Priceless: Contemporary Billionaire Romance Novel

by Hawthorne, Aria

  “Of course,” Thomas replied, all smiles.

  Maribel paused. “I’ve never charged a rolling account before,” she whispered, uncertain.

  “Box and bag,” he directed Maribel, “I’ll do the rest.” Thomas dialed in the proper key code into the register. Then, he whisked back to the counter with the receipt and handed off the purchase. “Here you are, Mr. Braxton-Worth. She must be one very special woman.”

  Miles’ hand swept his bold signature across the receipt, his eyes falling upon Maribel.

  “She is one incredibly special woman. Someone who I have had the pleasure of watching for years, but only recently have been given the opportunity to get to know better. And the way she makes me feel—the way I feel when I look into her eyes—is more priceless to me than any piece of jewelry that I could possibly buy for her.”

  Maribel stared at him. The intensity of his gaze and the sincerity in his voice made her feel like they were alone again—just the two of them—indulging in a connection that neither one of them truly understood, and yet, they knew they couldn’t deny.

  “Well, pah….leeeeease let us know if we can be of further assistance.”

  “I certainly will, Thomas,” Miles nodded, noting his nametag. Thomas and Maribel watched him stride away towards the revolving doors and exited without glancing back.

  “Oh my God, we are splitting that commission, girlfriend!” Thomas cried out, fanning himself with the receipt, as if he might faint.

  “I’ve never charged a purchase to a rolling account before.”

  “It’s a privilege reserved for only our most exclusive customers,” Thomas clarified. He handed off the receipt to Maribel and circled out from the counter. “Phew…after that, I’m not sure I can just settle for selling cashmere scarves.”

  Thomas whisked himself away towards the accessory department and shouted out across the Grand Lobby. “Roberta, Roberta…you are never going to believe who I just sold a luxury women’s watch to…”

  Maribel looked down at the receipt. She recognized Miles’ handwriting below his familiar signature. Miss you already. Will meet you for your lunch break. See you soon.

  Maribel smiled. Not only was he impossibly handsome, seductive, sensitive and sentimental; he was also impossibly determined—determined to have her, all to himself.

  Chapter Eight

  Miles boarded the elevator, pressed the call buttons, and relaxed as the cab whirled upwards to his penthouse condominium. He rested his shoulders and head against the elevator’s gold-toned interior and clenched the shopping bag in his hand. With his eyes closed, still able to taste the flavor of sugar and salt from her skin, Miles reflected on their morning together, and the night before. In past years, he had been obligated to spend Valentine’s Day with the woman who he was sleeping with at the time. This year, he had planned to spend it alone—that is, until he decided to pursue Maribel. Now, he didn’t want their time together to stop. Unexpectedly, it had been the perfect weekend—the kind that rejuvenated the possibility of enjoying something deeper in his life beyond just wealth and work. He had drunk hot chocolate; sung in the shower; slept on rosebud sheets; and awoken next to a woman who had wanted nothing from him, except for him to stop buying her luxury gifts. And now, as he tasted her in his mouth, he already missed her caring brown eyes and tender touch, and the sense of companionship she engendered made him want to share every moment with her. It had been a long time since he remembered ever feeling this way about a woman—and certainly, it had been an even longer time since he felt determined to commit to it.

  The final floor chimed. The mirrored elevator doors shimmered open. Miles stepped out, not into a hallway or a private lobby, but directly into his penthouse suite. Miles snapped his fingers twice. Suddenly, the lights switched on, illuminating the spacious luxurious condominium—and his unexpected guest.

  “Gillian,” Miles said her name without surprise. He should have felt surprise to see her there, lounging in his favorite Mies van der Rohe Barcelona chair and sipping wine from a glass—no doubt from one of his rare vintage bottles that she had opened without his permission. But with Gillian, he had long since learned that she had no sense of boundaries and nothing was beyond her. At least she had her clothes on, he thought, and tossed his car keys across the quartz countertop of the grand kitchen island that separated him from her.

  He leaned against the island and stared at her with confrontation.

  “Hope you don’t consider it an intrusion,” Gillian said, smoothly.

  “To enter a home without an invitation?”

