The Ruthless Billionaire: A Clean Billionaire Romance (California Elite)

by Evangeline Kelly

  When I finally arrived at the Coastal Heritage Museum, I was forty-five minutes late. Everyone was in a large room and a man was speaking up front about Dylan West’s accomplishments. There wasn’t a seat left, so I made my way to a separate banquet room where artwork was being displayed. I didn’t see the one Alexa had described to me, but I saw other paintings that appeared to be done by students and quite a few by the renowned artist, Fernando Ortega. People milled about, so it seemed I wasn’t the only one who didn’t make it in time for the speech.

  I happened to glance at the doorway and a man wearing a black suit walked in. He was young, probably mid-twenties, a few years older than myself, and he had a striking appearance: dark brown hair, high cheekbones, full lips. His eyes, the shade of a Caribbean ocean, were so beautiful they were almost unreal. He had a certain self-assurance that drew my attention, an energy that pulled at me. I wasn’t the only one looking at him—women and men alike were staring. Maybe it was the way he walked. He carried himself with confidence as if he owned all the paintings in the room.

  The man was beyond good-looking. In fact, good-looking wouldn’t even begin to describe him. He was so far beyond that, I didn’t know where to begin. He could easily have graced the cover of a romance novel . . . not that I had time to read much anymore.

  I turned around and stared blankly at the painting in front of me, my heart beating a fast rhythm. Of all things that could happen today, being distracted by some man was the last thing I needed. I had other priorities to focus on. Things like getting a job so I could save up money to hire an investigator, not to mention pay my rent. It would be due in a couple of weeks.

  Without realizing what I was doing, I turned to look at him again and caught his profile. He was studying a painting, hands in his pockets, a forlorn expression on his face. What was that about? A part of me wanted to go over and talk to him, but the other part—maybe the saner part—knew that wasn’t a good idea. I didn’t have time for this, but I couldn’t stop looking at him. Men like him didn’t come around every day. At least not in my world.

  A woman standing a few feet away caught me staring, and she smirked. “He’s very attractive, isn’t he?”

  I nodded slowly. “Yeah . . . uh-huh.” I was making a fool of myself by gawking at him, but I couldn’t seem to stop.

  “Better steer clear of that one,” she said. “I’ve seen him around. His father is wealthy and merciless, and from what I hear, the son is much the same.”

  “How do you know?”

  She shrugged. “It’s not a secret Howard Armstrong is on the board for this museum. His son, Lucas, shows up for events from time to time.” She smiled and moved on to the next painting.

  Glancing at Lucas again, a strange curiosity swept over me. He had a cockiness about him that was slightly annoying. Any man who looked like him and had that amount of confidence probably had people at his beck and call. I wanted to tell him he wasn’t all that great—bring him down a notch. But knowing me, I’d start out with that intention and end up complimenting him instead.

  Time to pull it together. I turned back to the painting I was standing in front of and attempted to push thoughts of this man out of my head. But that didn’t work, apparently, because I had this urge to go start a conversation with him. Since I never sought out handsome men, the thought was almost laugh-worthy. I just didn’t have the time for relationships. The only way I knew how to stop gawking at him like a fool was to make a promise I had to keep.

  Okay, Lord, I’m giving you my word. I will not approach that guy. If you want me to talk to him, you’re going to have to bring him to me.

  There . . . it was out of my hands now, and I could stop thinking about it. God would never bring him to me. That man was so out of my league, I knew he’d have no reason to approach me.

  If I’d known at the time how dangerous a prayer like that could be, I would have fled that museum and gone straight home.

  But I soon learned that you couldn’t put God in a box. He had a way of answering the most mind-boggling prayers.

  Chapter 4

  Lucas

  Any time now the award ceremony at Coastal Heritage would finish and everyone would pour out into the banquet room. Good thing because I wanted to make sure the right people saw me so I could be on my way.

  I would stay just long enough to put in an appearance and then I was out of here.

