The Billionaire’s Promise (A 'Scandals of the Bad Boy Billionaires' Romance)

by Ivy Layne

  “Who’s this?” Vance asked. “He looks familiar.”

  “My boyfriend, Brayden.” I took my phone back, turning off the screen and sliding it in my pocket.

  “Brayden Michaels?” Vance asked, an incredulous look on his face.

  “You know him? How?”

  “School. I was in the same class as his older brother. Brayden’s a twat.”

  Before I knew what I was doing, I stood. Brayden wasn’t perfect, but he was mine, and I wasn’t going to listen to this dissipated playboy put him down. Picking up my keys and my purse, I said, “This isn’t going to work, Mr. Winters. I’ll see myself out.”

  “Wait,” he said, shoving back his stool and coming to his feet. “Magnolia, don’t leave.”

  Against, my better judgement, I stopped and whirled to face him. “I don’t know that I want to work for you,” I said bluntly. “You’re rude and immature.”

  Vance shoved his hands in his back pockets, dragging his jeans down an inch to reveal a strip of taut golden skin. I shouldn’t be tempted. I didn’t even like him. I dragged my eyes away, forcing myself to look at his face. His blue eyes were shadowed when he said, “Yeah, I am. Rude, immature, sometimes a complete asshole. I’d be a pain in the ass to work for half the time.”

  “And the other half?” I asked.

  “You’ll get more hands-on experience with me than an entry-level job at a bigger company. My personal shit aside, I get first look at some very interesting investment opportunities, and you’d be involved at every level. You’d get one-on-one exposure to some of the biggest players in business, not just in Atlanta but across the country. When you’re ready to move on, you’ll have connections you’d never be able to make sitting in a cubicle. All you have to do is put up with me.”

  When he laid it out like that, how could I say no? Wondering if I was making a huge mistake, I held out my hand. Vance took it in his, his strong fingers closing around mine with possession. I tried to ignore the spark of heat as we touched.

  “So you’ll take the job?” Vance asked, holding onto my hand when I tried to tug it free. I gave a hard yank and took a step back.

  “On a trial basis,” I said in what I was starting to think of as my headmistress voice. “If you’re too much of an asshole, I’m quitting, and I want a guarantee of six months’ severance.”

  “Agreed,” Vance said, grinning down at me. “But the severance is only payable if you leave because I’m an asshole.”

  “Does sexual harassment count as being an asshole?” I challenged. I’d admitted to myself that I was flattered by his offer, but if he kept it up, I’d walk out.

  “It would, if I were planning on harassing you. I won’t pull that shit. I’m an asshole, but I’m not a complete dick.” He ruined it by leering at me and saying, “Anyway, when we finally sleep together, it’ll be because you can’t keep your hands off me.”

  “And that’s strike one. Jury’s out on whether you’re a complete dick.”

  To my surprise, Vance laughed. “Cross my heart.” With two fingers, he swiped a cross over his chest. “I have a twin sister who’d kick my ass if she thought I was harassing a woman who works for me. Give me a chance. I promise the job will be worth it.”

  “Fine. I’ll start tomorrow.” I turned on my heel and walked out. I’d had as much of Vance Winters as I could take for the day. His voice followed me into the hall.

  “Ten A.M. Don’t be late, Magnolia.”

  Like he would notice if I was. I’d bet my inheritance Vance would be passed out in bed when I showed up, with another nubile, hungover girl beside him. On the drive home, I tried to convince myself I’d done the right thing. It wasn’t easy.

  The truth was, my first instinct was spot on. Vance Winters was trouble—six feet of dangerously beautiful mayhem. I should have taken one look and run in the other direction. I should have told him to take his job offer and shove it up his tight, perfect ass. But hindsight is 20/20. By the time I knew what was coming, it was already too late. For Vance, and for me.

  CHAPTER TWO

  MAGNOLIA

  * * *

  T-MINUS EIGHTEEN MONTHS

  * * *

  I let myself into the loft, Scout padding in behind me, not bothering to be quiet. It was 9:58 am, and if this morning was like every other, Vance would be passed out in bed. It was even odds whether he’d be alone. I headed straight for the coffee maker and got a pot going. Coffee was essential to getting Vance up in the morning.

