Rich Man's Deception: Complete Boxed Set Bundle: Billionaire Boss / Corporate Espionage Romance

by Gibson, Valerie S.

“My GPS says you've made a wrong turn; where are you going?” Ian asked. He looked uneasy.

  I scowled. “What is wrong with you? Ever since we got off of the plane you've been acting really strange,” I said.

  “Strange? How could I not? I feel like we're in the middle of a forest. I'm surprised you even have street lights. Do your parents live in a tent?” Ian asked.

  I laughed again. “If you compare the square footage to your estate, then yeah, you could call it that. It was always comfortable to me though. As a matter of fact, I would say it was more comfortable than your house,” I said. Ian gave me a look as if I had said the sky was brown. “No offense. Your home is beautiful, but too big, almost vacant. My parents' house though, it's really cozy. They have this fireplace, my dad chops wood for it every winter, pine and cedar, slow-burning wood with a nice scent to it.” My heart slowed at the thought of a warm, slow-burning fire. I hadn't realized just how much I missed home, how much I couldn't wait to see my parents' smiling faces. It was the best kind of therapy a girl could ask for.

  “Your father burns wood? What do you live in, a log cabin? Has anyone informed him about the invention of electricity?” Ian inquired.

  I rolled my eyes. “No, we don't live in a log cabin, though my dad does own one. He burns the wood because he prefers it, because he says it's more natural,” I said.

  Ian nodded. “If by natural you mean inefficient and dirty, then yes, wood burning is quite natural.”

  I looked at Ian. He was slouching in his seat, looking sullen and defeated. He was truly a fish out of water here, the way I had been at his estate. It was nice, really, him being the defensive one, the uncertain one. It made me grin, internally at least. “Okay, here we are,” I said, parking the car. It was getting dark now, almost 6 p.m. The outlet store would be closed in an hour or so; we would have to be quick about it.

  “Rob's Outlet Store? You're kidding, right? What are we doing here?” Ian asked, climbing out of the car.

  “We're shopping. What do you think we're doing?” I replied, pulling my wool coat closer; it was getting cold.

  “Shopping? At an outlet store? What are we shopping for, dog blankets?” Ian asked.

  I scowled. “Stop complaining. You need new clothes, and unless you plan on buying them yourself, I have to pay for them, and I'm not exactly rolling in it at the moment, seeing as though I lost my job,” I said with a barely veiled tone of accusation.

  Ian caught the stab at him. “Are you still blaming that on me?” he asked incredulously.

  I shrugged, grinning. “Who else?”

  “I already said I'm sorry,” Ian growled back.

  “A girl never gets tired of hearing it though,” I said.

  Ian sighed, checking his phone. He was waiting on the call from his associates that the investigation was over, that he could go home. Nothing yet.

  As sullen as Ian had been in the car, his mood did not improve while we shopped for off-brand clothing.

  “What do you think?” I asked him as I helped him slip into a flannel shirt.

  Ian scratched his neck and chest wildly. “It looks good, I like the whole lumberjack thing, but God, what is this material made out of? Did they coat it in itching powder first?”

  I laughed. “Well it's certainly not silk. I think it's wool, actually.”

  “Wool?” Ian said. “Like from a sheep?” He looked horrified.

  “Yes, from a sheep, Ian,” I said.

  Ian sighed. “Can't we just stop at a Burberry store? There has to be one close.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Do you really think you're going to find a Burberry around here? Besides, you can't wear anything like that. You need to fit in with the locals, otherwise you won't last a day,” I said. It was true. Some of the boys I grew up with would tear Ian apart, mocking him for his designer tastes. Out here, he was a swan among ducks.

  Ian nodded. “When in Rome, I suppose. I've been incognito many times; never as a lumberjack though,” he added, smirking.

  I rolled my eyes, but his smile was so mischievous, so boyish, it couldn't help but be infectious. “Wearing flannel does not make you a lumberjack,” I said. “Chopping wood makes you a lumberjack. Which, let's admit, you couldn't do for a day.”

