The Stubborn Billionaire (a Muse novel)

by Lexxie Couper

Geez, I’m playing with fire.

  She swallowed the lump in her throat. No, she wasn’t. She was just…

  Provoking him? Hoping he’ll show me who is in charge by kissing me again?

  The lump in her throat grew thicker. Her stomach churned.

  “Get your act together, woman.” Damned if she’d let him control this situation. “And for Pete’s sake, be calm.”

  She crossed her studio and yanked open the main door.

  It hit her. Hard. Fast. The rush of conflicted confusion the sight of the man created in her.

  His smile was relaxed, arrogant, and confident. She could draw that smile with her eyes closed.

  Calm. Stay calm.

  He ran a gaze over her body, from top to toe and back to her face once more. “I think I like it better when you answer the door in your underwear.”

  “Sorry to disappoint.” Her stomach knotted at his statement. Or maybe it was the way his smile turned into a boyish grin? A grin that dissipated his mega-billionaire’s conceit and reduced him to a normal guy she’d once enjoyed flirting with.

  Pulling in a steadying breath, she stepped aside. He was here for her to paint, not to engage in sexual banter and power plays. She’d tried that dangerous path in his office and barely survived without getting burned to a libido-controlled crisp.

  He ran his gaze over her with deliberate provocation.

  She ground her teeth. Was it possible he could tell how much he screwed her up? Did he suspect how much she fought with herself?

  “May I come in?”

  The simple question ignited a tight fire deep in her core. She bit back a curse. “Of course.”

  He dipped his head in a nod and stepped past her, his body so close to hers his heat caressed her arms and thighs. Damn it, why hadn’t she worn jeans and a caftan? And a trench coat? And while she was at it, a chastity belt?

  “Will your brother be joining us today?”

  She shifted back a step, watching him walk deeper into her home. It used to be such a safe place, a place of creative serenity. “No.” Crap, why did her voice sound so croaky?

  He flicked his gaze over her again, lingering on her lips. “Ah, of course. It is a school day. Wait, it isn’t for Zachary, is it? Since he was expelled.”

  She folded her arms over her breasts and narrowed her eyes. “Okay, okay, I know what you did. Thank you.”

  He cocked a dark eyebrow.

  She let out a short sigh and slumped a little against the doorframe. “Sorry, that didn’t sound overly grateful, did it? I fear I’m being petty.” Giving herself a shake, she straightened, determined to be a grown-up. “Thank you, James, for getting Zach back into school.”

  “I’m glad I could help.” His boyish smile curled his lips once again. “I know what it’s like to be an angry teenage boy feeling like the world is ganging up on him.”

  She snorted. “Really? The world ganging up on a Dyson?”

  He chuckled before walking into her studio area. “I had to learn my bastard ways from somewhere, didn’t I? And just because I was a Dyson didn’t make me off-limits to the other kids at school. When I was thirteen, the prime minister’s son thought I’d make an excellent target for his developing talent as a politician. By third period most days, I was flayed into tears by his sarcastic evisceration of my character.” He stopped at the old paisley armchair, turning to face her as he rested his butt on one of the chair’s arms. “Sticks and stones may break my bones and all, but when Nathanial Howes threw names at me, it bloody shattered my young pride over and over again.”

  What did she say to that? She was all too aware what it was like growing up to famous parents. It wasn’t as easy as the general public thought. Rich kids were just as mean as poor kids.

  He chuckled again, sliding from the chair’s arm to its cushioned seat before stretching his legs forward and crossing his ankles. It was a relaxed, comfortable position. For some stupid reason, it made her already rapid pulse pound faster. “But I’m not here to lament my childhood. I’m here to be at your disposal.”

  At her disposal? Did he have any idea where her mind went at that declaration?

  Be calm. Calm, damn it!

  Swallowing the lump in her throat, she scrubbed her hands on her hips and then closed the door. She had sketches to do. Sketches. Not—

  The automatic lock of the door engaged with a soft click behind her, and she bit back a low moan.

  A small grin played with his lips. “How do you want me?”