  Once I had the coffee brewing, I hit the fridge and pulled out the ingredients for my ‘morning after’ smoothie. Fruit, greens, and a few herbs to help his body detox, with some protein powder and MCT oil for energy. The first time I made it, he complained, claiming he didn’t drink kale. Now, he scowled at me if I didn’t hand him one with his coffee.

  Some mornings, the buzz of the industrial strength blender was enough to rouse him. I flipped it off and poured, listening for movement. Nothing but the rustle of Scout settling into the dog bed Vance had bought him. He raised his head and glared at the blender, then at me. Like Vance, my dog was not into mornings. Deciding I wasn’t going to interrupt his sleep again, Scout let out a low grumble and set his head on his paws. The loft was silent. No movement from the bedroom, though I could see the door was open. Hmm.

  It was going to be one of those mornings. I screwed the lid on his insulated cup and weighed my options. Some days, I went straight for the kill, but not today. Today, I was in too good a mood to be mean. I pulled my phone from my pocket and turned on the wireless speaker on the counter, waiting for the two devices to connect. A quiet blip, and I was in business. Seconds later, the opening bars of Walking on Sunshine by Katrina and the Waves filled the loft. And I mean filled it. All the way.

  I saw—but didn’t hear—Scout lift his head and shoot me another glare. My poor dog. He really didn’t like mornings. This was Step Three in my wake-up plan. Step One: Coffee. That one never worked, not unless Vance was still up from the night before. Step Two: The blender. That one worked half the time, but when it did, Vance was particularly grumpy. Step Three: Music. My choice varied by the day. Today I was in a happy mood, so Katrina. Other days, he got Korn, Megadeath, or—if I was feeling evil—a boy band. Metal worked better than pop or the classics, even though it wasn't my personal favorite. Most of the time, Step Three did the trick.

  I carried his smoothie across the loft and peeked in the bedroom. Damn. Two naked bodies were sprawled across the huge bed, spread out but not touching. A quick glance at her black hair told me the female body was probably Amy, a girl Vance hooked up with often but claimed not to be dating.

  Vance lay on his stomach, his head pillowed on one arm, legs splayed, dark blond hair tangled around his face. I didn’t even pretend I wasn’t staring. Working for Vance had its upsides and downsides. Dealing with the aftermath of his drinking was a downside. Ogling his body? Definitely an upside.

  I wasn’t interested in Vance. Not personally. Not like that. But there wasn’t any harm in appreciating the way he was put together. Muscles everywhere. Everywhere.

  My eyes lingered on his legs, tanned from the sun, strong yet sleek. And his ass. Yum. Seriously yum. Don’t forget about the shoulders. Broad and thick with muscle. It wasn’t just that he worked out, which he did. Every day. Sculpting metal meant he spent a lot of time hauling around heavy equipment. His strength wasn’t just from the gym. It was functional, and it showed. Even his scars were hot. And the tattoos. Covering most of one shoulder and running down his arm, the intricate designs were stark against his golden skin, dramatic and way too sexy. I'd never been into body art, but the tattoos fit Vance, the ink as much a part of him as the scars from his work and his muscular build.

  I gave myself another minute to watch him sleep, my heart hurting just a little at the sight of him so defenseless. Vance was a good boss, most of the time. He was a good guy most of the time, too. I wished he were happier.

  At first, I’d thought he was ju
st another party boy, one more guy in search of a good time. Maybe he was. Maybe I was reading him wrong. But the more I got to know him, the more certain I was that his drinking was more than that. All of it—the drinking, the endless string of women—felt desperate, and he wasn’t happy. Sometimes, when he didn’t think anyone was looking, his eyes went dark and lost. I never let on that I knew, but I wished I could fix what was eating at him. I didn’t dare ask. Vance wasn’t the kind of guy who talked about his feelings. Ever.

