Newport Billionaires Box Set

by Amy DeLuca

  For a second her audacity faltered, and she looked as if she couldn’t quite believe she’d gone off on him like that. But then Jack added fresh kindling to the fire.

  “You know what I don’t appreciate? Having judgment passed on me by a second-rate ‘journalist’ who writes about other people’s writing for a living, who’s probably a failed novelist herself and interviews real authors so she can bask in their limelight instead of having the guts to keep following her own dream.”

  The brown eyes grew round with fury, her pretty complexion paling to white. It took her a minute to respond, and when she did, the words came out like rapid-fire daggers.

  “You know what I think? I think you’re the one who’s afraid.” She swept the papers from the desktop onto the floor and pointed to them. “That ridiculous contract is evidence of abject terror that you’ll slip and accidentally let people see who you really are. Based on what I’ve seen today, you should be scared. I doubt they’d be very impressed by the real you.”

  The words hit a little too close to home. It was Jack’s turn to go pale. His hands shook with a potent blend of rage and, yes, fear.

  Bonnie picked up her purse. “I’m sure you have better things to do than be interviewed by a ‘second rate journalist,’ and I know I have better things to do than stand here and be insulted. I’ll see myself out.”

  “Fine,” he shot back.

  “Fine!” She spun on her heel, stepping on the contract and striding furiously toward the library door.

  Jack’s gut was boiling with shame before she even reached it. His actions were inexcusable. But he stayed silent and didn’t pursue her. That fear she’d so accurately diagnosed subsided with each step she took away from him.

  Bonnie reached the door, but instead of charging from the room, she turned back to face him. There were tears in her eyes. A sharp pain pierced Jack’s chest, and for just a moment he had the distinct impression they’d met before.

  “And to think I idolized you.” Her voice was thick with the threat of tears. “Your first book was my biggest inspiration. You’re right—I did want to be a ‘real’ writer once, and that book was the reason. Don’t worry. You’ve cured me of my stupid hero-worship. A great writer once said, ‘Fear is a beginning, a starting point. Don’t treat it like an unscalable wall and let it end your journey before it even begins.’ I may never have success as a novelist, but at least I faced my fears and scaled that wall today. Thanks for that.”

  She turned and walked out, leaving Jack breathless, his throat and eyes burning. Had she really just quoted lines from his very first, obscure book? And used them in perfect context?

  No one had read that book. Well, not enough people anyway. It had gone out of print years ago. He’d had to re-invent himself and try again before finding any sort of notoriety or financial success.

  To this day, it was still his personal favorite, the best thing he’d ever written, but no one else seemed to agree. No one but Bonnie.

  And what the heck had he just done? Was he insane? Even if she hadn’t been a fan—a former fan now, no doubt—the interview was non-negotiable. His editor was going to kill him when she found out he’d been a jerk and basically roared at the reporter, scaring her away.

  Fear is a beginning, a starting point. Don’t treat it like an unscalable wall and let it end your journey before it even begins.

  Jack had believed it once, long ago in the very beginning of his writing career when all he’d had was hope and determination and raw, unpolished talent. Before he’d been knocked off the proverbial wall and landed flat on his back.

  What had happened to that guy? Had he really changed so much? Apparently so, since he’d just carelessly squashed the dreams of a fellow writer—and shot his own career in the foot. With an assault rifle.

  I called her a failure. Ugh. Jack bent down and picked up the contract from the floor, acidic shame eating away at his insides.

  He’d been insensitive at times before, but he’d never been intentionally mean. When Bonnie had looked at him with those serious, all-seeing eyes and asked what he was afraid of, he’d felt like a cornered, feral animal.

  Because she’d been absolutely right—he was terrified of being found out, of having her and all her readers learn the truth.

  He was the failed writer. And in his fear, he’d lashed out and accidentally struck the exact right target—her own dreams of writing novels. What an utter ass he was.

  So now what are you going to do, genius?