  She drove her fingernails into her palms. She needed to get a grip. “I was thinking of sitting you in a steel chair, reading one of your newspapers.”

  “The media-mogul engaged with his own product? I like it.” Approval crossed his face. She wished it hadn’t. Approval from him would undo her, especially when it looked so good on him. “Should I be naked?”

  She raised her eyebrows. “I don’t…” Stop picturing him naked. Stop it! “I don’t think so. Do you normally read the paper naked?”

  His boyish grin returned. “Not normally, but in the name of art, I’d make an exception for you”

  She crossed her arms again. “Mr. Dyson.”

  Before she could blink, he stood toe-to-toe with her, head lowered, dark gaze holding her prisoner. “Sienna, your tongue has been in my mouth, my hands have been on your breasts. I think we are long past Mr. Dyson, don’t you?”

  Her heart smashed into her throat. She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Nothing came out. Nothing.

  His nostrils flared. “Damn it, I swore to myself I would make you beg me to kiss you before we did this.”

  “Did what?” she whispered, not moving, her pulse racing.

  He slanted his lips over hers.

  The kiss seared through her. He captured her bottom lip and sucked with gentle force, nipping on the full flesh with his teeth before dipping his tongue into her mouth.

  It slid over hers, a wicked promise, and then, with a growl, he stepped away. Just like that.

  She stared up at him, every nerve ending in her body thrumming with tormented want. The junction of her thighs ached. Lifting her hand, she pressed her fingers to her tingling lips. “I can’t do this. I won’t survive you. I thought I could, I thought I could play your game, but I can’t. Please don’t make me do this. Please? Just leave my life so I can—”

  “Let’s make art,” he said, his voice low and deep and strained. “I promise, I will not touch you again while we are in your home and your studio. You are safe in here.”

  “Safe?” God, she needed to stop trembling. Now.

  He twisted the end of an imaginary moustache in Machiavellian delight. Mirth played with his smile. “From my debauched lust.”

  Her stomach twisted. He was trying to lighten the mood. Trying to defuse the sexual tension arcing between them.

  In here. He said in here.

  She swallowed. Given she would never see him anywhere else but in here, painting him was safe. And the only logical thing to do. She still needed the funds to replace the broken violin, and with her father asking for financial support in prison, plus the ominous threat of Pablo Reynard now in her head, painting him was her only option. Sexual tension or not.

  “I give you my word, Sienna.”

  The sincerity in his voice calmed her. A little. She nodded and let out a slow breath. “Okay. Let’s make art.”

  If only she felt as confident as she sounded.

  …

  There was no denying she was talented.

  As the hour passed, James observed her in what was clearly her natural habitat. She sketched angle after angle of his face, his body. He asked to see each one, surprised at first when she turned her drawing board to face him. He’d been convinced she would have refused, if for no other reason than to prove in here she was in control. The exclamation of praise that left him on each reveal wasn’t fake. With each sketch, he watched the tension in her body melt away until, sixty minutes into the sitting, Sienna was chatting
to him with the ease of old friends.

  He loved it.

  Not just seeing her so relaxed as she created drawing after drawing of him, but seeing her with her guard down. They talked for the duration. James asked questions he knew wouldn’t bring that guard back up. He discovered her favorite book was Joseph Heller’s Catch-22, a book he enjoyed reading often. They discussed the latest trend in Hollywood to remake movies, delighted to hear she despised it as much as he did. She confessed to loving B-grade horror films, laughing in disagreement as he insisted George Romero’s zombies were better than the zombies in Shaun of the Dead. He learned her first professional artwork had been for her year-five teacher, who had paid Sienna five dollars to draw her cat. She confessed to getting lost in her work regularly.

  She muttered to herself often about the sketch in front of her, flicking frowns up at him as she swept her pencil over the paper or swiped a hand over its surface. Every time her gaze fell on him, he felt his body grow stiffer. The situation was, he realized, ironic. In talking to Sienna, in helping her relax around him, he’d succeeded in filling himself with tension. The kind only relieved by taking her in his arms and losing himself in her body.