  I knew enough to guess at what might be the cause. He was a Winters, a family notorious for scandal and tragedy. Vance and his siblings had lost their parents when he was just a child to a grisly murder-suicide. His aunt and uncle had taken them in and raised them along with their own children until they, too, had been murdered when Vance was seventeen. The whole thing was creepy and terrible. Awful. The Winters family was wealthy and powerful. Not nice cars, big house, great job wealthy. They were generations of billionaires running a company that made more money every year than many countries’ GDPs.

  You’d think it would be easy to be that rich. In some ways, it was. Vance never had to work a day in his life. He didn’t have to worry about rent, or student loans, or car payments. But all that money, all that power, couldn’t bring back his dead parents. And when they’d died, their wealth had made them all targets. The media attention had been brutal. I didn’t remember his parents dying. I’d been in school in England by then, but I vividly recalled his aunt’s and uncle’s murders. The speculation had been wild and unending.

  The remaining Winters still attracted attention on a regular basis. I’d chased photographers away from Vance’s building myself on more than one slow news day. I thought I understood why he drank so much, but it made me worry for him. I liked him, and I hated to see him so unhappy.

  Not your business, I reminded myself. You're here to do your job. That Vance had become a friend as well as my employer didn’t change anything. Shaking myself out of my daze, I went back to the kitchen, set Vance’s smoothie down on the island, and proceeded to Step Four.

  This was going to be fun.

  I filled a tall glass with cold water and walked back to the bedroom, taking my time, the music still blasting through the loft. Vance hadn’t moved an inch. Oh, well, he’d asked for it.

  Standing beside him, I held the glass over his head and tilted it, spilling the icy water into his closed eyes for a second before trailing it down his spine. Usually, the first drop of water did the trick. On a bad day, like this one, I got all the way to that tight, perfect ass before he reacted.

  When he moved, it was so fast I almost dropped the water. He flipped onto his back, one hand shooting out to snatch the glass from my grip, totally comfortable with his nudity. He propped himself up on one arm and drained the water, his blue eyes on mine, sleepy and oddly intent.

  I did not look at him. I didn’t. So I definitely didn’t notice his erection. Not like I hadn’t seen it before. Vance was no stranger to morning wood. Since I woke him up and he slept naked, neither was I.

  I’d learned exactly where to look to avoid getting an eyeful. And I did. Avoid it. It was hard, considering Vance had the biggest cock I’d ever seen. Seriously. It’s not like I’d seen a ton, but I knew he was above average. Well above average.

  I wasn’t tempted by him. Really, I wasn’t. I knew him too well at this point to be enticed by the size of his dick. Vance was not boyfriend material. And I had Brayden, who had a lot more to offer me than just a hot body and a huge penis. Not that Brayden had a huge penis. He didn’t, which was part of the reason I went out of my way to avoid looking at Vance’s cock.

  I’d just signed up for a lifetime of average, and I didn’t need to get used to the sight of super-size. Based on the way most of his women begged for another roll in his sheets, I assumed Vance knew what to do with his cock. Brayden . . . not so much.

  Sex wasn’t everything in a relationship.

  It was the one area where Brayden fell short. And it was all Vance had to offer any woman. He didn’t do fidelity. He couldn’t even get out of bed on time, much less maintain a relationship. My eyes were wide open about Vance Winters, which is why I kept my gaze on his and waited, patiently, for him to finish the water.

  “You up?” I asked.

  “You’re in a chipper mood this morning,” he said, his voice gravelly, rolling his eyes to the ceiling to indicate the music. I grinned at him.

  “I am. Are you up?”

  He gave a grunt, which I took to mean that he was.

  “Do you want breakfast or just the smoothie?”

  Vance winced. I knew what that meant and made a note to get out the Ibuprofen.

  “Check,” I said. “Just the smoothie. It’s ready. Do you need me to get Amy up?”

  To my relief, he shook his head. “We’re good.” He handed me back the water glass and swung his feet to the side of the bed, letting his head fall forward for a moment, his blond hair sliding into his face, hiding his eyes.

  I was standing barely a foot away when he surged to his feet, his body so close I could feel the heat of him, the head of his hard cock brushing the back of my hand. I jumped away, snatching my hand back as if scalded, my cheeks flushing and my skin suddenly too tight. I scowled at him, refusing to acknowledge my body’s reaction to his.

