by Naima Simone
Will a blackout change everything
for these unlikely lovers?
She fell into his arms.
Now she’s falling for his trap.
It was a night filled with secrets, lies...and soul-stealing passion. And now the blackout that turned lowly executive assistant Nadia Jordan and start-up billionaire Grayson Chandler into insatiable lovers leads to a proposal Nadia can’t refuse. As she steps into Grayson’s privileged Chicago world, will his matchmaking mother and vengeful ex destroy her dreams? Or will her fake fiancé make those dreams a reality?
USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR Naima Simone
Grayson stared into the dark. “Do we know each other?”
“No,” Nadia whispered. “We don’t know each other. If not for this blackout, our paths wouldn’t have crossed. And when the power is restored, we’ll become strangers again. Getting to know each other just seems like something to do to pass the time, not because we truly want to know each other. It’s not...honest.”
Her explanation echoed throughout his body, vibrating through skin and bone. Honest. What did he know about that? Not much in the world he maneuvered in. He wasn’t used to her brand of frankness, and so he didn’t give her platitudes. Her honesty deserved more than that.
“You’re right,” he said. “And you’re wrong.”
In the glow of his phone, she stared at him, her lips parted, eyes wide.
“When the lights come back on and we leave here, we probably won’t see each other again. But in this moment, there’s nothing I want more than to discover more about Nadia with the gorgeous mouth and unholy curves.”
* * *
Blame It on the Billionaire by Naima Simone
is part of the Blackout Billionaires series.
Dear Reader,
Wow! It’s so hard for me to believe we’re at the final book of the Blackout Billionaires series. I’m sad to see it end, but I’m also so thrilled you’ve enjoyed the series!
I remember when the news about Meghan Markle and Prince Harry having a baby broke. First, I swooned at the fairy-tale-ness of it all. Then I started plotting. What if the “common” girl won her own prince of American royalty? What hurdles would they have to jump? Would his family accept her? How hot would that be? The answer to the last question is “very.”
In Blame It on the Billionaire, Grayson Chandler is the youngest son in a family whose blood is bluer than the ocean the Mayflower floated on. And because of a terrible tragedy, he’s now the heir to that legacy, including the business. His mother is determined to see him engaged and settled down—with his ex-fiancée. To discourage her machinations, he proposes a deal to Nadia Jordan, an employee of his company and the woman who blew his mind with a scorching passion during a blackout: pretend to be his girlfriend and he’ll cover her brother’s college tuition. What begins as a relationship of convenience blazes into a need that neither can control. But will disapproving family, old insecurities and doubts extinguish it first?
This is a story of loyalty, independence, healing and, yes, the all-consuming power that is love. I hope you enjoy!
Happy reading!
Naima
Naima Simone
Blame It on the Billionaire
USA TODAY bestselling author Naima Simone’s love of romance was first stirred by Harlequin books pilfered from her grandmother. Now she spends her days writing sizzling romances with a touch of humor and snark.
She is wife to her own real-life superhero and mother to two awesome kids. They live in perfect, domestically challenged bliss in the southern United States.
Books by Naima Simone
Harlequin Desire
Blackout Billionaires
The Billionaire’s Bargain
Black Tie Billionaire
Blame It on the Billionaire
Visit her Author Profile page at Harlequin.com, or naimasimone.com, for more titles.
You can also find Naima Simone on Facebook, along with other Harlequin Desire authors, at Facebook.com/harlequindesireauthors!
To Gary. 143.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Epilogue
Excerpt from Rule Breaker by Joanne Rock
One
Honor thy mother and father.
Grayson Chandler smothered a sigh. With all due respect to Moses, but if he’d been stuck listening to Grayson’s mother nag on and on and about his lack of duty, loyalty and wife, the prophet might’ve asked God to nail down the specifics on that commandment.
Swearing. Out.
Muzzling. Out.
Faking a coronary episode to avoid her complaining. Gray area.
For a moment, a flicker of guilt wavered in Grayson’s chest. But at the moment, he was caught in his mother’s crosshairs. Pit bulls with lockjaw had nothing on Cherise Chandler. She didn’t let go of something—whether it was a project, a subject or a grudge—until she was done with it.
Which didn’t bode well for him.
He was thirty years old and president of KayCee Corp, one of the most successful global tech start-up companies in the country and he hadn’t been a child to be controlled long before he left his parents’ house. For years, he’d answered only to himself, owed no one else explanations or justifications.
Yet none of that mattered when it came to the crystal blue gaze that could make him feel like the little boy who’d been busted hiding a stray dog under his bed for a week.
Hell.
Parental guilt trips were a bitch.
“Grayson, your stubbornness is becoming ridiculous,” his mother said, a note of irritation in her voice. She shifted closer and a small frown marred her brow. “You’ve proven your point with this little business venture of yours and Gideon Knight’s. But your father needs you now, your family needs you. It’s time to stop playing at CEO, step up and take your place at Chandler International. It’s your responsibility. Your duty.”