  It irked me that I had to represent the Armstrong family since I had better things to do than to try to convince everyone I didn’t hold a grudge against Dylan. Apparently, Alexa had told the museum’s board of directors that I’d had it out for Dylan because I wanted to marry her.

  Whatever. They could all rot for all I cared.

  Was it a blow to my ego that Alexa chose Dylan over me? Sure. But I hadn’t lost any sleep over it.

  As far as representing the Armstrong family, I knew how to put on a show, reflect the persona my father wanted the world to see. Lucas Armstrong, heir to a billionaire empire, confident and sure of himself, leader of men. Afraid of no one. Quick to make decisions. No compassion . . . or very little. The kind of man men respected or at least stayed away from. The kind women flocked to . . . until they got to know me, and then they loathed the very ground I walked on.

  That last bit wasn’t part of the persona. It was an unfortunate consequence that went along with being me.

  And it was no badge of honor, by the way. I didn’t like that others shrank away from me, but it had been like that my entire life. I didn’t know how to be any different. People were drawn to me, and then they left. They always left.

  I made a slow progression around the room, checking out each painting on display. Stopping in front of one by Fernando Ortega, I frowned. It was titled, Thoughts About Life, and it was a cityscape, from the view of a tall skyscraper. A man stood on the top of the building wearing a gray suit, hands in his pockets, looking out at the scene before him. He was close to the edge, and though you couldn’t see his face or his expression, I knew what was on his mind, or at least I imagined I did.

  Something stirred inside of me, a memory from years ago, a time in my life I tried to forget. Sometimes a word or an expression or even a stray thought brought it all back. In this case, a painting was all it took.

  There I was on the top of my father’s building in New York City, ready to make a permanent choice—the kind you could never take back.

  Standing in front of this painting now, it felt as though a heavy black cloud encased me and kept me from moving, as if I couldn’t change my expression or blink or even turn my face. Like someone held my head and wouldn’t let me look away until I saw who and what I was. That man on the top of that building was me, and at that moment, I hated myself and the person I’d become. Hated the sadness and wretched emptiness that filled every inch of my pathetic life.

  Turning, I ran a hand through my hair and blew out a heavy breath, my chest tight from the memories that flooded over me. This was stupid. I didn’t come here to be reminded of the past.

  And just as I broke free of that moment, something—or to be more specific—someone caught my attention.

  A woman studied a painting a short distance away, and something about her seemed familiar. How did I know her? I narrowed my eyes, trying to figure it out. Had I seen her at a party? No, that couldn’t be it. I would have remembered that black hair. It fell over her delicate shoulders, thick and smooth and shiny. Something about her was otherworldly: the way she held herself, graceful and strong. She shifted her petite frame as if feeling my eyes on her, but she didn’t turn to look at me. I watched her with unabashed interest, but, still; she refused to glance my way. Most women would have acknowledged me by now if they’d felt my gaze, and I was making it obvious that I wanted her attention. Stubborn girl.

  Look at me. I wanted to see her face better, figure out exactly how I knew her. I closed the distance between us and cleared my throat. “Excuse, me. Do I know you?” The edge in my voice demanded her
full attention.

  She turned and her eyebrows flew up in surprise. Long lashes fluttered over blue eyes. A white blouse fit snug around her slender waist, and a black skirt hung loosely, just barely brushing the tops of her knees. The outfit was simple, but she wore it well.

  “No. We haven’t met,” she said.

  I stared at her for a few seconds as if trying to figure out a puzzle. I had seen this woman before . . . somewhere. Maybe we hadn’t met, but I recognized her.

  “Did we go to high school together at Malibu Oak Prep? Is that where I know you from?”

  She shook her head. “No, I never went there.”

  “Then where have I seen you?”

  She shrugged. “I have no idea. I haven’t seen you before today.”

  And then it struck me. She was in a painting—Dylan’s painting. I’d seen it only because my father had called me the moment it surfaced for the contest, and the board of directors had taken notice. He’d wanted me to see for myself what stood between me and Alexa.

