by Ashlee Price
I have three in-house events organizers; I don’t need to outsource, not really. Not that she needs to know that. This meeting is an excuse. Nothing more, nothing less.
I’ve tried to approach her at the various soirees I’ve attended where she’s been working behind the scenes, but to no avail.
Last night, seeing her at the auction, I knew I had to make my move. Especially when I saw Chris Evans staring at her too. No way in hell am I going to let that piece of shit anywhere near her. I saw her first, after all. Grimacing, because that makes me sound like a five-year-old, I try to figure out why I’m going to these lengths to speak with Grazia.
There is something about her, something… Hell, I don’t know what it is. And for a man who knows himself as well as I do, who’s as honest with himself as I am, that’s a large admission to make.
I’m a billionaire. Those billions were made with hard work, determination, and verve. I’m not accustomed to pussyfooting my way through life. If I want something, I get it. I chase after it until I can call it mine.
In this instance, I want Grazia. I want her badly enough to work at getting her. Because, though I will chase, it’s been a long time since I’ve had to.
The advantage of money and fortune is it’s incredibly easy to go through life making ‘friends’. Of course, those acquaintances will leave you the instant you cease to be of value to them. I’ve learned, along the way, to do unto others as they’ve done unto me. I toss them out when they cease to be useful to me, and I feel no shame in admitting that.
However, now isn’t the time to think about tossing people away… not when I’m trying to get Grazia Fabiola into my bed.
Just the prospect has my cock twitching in the expensive cage of my Savile Row tailored suit trousers. She has that bizarre effect on me, and though I don’t appreciate being made to feel like a teenaged kid with more hormones than sense, that very unusualness is why I’m willing to break with habit.
There’s a slight ping from down the hall which tells me the private elevator has been used to reach this floor.
She’s here.
God, I wish I did have the right to kiss her. To grab her to me, to steal her breath and drown her in passion.
She was made for passion, was Grazia. Every time I see her, I know it. It’s in the way she moves, in the way she breathes. Every ounce of her is filled with energy. A vibrancy that I’d love to capture, and that for as long as I have her in my bed, I intend on hoarding.
Deciding on my next course of action, I head to the front of my desk and perch on the edge of it. Crossing my feet at the ankle, I settle my hands ata either side of my thighs and wait for Miranda to knock. When she does, I wait a handful of moments and say, “Come in.”
Miranda’s smile is its usual icicle-forming self, and I immediately bypass her frozen sensibilities for the heady warmth of the woman behind her.
Today, even though she’s coming to a business meeting, Grazia is wearing a floaty black-and-beige patterned skirt that swirls about her ankles. Beneath the long hem, I can see some demure black pumps peeping out. A tight-fitting camisole covers her top half, but the bottom of the camisole is hidden under the high waist of the skirt.
There’s something modest about the outfit, yet at the same time, immodest. The long length of the skirt swirls about her shapely thighs and calves, revealing more than it should. Her breasts are lovingly cupped by the black silk camisole, meaning I can see every inch of her while every inch of her is hidden.
On her arm is a large shoulder bag, black leather, and a smile is pinned to her face when she enters the office.
As she walks toward me, everything that is ice in Miranda is fire in Grazia. It’s a wonder there isn’t some kind of storm brewing between them as the cold and hot fronts meet. Her hips sway, the sinuousness making me wish I could grab ahold of her butt and hug her to me. Lift that skirt and find out what she’s wearing underneath it.
Withholding a groan is a lot harder than it should be. Only the fact that it would make me seem like an untried youth compels me to keep quiet.
She reaches out for me with her hand, ready to shake mine, and the instant our fingers brush, it’s comforting to see her firm her lips, gulp a little in reaction. I noticed that before at Charles and Deirdre’s dinner when I tried to talk to her then.
Desire and passion… both swirl through Grazia like a tornado ready to take form, and I know that that single, simple touch of palm and palm has made the prospect of a twister much more likely.