He clenched his jaw, trapping the vitriolic stream of words that scalded his throat. This little business venture. Time to stop playing. As if striking out on his own without the emotional or financial support of his Chicago old-money, well-connected family was the equivalent of a rousing game of Monopoly. With those few words, she’d dismissed years of his and Gideon’s hard work, relentless determination and resulting success.
He should’ve been used to this casual disregard. Of his accomplishments. Of him. As the second son, the “oops baby” of Daryl and Cherise Chandler, he’d been an afterthought from birth. But somehow, his skin had never grown that thick.
Another black mark in the “Why Grayson Isn’t Jason Chandler” Column. Right under rebellious. Selfish. And disloyal.
Didn’t matter that he’d had a hand in founding a tech platform that served major businesses and assisted them in tracking their shares with its unrivaled software. Didn’t matter that his business was one of the most successful start-ups to hit
the financial scene in the last five years.
None of it mattered because it wasn’t Chandler International.
Dammit.
Grayson shoved his hands in his tuxedo pockets and glanced away from his mother’s scrutiny. Guilt and shame knotted his gut.
He was throwing a pity party, but at least he was alive.
Jason couldn’t say the same.
And because his mother had lost her son—her favorite son—Grayson imprisoned the sharp retort that weighed down his tongue.
“I take my position at and ownership of KayCee Corp as seriously as Dad does with Chandler. I also understand my obligation to our family. But as I’ve told both of you, my company is my legacy just as Chandler is Dad’s.”
“Don’t be deliberately obtuse, Grayson. It’s not the same—”
“Mother,” he interrupted, voice cold. “Now isn’t the place or time for this conversation.”
She parted her lips, but after a second snapped them closed. Oh yes. Only proper decorum and being potential fodder for gossip trumped getting in the last word.
“Cherise, it’s so wonderful to see you again,” a feminine voice intruded.
The pleasant, soft tone shouldn’t have scraped him raw, leaving an oily slide of disgust. He didn’t need to glance behind him to identify the woman. He’d be able to identify that dulcet tone, that light floral scent anywhere.
Identify it, then crucify it.
“Adalyn,” his mother crooned, a smile erasing her frown as she moved toward Adalyn Hayes with outstretched arms. “Don’t you look beautiful?”
Grayson shifted to the side, studying his mother as she warmly embraced his ex-girlfriend. The woman who’d almost become Mrs. Grayson Chandler.
The woman who’d stabbed him so deeply in the back he still had phantom pains from the scar a year and a half later.
She hadn’t changed at all. Still stunningly beautiful with oval-shaped green eyes, delicate features, pretty mouth and long sleek hair as dark as a raven’s wing—or as dark as her heart. A midnight blue gown that glittered as if stars had been sewn into it clung to her small breasts and willowy frame before flowing over slender hips to pool around her feet.
No, she hadn’t changed a bit. But he had.
That beauty no longer stirred desire inside him. Those embers had long turned to dust, incapable of being lit ever again.
“Grayson,” Adalyn purred, turning to him and linking her arm through his mother’s. “I didn’t know you would be attending the gala this year. It’s wonderful seeing you.”
“Hello, Adalyn.”
Damn if he’d lie just for the sake of pleasantries.
“I’ve missed you,” she murmured as if his mother had disappeared and just the two of them existed in the crowded ballroom of the North Shore mansion. “We need to get together for dinner and catch up with one another.”
“I love that idea,” his mother chimed in, patting Adalyn’s hand. “We’ve missed you, too. I was planning a dinner party for next week. You and your parents are invited. I’ll call your mother to officially issue the invitation.”
The conversation sounded benign, but something seemed...off. Too jovial. Too neat.
Too false.
“Matchmaking, Mother?” he asked, infusing a boredom into his tone that didn’t reflect the cacophony of distaste and rage roiling inside him like a noxious cloud. “You don’t think this is a little beneath you?”
“Not when you insist on flitting from woman to woman, behaving like a male whore,” she snapped, and no, it wasn’t the first time he’d heard those words.
Manwhore. Playboy. Embarrassment. But again, that damn not-so-thick skin. The barbed insult pricked him like the cockleburs that would sting his fingers when he visited his grandmother’s horse farm as a child. Back then, he’d plucked them off and rubbed away the nip of pain. Now, with his ex a witness to his mother’s disdain, those nips drew blood.
Deliberately curling his lips into a mocking smirk, he bowed slightly at the waist. “Thank you, Mother. Now tell me what you really think because I sense you’re holding back.”
She scoffed, returning her attention to Adalyn who watched him with a gleam in her eyes. A gleam that heralded trouble. For him.
