by Simply BWWM
THE BILLIONAIRE
FROM BOSTON
UNITED STATES OF BILLIONAIRES BOOK 11
KIMMY LOVE
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Summary
Chanel Barry was an independent artist who was struggling to make ends meet.
So when she was hired by Boston based billionaire Nick Thomas she figured this was the pay day she had been looking for.
Nick wanted to invite Chanel to his yacht to paint a portrait of him.
Only thing was, he wanted to be naked for it.
Now, Chanel always considered herself to be the utmost professional when it came to her work.
However, when it came to hunky, naked billionaires she was prepared to make an exception or two...
WARNING: This is a sexy and steamy billionaire romance with a plot that is guaranteed to surprise you right up to the very end.
Copyright Notice
The Billionaire From Boston © 2018, Kimmy Love
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.
Contents
Chapter1
Chapter2
Chapter3
Chapter4
Chapter5
Chapter6
Chapter7
chapter 8
chapter 9
chapter 10
chapter 11
chapter 12
chapter 13
chapter 14
Chapter1
Bright sun shone over the thick forest of buildings, wound around and through with narrow streets which had been built for the width of a horse drawn carriage and wagon but which had been subsequently paved over and barely accepted the widths of the modern-day automobile. The warmth of the sun rarely reached its fullness in those canyons between the buildings, most of them housing four to six floors, though some reached much loftier heights and were granted the boast of being called skyscrapers.
In the central areas of the city, the skyscrapers vaulted upward together in groups, shining like beacons and creating a recognizable cityscape from a short distance. July’s summer sun was long lasting, streaming down into nearly all of the city of Boston, from the John Hancock building to Bunker Hill Bridge, and from Logan airport further southwest to the Green Monster at Fenway Park.
The golden sunlight of the summer shone all over the city, lighting up everything that it touched both natural and manmade, including the clear wide and tall windows of a large studio that had once been a warehouse before it was converted into a clean, wide open space where an artist worked nearly every day.
The artist painted, turning blank canvases into windows of breathless wonder, introducing the viewer to depths of the soul as seen through the vulnerability of the flesh. She was a renowned artist, best known for her creation of nudes, and though she had done other works, it was her expression of humanity at its barest that had made her famous.
She sat there, the artist, on a four-legged wooden stool with one foot propped up on the highest rung between the legs and the other foot planted firmly on the floor, bare with no shoes. Her toenails and fingernails were painted the color of aged burgundy, which complemented her dark mahogany skin, soft and supple.
Her legs were bare, covered only just above the knee by a loose-fitting shirt which she liked to paint in. It was a button up shirt made of cotton, which was oversized, and fell around her lightly. The sleeves were rolled up to her forearms, just below the elbow, and the buttons were only closed to the deep, warm space between her full breasts. From that point up, the soft material parted, revealing her skin.
Chanel Barry painted alone, in an environment of comfort, with her cozy cotton shirt surrounding her like a hug, old jazz music on in the background, and oftentimes with a cup of coffee or tea that had once been hot, but was left half finished in a creative frenzy, cooled to a point that it wouldn’t be drunk. She’d had to remind herself several times not to place those hot drink mugs beside her water cups, because more than once she’d dunked her paintbrush into a mug of tea or coffee, and a few times, she had lifted a glass of paintbrush water to her mouth, nearly drinking it before she realized that she shouldn’t.
Her warm brown eyes studied the painting before her as she held her cup of hot tea in her hand, her fingers curled around the ceramic. The morning heat had not yet permeated the building, and she wanted a little caffeine before she worked for the day. It was the perfect time for it. It wasn’t her mug of Earl Gray that had her attention captured, however; it was the way the woman in the painting before her was stretched out, her bare form showing like a secret through translucent water. Chanel was contemplating the expression on the woman’s face; her eyes were closed, her lips were parted slightly as if she was exhaling, and her manner was relaxed. She might have been sleeping, dreaming some unknown thing, and the artist was considering placing just the slightest hint of a smile at the corner of her lips, much the same way La Gioconda looks, thinking that it might better suit the cast of the woman’s form. It would be an irresistible touch, drawing in the viewer with just a tease of what the woman in the painting might be dreaming about.
Biting at her full lip as a smile began to form on her own face, Chanel set down her mug, half full of tea, and picked up a palette filled with paint and a paintbrush. She moved the fine tip of the brush through the paint and then over the corner of the mouth of the woman in the portrait. Within the matter of a few minutes, the mouth of the subject and the whole expression on her face had been transformed ever so slightly—just enough to intrigue, just enough to tease innocently and entice.
