probably wasn’t the best idea to get upset in my condition. Stress wasn’t good for me, the baby, or the Daddy at DEFCON 4 risk of ball-punting.

  “A lot of things happened because we slept together.” I seethed. “But a romp in the sheets does not mean I condone anything you’re doing with my company.”

  “It’s not your company anymore.”

  Like that made a difference. “My name is on the label.”

  “Then I’ll change the fucking name.” Cameron hissed. “Call it Chapter 11 Silks. That’s what this brand will be worth if you don’t start to trust me.”

  “Why would I ever trust you?”

  Cameron had the nerve to look insulted. “Why would you sleep with me if you didn’t trust me?”

  “If I knew the answer to that, things would be a hell of a lot simpler now, Cameron,” I said. “Sex has nothing to do with this.”

  He sneered. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right.”

  “About this and so many other things.”

  “I let you cloud my judgment. You might be a great fuck, Kenza, but you’re a shit employee.”

  “From you? That’s a compliment.”

  “Regar
dless of our feelings—”

  “Non-existent.” I lied.

  He snorted. “I am your boss, and you will listen to me. The company is mine, regardless if you agree with my vision or not. I could sell it off tomorrow or I could burn it to the ground, and there’s not a goddamned thing you can do about it.”

  That didn’t surprise me. “And you think I should trust you?”

  “Yes!” He snapped. “Because I’m doing my damnedest to save this business. For your father. For you. Lingerie is a multi-million-dollar industry,” he said. “You might play the prude, but even you’ve gotta realize it.”

  “So go play dress-up with someone else’s brand.”

  “You’re all about making fashionable undergarments for the elderly and, apparently, under-sexed.” He rubbed his ass, massaging out the numerous pinches from amorous old ladies. “What difference does it make if I toss a little lace on a model?”

  “You tell me, Panty King.”

  “Maxwell Intimates has always been about making women beautiful.”

  And there it was.

  The disconnect.

  The core concept to the entire label that he just didn’t understand.

  “No.” I stopped him before he said anything unforgivable. “Women are beautiful, regardless of what they wear. But Maxwell Intimates provides them with the garments that help them to feel beautiful, even when the rest of the fashion industry has stopped caring. We cater to the golden years—when a woman doesn’t need leather, lace, or sex to realize her true beauty.”

  Cameron disagreed with a smirk. “Some do. And they’re willing to pay a hell of a lot of money to feel that way again.”

  He didn’t even make me angry anymore.

  Just…sad.

  And if he would simply listen, I knew I could convince him of the right path.

  “And here I thought you were looking for a challenge,” I said. “I thought you were some sort of broken soul, trying to find his way in this confusing world that you’ve bought, manipulated, and consumed for your own damned pleasure.” I shrugged. “Instead, you’re in it for the money.”

  “I don’t have to be here, Mackenza. I could’ve sold it by now. Washed my hands of you and this whole idiotic brand.”

  “Why don’t you?” I asked. “Not like you care about fashion. You couldn’t even tell me who designed your clothing. Your shoes. Your watch. It means nothing to you, but everything to me. And not because it’s some wealthy status symbol.” I tugged on the sleeve of his fitted jacket. “I recognize this as a piece of art. Someone designed this. A team of people agonized over every decision—the material, the type of buttons, the width of the lapel, the cut of the waist. I see it. You don’t. And that’s fine—but you refuse to learn it.”

  Cameron lost his patience with another swig from the whiskey bottle.

  “You can read my entire personality from a fucking jacket…but you won’t turn that same attention to detail for my lingerie?” he asked.

  “You don’t care about the lingerie any more than I do,” I said. “You’re in this industry for the wrong reasons—searching for some sort of excitement in your thoroughly superficial life.”

  His voice lowered. “You excite me.”

  And, soon enough, he’d realize what a terrible mistake he’d made.

  “I’ve told you before…” The words hurt. “I’m not what you want. You’re looking for a challenge, not a woman.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “This morning you asked me to go away with you. What would’ve happened if I’d said yes? If I’d surrendered and thrown open my arms and whispered take me now?”

  “Then we could’ve avoided all this bullshit today.” Cameron pointed towards the door. “We’d be fucking on my private jet right now, on the way to a Caribbean fantasy.”

  “But that’s all this is to you—a fantasy.” I heaved a breath. Damn the hormones. Tears welled in my eyes. “I don’t know who you are, Cameron, and you sure as hell can’t tell me either. You say these things, but you know as well as I do that the instant I stop telling you no will be the exact moment you lose interest in me. And I’m not about to throw away a future on a man who has burned his entire past because his conquests no longer thrilled him.”

  “You have no idea what I want.”

  “Neither do you,” I said. “But I know where I belong. And it’s with this company. I want to make the decisions about the future. I want some goddamned respect.”