  It didn’t help that he towered over me, surrounding me, his eyes as dark as midnight. Pulling out my headmistress voice, my best defense when he made me nervous, I said, “Put some clothes on.”

  My spine stiff, I marched out of the room, hoping he hadn’t noticed my blush. Vance had never hit on me after that first day, but he loved to tease. If he saw how flustered I was, he’d probably refuse to get dressed or do something equally juvenile.

  I pressed the empty, but still cold, water glass to my hot cheeks, willing my blush to fade. It was just naked Vance. No big deal. So what if his cock had touched my hand? It had been an accident, nothing more. It hadn’t even been sexual. I put the glass in the dishwasher. The shower turned on. Knowing Vance would have roused Amy before getting in the shower, I set the music to a more bearable volume level and put on one of my normal mixes. I loved Katrina, but the same song six times in a row was enough.

  By the time Amy dragged herself from the bedroom, dark circles like bruises beneath her eyes and her dark hair in a messy bun, I had her coffee ready in a to-go cup. She gave me a thin smile. I’d never seen her when she wasn’t hung over, but I imagined she was normally beautiful. Even the morning after, exhausted and half-sick, she was more than just pretty.

  A flash of jealousy hit me as I handed her the coffee. She was everything I wasn’t—thin, gorgeous, easygoing. She took the cup with a wry smile and said, “Thanks, Maggie. You make the best coffee.” Taking a sip, she rolled her eyes to the ceiling in rapture. “The best coffee. Have a good one.” Then she was gone.

  “You too,” I called out the door. She gave a wave, but she didn’t stop. Easygoing. She was the only one who never asked Vance for more. I didn’t know what she did in her real life. I only saw her in these little snippets of time, at first, once or twice a month. Lately, more often. She and Vance seemed to want the same thing—a never-ending party followed by sex. If that was what made them happy, I wasn’t going to judge.

  Okay, maybe I was judging. Just a little. It was only that it didn’t seem to be making either of them happy in the long run. Or maybe I was just assuming that a relationship would make them happy just because being in one made me happy.

  But does it? Does it really make you happy? a tiny voice in my head whispered. I shut it off.

  I was happy.

  I was.

  Today, more than any other day, I was blissfully happy. And anyone who said otherwise could shut the hell up.

  The shower turned off. Now that Vance was awake, my actual workday could start. I poured myself a mug of coffee and headed to my office, sending a quick glance at Scout. Passed out on his side, his back foot twitching, m
y silly little dog loved to sleep. I could relate.

  I let myself into my office, a large room on the far side of the loft, opposite Vance’s bedroom. It was actually Vance’s office as well as mine, but he hated sitting at a desk. He did most of his work on his laptop, usually on the couch or down in his studio. His desk and mine were a matching set, custom built from cedar in modern, spare lines that fit the look of the loft.

  Vance’s had a blotter, pen holder, and an in-box, all neatly arranged and undisturbed. Mine was covered in stacks of papers, notebooks, pens, sticky notes—anything and everything I might need in the course of a day. I was efficient and effective, but I wasn’t particularly neat. Not at my desk.

  I flipped on my monitor and started on my email while I waited for Vance. He appeared in the door a few minutes later, fully clothed, his wet hair pulled back into a low ponytail, drinking his smoothie. His eyes were bloodshot with circles beneath. Not as bad as Amy’s, but the sight of them bothered me.

  “You drink too much,” I said in greeting. He grunted at me. “It’s not good for you,” I muttered.

  “No shit,” he said.

  “Maybe switch to beer,” I suggested, knowing I was wasting my time.

  “No thanks. Takes too long to get drunk on beer.”

  “You could try not getting drunk at all,” I said tartly. Vance let out a bark of laughter and set the empty smoothie cup down.

  “None of your business,” he said, perching on the corner of my desk and looking over my shoulder. “Nagging isn’t in your job description.”

  I laughed. “Nagging is my job description.”

  “Fine, then you can only nag me about stuff I do during work hours.”

  “Whatever. Drink yourself to death if you want,” I said, pushing back my chair and taking a sip of coffee. His eyes narrowed on mine in suspicion.