The Billionaire's Muse Complete Series Box Set

by M. S. Parker

  Even though it was far too large for just me, I kept it because I knew how important family had been to my father. We hadn't been close, and I'd been a handful, but he never made me feel like a burden, not even when I spent a couple years in boarding school. By the time I was sixteen, he turned half of the first floor into a studio for me, putting in massive windows to allow in as much natural light as possible. He also added a private entrance and private staircase to the third floor so that I could come and go as I pleased without worrying about disturbing him.

  I scratched my head as I wandered over to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows. Maybe the problem was that I needed to get out of the city. I could go to the Hamptons for a while. I had a smaller studio there. Or maybe I needed to get away from the East Coast all together. My friends and I shared a house in Aspen that might be just what I needed. Mountains could give me a new perspective.

  Except I knew the problem had nothing to do with where I was. It was me. I was off-balance, as if the axis of my world had somehow shifted without me knowing it and everything was off-kilter.

  I'd read somewhere that a true explorer might use a compass, but that he also knew how to navigate using the stars. There were things that could throw off a compass's ability to find true north, but if a person studied the stars and their places in the sky, he could never really be lost.

  And that's what it felt like, I realized. Like I'd spent my whole life using a compass to find direction and had never bothered to learn any other way, so when something had come along to mess with it, I wasn't able to regain my footing.

  I needed to look to the stars.

  The idea of constellations and planets whirled through my head, as if searching for some spark of life, of creativity, to give it form. It was right there, just out of my grasp, and I knew there was some essential part that hadn't quite clicked into place. A part that was necessary before I could see the big picture.

  I was still musing over it when the sound of the doorbell interrupted my thoughts. I'd ordered lunch from my favorite restaurant and asked them to bring it to the private entrance, so I didn't bother looking to see who was there. The moment I opened the door, I wondered why the hell someone who looked like that was delivering my samosa and chicken tandoori.

  She was just a couple inches over five feet tall and slender, with the sort of delicate features that immediately made me feel like someone should be protecting her rather than letting her wander around the city by herself. She wore a simple steel gray blouse and a plain black skirt that seemed way too fancy for such a mundane job. Her rich, sepia brown hair was pulled back from her face, with a couple escaping curls that I was far too tempted to twist around my finger just to see if it was as silky as it looked. Her eyes were an extraordinary light gray that reminded me of pure, pale ash that could almost be mistaken for snow.

  Well, damn.

  Five

  Savannah

  I'd been so nervous about my first real assignment that I barely slept at all. By five o'clock, I'd known it was completely useless to stay in bed, so I'd gotten up and gone for a run. I wasn't a runner by nature, but it was as good a way as any to work off stress and clear my mind.

  By the time I was showered and had gone through every outfit in my closet, and even a couple of Everett's shirts, my nerves were back, but they were at least manageable.

  "I like it," Everett said as I walked into the kitchen. "But you might want to put on a bra under that shirt. Unless your plan is to let Jace Randell see your nipples on the first day."

  I stopped, mouth hanging open, then ran into the bathroom. Shit. He was right. I'd forgotten to put on a bra, and this blouse was so thin that without it, my nipples would be pointing at everyone who saw me.

  I was still flustered when I sat down at the table, and the fact that Everett was smirking didn't help matters much. I couldn't eat but a few bites no matter how delicious the French toast was that Everett had made.

  "Don't you have to be at work soon?" I snapped, the words coming out harsher than I intended.

  He kept grinning. "Day off."

  I glared at him and managed to eat another bite of food. Everett already had his BS in applied physics, but was currently working on his Masters. He was also a maintenance worker in the NYU physics department, but I was fairly certain he spent most of his time flirting with any guy who caught his eye.

  His antics, however, did manage to take the edge off my nerves, so as I got out of the cab on 69th Street, I finally felt like I could handle this. After all, I'd gone to school for this. A journalism degree from NYU with a minor in art history, all with the intention of becoming an art critic – every minute of study had been pointing toward this moment.

  I'd worked my ass off on all the shitty assignments my boss gave me over the past eighteen months, pretty much all of which involved proofreading and fact gathering for the pretentious puff pieces he wrote. Through it all, I kept my eye on the prize. This prize.

  I took a slow breath and made my way up the sidewalk. I'd been told to use a side door, so I bypassed the front and rang the doorbell. As I waited for someone to answer, I mentally prepared myself to meet the artist whose work had inspired my career.

  I was a junior in high school when our art teacher had taken my class to Indianapolis to see a gallery his sister had just opened. In it, there were three pieces by a brand new artist. I must have stood there for two hours, looking at them in turn, and then back again. I'd written my senior thesis about them and gotten a near-perfect grade.

  Then the door opened and...well, damn.

  I'd seen pictures of him, but they'd clearly all been staged, because while he looked good in a suit and tie, this was clearly the true artist.

  Ash blond hair possessed little streaks of maroon that matched the flecks on the tight black shirt that showed off the amazing definition his suit jackets had hidden. Jade green eyes and hints of tattoos peeked out from under his short sleeves. His long legs were covered by a pair of paint-stained jeans that I didn't even want to see from behind because I just knew they'd hug the tightest ass I'd ever seen.