With a sigh of satisfaction, she set the brush down in the cup of water near her and picked her mug of cooling tea back up, wrapping her hands around it. The phone rang and she glanced at it and grinned as the image came up on the screen of the phone.
The image held two people. One was a good-looking man with wavy brown hair and big green eyes, with just the barest three-day beard gracing his jaw. He was impeccably dressed and was standing with a glass of champagne in one hand. His other hand was wrapped around her. She had been wearing a red satin gown that showed off her generous feminine curves and her narrow waist, as well as only partially revealing one of her long, slender legs. Her shoulder length black hair had been styled the same way that Michelle Obama styled her hair, in big waves, and it gave her a glamorous look.
The makeup she had worn that night had been flawless making her high, wide cheekbones and full lips stand out a little more, as well as h
er squared jawline and her bright white smile. In the image she was holding a glass of champagne as well; it had been the opening night of a special gala at the Metropolitan Opera in New York, and her best friend Christopher Danes had wanted so badly to go that she had surprised him with tickets. They had also seen the Met’s new production of Carmen and had fallen right in love with it. It had been a truly special evening, and she had loved sharing it with her best friend.
“Chris!” She beamed, grinning from ear to ear. “How are you doing, dearest?”
“I’m fabulous my darling! Simply fabulous! I’m having a mimosa for breakfast. How are you?” he asked, his light voice drawn out in a luxuriously lazy tone.
“You sound like you’re making a late morning of it. Have you slept in?” she asked with a knowing grin.
“I have, and I don’t care at all. I don’t get to do this too often, taking a long weekend and starting it on Friday morning, so I’m taking complete advantage of a day off.” He sounded blissfully happy about it. “I was wondering if you’d like to put your paints away and come over to join me. I have enough champagne for the whole weekend. What do you think? Movies and champagne and epic laziness all weekend?”
He sounded hopeful and she felt her heart sink in disappointment. “Ohhhhh, honey! I wish I could.”
“What are you doing that’s more important than coming to laze about with me and have champagne while we watch old movies?” Chris sounded more than a little put out that she wouldn’t be joining him.
Chanel pouted slightly as she explained. “Well actually, I was commissioned to do a portrait for a businessman here in Boston.” She tipped her cup back and took a sip of her tea. “Apparently, he’s a big fan of my work, and he sent me a message asking me to go out to his place to do a painting of him.”
“You don’t do those very often,” Chris replied thoughtfully.
“No, I really don’t, but he’s paying me an outrageous amount of money for it, so I’m doing it.” She laughed softly and shrugged.
“I know it’s rude, but I’m hugely curious. How much is he paying you?” Chris asked with a naughty tone.
Chanel gave her head a shake. “I don’t care if you know. He’s paying me a million to do it, and I said I could get it done pretty fast for him. I have some free time right now, in between gallery shows and events, and I knew that I could get it done. Plus, it’s a lot of money and I just couldn’t pass it up, which is what he was counting on I think.”
“My god! I wouldn’t pass that up either! Do you need an assistant? Can I carry your brushes for you?” Chris laughed.
“No, you can’t carry my brushes, but I will take you out shopping and buy you something incredibly flamboyant and totally extravagant, because I love you and I love spoiling you madly.” She smiled a little then. “Besides, you have your weekend all planned out, don’t you? Champagne and old movies, right?”
“Well, since you put it that way, then yes. I am booked all weekend, and I would love to go shopping with you whenever you’re ready. Maybe next weekend!” He sounded gleeful. “I’ll pencil you in.”
Then Chanel laughed loudly and grinned. “It’s a deal. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
“Oh, who is the guy? Anyone I know?” Chris seemed mildly curious about him.
Chanel frowned and walked over to her old roll top desk. Picking up a notepad there, she looked at the writing on it and shook her head. “His name is Nick Thomas. I haven’t ever heard of him before, but I guess he’s doing pretty well if he’s going to pay me that much for a portrait. The amount was his idea, not mine. It was an offer from him. I couldn’t pass it up.”
“Well, I’d say not. I wouldn’t have passed it up,” Chris agreed with her adamantly.
“He’s sending someone to pick me up today. That’s all I know. I go overnight and work on the base of the painting, then finish up the details here at the studio. I should have it to him really soon, and that’s that.” She was pleased with it. It was one of the best opportunities that she had ever gotten.
