Priceless: Contemporary Billionaire Romance Novel

by Hawthorne, Aria

  “I’m looking to find just the right gift for someone. Would you be able to assist me?”

  “Of course,” she nodded, touching her fingernails against the lapel of her ivory blouse. It ruffled with delicacy down her neckline and stopped right before it revealed too much. She moved towards the center jewelry case before stepping back and gazing at him with her attentive brown eyes.

  “What kind of gift are you looking for, Mr. Braxton-Worth?”

  He smirked at her. He couldn’t help it. Her maturity and professionalism was disarming.

  “Miles,” he offered, and eyed her blushing cheeks. She was more gorgeous than he had ever realized.

  “Is it a personal gift or professional one?” she asked with keen interest.

  “That’s a good question,” Miles said, as if he hadn’t considered the meaning of what he wanted to convey by giving the gift. “Unfortunately, I wish I knew. You see, I don’t know what the right approach is for this gift, so it’s a bit of a challenge. That’s why I’m hoping you can help me.”

  He stopped. He wasn’t sure how much to steer her; he preferred listening to her expertise—and watching her.

  “I see, so perhaps something a bit more delicate.” she turned to the bracelets. He noted her tight black pencil skirt—the same one she was wearing last night.

  “Yes, delicate,” he said, his eyes lingering. He tried hard to pull them away, but it was impossible not to take in the full view of her shoulders, hips, and backside. Then, his eyes dropped down to her feet. He noticed her ladybugs slippers and smirked.

  “But also perhaps something that conveys a message,” he finally said, redirecting his attention to the task at hand.

  Maribel shifted her eyes from the jewelry cases back to him for clarification. He had none, but quickly realized she was not the kind of girl who was going to infer anything.

  “Inviting, but not too forward,” he confirmed.

  “I see…earrings?” she offered.

  “I’m not sure,” he suddenly laughed, his confidence wavering. “Aren’t all women born with the ability to wear earrings?”

  Maribel smiled wide; she seemed to enjoy the challenge of pleasing him and it motivated him to stay the course.

  “Better not to assume,” she said, turning away from the earrings. “Well, then, let me see… I don’t think you can go wrong with a necklace,” she finally added after surveying the cases and carefully considering all the options.

  “A necklace,” Miles repeated, considering its implications. “Which is your favorite?”

  He watched her, carefully. He wondered if her eyes would invariably drift over the most expensive necklaces—the sale of which would secure her the highest commission.

  “They’re all so lovely,” she whispered, almost to herself. She gazed down upon all the pieces before choosing the least expensive option. “You really can’t go wrong with a solitaire diamond pendant…” But there was hesitation in Maribel’s suggestion; he heard it.

  “But…?” Miles nudged.

  “But perhaps something less conventional.”

  Miles narrowed his eyes. “Yes, exactly.” He was definitely tired of conventional.

  She peered at him with her soft brown eyes. They were filled with sincerity and earnestness. There was something about her authenticity that was perfect. Simply perfect.

  “That one,” he nodded, his certainty falling upon the most expensive necklace in the case. He knew it was the most expensive one because he had bought dozens and dozens of pieces of fine jewelry over the years; he knew exactly which gemstones and precious metals raised the price from four figures to five. He watched as Maribel lifted the piece out of the case and rested it atop the glass counter. Its two-carat ruby flashed with brilliance. It was crowned by three round cut diamonds and accented by a border of petite white sapphires, all mounted in a contemporary platinum setting.

  “Breathtaking,” Maribel said, admiring its beauty. “In some parts of the world, rubies are even rarer than diamonds. This one is set in white gold, which I always prefer over yellow gold.”

  He suddenly smiled. “Not a fan of yellow gold, huh?”

  Miles watched her eyes drop; her cheeks flushed again. Gorgeous, simply gorgeous.

  “Gold settings are always elegant, of course,” she said, retracing her words. “I just mean… with a gorgeous stone like this one, I think it should be the center of attention. The cool patina of platinum best accentuates the ruby’s radiance.”

