by Talia Hunter
Rocking The Billionaire
A Rich List Romantic Comedy
Talia Hunter
Contents
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
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
One Year Later
Thanks For Reading!
One
Running after the thief who’d stolen her day’s earnings, some advice she’d been given flashed through Meghan’s mind. Her grandmother had told her, “Hard work always pays off.”
Grandma clearly hadn’t known what the hell she was talking about.
The proceeds from Meghan’s hard work were currently in the hands of a teenaged boy who was racing too far ahead to catch, and about to disappear for good.
Meghan had been mid song when the boy had snatched her upturned cap from the ground in front of her and taken off like an Olympic-grade sprinter. She’d bolted after him, but it was hard to run while she was clutching her guitar. The sole of one of her boots was loose and flapping with every step, and her long dreadlocks kept falling in her eyes. Dammit, she’d been fit once. She used to run like this for fun.
With one last, breathless curse, she gave up the chase. The thief turned the corner, gave a final glance over his shoulder, and was gone.
Five hours of performing on the sidewalk, singing her heart out to indifferent passers-by, had been wasted. Tonight Meghan would have to sleep in her car. Again.
“Thanks a lot, slimeball,” she shouted after him.
A woman who was walking past gave Meghan a sideways look, probably wondering if she was crazy. Meghan had been wondering the same thing. At twenty-nine years old, she’d been working her ass off for years. Shouldn’t she be a teensy bit closer to achieving her dreams by now?
Fame and fortune would have been nice, but okay, she could settle for less. How about a place to sleep that didn’t have seatbelts?
With a breathless sigh – perhaps more of a wheeze – she turned and trudged back to where she’d left her rusty old Toyota. Her guitar case was in the back seat, on top of a pile of blankets and dirty clothes. Everything Meghan owned was in the car, because five days ago she’d finally peeled rubber out of Melbourne. Sydney was as good a place as any to start over, she’d figured. But that was before she’d realized that thieving sprinters were roaming the streets.
Meghan was hungry, her throat was dry, and she’d give a lot for a beer. A toenail, perhaps. Or even an entire toe, if the beer was ice cold, with condensation dripping down the sides of the bottle. Imagining that first, refreshing sip made her throat ache.
Enough people had dropped money into her cap while she was singing that she could have bought a bottle of Bud and a cheap room for the night. But thanks to light-fingered Usain Bolt, she had barely enough change left to order a Happy Meal.
What now? Was it time to swallow her pride?
Meghan put her guitar into its case and made sure it was secure on the back seat before getting in the car. Then she pulled out her phone and looked up Geena’s number. Geena was an old school friend, and the one person in Sydney Meghan had kept in touch with. But instead of hitting the button to dial, she stared at her phone, arguing with herself.
Which was worse, asking for help, or spending another uncomfortable night with the passenger seat wound back as far as it would go? If the last few years had taught her anything, it was that she couldn’t count on anyone but herself. Not that she thought Geena was anything like her ex-boyfriend or either of her ex-agents. She could trust Geena. But the thought of telling her friend she was homeless and needed a place to sleep still made her feel sick.
Meghan’s life shouldn’t be such a mess. How hard was it to have a roof over your head and a steady income? Everybody else seemed to manage it just fine.
Geena even had her own business, for heaven’s sake. Her friend owned an adult toy store, which practically made her a business tycoon, at least compared to Meghan. If Meghan called, she’d probably interrupt Geena while she was piling more money into her cash register, or telling lines of eager customers to wait their turn.
Meghan blew out a long, frustrated breath, then dropped her phone onto the passenger seat. When she was back on her feet with somewhere to stay, that’s when she’d call Geena. Then Meghan would be able to meet her friend for a drink instead of having to ask for favors. And without feeling like a failure.
What she needed right now was to follow her plan.
She tapped the steering wheel, counting off the steps she’d take. First, she’d go around all the bars and clubs that hosted live bands, and convince one of them to take a chance on a singer they didn’t know. Even if she had to knock on a thousand doors, she’d get a job somewhere. A regular gig would be a million times better than playing her guitar on the street, begging coins from passing strangers.
Step two would be to get her own place. Just hers this time. No more lying, deceitful, destructive men would be allowed in the door.
Step three, she’d get a real record deal from a real record label. Either under her own steam, or by partnering with an agent she could trust.
As bad as the last few years had been, they’d be a lot worse if Meghan didn’t learn from them. From now on, she was taking control of her life. She couldn’t wait for her good-luck fairy to wake up from the medically-induced coma she’d obviously been in for the last few years. Meghan was damn well going to turn things around for herself.
Yup, from now on everything would be different. Better. That was a promise.
She picked up her phone again, but only to search for Stronger by Kelly Clarkson. She sang along to it, belting out the chorus, and as the song reached maximum volume, she turned her car key in the ignition, pumping the accelerator and praying for the unreliable engine to turn over. Two false starts, then the engine caught and her car lurched forward into the busy Sydney traffic.