  "How much?"

  My eyebrows shot up. Well, that was one way to keep me from ogling him. "Excuse me?"

  He gave me an odd look and ran his hand through his hair, answering the question of how he'd gotten paint highlighted through the strands. "How much do I owe you?" His gaze darted down to my hands, then back up. "Did you forget the food?"

  Now it was my turn to give him a strange look. "What are you talking about?"

  His mouth curved into a half-smile. "You're not here to deliver my lunch, are you?"

  I chuckled and tried to hide how thrown – and charmed – I was. "I think we have a miscommunication." I held out my hand. "I'm Savannah Birch, the reporter slash critic from The Heart of Art."

  I silently congratulated myself for not making a face at the magazine's name. They hired me and a couple other writers in their early twenties to try to revitalize their image, but they still had a way to go.

  His half-smile fell into a sardonic one as he reached out to clasp my hand. I swallowed a gasp at the heat and electricity that flowed out from where his skin touched mine. I mean, I knew he was hot. I had eyes. But that connection, it was beyond attraction. It was like an almost audible click.

  "Come in," he said as he took a step back out of the doorway. "I was just getting ready to break for lunch."

  As I stepped past him, I caught his scent – paint and soap and some underlying masculine smell that twisted primal things low in my stomach. Shit. I could get addicted to that.

  "Sorry about how that sounded," he said. "Me asking how much. I promise that I meant it in the most innocent way possible."

  With a voice like that, I doubted anything he ever said could be construed as innocent. I could get wet just listening to him read an owner's manual.

  "A simple misunderstanding," I said with what I hoped was a professional smile. I definitely didn't want him to know how attrac
tive I thought he was. The last thing I needed was my first relevant assignment to go up in smoke because I couldn't keep my hormones under control.

  He was gorgeous. Big deal. I'd already prepared myself to deal with some level of hero worship. Some physical attraction on top of that shouldn't be an issue. I'd never let it be one before. I mean, my best friend was hot, and it'd never been an issue between us. Sure, he was gay, but plenty of straight women had crushes on gay guys.

  That was what I needed to do. Pretend Jace was gay. Because then it wouldn't matter that his ass was even better than I thought it would be, or that I'd suddenly fixated on his hands. Those long, strong fingers. Fuck. I shivered at the thought of the things those fingers could do.

  How they would feel on my body. Inside me. If they would caress my breasts or be rough and pinch my nipples until they throbbed. If he'd wrap those fingers around my wrists and hold them, restrain me...

  Fuck.

  I closed my eyes for a moment and ran through a list of my favorite artists by year and categorization. Anything that would keep me from thinking about what it would be like to have those artist's hands…

  Shit.

  "Ms. Birch? Are you all right?"

  I opened my eyes and forced a smile as I turned. "I'm fine, thank you."

  Before I could say anything else, the doorbell rang again.

  "That probably is my food this time," he said as he stepped around me. "I'll be right back. Make yourself comfortable."

  As he walked back the way we'd come, I forced myself to turn away before I could start picturing the way that ass would look bare. The muscles tensing as he pumped...

  "Fuck," I muttered.

  It shouldn't have been this difficult to get my mind out of the gutter. I'd never been a flighty person, distracted by a pretty face or a nice body. I was driven by my work.

  And I didn't date artists. Hell, as long as I could help it, I didn't even fuck artists. Most creative people tended to be on the...temperamental side. Which meant emotional. Dramatic. Yes, passionate, but I had no problem giving up a bit of passion if it meant I didn't have to deal with any drama. Women generally had the reputation of being the ones who freaked out about sex, but I believed in equal opportunities for everyone when it came to making fools of themselves.

  Which meant, when it came to sex, I drew a firm line in the sand, and I wasn't going to cross it.

  Not even for someone as amazing as Jace Randell.

  Six

  Jace

  I didn't think I'd ever met anyone quite like Savannah Birch. Sure, I'd met beautiful women, delicate women. What I'd never seen was a woman who had been insulted take it so well. The moment I realized that she wasn't delivering my food, I realized that my having asked her how much could have been taken in a very non-food way. Any other woman who thought she'd been mistaken for a prostitute would have been insulted. Well, most women anyway, and the ones with class definitely, and she certainly had class.

  She hadn't demanded an apology, even though it had technically just been a misunderstanding, and I appreciated that. Then she'd introduced herself, and I realized she knew who I was. And she hadn't hit on me.

  I wasn't an arrogant person, but I was self-aware enough to know that based on looks alone, most women would have, at the very least, been flirting with me. I was also not naive enough to think that once someone discovered just how much money I had, that they wouldn't want me for that alone. So the fact that Savannah hadn't acted on any of the desire I'd seen in her eyes spoke volumes about either her self-control, or her dedication to her job.

  Or I'd completely misread the fact that she wanted me.

  I walked back into the studio with my food. As was all too often my habit when I was working, I ordered way more than I'd be able to eat in one sitting so I wouldn't have to worry about interrupting the flow to order again. I supposed a part of me was hoping that following my normal routine for creating would trigger something.