  “Oh, come on, now, Brax… we’ve never been that formal with each other and you know it. In fact, some of our best days were when we were a lot more spontaneous with each other.”

  Gillian stood up from the chair. She was wearing a tight red dress and a black mink shawl coat. “In fact, I’m fairly certain that one of our best negotiations was done while I was wearing nothing more than this mink coat.”

  Miles didn’t need the reminder. He remembered buying it for her, and she modeling it for him as well as the business transaction that followed. A series of business transactions, Miles thought, that’s all his life had amounted to, and that’s all that Gillian expected from him now.

  Miles felt the urge to put her in her place, and cut to the chase. But that’s what the ‘old Miles’ would do. The ‘new Miles’—the relaxed, amorous Miles from this weekend—was less interested in combat and more disciplined about avoiding it. Instead, he simply crossed his arms and peered at her—waiting.

  Gillian circled towards him and offered him a glass of wine. “It’s one of your favorites: Château Lafite Pauillac 1990.”

  “Are we here to enjoy wine together, or do you want something specific?”

  Gillian threw back her head with laughter. Miles noticed her red lips, her bleached teeth, and her short blonde hair, freshly cut and styled. Then, he noticed how the veins in her neck bulged through her pale skin and how her overpowering perfume poorly masked the staining scent of cigarettes.

  “Brax, I really don’t understand why you seem so determined to make this difficult on both of us. We want the same thing,” her fake red nails clicked against the quartz island before gliding their way over his shoulder and behind the nape of his neck. He stared at her with stone eyes; she was close enough now where he could see the pale green glints in her muddy eyes and smell her breath. “Let’s find a way to come together, and close the Olson & Anderson deal, and then we can move onto more important things—like celebrating.”

  She touched his hand with her vampiress claws. She had sucked him dry so many times, and he had never even realized it, or if he did realize it, he went along with it because it was easy and automatic. But the outcome was always the same—nothing remained except superficial emotions and an executed business deal.

  Miles remembered Maribel. He felt the shopping bag, burning in his left hand. He suddenly relaxed and set it on the island’s quartz countertop.

  Gillian gazed at him, noting the change. Then, her eyes fell down upon the sleek shopping bag—with its department store logo and “Fine Jewelry” tagline.

  “Brax, I’m speechless. You shouldn’t have.”

  “I didn’t” he said, sliding the bag away from her grasp. His sweeping broad arm forced Gillian to step backwards and she faltered on the heel of her stiletto. It was his first gesture of confrontation. Her hazel eyes flashed at him. The game had changed. And they both knew it.

  “Ahhhh, I see… you haven’t been avoiding me. You’ve just been busy conquering new lands and pillaging their women.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her. Juvenile and crude. It was how their exchanges had always been, but now, he faulted her for failing to realize he wanted something better from her—and from himself.

  “Well, since my phone call to Gary and my message to your assistant all have been lost in translation, let me put this in a way that everyone can understand,” Gillian paced back to her purse and
pulled out a contract.

  “What assistant?” Miles suddenly asked.

  “Your cupcake,” she countered with a flick of her teeth. “It’s a bit tacky having her answer your personal line, by the way. Wouldn’t make a habit out of that.” Gillian slapped the contract down onto the island.

  “This is a contract with Harvey Zale,” Miles said, surprised. He quickly thumbed to its final page to see if it had been executed. No signatures—yet, Miles noted, which meant it could all be for show, or it could be the official final draft—ready for execution.

  “You sound genuinely shocked,” Gillian replied. “I gave you fair warning. I’m not that cruel. But clearly, your cupcake is horrible at relaying urgent messages. Looks like you need to hire better help.”

  “Have they verbally agreed to these terms?” Miles paged through the contract, skimming the numbers and calculating the lease escalations, cost per square foot, rental expenses, and subsequent profit margins in his head.

  “I spoke to Harvey yesterday. He wants my clients in his Amory building—and he’s very motivated to do a deal. By the way, he told me to wish you a Happy Valentine’s Day.”

  Miles gauged her eyes. It was impossible to parse out the lies from the truth from a woman who was rarely ever honest. Harvey Zale was Miles’ biggest competitor, and he did know that Zale would love nothing more than to steal the Olson & Anderson deal away from him. Suddenly, the sense of loss and failure seeped into Miles’ competitive blood like a mood-altering drug. He was fine with losing the deal. But he wasn’t fine with losing it to a double-crossing, client-stealing leech of a building owner like Harvey Zale. And clearly, Gillian knew it.