  That painting won the contest, and Alexa was clearly the focus in it, but my eyes had wandered to the woman on the side playing the violin, her long black hair so beautiful it caught my eye.

  “You were in Dylan’s painting . . . playing the violin,” I said, snapping my fingers. “I can’t believe you came this evening.”

  “I was invited.” She cocked her head with a questioning look. “Alexa and Dylan told me I should come.”

  “I didn’t mean that you shouldn’t be here. I’m just surprised you came, that’s all.”

  “Why is that surprising? Doesn’t it seem natural that I would be here?”

  “There’s nothing natural about you. A part of me thinks you’re a fairy or a ghost. Tell me you’re real.” Immediately after the words left my mouth I winced. Had I really just said something that cheesy?

  She looked at me like I was odd, and, I had to admit, I sounded pretty strange right then, but there was something about her . . . I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. She was special in some way. I just didn’t know how. She lifted her arm and smiled. “Pinch me.”

  “What?”

  “Go ahead. Pinch my arm.”

  I glanced around the room. No one seemed to notice us, so I leaned in closer and pinched her lightly. Her skin was warm and soft to the touch.

  “All right. You’re real. Not a ghost.”

  She smiled. “Now that we’ve settled that, excuse me while I finish looking at the rest of these paintings.” She turned and walked away abruptly, and the space where she’d stood felt empty and hollow once she was gone.

  “Wait. Why are you leaving?”

  No response from her. She was already halfway across the room, fleeing like a leaf in the wind.

  I kept my eyes on her slight frame but didn’t chase after her. Still reeling from our exchange, I didn’t know what to make of it. Why did I find her so captivating? I couldn’t say, really. She was attractive, but not exceptionally so. She wasn’t tall and willowy like most of the women I dated. Her clothes weren’t the latest fashion, and she wore very little makeup if any. She was the opposite of the type I usually found myself attracted to.

  One might have called her average, except that mane of luxurious hair was anything but. And those eyes . . . they held such innocence and wisdom, a complete paradox. But there was something else about her . . . something I couldn’t comprehend at the moment. It was like the tickle you couldn’t reach to scratch. I knew I was drawn to her, but I had no idea why and it bugged me.

  My phone rang, and I almost ignored the call when I saw who it was from, but experience told me he wouldn’t quit calling until I answered. “Yes, Dad. What do you need?”

  “How did it go with Townsend?”

  “Good. He accepted our offer.”

  “Splendid. Where are you now?”

  “The museum. Where else would I be? You said I had to come.”

  “Right. I almost forgot. Glad you didn’t.”

  He hadn’t forgotten. It was his way of testing me to see how obedient I was. I’d learned a long time ago not to cross him. It just wasn’t worth it.

  “By the way,” he said casually as if what he was about to say was a side thought. “I chartered a plane for you. Tomorrow, you leave for Kauai. Make sure you have a way to convince Hillary to marry you. It’s time you settle down—have a wife at your side.”

  He meant: time you fit society’s image of a happily married man. That would never happen. At least the happy part.

  “I’ll text you the details,” he said. And then he hung up.

  Chapter 5

  Aria

  He spoke to me. I still couldn’t believe he spoke to me.

  What, was I in junior high now? Aria, get a grip. Nothing had rattled me like that in a long time. Even losing my job earlier—I’d had so much peace wash over me. But an attractive man talking to me? I’d escaped like a nervous school girl.

  What had I said to him? Excuse me while I finish looking at the rest of these paintings. What was wrong with me? My shoulders slumped forward because I knew exactly what was wrong. I’d been so nervous I didn’t know how to get out more than one sentence at a time. The man unnerved me, and my survival instincts kicked in—fight or flight. In this case, I flew. Oh well. It was for the best. I had other things I needed to focus on. I decided not to look at him to see what he was doing. It would only make me regretful for not hanging around longer.