  Jack sat back against the desk and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling as if the answer was painted overhead. Then he reached for his phone and dialed Hunter.

  “Hey brother.” Hunter sounded like his usual upbeat self. “Done already? How did it go?”

  Jack answered him in three words. “I’m in trouble.”

  Seven

  Pulling Back the Curtain

  Bonnie fought back tears as she trekked across what seemed like miles of marble toward the mansion’s front doors.

  When she’d first seen the size of this house, she’d thought it was fitting for a guy like Jack Bestia. That was before she’d discovered what kind of guy he actually was.

  He’s a monster, a total beast.

  Now the enormous home and expansive grounds just seemed obscene instead of impressive, and they were proof positive life wasn’t fair.

  It wasn’t fair that someone so nasty should find such commercial and critical success for his work. It really wasn’t fair that she was probably going to be in trouble at work because of his boorish behavior. He made Sterling look like a sweetie, which was no easy task.

  And she would look like… a wimp. Bonnie mentally kicked herself. Why had she let Jack provoke her like that? No one would want to hear her excuses. She’d been given a job to do, and she hadn’t gotten it done. She hadn’t even gotten a photo of him—not that there was an article for it to go with.

  She certainly couldn’t write about what had transpired back there. Yes, he’d insulted her, but she’d been just as bad. She’d accused one of the world’s top-selling and most beloved authors of being a scaredy-cat.

  Bonnie cringed. Way to go Bon-bon. Sterling would have done a better job. Time to start polishing up the old resumé.

  Reaching the door, she grabbed the handle but didn’t depress the lever to open it. She stayed in place and stared down at her red shoes, which, truth be told, she had actually worn to impress him, and breathed in and out.

  Is it a mistake to leave? Should I go back and ask for a second chance?

  Creatives could be moody and difficult—Bonnie had learned that over the past few years. And she never should have accused him of cowardice. She could go back in there, apologize, sign the stupid contract, and do a boring bare-bones interview that might at least save her job.

  That was if he wasn’t already on the phone with her boss, telling her his version of their meeting. Which he probably was.

  The thought of apologizing turned her stomach. He was a jerk, plain and simple. A gainfully employed jerk who would be just fine with or without this interview.

  Unlike you—a salaried employee who lives paycheck to paycheck. Whose disabled father depends on her.

  Ugh. Why couldn’t Jack have been charming, and brilliant, and witty, and wonderful like his writing? Bonnie had thought the worst that could happen was a repeat performance of her tweeny fan-girling. That was nothing compared to this disaster.

  A voice behind her caused Bonnie to spin around. Not a menacing, growly voice, but a soft, motherly tone. Mrs. Potts was skittering across the foyer toward her, concern painting her face.

  “Leaving already, dear? Did you get everything you needed for your article?”

  Bonnie sighed. “Unfortunately, things didn’t go too well. I made him angry, and he basically kicked me out.”

  “Oh no.” Mrs. Potts wrung her hands together, leaning in and lowering her voice. “Jack can be a bit brittle. You mustn’t blame yourself, though. He isn’t
quite himself these days. He wasn’t always like that, you know. He has such a good side. I wish you’d met him a couple of years ago—such a fun-loving, wonderful, generous man. And never was there a sweeter, more thoughtful child.”

  That piqued her interest. “You’ve known him that long?”

  “Oh yes. I started babysitting Jack and his younger brother Hunter when they were just boys. They were only eight and ten when their mother passed. We were neighbors, you see. I’d been friendly with their mother, God rest her soul, and I volunteered to watch the boys after school when she got ill. After she passed, I started working for their father full-time. He was positively lost after his wife died so young like that, leaving him alone with two young children.”

  “I can imagine.” Bonnie’s own father was lost without her mother, too, and she hadn’t died tragically young. Her parents had shared forty years of marriage and had raised Bonnie and Rachel as a team. Doing it all alone while in a state of grief seemed like an impossible task.

