The Stubborn Billionaire (a Muse novel)

by Lexxie Couper

  By six thirty a.m., she’d wrapped a Band-Aid around her thumb to save her savaged nail, slicked her bottom lip with some balm she found in the bathroom in an attempt to protect it from her teeth, and finally settled on a pair of the baggiest jeans she owned, the skimpiest black bra she owned, and an oversize tank with an image of the Mona Lisa riding a unicorn on its front.

  She didn’t allow herself to ponder why she’d selected the bra she had. It wasn’t like he was going to get more than a glimpse of its straps beneath the tank.

  She passed on breakfast. She did, however, drink three cups of coffee before the hour hand passed seven.

  If nothing else, she was going to be alert when he arrived.

  Which he did promptly at eleven.

  She let him in, doing everything she could to stay calm, almost indifferent.

  I can’t let him see how much he affects me. Not when he does so very much.

  “Ready?” He closed the door behind him.

  No. Okay, art-wise she was. But ready to spend the next two hours with him? No.

  “Yes.” She made her way into her studio space. “Are you?”

  He laughed behind her. The sound was so relaxed, so infectious, she couldn’t help but throw him a smile over her shoulder.

  “Y’know,” he said, following her, “I’ve always thought Mona Lisa more a Harley rider.”

  She rolled her eyes, a warm lick of delight tickling through her. “Funny and rich.”

  “Guilty as charged.” Horror fell over his face and he stopped walking. “Christ, I didn’t…that was thoughtless of me.”

  She came to a halt, pivoting to look at him directly. “It’s okay, James. Dad was guilty as charged. I’m not going to take offense at a simple saying. Especially when you dressed up so nice.”

  A wry chuckle fell from him, and he looked down at his body. “Too much? It’s too much, isn’t it?”

  “Well…” She pursed her lips.

  He looked incredible. His charcoal suit was impeccable, his shirt pristine white and crisp. An emerald-green-and-purple tie was perfectly knotted at his neck. His shoes…

  “Are those suede green Converse Chuck Taylors on your feet?”

  He looked down at his shoes. “You don’t like them?”

  She laughed. “I love them. I might just draw them today. You can take them off, go do what you have to do, and collect them at one if you like?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Trying to get rid of me?”

  Her heart skipped up into her throat. She caught her bottom lip with her teeth, and then winced at the coconut-flavored balm.

  “No.” Why did she sound so goddamn husky?

  His nostrils flared as he pulled a slow breath. “Good. Because the only thing I have to do today is what I’m doing right now. Be with you.”

  Damn it, he was going to be her undoing.

  Silence stretched between them. Her heart beat faster.

  “What if I remove the tie?” He lifted his hand to tug loose the knot. Laughter danced in his eyes.

  “Uptight but relaxed at the same time, you mean?” She couldn’t help but grin.

  “The perfect contradiction.”

  She swallowed. Did he have any idea how accurate he was? “Let’s get to drawing,”

  Two hours later, two hours of casual chatting about anything that seemed to pop into their minds—be it their favorite movies, global warming, pet ownership, music, and preferred junk food—she called it a halt for the day.

  Aglow with the rush she always experienced when drawing, she studied the sketches she’d done of his head, face, hands, and eyes. “It’s a start.”

  The sketches captured everything he’d been during the last two hours, every relaxed laugh, every companionable moment. She couldn’t deny there was a magic to the sketches. And a truth about the man seldom evident in the images of him found in the media.

  Was it due to her talent? Or her heart? No matter what she told herself, she’d enjoyed every minute of being in his company. And it had nothing to do with sexual hunger. They hadn’t so much as brushed hips or fingers, let alone—

  “Same time tomorrow?”

  She startled at his question, uttered directly beside her.

  “Yes.” She hurried a step away from him. If she didn’t, she’d run the risk of pressing her body to his and begging him to kiss her.

  He studied her face, an emotion she recognized all too easily burning in his eyes. Desire. He wanted her as much as she wanted him.

  Her pulse turned into cannon fire in her ears.

