The Glamorous One: A Billionaire Bride Pact Romance

by Jeanette Lewis

  The Glamorous One

  Jeanette Lewis

  Contents

  Introduction

  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

  Chapter 22

  About Jeanette Lewis

  Also by Jeanette Lewis

  Acknowledgments

  Excerpt: The Daring One

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Janet K. Halling

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever with-out written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Cover Art by Christina Dymock

  Elidryn Books

  Published in the United States of America

  Introduction

  by Lucy McConnell

  I've heard it said that some people come into your life and quickly leave – others leave footprints on your heart. Jeanette and Cami are two wonderful authors and women who have left their mark on my heart. Their overwhelming support, knowledge, and general goodness have pushed me forward as a writer and nurtured me as a friend. That's why, I'm pleased to introduce you to their new and innovative series: The Billionaire Bride Pact Romances.

  In each story, you'll find romance and character growth. I almost wrote personal growth – forgetting these are works of fiction – because the books we read become a part of us, their words stamped into our souls. As with any good book, I disappeared into the pages for a while and was able to walk sandy beaches, visit a glass blowing shop, and spend time with a group of women who had made a pact – a pact that influenced their lives, their loves, and their dreams.

  I encourage you to put your feet up, grab a cup of something wonderful, and fall in love with a billionaire today.

  Wishing you all the best,

  Lucy McConnell

  Author of The Professional Bride

  “I, Kynley Jane Salvatici, do solemnly swear, that someday I’ll marry a billionaire … OR I will have to sing the Camp Wallakee song (with the bird calls) at my wedding.”

  Chapter One

  The surf foamed around her hips like a tutu as Kynley Salvatici rolled in the wet sand. It scratched over her skin and she winced slightly, imagining all the places she was going to have sand—many of them places where one really didn’t want sand.

  Over Kynley’s right shoulder, the peak of Haystack Rock jutted from the water like the heavily barnacled fin of an enormous shark. The sky was crystal blue with only a few scudding white clouds and the coastline was picturesque with its rocky shoals, tree-covered cliffs, and soft sand beaches. A light breeze carried the faint scent of pine along with a tang of salt. Gorgeous. Wild. This was a place for lovers to walk hand in hand, for children to run trailing kite strings, and for artists to paint masterpieces.

  It was magical.

  Also? Freezing.

  Another wave broke, washing up Kynley’s legs, cascading over her body and barely missing her face, which she held just out of the water. She forced a smile as she rolled onto her back and stretched languorously, like a cat, her eyes never leaving the camera lens perched on the tripod positioned in the sand, away from the water.

  “Cut!” Gordon yelled from beside the camera. Kynley sagged onto the sand, only to dart up a moment later as another wave hit. She stood and rubbed at the goose bumps on her arms as Gordon came to the edge of the water.

  “You were out of sync,” he complained, an edge to his voice.

  “Sorry, I can’t hear the music over the waves.” Kynley waded toward him, pulling the wireless earpiece from her left ear. She frowned at it. “Are you sure this thing works?” She handed the earpiece to Gordon, who put it to his ear, closing his eyes and tipping his head in that way people have when they’re trying to listen so hard they need to shut out the other four senses.

  Kynley wasn’t ignoring any of her senses, chiefly her sense of touch. She shivered as the breeze sent her wet skirt slapping against her bare legs. “Can you hear it?” she asked Gordon.

  He shook his head. “Might need a new battery. Or maybe the water got it.” He turned and waved the earpiece toward a white tent pitched farther up the sand where it was dry. A man in jeans and a red jacket slipped around the soundboard and jogged toward them just as the door opened on the trailer, parked by the side of the road. Kynley sighed in relief as her stylist, Gabbi, emerged from the trailer, fuzzy robe in one hand, steaming mug in the other.

  Gordon and the guy in the red jacket were dissecting the earpiece, but Kynley turned her back, letting Gabbi drape the robe around her shoulders. She took the mug and wrapped both hands around the warm pottery, letting the rich steam and the scent of peppermint tea bathe her face. “You’re a lifesaver,” she said gratefully.

  “I know.” Gabbi shrugged. She wore jeans and a pink and black striped hoodie with a Hello Kitty decal on the chest. This week her hair was neon yellow, one side hanging free, the other braided into tightly woven cornrows that ended just behind her ear, showing off the row of piercings that ran up her earlobe.

  The guy in the red jacket took off toward the tent, Kynley’s earpiece dangling between his fingers.

  “I guess we’re on break until we get it fixed,” Gordon sighed, turning to Kynley. He cast a look at the sky. “Hope we don’t lose the light.”

  Kynley pulled the robe tighter, trying to control her shivering. Why was she the only one who had to get in the water?

  Never mind, she knew. As the lead singer for Jilted Storm, she was the focus of the music video. Not that everyone agreed with that.

  “Gordon!” a male voice called, and Kynley stiffened. Leeson, the band’s rhythm guitarist, came out of the tent and stomped toward them, sending up tiny clouds of sand.