In the periphery of my vision, I see Miranda with a tray of coffee. She places it on the desk, silently slinking out once her duty is done. The quiet snicking of the door is all the encouragement I need; I intended to talk business first, but now, with that explosive if silent reaction still at the forefront of my mind, and the need to strip her bare and stake a claim, I murmur, “I have a proposition for you.”
To be continued…
DESIGNER FOR THE BILLIONAIRE
A Billionaire Romance Novel
(Contemporary Romance Novels)
Book 2
A FASHIONABLE ARRANGEMENT
By: Ashlee Price
Description
When Marshall Levitt propositions Grazia Fabiola, she’s anything but flattered. Insulted and hurt, she determines to hide from her attraction to the gorgeous billionaire – but Marshall won’t let her. He’s equally determined to have her, to make her his. The minute he set eyes on her, Marshall knew he had to have Grazia in his bed, and when a man like him makes such a decision, no one can stand in his path.
But Grazia has a past, and experience with being a man’s mistress. Will she allow Marshall into her bed and her body at the expense of promises she made to herself a long time ago?
When the attraction is bone deep, Grazia has to question if she even has a choice…
Chapter One – Grazia
“Well, that sounds ominous.” And doesn’t it just?
I’m standing in the office of a tech billionaire, a new mogul on Wall Street, and he, Marshall Levitt, has a proposition for little old me.
Considering I figured I was here to organize some kind of event for him, because duh, that’s what I do, I hadn’t really expected him to come to me with a proposition. Especially not in that low tone of voice that makes molasses look runny and golden. Instead, he’d rumbled the words at me, with a dark and sinful undertone that turned my knees to jelly.
I’m a grown woman. I live in one of the biggest cities in the world and have since I was a child—you can’t not be street smart in New York City. However, this man has me flustered, and to be honest, I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit.
That’s the problem with rich people. They all think they can do whatever the hell they want, and we plebs have no choice but to concur with their wishes. The bitch of it is, they’re not exactly wrong. Who in their right mind could turn their back on a billionaire’s offer of business?
No damn one, that’s who.
And yet, though his voice sounds like sex, though I find him utterly attractive, and though I have no idea what he’s about to suggest, I’m naturally predisposed to tell him to stick his proposition where the sun doesn’t shine.
But that wouldn’t be politic, would it? He’s one of the city’s newest scions, and I haven’t made this business what it is today by insulting potential clients.
So I bite back my irritation and plaster an ingratiating smile on my chops. It’s either that or ask him what the hell he’s deliberating over. It’s been at least a minute since I spoke, and all he’s doing is staring at me like a cat that has just caught sight of a canary. Either that or a toddler with a plate of cookies close to hand.
I can feel his eyes tracing over every part of me, and I won’t lie… parts of me are tingling. Parts that I’d prefer to stay tingle-free. Rather than let him look me over again like a choice piece of meat, I take a seat without waiting for his invitation and cross my legs. I can’t deny his arrogant assertion ha
s irritated me, but as I look back at him, it doesn’t take away from the fact he’s a glorious specimen of manhood.
“Hardly ominous,” he tells me, pursing his lips as he crosses his arms over his chest, then his feet at the ankle. It’s a pose straight from Gordon Gekko, but still hot as hell. The bulge in his pants is more prominent than ever when he’s standing in that position, as is the fact he’s as lean as they come.
Considering he’s a desk jockey, that does come as a surprise.
“No? Well, what is it then?” I ask him, taking the bait.
When our eyes meet, I’m hard pressed to contain a little shiver of excitement. It’s been a long time since I’ve reacted to the animal magnetism of any man, and I have to wonder why it had to be this one who did the reawakening.
It couldn’t be the nice guy from the deli with the cute dreads, or the man who designed my website for me last month who had looked delicious when he rolled his shirtsleeves high up on his forearms… oh no, those two hotties did nothing to entice me, but this one, this power hungry shark, apparently knows how to get my juices flowing.
