The Stubborn Billionaire (a Muse novel)

by Lexxie Couper

  His statement tore at her heart. Damn it, his life had been as crappy as hers. The poor kid.

  “I want to meet him,” he said, stepping over her and walking away. “I’m sick of being treated like a baby.”

  Stretched on the floor, head aching with a dull throb, pulse pounding, Sienna pulled a face at the ceiling. “Yup. Of course you do.”

  Chapter Five

  The sleek black Mercedes carried James away from Sienna’s studio in luxurious comfort, the interior cool and refreshing, the music coming from the car’s state-of-the-art sound system soft and relaxing.

  He sat behind the wheel, growling.

  What the bloody hell had just happened? He clenched the wheel, knuckles cracking. What the hell was wrong with him?

  Cutting through the traffic, he made his way toward the city. At this time of the morning, Sydney’s streets were free of peak-hour madness, making it easier for him to reach his office before too many people arrived for work.

  The less people he saw the better. He was in no mood to talk to anyone.

  Riding the private elevator to his office’s floor, he replayed the kiss over and over again, refusing to let his body respond to the wicked memory of her lips on his. It was only the soft chime and the doors sliding wide that told him he’d arrived at his destination. His mind hadn’t registered anything else during the ascent. With a grunt, he stormed through the as-yet empty foyer, glad for the fact his assistant hadn’t yet started for the day. Mrs. Downey was far too efficient and astute. The older woman had been in his employ for close to a decade now. She would take one look at him and know he was flustered.

  Huh. Flustered? That’s an understatement.

  Grinding his teeth, he entered his personal office and crossed to the mini-bar, grabbing a mineral water from the top shelf. The hiss of escaping gas filled the silence, as did the sound of the metal lid clinking on the marble counter.

  He lifted the bottle of water to his lips and swallowed five mouthfuls without coming up for air. The bubbling liquid flowed down his throat, icy and smooth. And yet it did little to placate his agitation. Or cool him down.

  From both his anger and ardor.

  Those tiny black hipster panties and snug black tank top Sienna had answered the door in, that taunting navel of hers… It would have been so easy to just grab her, slam her against the doorframe, pin her wrists above her head, make her admit she wanted him as much as he wanted her, and then lose himself in her exquisite body.

  It would have been so easy.

  Playing it cool had never been so hard.

  Especially at the sight of the dark smudges of what may have been charcoal across her forehead, neck, and thigh. Something about those dark marks on her smooth skin—signs of her natural creativity, of a woman who lived in the now, rather than a woman more concerned about being flawless to those who saw her, stirred him. Those kind of women—cold and fake and superficially perfect—were the kind he normally knew. But Sienna…hair wild, face free of makeup, charcoal smudges on her skin…

  Christ, had he ever been so turned on so instantly? Had he ever sported such a demanding and impatient hard-on?

  While his hands explored the most divine derrière he’d ever known, the all-consuming hunger that drove him, the hunger to consume her and destroy her, seemed to desert him. He was as turned on as he’d ever been, yes. Harder than he would have imagined possible. But that lustrous hunger? Its tormented darkness had lost its edge.

  The pleasure engulfing him had no longer been just physical.

  It had been softer. Warmer. That same sense of complete contentedness he’d experienced with her the first time they’d met. Powerful and intoxicating and right. So very right.

  Slamming the bottle of mineral water on his desk, he let out a sharp curse. How could he feel like that? After what she’d done to Clinton?

  Confused guilt flayed at him. How could he betray his brother’s memory like that? How could he forget what he was doing? Why he was doing it? His previous connection with Sienna, their previous flirtation, should mean nothing now. His actions, his thoughts, should be about Clinton, not how well he and Sienna connected.

  He ground his teeth. She’d gotten to him. That had to be the answer. The manipulating little minx had gotten to him, gotten under his skin.

  But how?

  He glared out the floor-to-ceiling window at the sweeping expanse of cloudless blue sky. He’d gone to her place to throw her off guard. To unsettle her. To disturb her preconceived ideas about him. Instead, she’d sent him for a loop.