  It hadn't, but at least I now had enough food to offer my guest.

  "Sorry," I apologized as I took the food over to the small table I used when I was too caught up in what I was doing to leave the studio. "I hadn't realized you were coming, or I would have gotten us something nicer for lunch. I have enough to share if you like Indian food."

  She gave me a puzzled look that wasn't quite fast enough to cover the flare of heat I'd seen hidden behind her unique irises. Any previous doubt I'd had about whether or not she was attracted to me disappeared, and it surprised me that I actually cared.

  "No one told you I was coming?"

  I gestured toward one of the other chairs as I sat down. "No. Was someone supposed to?"

  She frowned, but she seemed to be more confused than annoyed. "I thought they were."

  "Sit," I said, nodding to the chair across from me. "Eat."

  To my surprise, she took the seat closest to me, close enough that when she crossed her legs, the toes of her shoe brushed my knee. She picked up one of the cartons, gave it a serious look, then picked up a fork and took a couple bites.

  Maybe it'd been too long since I'd been on an actual date because I found myself staring at her while she ate. Partly, I was watching her mouth because she had these amazing lips. A perfect cupid's bow at the top, and a bottom lip a little fuller, but not so plump that her mouth looked unbalanced.

  While her looks were captivating, another part of me was more fascinated that she had no qualms about eating in front of me. My ex had refused to eat more than a few bites in my presence, as if I'd ever said a word about her weight or what she ate. As an artist, I was not only a firm believer that beauty came in all shapes and sizes, I actually didn't have one particular body type that appealed over another.

  "Is something wrong?"

  It took her question to make me realize that I'd stopped eating and was staring at her.

  "Sorry." I gave myself a mental shake and refocused on my food. "I was just thinking about what you said about someone calling me."

  I reached over to the small refrigerator and took out two bottles of water. I handed one to her and opened the other for myself. I had a couple bottles of beer in there too, but I rarely imbibed when I was trying to work. I knew some artists felt like alcohol enhanced their creativity, but that wasn't the case for me. I generally only indulged if I was tensed up from not being able to paint, but something about Savannah made me think having a clear head would be best.

  "My boss assigned me to cover the show you have coming up." She took a long drink of her water. "He said I should stop by today to meet with you, get some backstory, find out why you were finally doing interviews. I assumed that meant he talked to someone – you or your agent or whatever – but apparently, I should have asked."

  "Don't worry about it." I almost told her that I hadn't actually accomplished anything before she arrived, but then figured that, as intrigued as I was by her, it still wouldn't be smart to share that particular bit of information with a journalist I didn't know.

  "So, do you have a few minutes to spare for some questions?"

  Her question wasn't timid, but it also wasn't pushy. She managed to find that balance that most people in the media didn't have. It was a good quality for an art critic, being able to extract information from the upper crust of society without them feeling pressured.

  "It's fine if you can't," she added and set a mostly empty carton back on the table. "I'll schedule a meeting for another day."

  I shook my head. "I have time." I finished off my bottle of water as I waited for her to begin.

  Except she didn't.

  A flush crept up her cheeks, and I wondered if it was because she didn't know what to say...or because she was thinking something entirely inappropriate. Despite not being interested in a relationship, and having absolutely no intention of getting involved with a reporter even for a single night, I couldn't help hoping it was the latter of the two. I didn't usually find myself wanting a woman to be attracted to me, but my instincts con
tinued to tell me that she was no ordinary woman.

  It took approximately a minute and a half for my curiosity about her to overcome my patience.

  "So, are you a fan of art, or is this a story you were assigned at random?"

  She raised her head, her jaw taking on a stubborn set. "I have a degree in journalism with a minor in art history from NYU. I want to be an art critic."

  One corner of my mouth quirked up before I could stop it. "Good to know. Most reporters I talk to consider an art piece to be just a step or two above covering a garden show. Working for a magazine like The Heart of Art wouldn't be much better than doing fluff entertainment pieces in their eyes."

  "It's all I've wanted to do since I first saw–" She stopped suddenly, even more color flooding her face. She took a slow breath, and then went on, "When I was a junior in high school, I went on a trip to an art gallery and saw three paintings that changed my life. I don't have any artistic talent, but at that moment, I knew that I had to find a place in that world."

  The first thing that hit me was the intensity and passion I could see in her eyes, hear in her words. The second was that she appeared to gain confidence as she gave me that insight into her life.

  "What paintings?" I asked, unconsciously leaning forward. If they had inspired something so genuine in this woman, perhaps they could do the same for me.

  Something strange flickered in her eyes, as if she had to make some sort of decision about what she said next, but then she squared her shoulders and answered my question. "A Spirit in the Woods, A Maiden's Regret, and Tempestuous Stars."

  It was my turn to be speechless for several seconds. Those were my paintings. If I'd given them no name at all or something a bit more common, then I might have thought it was a coincidence, that she'd happened to see some paintings that shared the titles of mine, but the odds were too high for it to be anything else.

  "Where did you see those?" The question was completely inane, but I couldn't quite think of anything else to say yet.