  “I see…” he nodded. He peered deeply into her eyes. They were filled with a rare selfless purity that sparkled for him—even brighter than the necklace’s scarlet gemstone. He took up the necklace into his hands. “Would you mind?”

  He gazed at her with gentle persuasion. He wanted to see it—worn. Maribel turned away from him, swept up her long black hair, and revealed the bare nape of her neck. With precision and delicacy, he draped the sparkling white gold chain down her neckline and fastened its clasp. The touch of the ruby pendant set her olive skin aflame with a flush of modesty.

  When the full weight of the necklace settled onto her skin, she turned to face him.

  “Rubies symbolize warmth, fire, vitality, and passion,” she confirmed, glancing away at her reflection in the display mirror. “I think she will be more than happy with your choice. It’s a lovely gesture.” Maribel said it as if she meant it—without envy or greed, desire or longing. She simply wanted to help him find the best gift for another woman.

  Miles gazed at her—not the necklace, nor the ruby, nor the full view of the piece on a woman—but her. He had heard so many things about her—about her personal life, about her financial hardships, about her sick mother, and about her independence at such a young age—more things than he should ever know about someone he had never formally met. And now, the only thing that mattered was the intensity of their connection, and the fact that she was the one who chose to break it.

  As she turned away, he suddenly seized her hand.

  “Thank you. I’ll take it.”

  Maribel glanced down at his grasp. He was smothering her hand with force, and noted the absence of a wedding band. After a moment, she petitioned him with her eyes to release her so she could move away to the register, prepare the gift box, and ring up the sale.

  Miles felt the intimacy of their interaction slipping away. He slid his black credit card across the glass countertop. Everything was back to business—a state of being that normally was natural for him—certainly more natural than a surge of yearning emotions. Maribel charged his credit card and he signed the receipt without looking at the final charge. He accepted the sleek shopping bag without a formal goodbye. Instead, he felt the need to escape as soon as possible through the revolving doors of the Grand Lobby and endure the bitter cold of the winter night.

  Just outside the department store, a homeless man, donning a cardboard heart on the front of his worn jacket, greeted Miles at the street corner. Miles stopped, pulled out his wallet, and deposited three individual hundred dollar bills into the man’s cap, lying on the icy sidewalk and lined with quarters and dollar bills. Miles glanced up at the tall anonymous skyscraper across the street. It was Harvey Zale’s building, his competition. Miles looked back at the iconic Fields Building—his building—and thought about calling Gillian to finalize the thirty-five million dollar lease deal that he had stonewalled the whole day. But he looked down at the gift bag and reconsidered. No, this was a better plan, he thought. And certainly one that promised to facilitate “less conventional” consequences.

  Chapter Four

  The next morning, Maribel awoke early, consumed by a mixture of anticipation and dread. She had worn her ruby necklace to sleep and it was the first thing the moment the sun twinkled in through her blinds. She pulled herself from her bed and considered all the possibilities the day offered to her. Then, she considered what to wear. She settled on something simple, casual, but fashionable. If working at a department store for ten years had taugh
t her nothing else, it was how to be both comfortable and stylish. Knit tights, black skirt, and mohair shell pink sweater with a scoop neckline. It would accentuate her new necklace while hiding her perspiration marks—a major plus. No matter how nervous Maribel knew she would be, she didn’t want to sweat in front of a billionaire.

  Abruptly, her buzzer rang. She glanced over at her oven clock. It was 10AM sharp. Like her, he was punctual.

  She called into the intercom.

  “Hello?”

  “Driver picking up Miss Martinez.”

  A driver…? Maribel felt a sudden wave of exasperation. Of course, his driver. He’s a billionaire. He probably has ten drivers. Maribel didn’t even own a car, so she certainly hadn’t expected to be picked up by a private driver.