  Mrs. Potts glanced back over her shoulder as if checking to see whether the coast was clear. “You know, I was just about to have a cup of tea in the kitchen. If you don’t have to rush off, perhaps you’d like to join me?”

  Bonnie started to turn down her offer. “I should probably just get back to the hotel…”

  But Mrs. Potts interrupted, continuing her thought as if Bonnie hadn’t said anything. “I could tell you some stories from Jack’s childhood. Oh, those two boys—they were sweethearts, but they got into a few scrapes as well.”

  That was when it hit her. A way to salvage this disaster of a day and maybe even get a decent article out of it.

  She could shift the focus to his early life, turn it into more of a “Making of a Writer” piece, filled with childhood anecdotes about the nascent bestseller. Maybe Mrs. Potts could even scrounge up a few childhood photos of Jack.

  Bonnie’s heart began a slow rise from the soles of her feet toward its proper anatomical position. She gave Mrs. Potts a grateful smile.

  “A cup of tea would be lovely.”

  “Excellent. And perhaps we could even persuade Monsieur Laplume to part with a slice of his famous eight-layer lemon cake. So light it’ll melt on your tongue.”

  “Sounds delicious,” Bonnie said, but it was the promise of stories about Jack that made her mouth water.

  The kitchen was surprisingly cozy for a mansion.

  Of course, they had walked through a pantry the size of Bonnie’s apartment on the way there, but the kitchen itself was warm and sweet-smelling with a narrow center table made of worn, knife-scarred oak.

  The two women were seated on opposite sides of it. Bonnie was working on her third cup of tea, and the chef had not only served the lemon layer cake—every bit as delectable as advertised—but he’d also tried to tempt her with several types of cookies and a tray of bite-sized brownies.

  “Mr. Bestia—he has the sweet tooth,” he explained in a thick French accent.

  “So do I,” Bonnie confessed. “It’s a good thing I don’t live here, or I’d be as round as that wine barrel in the corner.”

  Mrs. Potts smiled fondly. “I find that hard to picture. Though Jack does spend a lot of time exercising. I think it’s less about burning calories than the stress relief, though.”

  That caught Bonnie’s attention. She’d been finding it difficult to reconcile the hard, forbidding man she’d met today with the open, generous, and loving boy Mrs. Potts had described for the past hour.

  “He sounds almost like a different person,” Bonnie said, hoping to lead her to divulge more about his recent life. “When did he change?”

  Mrs. Potts’ expression shuttered, becoming impossible to read. “It’s been a difficult year,” was all she said.

  Bonnie puzzled over it. What could be so difficult about Jack Bestia’s life? He lived in a mansion, had millions of adoring fans, and based on the most recent pictures she’d seen of the two of them together, an adoring girlfriend as well—who, by the way, was one of the most stunning women she’d ever seen.

  “I’d imagine his girlfriend has been a source of support,” Bonnie ventured, suddenly hungry for any morsel of information about the woman who’d caught Jack’s eye and captured his heart.

  Mrs. Potts glanced quickly at the kitchen door then down at her teacup. Speaking quietly, she said, “Their relationship ended some time ago. He hasn’t been in a good place since then.”

  Oh. Now Bonnie was beginning to understand. Maybe the girlfriend had broken up with Jack because he was such a grouch. Or maybe he was such a grouch because she’d broken up with him.

  A shimmer of excitement went through her. Now they were getting somewhere. Bonnie felt like someone was pulling back the curtain at the wizard’s palace, giving her a peek at what was really going on there in Oz.

  “Why did they break up?” she asked eagerly.

  Mrs. Potts glanced at the door again then met Bonnie’s eyes. The housekeeper’s were filled with uncertainty. “I probably shouldn’t say, but I do wish people knew the truth of it all. She wasn’t—”

  The kitchen door burst open, cutting off her words and stealing Bonnie’s breath. Jack walked in.

  “I thought I might find you two in here. Harrison said you hadn’t left yet.” Pinning his surrogate mother with a hard look, he asked, “Having a nice chat?”