  Damn it, how did this happen?

  “I think we’re done for today.”

  He started at her statement, growing aware of the heavy pressure in his groin. Standing now would not be an option. She wouldn’t miss his inconvenient state.

  A ribbon of hot anger unfurled through him. He was getting damn sick of this, of the woman taking charge of his body.

  Really?

  Gritting his teeth, he shifted in the chair, crossing his leg to rest his ankle on his knee in an attempt to hide the incriminating bulge in his trousers. Christ, he hadn’t needed to do something so infantile since he was a teenager. “You sure?”

  “About what? Being finished? I think I’ve kept you long enough.” She dropped her attention to the numerous sketches fanned out on the floor beside her, chewing on her bottom lip. “And I have plenty to start the painting.” Looking at him again, she straightened from her stool. “I don’t think I’ll need to see you until next week. Maybe Monday morning? For an hour or so? Is that okay?”

  No. I can’t go that long. I don’t want to.

  Damn it. That feeling of urgency to be around her hadn’t been part of his plan.

  The plan? What plan?

  Hadn’t he asked himself that exact question only a few days ago? When he’d first visited her home? So why did things feel so different now?

  “Monday will be fine.” He dragged in a steadying breath. “I’ll bring breakfast.”

  An unreadable light flared in her eyes. “No, that won’t be necessary.” Dropping into a fluid crouch, she collected the sketches from the floor.

  He watched her, enjoying the way the smooth creamy line of her bent leg disappeared into the frayed hem of her denim shorts.

  Christ, her thighs are exquisite. Almost sublime.

  The urge to trace the velvet length of flesh filled his groin with fresh heat. He bit back a groan. At this rate, he’d never get out of the fucking chair.

  Stop thinking of her legs then.

  “Why don’t you want me to bring breakfast?”

  An almost imperceptible tension claimed her shoulders. “I can feed myself, thank you.”

  He’d made her guard go up again. Not what he’d wanted to do at all. “I’m not saying you’re incapable of doing that.”

  She looked up at him, green eyes direct. “It wouldn’t be professional.”

  He laughed. He couldn’t help himself. “Nothing about our relationship is professional.”

  She scowled and straightened, the roll of sketches in her hand held like a sword between them. “We don’t have a relationship.”

  He studied her, his grip on his ankle painful. “What if I want one?”

  Whoa. Where the fuck had that question come from?

  She let out her own laugh. It played hell with his sanity. “We’ve had this conversation already. You hate me and blame me for your brother’s death. I despise you and everything you stand for and want nothing to do with you.”

  “And yet we’ve just spent the last sixty minutes talking like we’re old friends. I’ve never seen you more at ease. Not really the behavior of someone who despises me, wouldn’t you say?”

  She shrugged. “It allowed me to sketch you without your normal pompous arrogance.” If he didn’t know better, he’d say she was bored and indifferent to the whole situation. But he did know better. He affected her, as much as she did him. The fluttering pulse in her neck and her shallow breath gave her away.

  Still, if he pushed it now, he would lose everything he’d gained today. He wanted her to trust him. So he could…

  Destroy her?

  The trilling chirp of her mobile phone saved him pondering the unnerving question. She placed the drawings on a nearby bench and hurried to the kitchen area and snatched her phone from the counter. “Hello. Sienna Roberts speaking.”

  He shot his watch a quick look. Thick pressure clamped around his temples.

  Three o’clock. On the dot. Just as he’d instructed.

  He swallowed, keeping his stare on Sienna. She shook her head, her knuckles white on the phone. He didn’t need to imagine what was being said to her. On the other end of the connection, the director of the Sydney Art Gallery was inviting her to the opening of the Monet exhibition on Friday evening. Any artist in Australia would give their eyeteeth to attend the black-tie formal event, considered one of the highlights of the year in the art world, especially one struggling to gain attention in the cliquey Sydney art community like Sienna.

  The director owed James a favor, and he’d called it in. Invite Sienna to the event and dangle a promise to discuss her current portfolio. Hint at the possibility of a future exhibition of her work.