  He’d been outplayed.

  And while he’d been left reeling—stunned and confused by his own emotional response—she’d continued to work the scene with a hesitant whisper of his name, a slight widening of those jade-green eyes of hers, a hitching breath that moved her breasts just so.

  If he closed his eyes, he could relive the moment all over again. If he pulled in a deep, long breath, he could still smell her—clean soap and delicate jasmine. If it hadn’t been for her half brother interrupting them, he would probably be putty in her hands right about now. And enjoying every moment.

  Christ, how could I let Clint down like this?

  He wouldn’t. He refused to. She was not going to win. There was only one set of rules in this game—his.

  Clinton may not have been strong enough to survive her siren’s call, but he was.

  A slow smile spread over his lips. “Get ready to play dirty, Sienna.”

  He took another drink, welcoming the chilly liquid flowing down his throat. An image of her filled his head, her breasts heaving as he explored her spread thighs with his tongue and lips, her breath shallow, ragged as he destroyed her with his—

  A sharp buzz jerked him back to his office. Heart pounding, muscles coiled, he walked to his desk and jabbed at the intercom. “Yes?”

  “Good morning, Mr. Dyson.” His assistant’s greeting floated from the speaker. “You have a call from Clarinda Simmonds on line two.”

  His heart thumped harder in his chest. “Thank you.” Stabbing the blinking button, he forced his agitation aside. “Clarinda, how are you?”

  “Well, Mr. Dyson.” No words wasted. Typical Clarinda Simmonds. He respected that. “I’ve organized Friday night as per your instructions. The call will be made at approximately three p.m. today.”

  “Excellent. Thank you.” He paused for a moment. “I need some information. I’ll have my assistant email the details today.”

  “Very good, Mr. Dyson.”

  “Is there anything else?”

  “Yes,” the woman who took all of Mason Xavier’s calls answered. “Thomas St. Clair is coming to town. He wants to arrange a meeting with the artist.”

  A sharp stab of jealousy hit James straight in the chest. His breath caught.

  St. Clair was not only wealthy and famous, he was good looking. Very good looking. Women threw themselves at him—and Thomas rarely said no.

  “When?” he threw over his shoulder as he walked to the window, speaking a little louder so Clarinda could still hear him.

  Thomas had a weakness for redheads, a fact he’d shared with James the last time he was in Australia on a book-signing tour. “This is the artist you told me about?” he’d asked, spying a photo of Sienna on James’s coffee table. “The one who did the painting now in my study?” James had nodded, wishing he’d packed away his research on her before Thomas had arrived. Even then, he’d been agitated by the interest in his friend’s eyes.

  He’d distracted Thomas with a glass of Scotch and talk of his latest magazine acquisition. It seemed Thomas hadn’t forgotten about her, though. Damn it. One look at her in the flesh, and he’d turn on the killer St. Clair charm in full force.

  Another stab of jealousy slammed into James, jarring and confusing. Why the hell would he be jealous?

  “In eleven days.”

  Clarinda’s answer pulled him back to the moment. He folded his arms, studying Sydney beyond the glass. Eleven d
ays.

  Eleven days. Could he achieve his goal in eleven days? Or should he factor Thomas St. Clair into his plans?

  What if the man seduces Sienna away from me?

  Away from him? Damn it, she’d done a piece on him already. Time to take back control. “Arrange it.”

  “Yes, Mr. Dyson.”

  “But not through me.”

  “I understand, Mr. Dyson.”

  He disconnected the call. Damn the rolling turmoil in his chest. Damn it.

  He didn’t like it. He didn’t like that Thomas St. Clair was going to meet Sienna. He liked it even less that he was jealous about it.

  He was treading on dangerous ground, and he liked that least of all. When he’d started this course of action, there’d been no threat to the outcome. His objective had been simple—destroy the woman who had destroyed Clinton. Somewhere along the line, things had gotten mixed up.