  “Sebastian says you don’t need us for any more shots.” Leeson’s words were sharp and angry, as was the look in his brown eyes. He jerked to a stop in front of Gordon and over his shoulder, Kynley saw Sebastian emerge from the tent and stand staring in their direction, his arms folded over his chest. Even though they were at the beach and everyone else was in jeans and sweatshirts, Sebastian wore an expensive charcoal-gray Armani and didn’t seem to care that the sand would scratch his black leather Ferragamos. His designer sunglasses hid his eyes, but his thin lips were pressed together in a hard line.

  Kynley beat back a wave of guilt. They’d all agreed to hire Sebastian, persuaded by his promise of connections within the recording industry and his ability to score them a big contract, but she’d been the one who had pushed for it the hardest. And after three months of Sebastian’s management, Kynley found herself increasingly the brunt of the band’s frustration, especially when conflicts arose.

  Like now.

  “I thought we were all in the beach shot,” Leeson said. He addressed Gordon, but his eyes cut to Kynley. Hard, accusing.

  Gordon
sighed and pulled at his long auburn beard, the way he did when he was nervous. As the director of the video, technically he had final say over the production; however, they all knew the real power lay in Sebastian’s hands.

  “We already did your parts,” Gordon told Leeson in a slightly wheedling tone. “We’re doing some fine-tuning right now with Kynley.”

  Leeson huffed. “Yeah, fine-tuning that’s taken most of the day. Why are we even here if we’re only going to be in ten seconds of video?”

  “That’s just the beach portion,” Gordon pointed out. “You guys are in the rest of the shots, especially the warehouse and the freeway.”

  Leeson rolled his eyes. “Like you told us we’d be in the beach shots?”

  “We got more footage than you think,” Gordon said. “Trust me, it’ll be great.”

  Kynley’s eyes shot to Sebastian, who hadn’t moved from his spot by the tent but was watching them closely. He was too far away to hear the conversation, but she knew he could guess what was being said from Leeson’s body language. This argument had happened many times before.

  Jilted Storm was home-grown, an alternative metal hybrid born from the joint efforts of Kynley and Mick, the drummer, five years ago. They’d quickly added Trevor on lead guitar, Leeson on rhythm, and Corey on bass, and set about establishing their own style—dramatic, catchy songs that featured plenty of guitar riffs and drum solos, accompanied by Kynley’s soaring vocals. She’d written most of the songs and they dug deep into savings accounts and credit cards to record them and shoot professional-quality videos. After five years, they’d amassed a decent following on YouTube and enough real fans that they could tour several months out of the year, primarily in the US, but also to Europe, South America, and Canada. But now, they’d decided to take the next step—a recording contract. Sebastian was supposed to help them do that, though so far all he’d managed to do was raise tension.

  But they had to give him a chance. There was only so much one person could do, especially with something as large and complicated as the music industry. He was working on it, and the video they were shooting now would be key in helping him sell the band to the various record labels.

  Sebastian evidently decided the conversation had gone on long enough without him and he came toward the group, picking his way through the sand. His pale blond hair ruffled in the wind and his sunglasses hid steely blue eyes that were small and deeply set, a feature made even more prominent by his rather beaky nose.

  “What’s the problem here?” he asked when he reached the group. He did not remove the sunglasses.

  “Why can’t we be in the shot?” Leeson demanded. “We’re all standing around freezing our butts off for nothing.”

  “You’re freezing your butt off?” Kynley demanded. “I’m practically getting hypothermia.” Another shiver went through her, despite the warm robe and the hot tea.

  Leeson gave her a quick look; his sneer said it all. Who cared if you got hypothermia as long as you were in the video?

  “Okay, how about this,” Gordon broke in, ever the peacemaker. “Let’s start over with the band in the background and we’ll do several different camera angles so we get you all in?”

  Leeson gave him a skeptical look, then nodded shortly and made his way back to the tent to update the other band members. Kynley knew they were in there, grouped together and joined in their anger at the way the shoot was going.

  Anger at Gordon and Sebastian. But also anger at her.

  Like there was anything she could do about it. She wasn’t the director of the video or the manager of the band. Besides, this is what it took, right? They were so close to breaking into the next level. Sebastian had made his share of international superstars; he knew what they needed to do.

  But sometimes she wished for simpler days when they’d load up Mick’s van with their equipment and drive all night to a gig. When her costumes mostly came from Goodwill and she did her own makeup. It wasn’t making them any money, but it had been … fun. They’d been a group, a team, making music and sharing in the highs and lows that came from trying to succeed as artists.

  She sighed and handed the mug back to Gabbi, then gathered her waist-length hair into both hands and pulled it over her shoulder. It stuck together in wet clumps, gummy with salt and sand while water dripped from her drenched costume onto her bare feet. “How are we going to start over when I look like this?”

  Sebastian exchanged a look with Gordon and shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll do a couple of shots to make them happy, but the beach scenes were always just going to be you.”

  “Yeah.” Gordon tugged at his beard. “We’ll put them in the back and do a couple of run-throughs, but we’ll probably end up cutting them out in post anyway.”