  “I suppose that I could call my clients and ask if they would like to give you one last try to make it up to them. We’re old friends, Brax, after all. And I’d hate for there to be bad blood between us. The last thing I want is to disrupt our current arrangement.”

  Their current arrangement.

  Gillian and Miles had an understanding: she would always bring him her best clients first before shopping them to his competition. Now, only one thing was clear—that arrangement was in jeopardy. Miles could do the deal that Gillian wanted for her clients; he’d just lose out on a few million per year along with a chunk of his pride. But he’d make up for it on all the other potential tenants she would bring him. Miles peered down at the contract and flinched his jaw. Miles hated to lose, but he hated being cornered even more.

  Gillian edged closer to touch his cheek with her fingernails before slowly pushing against his body like a pampered cat. She was tall and slender, and her red lips met his own without effort or initiation. It was an empty shallow kiss. She leaned into him, closer, and attempted to slip her tongue into his mouth. The bitterness of nicotine and ash marred the sweet taste of Maribel that Miles had been savoring all morning. He was not the kind of man to shove away a woman—even Gillian—but he no longer felt the need to placate her. Abruptly, he brushed her aside in a way that surprised them both. She peered directly at him, expecting an explanation. There was only callousness in his eyes.

  “Do the deal with Harvey,” Miles finally said, his tone simmering with anger as he shoved the contract across the island to call her bluff. “I’m not interested in jumping in front of that train wreck.”

  “Oh, Brax,” Gillian forced a nervous laugh, as if she recognized the rage in his eyes. “You’re always so dramatic about these things.” She attempted to spark a friendlier mood, but it was in vein. He was done with her games and he was done with her.

  “If you’re looking to fleece someone, then it looks like you’ve found your match. Good luck getting good customer service from Harvey Zale. Now, get the hell out of my apartment and leave the elevator access card behind on your way out.”

  Gillian glared at him, her weight shifted onto one heel. She gathered up her purse, rifled through it, and tossed a gold-toned card onto the island. Then, she slid the contract into her hands and glared at Miles with one final challenge.

  “You’ll regret this Brax. I’ll personally make sure of it.”

  “Maybe,” he shrugged, certain she would make good on her promise. “But you’ll find that Harvey Zale’s a lot rougher and dirtier in bed.”

  Gillian smirked with artificial amusement. Then, she swaggered into the open elevator and pressed the call buttons with a click, click, click of her fingernails. Miles did not look back. Instead, he waited and listened for the floor chimes to signal that he was shutting her out of his life for good.

  Juvenile and crude. It was always the same. That’s what Gillian inspired in him, and that’s what his materialistic world—a world of narcissistic negotiations and vengeful power-plays—expected from him. Money and power. Domination and control. Conceit and ego. Moral corruption and bitter emptiness.

  Miles picked up the gold-toned access key card and peered at it. Then, he glanced at his watch. He would have to wait patiently for another three hours before he would have the chance to see Maribel again. And then, he wanted nothing more than to put everything out of his mind, and himself and the promise of joy in his life.

  Chapter Nine

  Maribel didn’t mean to end up in the lingerie section of the department store during her lunch break. She drifted there unintentionally when she was wandering through the aisles, wondering about whether or not she was going to see Miles tonight. Was she prepared to spend the night with him—in his bed? Maribel wasn’t certain. One moment, she trembled with excitement and anticipation. The next moment, she worried that everything was moving too fast, and perhaps it would be wiser, simpler, more sensible to return to her apartment to let things cool off. She didn’t even have any extra clothes with her, and now, she realized her black nylons were snagged along the ankle. The realization forced her to the hosiery rack where she passed through the lingerie and skimmed over the matching bra and panty sets that she never considered buying for herself—until now.