  Kiss him. Kiss—

  “I’ll see you then, Si,” he said, his voice low and almost husky, before turning and crossing her studio. He stopped at the door to give her a crooked smile. “You have no idea how hard it is to walk away now.”

  Before she could respond, he opened the door and left.

  Sucking in a shaky breath, she closed her eyes and scrubbed at her face with her hands. Screwed. She was so totally screwed.

  Things didn’t get any better over the next four days.

  Four days of James arriving every morning at eleven, smiling and relaxed and hotter than a man had any right being. Every day, he wore a well-cut suit, a tie he loosened on walking into her studio, and his Chuck Taylors.

  Every day, she drew various sketches of him. He was an artist’s dream model. His features demanded to be captured in every medium imaginable. She could have lost hours after hours just drawing his lips alone. She spent long minutes drawing his hands and fingers, entranced by the masculine beauty in the way his hand and wrist connected.

  She was in the middle of a simple sketch of his right hand, when it hit her—the pose, the image she wanted to capture him in for the Barton.

  Something strikingly simple and yet illuminating a part of his personality she didn’t think the world had seen before. James wearing nothing but an immaculately cut suit jacket, a pair of shorts, and his Chucks, a cup of coffee in one hand, a television remote in the other, his attention fixed on something beyond the painting as he lounged comfortably on an armchair upholstered in the Dyson Media Corp’s corporate logo.

  The perfect contradiction.

  Raising her focus from her drawing, she studied him where he sat on her studio’s stool, tapping something into his phone with his left hand.

  As if aware of her gaze, he grinned up at her and shoved his phone back into his hip pocket. “My sister says you’re having a bad influence on me.”

  “What?”

  He chuckled. “She said, and I quote, ‘Whoever this mysterious person you’re spending your mornings with is, they are putting you in a good mood for the rest of the day. I don’t like it. I like you better when you’re grumpy James.’”

  Sienna frowned. “I’m going to assume that’s a compliment?”

  He laughed, shifting on the stool. “Are you ready for this evening?”

  “What’s happening this evening?”

  It was his turn to frown. “The Monet exhibition opening at the art gallery? I’m picking you up at five, remember?”

  She let out a wobbly breath. “Ah, yes.”

  His frown deepened. “What does ah, yes mean?”

  She’d spent the week convincing herself she didn’t need to go to the exhibition opening. She didn’t need to accept Theo Theopolis’s invitation. She wouldn’t accept it. It wasn’t like he was the last word in art in the country. If she went, she’d be with James outside the safety of her studio, and she didn’t have the strength or willpower to deny her sexual desire for him. One touch of his hand on her skin—her elbow, her shoulder, her wrist—that’s all it would take. One touch and she would be a goner.

  Of course, every time she’d looked around her home during those seven days, at her existence, she accepted she had to accept the gallery director’s invitation. She could paint all day every day, she would paint every chance she got regardless of the art gallery director’s recognition—if she didn’t, she’d go crazy—but Theopolis’s recog
nition would pay the bills and keep the money coming in, something she desperately needed to happen. As if to highlight that very fact, her father’s solicitor had sent a tersely worded reminder his last bill had yet to be paid just that morning.

  And since her father had mentioned Pablo Reynard, she kept feeling like she was being followed whenever she was away from her home.

  That had to be her creative mind at work, fuelling a paranoia she was less than impressed with. But still, her dad’s gambling debts itched at her. If she could pay them off and soon, it would be one less thing to worry about.

  James straightened from his stool. “I’m not taking no for an answer, so don’t even try.”

  “I wasn’t—”

  He chuckled. “Yes, you were.” He checked his watch. “I’ve got to go. Unfortunately, my company can’t run itself. I’ll see you at five.”

  “James,” she called after him.

  I can’t go with you. I’m too scared about what I’ll do if I do.

  He regarded her from the door.

  “I’ll be ready,” she said, heart wild.

  He nodded, the arrogant action typical of the James Dyson who’d first appeared at her door. “Of course you will.” He closed the door behind him, leaving her alone.

  She dragged her hands through her hair. “I am such a masochist.”