  It had been easier, simpler, when cold retaliation and hot lust motivated his actions. What the hell was going on? What had she done to get to him? To disarm him, out play him?

  The innocent torment in her eyes, the waver in her voice when she’d spoken to her brother, the clear affection in her eyes when she’d looked at him, regardless of his tirade. The way she felt so damn good in my arms.

  His intercom buzzed again, saving him from contemplating the disarming suggestions. He balled his fists tighter in his pockets before withdrawing his hands. “So much for not talking to anyone.” At this rate, he would need to leave the office to get any thinking done.

  “Yes?” The obvious frustration in his voice annoyed him.

  “Good morning, Mr. Dyson.” Mrs. Downey greeted him through the machine. “Sorry to interrupt you so early, but there is a Sienna Roberts at floor reception. She says you will see her.”

  He sucked in a swift breath, his pulse thumping faster.

  She’d come to him. She’d left her safety-zone and come to him.

  Another wave of happiness rolled through him, this one bringing a stirring tension to his groin as well as his heart.

  Heart? Damn it. She has more power over me than I initially thought.

  “But now we’re playing by my rules,” he murmured, smothering the memory of the innocence in her eyes.

  “Tell reception to let her up. My private elevator.”

  “As you wish, Mr. Dyson.”

  He fixed his stare on the burnished-steel door of his office on the other side of the room. Energy thrummed through his body.

  What is she up to?

  His gut clenched. His groin tightened. Narrowing his eyes, he snatched up the cut granite paperweight sitting on his desk beside his closed laptop. It was heavy in his hand. Solid.

  He turned to the window, bouncing the paperweight on his palm before smoothing his fingers over its surface. Clinton had given him the granite ball as a gift the day he’d graduated with honors from Sydney University, top in both his business degree and communication science degree.

  Holding its cool, unyielding shape in his hand reminded him of her power over his brother. It gave him strength to negate the troubling emotions she evoked in him.

  Hardened his resolve.

  He loved Clinton. Missed him like crazy. Clinton had lived life large, had charged into it with a passion and vibrancy James did not allow himself. The CEO of Dyson Media Corp could not indulge in passions outside of work, and charging into life meant relinquishing a level of control he held with steadfast focus.

  Sienna Roberts had robbed him of his brother. For that—

  His intercom buzzed. “Sienna Roberts to see you.”

  He did not acknowledge the turbulent pressure in his gut. He lowered his gaze to the paperweight, bouncing it again on his palm. “Don’t lose sight of your purpose.” His whisper hung on the silence. “Don’t forget Clinton.”

  He sensed when Sienna entered his office without needing to turn. As he drew breath, he inhaled her scent—clean and pure, with that subtle trace of jasmine. It tantalized his senses, played with his body, drew an image in his mind of how incredibly sexy she’d looked that morning, with her snug black underwear and bare limbs…

  Desire roared through him. Hot. Elemental. Puissant.

  “Mr. Dyson.” Her husky voice floated to him across his office. Confident. Poised. It caressed his tenuous control. Hot tension stole through his core.

  “Sienna.” He looked in the reflection of the window, waiting for her to step deeper into the room. Waiting for her to enter his sights.

  Silence stretched for long seconds, the air growing heavy with pregnant strain. He didn’t move, waiting for her. He would not make it easy. Whatever she was here for, he would not ease her purpose.

  “Let them make the first move, Jamieson.”

  His father’s cold advice, given decades ago after he’d lost his first schoolyard fight to an older, bigger opponent, steeled the urge to turn around.

  “Always let them show their hand. Show their modus operandi. And then use it against them to destroy them.”

  He’d never forgotten the lesson. The next time the bully confronted him in the schoolyard, calling him a “spoiled daddy’s boy,” he’d followed it to the letter, asking the older boy why his father never came to school events, wondering aloud if it had something to do with the fact his father had bought his company and replaced him with someone who knew how to do his job correctly. The incensed boy had chased him, promising “to hurt him so fucking much.” He’d cornered him exactly where James wanted him to—outside the back window of the school’s principal’s office, punching him over and over again, calling him a “daddy’s boy” with each strike. The boy had been expelled that afternoon.