  It had been easy to arrange and he’d felt no compunction doing so yesterday. So why the hell did his gut churn now?

  Because perhaps she’s not at all what Clinton led me to think?

  He drew a steadying breath. Perhaps he’d believed what Clinton had said about her for so long because he’d felt guilty about the way their father had treated Clinton? Not once had James ever defended his brother’s life choices. When their father and Lindsey had mocked Clinton, not once had he stepped in to stop them. Maybe, this whole plan for revenge was nothing but a ridiculous attempt to soothe his guilt at not being there for Clinton when he really needed his big brother the most? When his family had rejected him?

  A tight fist clenched his heart. A dark tension cut at him, cold and hot at once.

  Was his desire to see Sienna suffer a way to deflect his own guilt? And if so, did that mean what he felt for her—the attraction he’d felt from their very first meeting—was something more than just sexual interest?

  “Are you serious?”

  Her surprised question dragged him from the disconcerting thought.

  “I’m not sure,” she said, a split-second before shooting him a glance over her shoulder.

  He feigned curiosity.

  She turned away again. “Yes, I understand. I’m honored. Thank you, Mr. Theopolis. I shall see you Friday.” Another pause, then, “Yes, I will.”

  Pulling in a slow breath, he rose to his feet. “Mr. Theopolis?”

  She turned to look at him, her bottom lip caught by her teeth. “You were listening?”

  He smiled. “I just heard the name. Theo Theopolis? Director of the Sydney Art Gallery?”

  “He’s invited me to the Monet opening on Friday.”

  The pressure around James’s temples wrapped tighter. “Ah.” How the hell did he sound so calm? “I’m going to that as well. I’ll pick you up at five.”

  Sienna frowned. “What do you mean, pick me up at five? Who said I was going with you?”

  He pulled a face. “I know Theo well. He’s a romantic. Never believes in single invites. It’s his Greek heritage. Why? Do you already have someone
else in mind?”

  Her lips parted, no doubt to tell him to stick his pick you up at five in his ear. The memory of how lush and soft they were against his pummeled him and he clenched his jaw. If he moved but an inch, he would be crushing them again in a kiss far from gentle. Christ, where the hell was his fortitude?

  He cocked an eyebrow, giving her a lopsided grin instead. “Well?”

  Closing her mouth, she shook her head. “No.”

  “Excellent.” He rubbed his hands together and grinned wider. “I’ll be here at five.”

  He strode to the door before she could argue. Without a word, without a backward look.

  He’d just wrapped his fingers around the doorknob when she spoke. “James?”

  Traitorous pleasure shot through him at the sound of her husky voice calling his name. He turned back to her, affecting a calm expression. “Yes?”

  She stood at the kitchen counter, the afternoon sun streaming through the window turning her auburn hair to a blazing mane of copper-red, her eyes shining green with confusion. “Thank you. Maybe it might…maybe we should do some more work, sketches tomorrow? Is that okay?”

  His heart thumped harder. “It is very okay. I shall see you then.”

  Five minutes into the drive back to the Dyson Media Corp offices, his mobile phone rang.

  He hit the phone button on the steering wheel, connecting the call. “Dyson.”

  “Change of plans, Mason.” Thomas St. Clair’s American accent filled the Aston Martin’s cabin, the writer’s perpetual good cheer scraping at James’s fraying nerves. “I’m arriving in Sydney Friday afternoon. I couldn’t wait any longer to meet the artist of that painting you sent me. Pick me up at the airport at three.” He laughed, the sound low and depraved. “You gotta take me to meet her straight away. Got it?”

  Chapter Eight

  Sienna had never been more nervous, more on edge, in her life. Even the day the jury had declared her father guilty and sent him to jail, she’d been less a jumpy wreck. The day Zach had moved in was up there as far as stressful events go, but the hours between pre-dawn and James arriving at her home for her to continue sketching him were the most intense.

  She spent those hours pacing. Chewing on her bottom lip. Gnawing on her thumbnail. Changing what she was wearing.