“You’re thirty years old and it’s time to put away such childish behavior. The future CEO of Chandler International needs a good woman by his side supporting him. The board will not endorse or accept a man whose name and picture ends up on those dirty little gossip websites as often as the business section.”
He stiffened. The smile he gave his mother was brittle, felt close to cracking right down the middle.
“Well then I guess it’s a good thing I don’t intend to be the future CEO of Chandler International. Which makes the board and my love life nonissues. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I see several people I need to speak with.” Bending his head, he brushed a kiss over his mother’s cheek. “Mother. Adalyn.”
Without waiting for the diatribe about his rudeness, he pivoted and strode away from the two women, the noose that had slowly been tightening around his neck loosening with each step.
He should’ve seen this coming. His mother had been less than subtle about her wishes for him to settle down and marry. Especially in the last six months.
Since Jason had died.
The thought of his brother lanced him through the chest, a hot poker that hadn’t cooled in the time since his death. With a thirteen-year age difference and the knowledge that Jason was the favorite between them, they hadn’t been close. But Grayson had loved his older brother, respected him. And the tragic randomness of a brain aneurysm had only made Jason’s death harder to accept.
But Grayson hadn’t had time to grieve before his parents had started pressuring him to leave the business he’d created and return to the family company. The Chandlers were American royalty, and with the heir now gone, the spare had to step up and perform his duty. Which meant helming Chandler International and, according to his mother, committing himself to a woman from a respectable background.
The knot that had started to relax around his throat tightened again, and he jerked at his bow tie. God, the thought of being back under his father’s thumb, having to answer to Daryl Chandler and the board full of men just like him... Of having his independence stripped from him... Of having to live by the constricting rules that governed being a Chandler, one of Chicago’s oldest and wealthiest families...
He was already suffocating.
Fuck, he needed air.
Charging across the ballroom, he didn’t stop until he exited the cavernous space filled with the glitterati of Chicago. They were supposed to be his friends, his business contacts, his people.
And all he wanted was to escape.
Escape them all.
Two
The last place Nadia Jordan belonged was this gorgeous North Shore mansion that wouldn’t have been out of place in the French countryside. And as the security guard skimmed a glance over her dark brown hair that no doubt looked like she’d been dragging her fingers through it—because she had been—and down her leather jacket and faded jeans to her tennis shoes, he no doubt agreed.
But in her defense, it was a Saturday night, and she’d been on her way back home from one of her brother’s travel league baseball games when she’d received the emergency call from her supervisor that had brought her here. As the older sister and guardian to a teenage boy, her idea of an emergency included a hospital, an asthma attack or broken limbs. But obviously she and her boss, the vice president of operations with KayCee Corp, had very different ideas of what constituted a crisis. His involved a high society gala, a white tuxedo shirt and spilled shrimp cocktail.
When she’d received the call, she’d wanted to tell him she was off the clock. He could button up his jacket for the rest of the night. But being a rural transplant fro
m Tatumville, Georgia—and yes, it was as small as it sounded—she’d been lucky to land the job in Chicago as secretary in one of the country’s hottest tech firms. And with a brother who was involved in every extracurricular activity his new high school had to offer, as well as his college tuition bills on the very near horizon, she literally couldn’t afford to say no to her supervisor’s sometimes wacky requests.
Being a secretary hadn’t been her dream job. Nursing held that honor. But leaving for school and entrusting her brother to her mother’s seriously lacking maternal care hadn’t been an option. Nadia had cared for Ezra since their mother had come home from the hospital with him, even though Nadia had only been seven. Sacrificing for him so he could have a stable home and a chance at a successful future hadn’t been a hardship. She would do anything to ensure he had the opportunities she hadn’t.
Which explained why she stood in the foyer of an ostentatious mansion, holding a garment bag with a clean dress shirt, waiting for a black-suited security guard to grant her entrance.
“Ma’am, your name isn’t on the guest list,” he informed her, scanning the screen of the tablet he held.
She fought not to roll her eyes. No shit, Sherlock. She belonged in a world with linoleum and mass-produced light fixtures. Definitely not this alternate universe with gold and marble tiles and mammoth crystal chandeliers. “I know. My supervisor, Mr. Terrance Webber, is the guest. I’m his secretary, and he asked me to bring an item by for him.” She held up the garment bag, silently explaining the “something.”
“He assured me he would leave a note with security so I could bring this to him. I shouldn’t be long at all.”
“A moment, please.”
“Sure.” She forced her lips into a smile, when she really wanted to lament the fact that she could be curled up on her living room couch, covered from chin to toe with an afghan, settling in for an evening of campy B horror movies.
Several moments passed as the guard spoke into a headpiece, and she tried not to gawk at the over-the-top evidence of wealth surrounding her. A gilded staircase that could’ve graced any classic Hollywood movie set curved to a second level. Paintings that appeared old, and therefore expensive, were mounted on the walls and a huge fireplace inlaid with more gold damn near covered a far wall.
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