  Carrie wanted details when Sienna called her, stammering her way through a request to borrow a dress. Details she wasn’t in any way ready to give.

  Nor was she when Carrie arrived, dress in hand, an hour later.

  She couldn’t. She’d sound like an idiot. She was, after all, going out with the man she’d adamantly told Carrie she hated and wanted nothing to do with.

  Now, at four forty-five, dressed in the skimpy black dress Carrie had brought around, tottering around her studio in matching six-inch heels hell-bent on killing her, she cursed herself for saying yes.

  She truly needed her head read.

  “Wow.”

  Zach’s soft chuckle made her stumble to a halt.

  He pursed his lips with a cheeky whistle. “Now you look like someone who belongs in our family.”

  She huffed at him. “I feel ridiculous.”

  “You look beautiful.”

  “Shut up.”

  “No, serious. You do.”

  She raked her fingers through her hair. The dress—a shimmery black thing that barely reached mid thigh—hugged her hips and butt, was completely backless, and had a deep, loose scoop for a neckline that drew attention to the shadow of her cleavage. Every time she moved, her nipples rubbed against the silky soft fabric, making them pucker into points. She wished to hell her hair was longer so it could cover her breasts. Of course, it wasn’t longer, and she didn’t own a convertible bra so she would no doubt be spending the night with her arms crossed a lot. On her feet were the strappy black torture devices Carrie called stilettos also borrowed from her best friend. If she wasn’t so damn nervous about the evening, she’d be embarrassed by the fact that, at twenty-six years of age, she didn’t own a pair of shoes appropriate for a formal event.

  She was letting down her gender.

  Although, surely going to said formal event with a man almost every woman in the country lusted after was enough to make amends?

  She turned to Zach, the balls of her feet already aching. “Do you think I could swap the shoes for flip-flops? Maybe I should stay home? I don’t think you’re old enough for me to leave—”

  A sharp knock at the door silenced her.

  With a smirk, Zach ran to the door.

  She lunged after him. And stumbled on the borrowed killer heels. “Zach, don’t—”

  “Hello, Zachary.”

  James’s deep voice filled her studio.

  “Hello, Mr. Dyson.”

  She bit back a groan at the smile in Zach’s voice. Great, he’d decided to like the guy now.

  “Not insulting me today? Why not?”

  Zach laughed. “It’s complicated.”

  James laughed in return. “It is, isn’t it?”

  She fixed her stare on the twisted strap around her ankle, not willing to look up at the man at the door chatting so amiably with Zach. Not until the heat in her cheeks faded. Not until she regained some control of her frantic heart.

  “Who’s this?”

  At Zach’s unexpected question, she jerked her stare from her shoe. James had brought someone…

  Her gaze locked on the tall man with messy blond hair, melt-your-resistance good looks, and devilish blue eyes standing beside him. A man dressed in jeans and a Lego Darth Vader T-shirt.

  James’s dark gaze flicked to her, and for a split second, she was undone by the raw desire she saw in his eyes. And then he was smiling at Zach again, adjusting the cuffs on his tuxedo jacket as he tossed a casual nod at his companion. “A friend of mine. Thomas St. Clair. Do you know who he is?”

  “Are you freaking kidding?” Zach’s excitement reverberated around Sienna’s home. “I’ve read every book you’ve written.”

  Thomas St. Clair grinned. “Thanks, little dude.”

  Zach swung around to face her. “Thomas St. Clair, sis. You seriously know all the celebs. Any chance Chris Pratt will come visit soon?”

  Determined to show how cool, calm, and collected she was, she began walking to the door. “No, but I’ve invited Ian Somerhalder around for lunch tomorrow.”

  Zach’s forehead furrowed. “Who?”

  St. Clair laughed.

  James shook his head, his smile relaxed. “I don’t think that was the correct thing to say, Zachary.” His dark gaze slid to her, raw desire smoldering in their depths. “You look stunning, Sienna.”

  She smiled, willing the stiletto heels to remain stable under her feet as she drew closer to where he and St. Clair stood watching her. “Thank you.”