  Ian looked appalled. “Are you saying I wouldn't be strong enough for it? I do weight resistance training four times a week. I would do it more, but I have to allow my body proper time to rest. I can bench press over three times my body weight, well over what is recommended by a medical practitioner,” Ian said.

  I laughed. “It isn't all about strength, you know, or even endurance. You need something more than that, a mental toughness. My dad used to be a lumberjack. He said it wasn't the work itself that got you, but everything else, the little stuff. Like the splinters in his hands, or the wetness in his boots from trudging in snow and mud all day, the wind peppering you and the cold constantly nibbling at your nose. It just takes a different kind of person to do that kind of work. People are made for different things, Ian; there's no shame in admitting that there are some things even you cannot do,” I said.

  Ian's mouth tightened into a grimace. I could tell he wanted to object, but he did not. Instead, he sighed. “You know, this shirt is pretty warm, and the longer you wear it, the less itchy it gets,” Ian said, shrugging.

  I smirked. “So you like it?”

  “I like it,” Ian said. His tone was lacking conviction, but it was good enough for me. “What are you looking at?” Ian asked.

  I caught myself. I had been staring. Ian looked so different now. He was clad in work boots, tight jeans, and a flannel shirt fitted snugly against his rippled chest. Every time I had seen Ian, he looked so clean, so pristine and well groomed. Now though, he hadn't shaved for a day or two, and stubble peppered his square jaw. The silk suits and polished shoes were gone, replaced by a wool shirt and tan boots. He looked rugged, earthy, no longer beautiful, but handsome like a stallion. Something stirred inside me as I looked at him. His jeans hugged tightly around his perfect butt; I had even sneaked a few glances at the bulge in the front of his jeans. The sight of it filled me with warmth, like a shot of whiskey, brisk and bitter, but strong, stout. I wasn't sure which Ian I liked more, the manicured one, or this one. At the moment though, all I could think about was tackling him, rolling in a bale of hay with him and grabbing a big handful of that bulge in the front of his jeans.

  “Nothing,” I said, shaking the thought from my mind. I had to stop doing that to myself. I knew that once the investigation was over, Ian would be gone again, out of my life. The more distance I put between us during that time, the better. I had to sheathe my heart, to protect it, otherwise, a girl could never survive. “Let's go check out.”

  As we left the outlet store, I took a deep breath. Now Ian looked the part at least, but how was I going to get him through an extended stay with my parents? He was so eccentric, and my parents weren't idiots. It would only be a matter of time before they realized that he wasn't, well, normal. How much should I tell them? For now, all I had said was that Ian and I were dating, something that Ian hadn't been too fond of, but it was the easiest way to let him stay with me at their house. Of course, that meant sharing a bed, which was another thing that scared me. How long could I resist him if we were that close? My constitution had barely held up in a clothing store for God's sake. How long could it last if we were alone in the dark? I swallowed hard. I would just have to remind myself of all the bad things that came with it. Surely that would be enough.

  “What are you thinking about?” Ian suddenly asked.

  I took my eyes off the road for a moment to look at him. “Nothing,” I said, shrugging.

  “Sure doesn't seem like nothing,” Ian remarked.

  I never was a very good liar, and Ian was always keen on catching them. I sighed. “I'm thinking about how we are going to pull this off. How am I going to convince my parents that you're just an average guy?”

&nbs
p; “Why would you want to do that?” Ian asked.

  I looked at him again. “What?” Had I not made myself clear?

  “Why would you want to convince them I was average? Wouldn't you prefer extraordinary? It is the truth, after all,” Ian added with a smirk.

  Ignoring the obnoxiously snug comment, I explained, “Because normal doesn't attract attention. And attention is the last thing you're looking for, wouldn't you say?”

  Ian paused for a moment. “That is true, I suppose. You know, I'm kind of excited.”

  “Excited? About what?” I asked.

  “To meet your parents,” Ian said with a grin. Something about the smile filled me with dread.

  “I don't like where this is going.”

  Ian laughed. “No, really. The whole time we've known each other, I didn't know anything about your background, not your real one anyway. By the way, were you really a yoga instructor?” he asked hopefully.

  I sighed. “No. I took a class a few times, and I hated it. The only reason I kept going was for the hot instructor, but he turned out to be a real jerk,” I admitted.