“Well, have fun and call me from wherever you’re going. Let me know how it is,” he requested insistently.
“I will.” She smiled, grateful to have such a good friend. He was more than a friend to her; he was family, and she cherished him dearly. “Oh, I’ve got another call coming in. I’d better let you get back to your movies and mimosas. Love you Chris!”
“I love you too!” he echoed, and she switched over to the second phone call.
“Hello?” she asked curiously. It was a number she hadn’t recognized, though the caller identification said that it was from New Mexico.
“Is Chanel Barry there, please?” The pleasant tones of a woman’s voice came across the line.
“This is Chanel,” she answered, reaching for her tea again.
“Oh, good morning! I’m so glad that I’ve caught you.” The woman sounded almost breathless and excited, and Chanel found herself wondering if it was going to be an interview or something similar. She couldn’t for the life of her figure out why anyone in New Mexico would be calling her in Boston.
“I’m Diana Harris. I own an artist’s retreat in Santa Fe, New Mexico. It’s a big ranch, really. Anyway, I was hoping that you would be interested in coming out here and teaching a six-week intensive course on painting and portraiture. I just love your work, and I have had several requests from art students of several ages who are really interested in taking a class from you here.
There would be twenty-five art students, probably from sixteen to eighty years old, mostly women, who would be coming from several different places. You’d be staying here on the ranch in the main house as my guest, and all the students would be staying in cabins around the ranch. You’d teach for four to six hours a day, six days a week for six weeks. Your room and board would be included, and you’d be paid fifty thousand for doing it.”
The woman hadn’t stopped to take a breath in her whole spiel, and Chanel wondered if she had only stopped talking because she had run out of breath. Chanel had never been to New Mexico, and visions of some remote ranch out in the desert didn’t exactly sound appealing to her, especially for six weeks.
“When would you want to start the classes?” she asked hesitantly, already thinking that it wasn’t something that she would be interested in doing.
“Oh, well, that depends on you. I would start them at any time that works for you. I’m featuring local artists for shorter terms right now, but for a six-week intensive like that, I’d let you choose your own dates. We have an extensive mailing list, and I’d send out an invitation to each person on it. I know the class would fill up almost immediately. You’ve been at the top of the wish list for guest teachers for some time.” Diana sounded as if she was asking for the moon and hoping that she might actually get it. “I’ll cover your travel expenses as well, of course.”
Chanel sighed softly and closed her eyes, thinking about it. It was flattering to hear that she was at the top of the wish list for guest teachers at the artist’s retreat, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to leave her home and studio in Boston for so long a time, particularly to go to such a remote place.
“I’m not sure right now if such a long engagement would fit into my schedule,” she replied with a gentle tone. “But I’ll have a look at my calendar and give it some thought. May I think about it and get back to you please?”
Diana sounded as if she had all the wind sucked out of her and was entirely deflated. “Yes, of course. That’s probably a good idea. It is a big commitment. I understand that. Well, feel free to call me anytime, and I’ll be glad to talk with you about it more if you decide that you’d like to do it.”
“I’ll do that. I have your number now. It came through on caller ID, so I’ll save it, and give you a call if I decide to do this. I really do appreciate you calling me to make the offer though. That’s quite a compliment. Thank you.” She smiled, and it came through in her voice, making her gratitude sound as genuine as it truly was.
“I’m glad to offer it, and glad that we talked. Thank you!” Diana replied, sounding a little hopeful again.
They said goodbye, and Chanel ended the call and looked over at the clock. Mr. Thomas, who had only communicated with her through email, had told her that he would be sending a car to her at eleven in the morning. It was nearly nine. She had packed already, but she thought she’d better shower and get dressed before the car arrived.
She kept a small apartment in the corner of the big studio for times when she was working on something big and didn’t want to travel half an hour or more to get home to her house. There was a bedroom, a bathroom with a shower, and a little kitchenette—just enough for a short stay. She also had a closet there with a few drawers, all of that filled with extra outfits that might come in handy if she needed a change of clothing.
After a quick shower, she slipped on a dress that buttoned all the way up the front, from the hem just above her knee to the sweetheart neckline that offered a slight view of her décolletage. Giving herself a cursory glance in the mirror, she decided that she liked the way the thin, pale vanilla material with a soft lavender flower print on it made her dark skin seem to glow with a healthy golden undertone, and she loved the way that it sculpted its way over her curves without being too sexy. It was pretty and feminine, and she knew it would be perfect for a warm July day in Boston.