  Cameron’s expression darkened. “Respect is earned, Kenza.”

  “Not on my back.”

  “And you assume that’s my opinion of you?”

  Christ, I hoped I was wrong.

  Without a word, he stormed to his top drawer and ripped a binder out of the pile. He cast it over the desk, rattling his pens and papers.

  “You want to make a decision?” Within seconds, the tyrant boss of my nightmares returned, his scowl deep and burdened. “You can’t. You have no idea what you’re doing with the company. You’re a child, a little girl playing with paper dolls. Stitching together Barbie’s dream dress without a fucking clue about what goes into producing it, developing it, shipping it, distributing it, or selling it. You want to sketch on your pads, create something feel-good that would make Daddy proud, and think what a good job you’ve done in saving the company from the asshole financier.”

  “You’re such a prick.”

  “Forget the fairytale, Kenza. It’s not going to happen. If you want to remain a part of Daddy’s business, you’ll do as I say without anymore godforsaken hijinks like the bullshit you pulled today. And if you want respect, if you want me to trust you with any decisions, you better start proving you’re more than a petulant brat who didn’t get her way.”

  He slammed the binder open, flashing a page of six material samples. Silks. He pointed to the page.

  “You want something to do?” He asked. “Use your damned degree. Pick out a piece of silk for the fourth ensemble in the RAVISHED line. Make a decision without talking back, fucking it up, or trying to destroy the company, and I might take you seriously again. Refuse, and I’ll ship your ass down to accounting and tell them your only job is to take their coffee orders.”

  He grabbed his jacket and shouldered it once more, straightening his tie.

  Pure venom spat from his words.

  “Now be a good girl and do as I asked while I go fix the disaster you created.”

  The door slammed behind him.

  And the sting of tears finally flooded my eyes.

  “Damn it.”

  He was a prick. A jerk. A testosterone-fueled pain in the ass.

  It’d been my own damned fault for hopping into bed with him, destroying my future, and potentially driving away the father of my baby.

  But something worse needled at my conscience.

  …Cameron was right.

  I didn’t know anything about running the company.

  But that didn’t mean I wouldn’t learn. Every aspect of it. Marketing. Accounting. Budgets. Distribution.

  Everything.

  And if he didn’t want to teach it to me, I’d figure it out myself.

  I stared at the swatches of material before me.

  He didn’t understand a thing about fabric, design, or anything as delicate as women’s lingerie.

  But I did.

  And he knew it.

  And he also knew this was just the sort of task perfect for my skills. I could envision and design the lingerie. Create the mock-ups. Lead a team of designers to craft something perfectly lovely for the market.

  The only problem was that the samples were so teeny. A little two-inch chunk of fabric was no way to imagine such a luxurious and important garment to the Maxwell Intimates line.

  I flipped the samples. The tag had the origin scrawled in Italian.

  Milan.

  Of course he’d import silks for his prized brand. How chic.

  Well, I had only one option. If he expected me to d
ecide something of this magnitude, I needed more time.

  As well as the ability to inspect the material.

  In person.

  Maybe it was a bad decision.

  Maybe it was cowardly.

  Or maybe it was the sort of space I needed to confront my feelings for Cameron Mitchell and devise a way to tell him the truth.

  I grabbed the phone and called his receptionist.

  “It’s Mackenza…” I twirled the cord between my fingers. “Cameron’s tasked me with a very important job. Please book me the next flight leaving for Milan.”

  But for as much as I wanted to convince myself it was a tactical retreat…I knew the truth.

  I did all I could to escape.

  13

  Cameron

  Of course, the little brat booked the first available flight to Milan.

  I expected nothing less from Mackenza Maxwell.

  When I ordered her to take messages—she turned every call into a Skype conference.

  When I requested black coffee—she mixed one shot of espresso into a sixteen-ounce mug filled to the brim with every artificially flavored creamer in the office.

  When I asked her to confirm appointments with hairdressers and makeup artists—she emptied a local retirement home and dressed the residents in push-up bras and bondage gear.

  I should’ve realized that asking her to pick a sample from three swatches was the same as demanding she fly halfway across the world just to piss me off.

  “Mr. Mitchell, we’ve landed in Milan.” My pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom. “The local time is 9:30 pm, and the current temperature is forty degrees.”

  I downed the rest of my whiskey with a smirk.

  Maybe I should’ve expected Mackenza to flee to Milan.

  But she should’ve known that I loved the chase.

  And I did it with style.

  I’d stocked my private jet with enough alcohol to forget why I was flying and custom ordered it with enough amenities and luxurious details that I’d never want to leave the air.

  Mom had considered it a hedonist and gratuitous display of wealth.

  Refused to even take my calls while I was on board.

  Then again, she hadn’t taken many of my calls lately. The last car I’d sent her had been too much. She’d donated it to the local church and scolded me in a written letter.