Damn my body to hell.
Rather than answer me, he reaches back and picks up a folder. “Two years ago, you requested planning permission to divert some pipes in a part of your apartment so you could open up the space.”
Blinking, because whatever I’d expected him to say, it hadn’t been that, I shake my head. “Huh?” Hardly poetic, but I’m confused.
How the hell does he know that? And why would he seek that kind of information about me?
Narrowing my eyes in suspicion, I find my voice when it looks like he’s waiting for a reply more detailed than ‘huh’ and say, “Why do you know that?”
“You’d be surprised what I know about you, Grazia. I’ve made it my business to know who you are.”
That has me gulping. “What do you mean?” Again with the ominous statements.
Goddammit, the man is making me very nervous.
“I mean, I know you’re an events organizer with a very interesting and very well-to-do client list. But I also know that your organizational skills are what pays the bills… what nourishes your heart and soul is your fashion design business.”
I stare at him, wondering where the hell he’s coming from. How does he know? Why would he even be interested in what ‘nourishes my heart and soul’ as he so poetically phrased it?
This is starting to feel like some bizarre kind of ambush, and ambushes do nothing more than piss me off.
“Why have you gone to all this effort of trying to discern my tastes, Mr. Levitt?” I demand, my voice like cut glass.
“Marshall, please.”
Staring at him, I merely state, “Mr. Levitt.” Then I pause a second to let him process the fact I’m refusing to call him by his first name. “Please explain what’s going on here. In fact, I demand to know what right you think you have to investigate me or my past.”
He shakes his head at me, slowly, and somehow manages to imbue it with a reprimand. “Why have I been digging around in your past? Looking for ins and outs to your life, of course.”
“Now you’re digging your own grave, because you have no right to investigate me.”
“I have every right. If I’m to be your employer, I need to know what makes you tick.”
“I’d be organizing your events, not privy to personal or private details.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” He steps forward and takes the seat next to mine. “What if I told you that you could dedicate all your working hours to your craft?”
I frown at him. “Then I’d know you were trying to bullshit me, because unfortunately, that’s not possible.”
“It would be if you came and worked for me.”
“As what? Even if I came onto your staff in events, I’d hardly have the time to work on my designs.”
“I wouldn’t want you on my corporate team.”
The way he’s looking at me has me clenching my jaw. There’s a banked heat at the back of his eyes, and when he lets his glance trace my shape, I’d have to be stupid to fail to recognize his attraction to me. “Look, if this is going where I think it’s going, then you’re out of order, Marshall.” I use his name this time because I twist the two syllables with a sneer. “I’m only interested in affairs of a corporate nature.”
He purses his lips. “Then you’re a fool. You could have everything you want, all at your fingertips.”
Shaking my head, I tell him, “No. You’re the fool, because if you’d have behaved like a normal man and just asked me out on a fucking date, I’d have said yes. No salary-for-sex required.”
“You’ve a sharp tongue.” And damned if there wasn’t admiration in his voice.
I get to my feet. “I think I should leave.”
When he reaches over to grab my hand, I don’t pull away; I simply stare at him like he’s grown two heads. “There’s no need to leave. I meant no offense.”
“Well, I certainly took offense. Who the hell do you think you are? I mean, for God’s sake, is this what you do? Proposition innocent women from your lofty ivory skyscraper? This isn’t the Dark Ages. This is very much the twenty-first century. You can’t go around making these kinds of…” I clench my teeth. “Deals.”
“It’s a far safer way of working, actually.” He eyes me. “When women see me in my ‘lofty ivory skyscraper’, what do you think their initial reaction is?”
I frown at him. “What do you mean?”
“What do they see? The man? A guy who loves Chopin and the New England Patriots? Or do you think they see the bank balance? The car and the suit?”