  “Yes, be right down.” Maribel tried to sound assertive, but she was shaking, and she slunk down on the edge of her bed to calm her nerves. She had been prepared to spend the whole day by herself—lounging in the comfort of her bed and pajamas—reading, watching TV, and indulging in the discounted box of Valentine’s Day chocolates she had bought from Roxanne in the candy department. Instead, she forced herself to her feet, put on her winter coat, scarf, earmuffs, and gathered up her purse. She exhaled and exited her apartment, fully aware she was trading the security and certainty of her cozy studio for the insecurity and uncertainty of a date with a wealthy man she barely knew and who barely knew her.

  She must be crazy, she thought as she pushed open the foyer door and into the courtyard, where she spotted the black Mercedes and its driver, parked along the curb, waiting for her.

  “Good morning, Miss Martinez,” the driver said, crisp and attentive. He whisked open the rear door, allowing her to slide across the smooth beige leather seats. Then, he briskly closed it and slipped into the driver’s seat to start up the engine.

  “Here you are, ” he said, passing off a sleek powder blue bag. “A gift from Mr. Braxton-Worth.” The driver didn’t wait for her response. Instead, a panel of tinted glass rose up between them, and before Maribel knew it, she was sealed up in the back seat of the black Mercedes like precious cargo.

  Maribel gazed down at the mint blue bag. She recognized it immediately. Its familiar black block logo stared back at her: TIFFANY & CO.

  Her heart raced. She started to sweat. Stop sweating, stop sweating, stop sweating, she warned herself. But it was useless. Whatever was in that bag was a symbol of his expectations, which suddenly overwhelmed her. Maribel considered how long it had been since she had been on a date—much less a date with a man with whom she actually was interested. It had been a very, very, very long time, she concluded. There had been suitors. Miles Braxton-Worth wasn’t the only customer who had offered to see her again after she had helped him with a special purchase. But unlike Braxton-Worth, those suitors had been significantly older and already married, and they assumed that Maribel was the type of girl who would understand that, and still accept their invitations for drinks and dinner. They were wrong.

  As for dating men her own age, she had invented every excuse in the book for why she was destined never to find the right man. Crystal had tried to convince her that online dating was the only way to meet a good guy, but in a world of smartphones and tablets and ebooks, Maribel felt impossibly old-fashioned. She didn’t have a Facebook or Twitter account. She still preferred to read paper books over ebooks. And she needed to see a man in-person—hear his voice, look into his eyes, assess his manners, feel his sensitivity towards her—in order to judge whether or not spending her one free afternoon a week with him was better than spending that afternoon in her studio apartment, sipping hot chocolate and reading a romance novel from the library.

  Maribel looked down at the gift bag. She was already wearing the ruby pendant necklace. What else could he possibly have bought for her? She shifted through the ruffles of white tissue paper like she was peeking inside a gift intended for someone else. There, under billows of white, was the corner of a powered blue box with white ribbon. Yes, it was the real thing—an authentic piece of jewelry from Tiffany & Co. Maribel sat back in her seat and peered out onto Lake Shore Drive. They were approaching the Magnificent Mile, where she had often strolled along Michigan Avenue during her lunch hour, and window shopped all of the finest retail jewelers—Cartier, Harry Winston, Georg Jensen, Bulgari—but none of them captivated her more than Tiffany & Co in the Peninsula building. And yet, she never entered the store. She knew how store attendants were trained to immediately assess the net worth of a potential customers; Maribel would be dismissed by them as a having a net worth of a gnat. As merely a high school graduate, she had worked her way up into the fine jewelry section of the department store and she was proud of it, but she also knew her place in the world. Stores like Tiffany & Co. were sophisticated sanctuaries reserved for the wealthy elite. They were havens that Maribel admired from the outside without daring to dream that one day she would be invited in. Now, Miles Braxton-Worth was sending her an invitation—a crisp white gift card attached to the bag’s white silk rope handles. It read:

  Thanks for the tip about the earrings. I checked. Miles.