  Maribel had never worn underwear in any color other than black and white. She always noticed and admired the other colors, especially the sensual violets, coral pinks, and crisp fuchsia bras and panties. But for Maribel, shopping for lingerie no man would ever see wasn’t fun—it was discouraging. She generally avoided the whole section except when she was asked by Thomas to fill-in for Crystal. Now, as Maribel lifted up a packet of black nylons, her eyes flowed across the colorful collection of revealing silk chemises, leopard-print push-up bras, and French-cut panties. Her eyes settled on a siren red strapless corset and matching garter thong. She never thought she would ever have the desire or confidence to wear something that risqué in front of anyone—not even her own reflection. Today, however, was different. Today, she imagined herself in each alluring color combination, submitting herself to Miles’ strong hands and dominating embrace within his own bed.

  “Oh my God, oh my God—”

  Maribel turned and frowned at the interruption. Thomas was coming straight at her.

  “Guess who just ordered one of every women’s apparel item in size 6 and 8!”

  Maribel could barely comprehend Thomas’ words. She only felt the grip of his hand, squeezing the hard metal of her diamond tennis bracelet into her wrist.

  “Miles Braxton-Worth!” Thomas jumped up and down like he was the winning contestant of a game show. “Crystal is over there, right now, trying to sort through her notes from his phone call—if she doesn’t hyperventilate first. He wants everything in all the major designer brands: tops, tanks, sweaters, pants, jeans, jackets, dresses, skirts, mini-skirts, mini-mini-skirts,” Thomas nudged Maribel and winked. “Whoever his lady friend is, she sure better realize the coin he’s dropping for her.” Thomas suddenly shifted his eyes down onto the packet of nylons in Maribel’s hands. “Shopping during your lunch break?”

  “Snag,” she confirmed.

  “Bummer,” he empathized. “Anyway, Crystal sent me over here to find a pajama set. Would you believe it? Miles Braxton-Worth wants a pair of old-fashioned fleece
pajamas. Rosebud print, of all things. Maybe they don’t even do anything naughty. Maybe they sleep in separate beds and eat pancakes together in the morning?”

  Maribel smiled. Fleece pajamas. Her shoulders suddenly relaxed, releasing all the tension of imagining what more Miles expected from her tonight. Maybe he didn’t expect anything more…maybe he simply expected more of what she had already given him.

  “My Lord, how should I know which ones to buy,” Thomas groaned, shifting listlessly through a rack of fleece and flannel pajamas.

  “Here,” Maribel offered, lifting up a white set with small pink roses from the rack.

  “Are those rosebuds?” Thomas eyed them, unconvinced.

  “I’m sure they’ll be fine. Plus they’re sized as small, medium, and large, so you don’t even need to get two different sizes.”

  “Better get both a small and medium—just to be safe. The last thing I want is to be the one who screws up on the pajama fetish request from our building owner.”

  “Yes, you’d definitely don’t want to go down in sales history for that,” Maribel sassed.

  “Fo’, sho,’” Thomas confirmed with a snap, then ran away towards the shoe department. “Roberta, Roberta, I need six pairs of black leather boots and dress flats, pronto!”

  Maribel watched Thomas race across the Grand Lobby. Pancakes—pancakes and sticky syrup. That sounded just perfect. A warm sensation of comfort washed over her heart. The sensation of excitement and anticipation returned as she pondered spending the night at Miles’ apartment. There was a flurry of activity in the women’s apparel department. In contrast, the lingerie section was empty and quiet. Maribel eyed the siren red corset and thong set. Motivated by a burst of spontaneity and self-confidence, she swiped it off the rack and slipped into the changing rooms. She picked a dressing room farthest from the entrance, closed the door, and undressed quickly without looking at her body in the mirror. Maribel had always been self-conscious about her body. She was petite, but curvy. Too curvy, she often thought. Miles had judged her size accurately—she was normally a size 8—courtesy of her round thighs, short torso, and full chest. With the help of the right underwire bras, halter tops, and nylons, Maribel knew she could pack it all in and end up squeezing into a size 6. Compact and shapely. She had long since accepted her body. That’s what your late-twenties are all about, Maribel thought as she wiggled into the red garter thongs and fastened herself into the red corset bra. But had she accepted her body—bare and buff—without the help of tummy-hugging panty hose and thigh-smoothing skirts? Maribel wasn’t sure, especially now as the three-way mirror revealed every angle of her tummy and every fat dimple on her thighs.