“Like you didn’t size me up the same way. Don’t try to twist this. I looked at you and saw an attractive man. I don’t care about the bank balance, and the suit is a nice finishing touch, but I don’t care if it’s Kohl’s or Savile Row.”
“Then you’re far more idealistic than I realized.” He squeezes my fingers, then tries to pull my arm, tugging me back down to the seat I just vacated. “Come to dinner with me.”
“Now who’s being idealistic? You’re obviously incapable of a normal relationship, Mr. Levitt, if you think the ideal way to begin any kind of…” I sputter, searching for the right word and failing, “…anything is by asking someone if they’ll work for you on their back!”
“Technically I never made such an offer.” His voice was cool, calm. I could tell he was analyzing the situation, trying to figure out a way to get this conversation back on track. A track where he was in control again, not me.
Somehow, the fact I knew that, that I was aware of what he was up to, sent shivers down my spine.
“But we both know it was going to go down that route.” I narrow my eyes at him. “If you do this frequently, it’s a wonder you don’t have sexual harassment suits thrown at you every day.”
He jerks a shoulder, looking supremely confident and supremely self-assured. His arrogance makes me want to hit him. I’m not unaccustomed to dealing with men like Levitt; I don’t know why I figured he’d be different. Stupid, stupid me.
More than anything, that’s what gets on my nerves. The fact that I was such an idiot. It doesn’t happen often, to be fair, but when it does, it’s a doozy.
“I feel like I’m being hanged here with very little justification.”
My eyes widen at that, agitation spinning through me—as well as the unusual desire to laugh! His audacity makes me gawk at him, speechless for countless seconds until I come to my senses and finally tug at his hold on my wrist. He lets me go, but I’d expected more of a fight so I barely brace myself as he releases his clasp on me. The motion has me wobbling on my too-high high heels, heels I’d worn out of a stupid need to pretty myself up for this asshat. Momentum has me falling backward, but he reaches up a split second later and changes my course. Instead of falling over, I tumble into his lap.
Stunned, because I sure as hell hadn’t expected to end up on his knee with his erection bumping my hip, it
takes me a second to figure out what the heck happened. Once that’s processed, I try to scamper off his lap, but when I put my hand down, unfortunately for the king of propositions, it settles somewhere hard and solid but infinitely sensitive.
As I lever myself up, he lets out a loud and startled yell. The noise, so close to my ear, as well his own surprise, has me rocking back deeper into him. Despite my discomfort at my precarious position, I’m embarrassed as hell that my attempt to escape involved an unintentional effort to emasculate the man.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, my cheeks burning. In the cold office, with its white walls, steel furnishings, and dark gray rugs, my face is undoubtedly the sole splash of color.
I look up, see his stony expression and wince. Beneath his anger, I can see I really hurt him.
He doesn’t reply to my apology, just lets out a long, slow breath. It brushes my mouth with the scent of mint and evergreen fir. I look down at his lips, see the white skin around them that comes from his firming them, but slowly, as I watch, that color fluctuates back to normal.
“It’s okay,” he tells me, his voice a little hoarse.
Despite myself, and as inappropriate as it is, I laugh. Then immediately clap a hand to my lips to withhold the rest of the giggles that long to tumble out of me.
Expecting to be railed by his anger, I’m surprised as hell when a chuckle escapes him too. My gaze flashes up to his, and in the depths of his eyes, I can see genuine humor. In fact, it lights up his whole face. Making the stony jaw, the strong Roman nose with its kink from an earlier break, and the broad, scowling brow relax, enough to let me see what he must have been like before he was the formidable man who has the world’s business markets quaking at their knees.
“Why couldn’t you just have asked me out on a date?” I ask, my voice utterly wistful. I can’t help but lift my hand and trace it along the hard line of his jaw. My thumb sweeps across his smooth cheek, where not even the rasp of a five o’clock shadow blocks my path.
“Men like me don’t date, Miss Fabiola.”