  The suspense was unbearable. What could he mean? She quickly dug into the bag and found the signature mint blue jewelry case. She flipped it open and gazed inside—two dazzling tear-drop ruby and diamond earrings twinkled back at her. Their checkerboard cut face and platinum setting matched her ruby pendant necklace. Maribel touched her ears. Thanks for the tip about the earrings, I checked… Maribel never even noticed him checking to see if her ears were pierced. In fact, she often had forgotten her ears were pierced because she wore the same cubic zirconia studs every day. They had been an early graduation gift from her mother, and she had never considered wearing anything else.

  Jewelry—any jewelry—from Tiffany’s easily cost five-figures, much less pieces with decent-sized diamond and rubies. Maribel, what are you doing.... she fretted, suddenly reconsidering everything. This is not you, this is not your world, this is a total and complete mistake. But it was too late. The car dropped below street level and into an underground parking garage. Their destination was near.

  Maribel unfastened one of the ruby earrings from its case and held it in her hand. It caught the flare of the garage’s fluorescent lights and throbbed in her palm like a glowing ember. Maribel made an effort to swap out her mother’s earrings for her new gift. She felt like royalty as the tear-drops earrings grazed her skin, just below her ear lobe, and watched as the Mercedes rolled up in front of a ramp and stopped in front of a private garage door.

  The driver lowered the tinted window and called back to her, “Almost here,” he confirmed, then leaned out his window to enter a keycard into the security pad. The garage door rumbled open, and the driver navigated the Mercedes up the ramp and into the private parking garage. There was a white Bentley, two sports cars—a red Ferrari and a vintage black corvette—two motorcycles, and one silver Tesla. The driver parked next to the Bentley and quickly opened the door, offering his hand for assistance. “Please…”

  Maribel stuffed the Tiffany’s bag into her purse and reluctantly slid out of the car. She followed the driver’s lead up a flight of concrete stairs and through a heavy door that suddenly opened into an opulent lobby with marble flooring and a crystal chandelier. She glimpsed out through the brass revolving doors and recognized Michigan Avenue—its familiar boulevard and crowds of tourists were a relief. They must be in a skyscraper along Michigan Avenue, she thought as she followed the driver through the main corridor and past the doorman’s podium. The driver nodded to him, and the doorman greeted Maribel with a curt tip of his cap.

  “Miss,” he nodded with formality. Maribel smiled in return.

  The driver led her towards the elevators and into the center cab, its doors opened wide, awaiting her entrance.

  “Mr. Braxton-Worth is waiting for you,” he confirmed, then pressed the button marked “78”, allowing the doors to slide shut between them. Suddenly, the eleva
tor cab accelerated upwards with a whirl. Maribel glanced at all seventy-eight elevator buttons. Seventy-eight was the final floor. Her stomach butterflied, feeling the sensation of speed as the cab jetted upwards without restraint. Forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight… Maribel watched and heard every floor chime in succession. Dear God, it was endless. Fifty-nine, sixty, sixty-one, sixty-two… Maribel had never been in an elevator with this many floors, not even as a tourist to the top of the Hancock Building or Willis Tower. Finally, the elevator cab ebbed to a stop and the seventy-eighth floor bell chimed. The doors shimmered open. Maribel stepped out into the receiving area of an elegant, but empty restaurant. She was greeted by a pleasant man in a tailored waiter’s uniform.

  “Miss Martinez?” he smiled.

  “Yes…”

  “Right this way.”

  The waiter led her through rows and rows of tables, dressed with crisp white table cloths and decorated with crystal bud vases of fresh pink roses. Immediately, Maribel spotted Miles, seated in a secluded corner of the restaurant. My God, he was so impossibly handsome, Maribel thought with an exhale. All her uncertainty about whether or not she should come were dispelled when she saw him sitting there, flanked in sunlight. He was peering out the panoramic wall of windows that offered a sweeping view of the Gold Coast beachfront and the crystal waters of Lake Michigan. He looked young and relaxed, his dark hair and Mediterranean complexion glowed with warmth. He wore a charcoal suit and stark turquoise tie that flattered his piercing blue eyes, which seized upon her.

  She strode through the empty white tabletops in her black coat and black earmuffs like a bounding rabbit cutting through snowdrifts.

  Earmuffs, he suddenly thought.