  James had been ten.

  “Let them make the first move, Jamieson. Show their weakness. Everyone’s got one. Let them reveal it. Exploit it. Use it.”

  The bully’s weakness had been his father’s business failings.

  Would Sienna’s be so easy to manipulate? And as fulfilling?

  Movement in the window drew his attention before he could contemplate the answer. His gaze found the reflection of her walking toward him, and he pulled in a swift breath. Christ, she looked incredible.

  She had obviously rushed over here. Her hair fell about her face in an unruly tumble of copper waves, brushing against her cheekbones and jawline and shoulders. The black tank and brief panties were gone, replaced with new attire equally as arousing.

  Faded blue jeans hugged her long legs, emphasizing the firmness of her thighs, while the plain white T-shirt that wrapped her torso with such enticing perfection highlighted the upward-thrust of her breasts and the fine column of her neck.

  Fuck.

  What he felt for this woman may be confusing him, but there was one thing perfectly clear. He only had to look at her and he was as horny as hell.

  Is that my weakness?

  He squeezed the paperweight with greater pressure before bouncing it on his palm again. “What can I do for you?” he asked, giving her a small smile in the reflection.

  Her gaze met his, direct and unwavering. “What is this between us?”

  “This what?”

  She scoffed. “This. The way you look at me, the kiss this morning. The way the air crackles with sexual energy whenever we see each other. It was there when we first meet, but that was before you knew who I was. Clearly, there is no love lost between us, which means it must be lust. If it is just lust, I can come to terms with that.”

  His heart slammed hard and fast. His groin tightened. His stomach clenched. “Come to terms with? What are you suggesting?”

  He saw her swallow in the reflection, uncertainty flicking over her face before she shook her head. “I’m not suggesting anything. I just want to know what your motives are. Six months ago, you told me never to speak to a Dyson again, yet you’ve turned up on my door twice in the last three days, and both times we’ve ended up kissing like two sex-crazed teenagers.” She paused for a moment, her expression growing bar
bed. “Mind you, we didn’t really have a conversation either time, so it’s entirely possible we could have sex without talking.”

  His heart thumped faster at her words. A thick spasm claimed his stiffening groin. “An interesting idea. I can agree to that.”

  Her eyes widened. A little. His reply had knocked her off-kilter, no matter how valiantly she tried to hide it. “Are you serious?” She folded her arms across her chest. But not before he saw how pebbled her nipples had become. The sight sent fresh tension to his groin. His body thrummed with the desire to take her nipples in his mouth. To suckle on their pointed tips.

  He pivoted on his heel to look directly at her, leaning his back against the expansive windowpane behind him. “Very. Although I must admit, I would love to hear you moaning my name when I bring you to orgasm over and over again. But then again, that’s not really having a conversation or talking, is it? So I guess we can still have sex without worrying about that.”

  Hot anger flared in her glare. “Don’t be stupid. I was being sarcastic.”

  “About the silent sex? So you will moan my name when I make you come? Excellent. Shall we get started?”

  A delicate shade of pink colored her cheeks, but she refused to look away. “I want to know what you are doing, Mr. Dyson. I can’t believe you don’t have an ulterior motive. I know exactly what you think of me, and the only explanation I can come up with for your behavior is some sick sense of retaliation for Clinton’s death.”

  He ran his thumb over the solid sphere of granite in his hand. “Hate to rain on your parade, but I haven’t given you a second thought since my brother’s funeral.”

  “Then explain what’s going on.”

  He shrugged with indolent conceit, needing to hide any potential weakness even as she revealed hers. “Because, surprised as I am by it, I still find you incredibly sexy and attractive. I must admit, the idea of sleeping with you is very appealing.”

  Ice glinted in her eyes. “Well, thank you for the compliment.”

  “You’re welcome. Now that we’ve acknowledged our mutual lust, shall I arrange dinner tonight, or should we go straight to dessert on my desk now?”