Into the path of an expensive-looking Aston Martin that was going too fast to stop.
Two
“During the social events, we’ll have more time to discuss the deal,” Jackson said to Derrick, his operations manager. “I’ll bring a date. Someone to keep his wife entertained so I can talk to him without—”
A Toyota swung out in front of them and Jackson slammed on his brakes. His speed had crept a little too high while he’d been talking, but he reacted quickly and his Aston Martin Vanquish had one of the best state-of-the-art carbon ceramic precision braking systems in the world. The brakes came on so fast that he and Derrick were jerked forward against their seatbelts.
He still smashed into the Toyota.
“Shit.” Heart pounding, Jackson sucked in a breath. At least the airbags hadn’t gone off. “You okay, Derrick?” he asked.
Instead of answering, his operations manager let out a long and profane string of expletives.
“You’re not hurt?” demanded Jackson, reaching for the door handle.
“No, but I’ll tear that idiot in front of us a new—Wait! Jackson, don’t get out of the car. Let me handle this.”
But Jackson was already getting out. He waved at the cars behind them, telling the rubberneckers to move on. Then he walked towa
rd the car they’d hit to make sure its driver was okay.
The rusty Toyota can’t have been much to look at before the accident, and the Aston had slammed into it hard enough to put a large dent in its side and shatter the window. When the driver shoved the door open, it made a screeching sound. A woman scrambled out, and Jackson’s instant impression was of her mass of long, black dreadlocks. Then he saw her eyes. They were a very light blue, and she’d lined them with black makeup. The effect was startling.
She barely glanced at him before turning away to exclaim over her car, and he frowned at the back of her head. He knew those eyes. But he sure as hell didn’t know anyone with dreadlocks, let alone a piercing in her nose.
“My car’s ruined.” The woman let out of a string of expletives even more profane than Derek’s. “Didn’t you see me pull out? What am I going to do now?” Blood was dripping from a cut on her forehead, but she didn’t seem to notice.
“You’re hurt.” Jackson tugged his phone out of his pocket. “I’ll call an ambulance.”
“I don’t need an ambulance. I need my car. It’s all I’ve got.” Her voice was husky, with a whisky-and-cigarettes quality he wouldn’t expect in a young woman. Surely he knew that voice, too.
But no, how could he? Perhaps she sounded like someone on the radio.
Derrick had pulled himself out of the Aston. “The accident was your fault,” he accused, his tone belligerent.
“What?” The woman gaped at him.
“I’m prepared to have your car repaired, good as new,” said Jackson. “Agree to that, and to the ambulance, and this won’t go any further.”
Derrick started to protest, but Jackson gestured at him to shut up. He needed a deal struck before the woman figured out who he was and tried to leverage a huge payout. Once she was in an ambulance, she’d be their problem, not his.
“Are you kidding?” the woman exclaimed. “The accident was your fault. You were going too fast…” She spun around to face him, then broke off. Her blue eyes widened. “Jackson Jive?”
He blinked. “What?” His real surname was Brent. Calling himself Jackson Jive had been a pretentious stage name he’d come up with when he’d been playing in a high school band. Nobody had called him that in well over a decade.
“I’m Meghan. Don’t you recognize me?”
“Meghan Paige?”
She flushed at the incredulity in his tone, and lifted her chin. “You’ve changed,” she accused.
He’d changed? Last time he’d seen her, she’d been eighteen, with shoulder-length brown hair and not so much as her ears pierced. The only things that hadn’t changed were her remarkable eyes and lean, athletic figure, still striking even in a leather jacket, black T-shirt, and old jeans. And her husky voice, of course. How had he not recognized that right away? Especially because he used to think he was in love with her.
Memories came rushing back, including that awful last day when everything had changed for him. Meghan was the reason he’d left Sydney. The reason he’d never picked up a guitar again. He’d put all that behind him, and now here she was, threatening to bring it all back up again.
“You’ve changed too.” He forced a composure he didn’t entirely feel. “You’re in a grunge band now?”
“I’m solo. And you’re not a musician anymore?” She looked him over with a touch of distaste, as though his Armani suit offended her.
“You’re bleeding.” He stuck his phone back in his pocket so he could pull out his handkerchief and offer it to her.
“I’m fine.” She waved the handkerchief away.
“You’re getting blood on your jacket.”
“I told you, I’m fine.” Now, with her hands on her hips and her chin jutting, she looked like the girl he’d fallen for. Her dreadlocks and piercings couldn’t hide the ballsy attitude he remembered so well. She’d been the singer in their high school band while he’d been lead guitarist, so of course he’d been in love with her.
She’d dated his brother, which had made her off-limits, but how many wet dreams had she inspired back then? Probably all of them.