  Ian laughed and shook his head, reclining his seat. “Well, I do have to give you some credit. You're quite creative. Had to be to make a résumé like that. Maybe you should be the inventor,” Ian said, a smirk forming at the corner of his mouth.

  I grimaced. “Don't make me kick you out of the car...”

  * * *

  As I exited the vehicle, the warm smile on my mother's face greeted me. She had long salt-and-pepper hair, dark eyes and a tiny frame. Her face was wrinkled, but warm, just like I remembered. By the time I reached her I was practically crying. “Mom,” I said, embracing her. “It's so good to see you.”

  She rubbed my back as I buried my head in her shoulder. She smelled like cedar, and was wearing a fleece sweater. They were the scents and sensations of home.

  “I missed you,” she said. “You never visit anymore.”

  I shook my head. “I'm really sorry. I should have. Where's Papa?” I asked.

  My mother looked behind her, scowling. “Oh, he's back there somewhere, probably chopping more wood. I swear he does it just to avoid me,” she said.

  I laughed. “No, Papa? Not a chance. He just never thinks there's enough wood.” It was true. The man was a machine.

  My mother rolled her eyes. “You can say that again. We've got enough wood for four winters, but good luck telling him that. Anyway, who cares about that big lug? Where's this guy I keep hearing so much about?” she asked.

  Just then, Ian came around the corner, grumbling as he lugged my suitcase out from the trunk. By the time he reached us, he was out of breath. “God, what did you put in this thing? Cement blocks?” he asked.

  I grinned. “Just a few necessities,” I said.

  “By necessities, she means ten different pairs of shoes and a thousand different shades of lipstick,” my mother said.

  Ian smiled. “You must be Mrs. Adams,” he said, extending his hand.

  My mother scowled. “No. I'm Shannon,” she said, slapping away Ian's hand and hugging him. The gesture took Ian by surprise; he nearly recoiled. When they stopped embracing, my mother appraised Ian. “He's very good-looking,” she finally decided. “Nice butt, too.” Then she leaned close. “Doesn't appear to be particularly bright though,” she whispered as Ian just stood awkwardly in the cold.

  I laughed. “You have no idea.”

  My mother shrugged. “Eh, don't worry, no men are. Your father's about as bright as a wet turnip, but I love him all the same.”

  “Enough to talk about him behind his back?” a stout voice asked.

  I turned to see my father. He had an axe slung over his meaty shoulders, and a grin a mile wide. His big beer belly strained against his belt, and his shirt had come unbuttoned at the top, revealing a thick nest of untrimmed chest hair. I grinned from ear to ear. He was exactly how I remembered him. “Papa, it's good to see you,” I said, hugging him.

  He grunted. “You too, darling. This him?” he asked bluntly, pointing to Ian. My father was never one to mince words.

  I nodded. “Yup, that's him.”

  My father looked unimpressed. “Is he wearing a shirt, or is that body paint?” he asked.

  I laughed. “Daddy, stop!” I said, slapping his chest.

  “Well, I'm just saying, he looks uncomfortable. It's so tight. And those jeans, I'll tell you one thing, he keeps wearing those and I'll never get any grandchildren,” my dad said. It took every ounce of my willpower not to burst into a fit of laughter. “Well, I suppose we have to invite him to supper now,” my dad continued. “Hey, boy!” he barked.

  Ian looked at my father, confused. “Are you speaking to me?” he asked.

  “You drink beer?” my dad asked.

  Ian nodded. “Occasionally, depending on the brew and the vintage. I only drink organic, of course. What do you have in your cellar?” he asked.

  My father grimaced, then turned his gaze on me. “Where did you dig up this guy? Let me guess, at a Starbucks in a library. Was he ordering a mocha latte?”

  My cheeks were flushed red.

  “Oh stop it,” my mom said with a scowl. “Just because he doesn't like to drink swill, doesn't make him any less of a man. Personally, I find him refreshing.” With that, my mother walked over to Ian, inviting him in for dinner while my father helped lug in my massive suitcase. As I watched them all enter the house, I took a deep breath. So far so good, I suppose. It had gone better than I expected, though not by a large margin.