  Kynley bit back her annoyance. More time lost and more money wasted. Not to mention she’d be cold and wet for hours all for nothing.

  “This is how it goes,” Sebastian said, sensing her hesitation. “Trust me, they’ll thank us when we get the contract.”

  “Okay, but I need a few minutes.” Without waiting for an answer, she started across the beach toward her trailer with Gabbi at her side.

  “Seriously?” Gabbi said when the entered the trailer. She shut the door behind her with a bang. “Why can’t they tell the band the truth and let them deal? They’re big boys.” She began rattling through her hundreds of trays of makeup and other beauty supplies. “Besides, I don’t see why we have to do this in Oregon anyway. Yes, I get the rocks, but there are rocks in Belize too, aren’t there?”

  Kynley refilled her mug with water from the electric kettle with a laugh. For all her bluster, Gabbi was a wispy little twenty-something, standing barely above five feet tall. Even in bare feet, Kynley towered over her by several inches.

  “I can’t really blame Leeson though,” she said, taking a seat in the hydraulic chair in the middle of the room. “The video is supposed to be about the band, not just me.”

  “Yeah, but you’re the face of Jilted Storm and everyone knows it.” Gabbi grabbed a comb and began working it gently through the tangled mess of Kynley’s hair.

  Finding Gabbi during the band’s third year had been one of their biggest blessings to date. Aside from giving Kynley some female company, Gabbi was largely responsible for Kynley’s look and had transformed her from generic lead vocalist to distinctive rocker. She’d dyed Kynley’s naturally dark brown hair to an ombré pattern, the long strands transitioning gradually from crow black at the roots to pale silver at the ends. She used thick eyeliner and long false eyelashes to make Kynley’s large, gray eyes even larger, and amped up the semi-goth look with either maroon or lavender lipstick. Artfully applied contouring powder made Kynley’s pale skin even paler and brought out her high cheekbones.

  Gabbi had also transformed Kynley’s stage costumes, taking her from baggy cargo pants and tank tops to a cross between Victorian gothic and biker chick, pairing corsets with leather pants or long ruffled skirts with shredded T-shirts. The look was topped off with high heels and plenty of dangling jewelry.

  There was no question her look was a vital part of the band’s success, but sometimes when she was all made up and wearing her latest costume, Kynley had a hard time believing it was really her in the mirror. Where had the girl with the braces and the overalls gone? The girl who did chores on the farm every night with her dad and wore a frayed plaid jacket and rubber boots to feed the chickens? Sometimes it was like she was losing a sense of herself.

  There was a brisk knock on the door of the trailer and Sebastian stepped inside.

  “Your earpiece is fixed; be ready to go in ten minutes,” he said, casting a critical eye at Kynley’s wet hair.

  “What about the guys? They’ll need makeup,” Gabbi pointed out.

  “You heard Gordon, they’ll be cut in post. We’re already wasting time with the reshoot. I’m not blowing any more for makeup.”

  “Okay, you’re the boss,” Gabbi answered, a bit stiffly. She didn�
��t like Sebastian, but made an effort to be professional.

  Sebastian gave her a curt nod; obviously the dislike was mutual. “Let’s see the costume,” he ordered.

  Kynley shrugged out of the robe and stood up, her wet clothes dripping on the floor, while Sebastian gave her the once-over. She wore a ruffled black skirt that reached just below her knees in the front and dropped to mid-calf in the back and had a wide waistband looped with chains. Her white silk blouse had a deep V-neck and full sleeves, rather like a pirate’s shirt, and she had a long black vest over the top. Silver chains of varying lengths, some with pendants, were draped around her neck, and silver bangles stacked on her right wrist.

  “I think we should lose the vest,” Sebastian said bluntly. “Just the white shirt.”

  “But when it gets wet, then …” Kynley trailed off. The look in Sebastian’s eyes said he knew exactly what happened to white fabric when it got wet; that was the point.

  “I’m not doing that,” she declared.

  Fire flashed through his pale blue eyes and Kynley knew what was coming—a reminder that he’d launched plenty of big stars and didn’t need her second-guessing him.

  “We’ll put a camisole under it,” Gabbi said quickly, heading off the lecture.

  The corner of Sebastian’s mouth quirked and he turned to leave the trailer. “Make sure it’s a white camisole,” he called over his shoulder.

  The door thumped shut behind him and Kynley rolled her eyes. “I swear, if he didn’t know it’d get us kicked off YouTube, he’d probably ask me to go out there naked.”

  She meant it as a joke, but from the worried frown on Gabbi’s face, she knew it probably wasn’t far from the mark.

  “Forget the camisole, I’ve got something else,” Gabbi said decisively as Kynley shrugged out of her black vest. Gabbi pulled a couple of flesh-colored adhesive bra cups from a drawer in her arsenal. She pushed the white shirt out of the way to apply them to Kynley’s skin, then repositioned the shirt and stepped back to survey the result. “There,” she said in satisfaction. “They’ll stay on in the water and it’ll look like you’re showing skin, without actually showing it.”