  She smiled and patted the stool beside her. “We certainly are. Why don’t you join us? We finished the last of the lemon cake, but there are still quite a few cookies left.”

  “No thank you,” he said with exaggerated politeness. “I’m not in the mood for cookies right now. I would, however, love a word with Ms. Hamelin, if you’d be so kind as to step out of the kitchen with me?”

  His uber-calm tone made Bonnie nervous, as did his attempt at a friendly expression. He did not look away but waited patiently for her response. Her pulse thrummed in her veins, and there was a queasy feeling in her stomach that had nothing to do with too many sweets.

  She nodded and pushed back from the table. “Thank Monsieur Laplume for me,” she told Mrs. Potts. “And thank you for the lovely chat. It’s been so nice meeting you.”

  Mrs. Potts took her hand and patted it. “You too, dear. Enjoy your stay in Newport. I hope our paths will cross again.”

  Not likely, Bonnie thought as she made her way to where Jack was standing with one hand on the swinging door, ready to push it open for her.

  Jack’s face was completely devoid of emotion, but as she passed close by him, she sensed a surge of heat as if a powerful firestorm crouched just beneath the calm façade, ready to leap out and reduce her to rubble at any moment.

  Bonnie scooted past him into the hallway, putting a more comfortable amount of space between them.

  I won’t let him get to me again. Will, Not. Let him. Affect me.

  Lifting her chin, she forced herself to look at him eye-to-eye. “What do you want, Jack?”

  Eight

  The Groveling Olympics

  It was a good question.

  Unfortunately, the contents of Jack’s brain seemed to empty every time those intense brown eyes met his. What was it about this woman that affected him this way? It took him a few seconds of fumbling before he found the words he wanted to say.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Actually, he didn’t want to say those words, but Hunter had told him he had no choice.

  “You’ve gotta do it, man, no matter how hard it is, no matter how much the words burn your tongue coming out. You gotta say it. Otherwise, she’s going to print that you’re a horse’s behind, and you won’t even be able to sue for slander because it’ll be true.”

  Jack had let out a frustrated breath, hating the position his publisher had put him in—the position he’d put himself in, if he was being honest.

  “She’ll never go for it,” he’d argued. “You didn’t see me in action. I really blew it. She hates my guts, and I don’t blame her.”

  “You were an i
diot—no doubt about it. But she’ll go for it,” Hunter had assured him. “Women love groveling.”

  Jack’s whole body had tensed. “I’m not going to grovel.”

  “Fine, fine, whatever you want to call it then. Women love apologies.”

  “What if she doesn’t love it? What if she tells me to get lost?”

  “Then make it worth her while to stick around and do the interview.”

  “How?” Jack had asked.

  “I don’t know—offer her something she wants.”

  “How am I supposed to know what she wants?”

  “I don’t know, what do all reporters want? Exclusive stuff, right? Offer her an exclusive excerpt of the book or something,” Hunter suggested.

  “I never do excerpts before a new release.”

  “You won’t be doing a release at all if you don’t find a way to mend fences with this woman. I’m telling you, brother, figure out what she wants… and give it to her.”

  At the moment, it looked like Bonnie wanted nothing more than to slap him. But she didn’t. She swallowed, tilted her head as she looked at the ground, then met Jack’s gaze again.

  “Thank you for saying that. And I apologize for the things I said. I was out of line. I’m sorry the interview didn’t work out. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my ride is probably waiting outside.”

  She tried to move past him, but he side-stepped in front of her. “He’s not. I… had Harrison send him away.”

  Those incredible brown eyes went wide. “You did what? How am I supposed to get back to my hotel? Walk?”

  “No, of course not. I’ll be happy to give you a ride back, but I’m hoping you’ll agree to stick around for a while first… and finish the interview.”

  “We never started the interview.”

  “Okay, you’re right. I’m hoping you’ll agree to stay and do the interview.”

  Bonnie studied him for a moment. “I’m not sure we have the proper rapport needed to make it any good.”