  “I say she does.” Thomas stepped through the doorway, holding out his hand as he walked toward her. “I have one of your paintings in my office. Mason sent it to me a while ago, and I have to say, I’ve been obsessed with meeting you ever since.” He ran a slow inspection over her, his fingers warm and firm around hers. “Wish I’d come sooner.”

  She returned his handshake, gasping when he raised her palm to his lips and pressed a soft kiss on her flesh. “Err…” Her cheeks flooded with warmth. “How do you know Mason Xavier?”

  Blue eyes danced with open interest. A grin pulled at Thomas’s lips, flashing a hint of a dimple in his right cheek. “Who?”

  “Okay.” James appeared at Thomas’s side, dropping a hand onto the other man’s broad shoulder. “Time to go.”

  “Yeah, yeah, in a second.” Thomas barely tore his stare from her face. James scowled. “So tell me, goddess, where do you get your inspiration from?”

  “Goddess?” Zach’s bray of laughter echoed through the converted warehouse. “Now you’ve got two billionaires drooling over—”

  “That’s enough, Zach.” She tugged her hand free of Thomas’s grip with a backward step and stumbled sideways as her heel slipped on the wooden floor.

  Both Thomas and James moved fast. James got to her first, his gaze unreadable as he smoothed a firm hand up her back, his other circling her wrist. “I’ve got you.”

  She swallowed, unable to look away from his stare. “I…”

  “Stilettos are the invention of a cruel male.” Thomas’s rich American accent played with her frazzled senses. “But if it helps, so are tuxedos. That’s why I’m going to this shindig dressed as I am now.”

  She blinked. “You’re coming tonight?”

  Thomas dropped her a wink. “Now I’ve met you, goddess, I’m not leaving your side.”

  James groaned. His grip around her wrist grew firm before, with a strained breath, he tucked her hand on the crook of his bent elbow and scowled at his friend. “Sienna’s not interested in your overt charms, St. Clair.”

  Thomas chuckled. “Says who?”

  “Can I come tonight?” Zach piped up, swinging
his grin back and forth between the two men. “This looks like it will be fun.”

  “Zach.” A prickling heat razed over her body. James toying with her emotions was one thing, seeing him jealous over Thomas flirting with her? Whole other ball game. And he was jealous. The tension in his jaw, the way his nostrils flared every time his friend called her goddess gave it away.

  The way he drew her closer to his body, as if claiming ownership with his proximity.

  She swallowed. She should be furious. He had no damn right behaving so possessively. If she wanted to take Thomas up on his very obvious offer of a good time, she could. James was not her boyfriend. Hell, he wasn’t her anything except the man she was going to paint to rescue her from financial hell.

  Says the deluded idiot.

  Grinding her teeth, she withdrew her hand from James’s elbow and crossed to where Zach stood grinning at her. Before he could stop her, she dropped a brief kiss on his cheek and pointed a finger at his face. “No parties while I’m out.”

  If her unexpected kiss took him by surprise, he didn’t show it. Perhaps he was still too starstruck by Thomas’s presence. “Yeah, yeah. Got it. Don’t worry about me. Just go have some fun.” He grinned. “And try to keep it quiet when you kiss him good-bye at the door later.”

  “Kiss who?” Thomas asked.

  Zach smirked. “That’s up to my sister.”

  James stepped up beside her, a serious scowl on his face. Once again, he smoothed his palm over her back. “Time to go.”

  The warm summer evening breeze caressed her bare limbs as they approached his Aston Martin. “Nice car.”

  He beamed, opening the passenger door. “Thank you.”

  “I have one just like it at home,” Thomas interjected, dropping into the backseat. “And a Ferrari. And a Bugatti. And a boat. Do you like boats, goddess?”

  She smiled. “I get seasick, I’m afraid.”

  James chuckled. “Nice try, St. Clair.”

  “My father had an Aston Martin, once.” She turned her smile to him. “Totally pretentious veh—”

  He kissed her; a soft brushing of his lips over hers that promised more. A kiss hinting at tenderness and want and desire.