“You can see my doctor and I’ll cover the cost,” he said. “I’m not admitting fault, but you need some kind of medical attention.”
“You really have changed, haven’t you? So careful to cover your ass.”
He felt his jaw tighten. Could she really not have heard about his success or know about his wealth? Was she trying to play him?
“I’ll book you a doctor’s appointment.” He glanced at his operations manager who was examining a tiny dent in the Aston Martin’s front bumper. While the glorified sewing machine Meghan had been driving had crumpled, the Aston was virtually unscathed.
“And I’ll write you a check for your car,” he added. “Then we’ll be square.”
“So much for a fond reunion.” Underneath its husky rasp, her tone was so cold it reminded him of the time he’d sailed to Antarctica and used the ice from a glacier to chill his glass of single malt. She had a remarkable voice, especially when she sang. Growing up, he’d assumed one day she’d be a major star.
“What about the apology you still owe me?” she added. “It’s a dozen years overdue, but I’ll take it now.”
“I heard you did well enough without me.” The last time he’d seen her had been before they were due to audition for an agent. Because Jackson, the lead guitarist, hadn’t turned up, the band hadn’t been able to play. He’d heard Meghan had sung anyway, and the agent had signed her.
“Where were you that night?” she demanded. “What happened?”
Jackson glanced at Derrick, who immediately spoke up. “We’re going to be late for an important meeting,” his operations manager lied. “We’d better go.”
Meghan put her hand up to touch the cut on her head, then winced.
Before Jackson could think about it, he’d moved to take her arm. “Don’t tell me you’re not hurt, because I can see you are. I’ll take you to a doctor. Derrick can organize your car repair and wait for the tow truck.”
Derrick’s head jerked. “Wait a minute. What?”
“I can take care of myself,” she protested.
“See? She can take care of herself,” repeated Derrick.
“You can’t drive your car,” Jackson ignored his operations manager. “If you won’t see a doctor, I’ll drop you home.”
“I don’t live in Sydney. Well, I do now. But I’ve only been back here for a couple of days.”
“Where are you staying?”
She glanced at her car, lips pressed together. He followed her gaze to a pile of belongings on her back seat, now covered with glass from the broken window. A guitar took pride of place on top of everything, but in the messy heap were blankets and a pillow.
“You’re not sleeping in your car?”
She yanked her arm out of his grip. “Just until I get a job. Not that it’s any of your business, but it’s a temporary situation. And I’m fine. You don’t have to look after me, or take me anywhere.” She held out her hand to shake his in what was clearly a fuck-you gesture. “So, I guess this is goodbye. Weird seeing you again. I’ll give you my e-mail address so you can send that apology you owe me.”
Derrick opened the Aston’s passenger door. “Great. Let’s go, Jackson.”
Jackson took Meghan’s outstretched hand. It was small and cold in his, and he could swear it shook a little. Blood was still trickling from the cut on her forehead into her eyebrow. And as tempting as it was to take off, especially if it meant he wouldn’t have to tell her why he’d left Sydney on the night of the audition that was supposed to launch their band toward stardom, he couldn’t just leave her there.
Fuck. He was probably going to regret this.
“You can’t sleep in a car with a broken window.” He motioned to the Aston. “Get in. I’ll take you to my place and you can stay in my spare room tonight.”
“Thanks for the offer, but I’ll work something out.”
Derrick slammed the ca
r door and stepped closer. “Jackson, may I have a quick word?”
Jackson let his operations manager draw him to one side. He was a short man with a round, deceptively angelic face, though right now his fleshy lips were pressed in a hard line.
“This could be some kind of setup,” Derrick murmured. “A damsel in distress? It’s too convenient, especially now, right before the product release. What if she’s not who she seems? You can’t let her into your house. That’s probably what this whole thing is about.”
Jackson frowned. “Let me get this straight. You think Lex Baine got an old high school friend to pull out of a car spot in front of me? He somehow arranged this whole thing so she could get into my house?”
“There are millions of dollars at stake. Think about it, Jackson. How else could Lex get access to your office? That’s the only place he can get everything he needs.”
“You’re being paranoid. Besides, the only time my office is ever unlocked is when I’m inside.”
Derrick narrowed his eyes. “We’ve been through too much to have our work stolen by a pretty piece of ass. Don’t make the same mistake I did.”
By dragging in his breath, Jackson managed not to show his anger. Derrick’s divorce was still fresh. If his operations manager was crossing a line, it was because his bitterness hadn’t had time to scab over. “I know her, Derrick. So you need to back off.”
At least Derrick had enough sense to soften his tone. “Please, Jackson. Give her some money and walk away. I bet she’d take a thousand dollars in cash, and you can get her number to call her later. Catch up with her sometime after our projector’s been released.”
“She’s hurt.”