  My phone dinged with a text from Mason. Hey, I’m looking forward to taking you out to dinner tomorrow. Where would you like to go?

  I typed out a quick response. Doesn’t matter. You pick.

  Mason: I’ll come up with something. Can’t wait to see your beautiful face.

  Me: Thank you. It will be good to see you again too.

  He sent one more text with about five different types of hearts.

  Seeing all those hearts made me feel . . . suffocated. Why couldn’t I be more excited about this? Instead, I had to get all worked up over a stranger, a man I didn’t even know. I studied my last response to Mason. Did that seem too eager? I didn’t want him to think I was eager, but at the same time, I didn’t want to hurt his feelings by sounding unenthusiastic. Maybe going to dinner with him was a bad idea.

  A man cleared his throat, and I glanced up. It was him. The guy I’d spoken to earlier. Our eyes connected, and a shiver ran down my spine.

  “It’s me again.” He smiled ever so slightly and handed me a napkin with two chocolate chip cookies. He nodded towards a refreshment table at the front of the room. “Got these for you.”

  “Thank you.” I reluctantly took the cookies. “That was nice of you.”

  He glanced down and scoffed, putting a hand at his chin. “If you only knew.” The words were mumbled and said so quietly he probably thought I didn’t hear.

  But I had heard, and now I didn’t know what to think. If I only knew what? Even though that woman earlier had warned me about him, he seemed nice enough. His manner was respectful and nothing about him gave me the willies.

  The noise level rose as people began trickling into the room. It appeared the ceremony was over, and small crowds gathered around the different paintings on display.

  “You must think I’m strange,” he said. “That conversation we had earlier about you being a fairy or a ghost . . . Trust me, I’m not usually that awkward.”

  He ran a hand through his hair, and I was momentarily distracted by the naturally curly waves and how his hair fell perfectly, yet haphazardly at the same time as if the wind had blown right through it.

  “Um . . . no, you weren’t awkward—”

  “Yes, I was. One moment I was looking at this painting, and the next, I saw you.” His eyes lingered on my face. “There was something about you. Anyway . . .” He shook his head to clear it. “Let’s start over. My name is Lucas Armstrong.”

  He extended his hand, and I shook it. His grip was strong as his fingers closed around mine. A tingling sens
ation shot up my arm from his touch.

  “I’m Aria. Aria Dasher.”

  “Nice to meet you, Aria. How about if I start off with some normal conversation this time? How was your day?”

  “How was my day? Uh . . . It was a day.”

  His eyes twinkled. “A day? What does that mean exactly?”

  “Well, let’s just say it wasn’t one of my best. A lot of things could have gone better.”

  “Do you mind if I ask what happened?”

  I bit down on my bottom lip. “Oh, you probably don’t want to hear about my problems. Maybe we should talk about something else.”

  “Okay, if you want. But just so you know, I am interested . . .” He trailed off and glanced down with a slightly larger smile this time. “That almost sounded like a pickup line. I didn’t mean . . .” He flushed a light shade of pink. “Wow. I’m flustered. That’s a first. I’m normally pretty confident around women.” He said it more to himself than to me. He blinked a few times as if surprised with himself. “I’m interested in your problems. That’s what I meant to say.”

  A smile forced its way on my lips. He was adorable when he was flustered. He exuded an enormous amount of confidence, so being flustered made him vulnerable. I liked it. Liked that I somehow had this kind of effect on him.

  “Okay, if you really want to know,” I said, grinning even though I shouldn’t smile at what I was about to say. But I couldn’t help it. He was the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen, and he wanted to talk to me. “I was fired from my waitressing job. Business has been slow, and, apparently, I was the lowest one on the totem pole.”

  His brows drew together. “That’s not good. What are you going to do?”

  “Look for another job.”

  “What type of work are you looking for? Maybe I can help.”

  I shrugged. “At this point, I’ll take anything as long as it’s honorable work. I have bills I need to pay.”