  When we had settled in about an hour later at the dinner table, everyone was silent. My father was eyeing Ian from across the table, taking slow, deliberate sips of beer as he watched Ian prod the meat on his plate with uncertainty.

  I leaned over. “Stop doing that,” I whispered.

  “What is it?” Ian whispered back.

  I scowled. “Meatloaf, what does it look like?”

  “A loaf of poorly made rye bread,” Ian responded.

  “Will you just eat it? If you don't, they'll be offended,” I urged.

  Ian frowned. “But I don't even know where it came from. Is this beef?”

  “Yes,” I hissed.

  “Well, were the cows grass fed? Was the meat fresh, not frozen? Is it locally raised?” Ian asked.

  I grimaced. “If you don't eat it, I'm going to have my father hold you down while I shove it down your throat,” I growled.

  Ian shook his head. “Midwesterners,” he grumbled, taking a timid bite of the meatloaf. He missed though, and the contents of the fork ended up spilling down his shirt and onto the floor. Linda, our old chocolate lab, was more than happy to lap up Ian's folly.

  “What was it you said you did again?” my dad asked through a mouthful of food.

  “I didn't say,” Ian responded as he used a napkin to dab off the particles of food still clinging to his shirt.

  “Well, what do you do, exactly?” my father asked.

  “Dad,” I interjected. This was getting ugly.

  “No, Rachel, it's fine. I don't mind answering your parents' questions,” Ian insisted.

  “You don't have to,” I said, shooting a scowl at my dad.

  “Exactly, this is dinner, not an interrogation,” my mom said.

  “What? I can't ask the man a question? The reason we eat together is for a good conversation. I just want to know what the boy does for a living,” my dad said.

  Ian nodded. “That's quite understandable. Well, you see, there's no real title for what I do, not really. Some would call me a visionary, I suppose, a sort of intellectual engineer. A one-man think tank. Personally, I like to think of myself as an artist, one who paints in binary code,” Ian said.

  It was official now. I wanted to bury my head in the sand.

  “An artist, huh,” my dad said, nodding. “That explains why you don't have your own place.”

  “Russell Adams!” my mom barked.
>
  “What? It's just an observation. If the boy's going to stay with us, he needs a real job. Listen, son, I might be able to pull a few strings for you over at the local factory. They manufacture cabinets over there. It's a good job, with steady pay and no nonsense. With a job like that, you could take care of my daughter,” he said.

  My face was now glowing a deep scarlet. “Can I be excused?” I asked. Suddenly I had no appetite.

  “No you may not. Sit down. I want to get to know your new boyfriend,” my father insisted.

  “Really, Rachel, I don't mind answering his questions. You guys really don't know who I am?” Ian asked again.

  My father shrugged. “I know you're a deadbeat with no job and no place to live. Not much else to know,” he said.

  Ian looked at me; all I could do was smile hopelessly. Then Ian looked back at my father. “Actually, sir, my name is Ian Payne,” he said, waiting for the impact.

  My father blinked. “Payne? What kind of name is that?”

  Ian grimaced. “A very well-known, prestigious name. A household one, actually.”

  Then, I saw my mother's eyes light up. “Oh my God!” she said, standing up. “It is him! I thought he looked familiar.”

  My father gave my mother a strange look. “What are you talking about, Shannon?”

  My mother scowled. “Well, if you ever watched the news you might learn a thing or two, you big, dumb oaf. That's Ian Payne, as in the owner of Infiniti Inc.,” my mother said, her mouth practically hitting the floor.

  My dad turned his head, his eyes going wide. “Is that true, boy? You're the owner?”

  Ian smiled weakly. “Well, former owner. Kind of. It's still under dispute. I mean technically, the company is still mine, though I don't have ownership of it right now, exactly, and may still lose it. The details haven't exactly been ironed out yet,” Ian tried to explain.

  My dad shook his head, scoffing in disbelief. “Rachel, you brought a billionaire to stay with us? Why is he staying with us? He should be buying us a home for goodness sake!”

  I sighed. The cat was out of the bag now. “It's a long story,” I said.