The Wicked Billionaire--A Billionaire SEAL Romance

by Jackie Ashenden

  No, he was going to handle this himself and that was just the way he liked it.

  Dismissing the guys and their van, he got the paintings in the elevator himself and transported them up to the apartment. He didn’t want anyone seeing where Grace was, and even though the guys were Tate employees, the fewer people who knew her position the better.

  As he came back into the apartment carrying the painting of Griffin, Grace appeared at the top of the stairs that led up to the bedrooms. Her eyes went huge and her wide mouth turned up in a smile that he told himself had no effect on him whatsoever. She came hurtling down the stairs as he leaned the painting up against one of the walls, but he didn’t wait for her to speak, turning and heading straight for the elevator again. “I’m getting the rest,” he said shortly over his shoulder. “You can decide where you want to put them.”

  “Lucas, wait,” she called after him.

  But he didn’t wait, letting the elevator doors shut behind him. She was probably going to be grateful to him and there was something about her gratitude he found unsettling. He wasn’t doing this for her, anyway. This was all about the mission, end of story.

  It took him half an hour to get all the paintings up from the car park, plus all her art paraphernalia that he’d also had the guys remove from the apartment. She was probably going to need something to do after all, since he didn’t want her running around outside and giving away her position.

  By the time he’d finished, dumping the lot in the main living area, Grace was already sorting through her paintings, leaning them up against the walls and looking at them, a crease between her red brows.

  Now he’d had a chance to see all of them, he noticed they were all of men, some doing things, some merely sitting there. He really didn’t get art, but looking at them, he could appreciate the time and the effort that must have gone into creating them, since nearly every single canvas was huge.

  As Grace positioned the last one and stood back, Lucas narrowed his gaze at them. Great. His house was full of an army of painted dudes and he wasn’t sure he liked it.

  She turned, her face lighting up, and then she came toward him. And this time there was no avoiding her.

  “Thank you,” she said simply, and before he could move she stepped right up to him and flung her arms around him.

  He wasn’t a fan of surprise hugs or public displays of affection. In fact, he really didn’t like anyone getting into his personal space at all, and certainly not without permission.

  But there was nothing he could do as Grace’s slim arms slid around his waist and she laid her apricot-colored head on his chest.

  He froze, because he could feel it, that electrical charge making every nerve ending he had come alive. Her body was very warm, the press of it against his a delicate pressure he felt echo through him like a note through a tuning fork.

  Fuck. What the hell was this shit?

  His first instinct was to throw her off, but he couldn’t do that, not without hurting her, and he couldn’t push her away, for the same reason. All he could do was stand there as she hugged him, a part of himself he thought he had well under control somehow acutely aware of the softness of her breasts against his chest. Of the way her wealth of hair drifted over his arms. Of that dry, warm scent, like apple boughs, with something a little musky and intriguing beneath it.

  “Thank you, Lucas,” she murmured. “I don’t know why you changed your mind, but I’m so glad you did.”

  He didn’t know why he’d changed his mind either, but one thing he was sure of; she had to stop hugging him. Immediately.

  Grace lifted her head and looked up at him, her lush mouth curving in a way that shouldn’t have affected him, and yet somehow he couldn’t drag his gaze from. For a second she merely smiled, a fascinating gold color glinting in the depths of her eyes. Then she blinked, pink flooding through her cheeks, and abruptly she let him go, backing away from him so fast she almost stumbled.

  He stared at her. What the hell was that about? Oh, he got the hug business. Didn’t like it, but he understood it. Yet the way she’d released him? So quickly and so sudden? That, he didn’t get. Not when he hadn’t moved or even said a word. Then again, why he should be puzzling over it was anyone’s guess. The main thing was, she’d let him go.

  She turned away before he could say anything, moving over to where he’d dumped all her art stuff. “Anyway,” she said as if resuming a story she’d been in the middle of telling. “I appreciate this. You’ve got no idea how much. I can’t believe you got all my brushes and paints too.”

  He felt strangely overheated, which was odd, since he kept the temperature in the apartment at a steady sixty-eight degrees. Christ, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt hot, or cold for that matter. Tuning out his physical discomforts was pretty much second nature, so it didn’t make any sense for him to feel them now.

  “Put them wherever you like,” he said tersely, turning toward the stairs that led to the upper floor and the bathrooms. “I’m going to take a shower.” Cold water was definitely what he needed. Or else a hard workout, then a cold shower.

  Nothing like extreme physical activity to help him focus.

  It wasn’t a retreat. Not at all.

  Grace might have said something, but he didn’t wait to hear what it was, heading up the stairs, taking his phone out as he did so, contacting another employee to organize a delivery of a few necessities. He couldn’t remember the last time he used this place, and even though he kept it well maintained with a housekeeper visiting once a month to air it out and clean, there was no food in the cupboards. Grace was clearly going to need to eat.

  As he finished arranging a grocery delivery, Van’s number came up on the screen for the second time that day, but Lucas hadn’t answered it earlier and he didn’t answer it now. His brother could wait. He had shit to do.

  The apartment’s gym was as high-specced as he could make it, the usual machines all present and accounted for. There was some workout gear in the cupboard, so he changed and began the punishing circuit that was his normal routine.

  It helped. Somewhat.

  But an hour and a half later, his muscles screaming, he could still feel the press of Grace’s slight body against his, so he turned to his favorite apparatus. The one he used when he needed to let off some steam and couldn’t get out on his bike. The punching bag.

  Lacing a pair of boxing gloves tightly on his hands, he launched straight into it, each punch landing with a heavy thumping sound, the bag swinging on its chain.

  Sweat poured down his back, his heartbeat thundering in his ears.

  Years ago, after the incident with the stables that he tried never to think about, his adoptive father had told him that he needed an outlet for all the dangerous emotions that simmered and boiled inside him. That although controlling himself was what he needed to do, sometimes control wasn’t enough. Sometimes he needed to do something with them, let them out in a safe way. For Lucas that had meant riding the nastiest, most vicious of the horses all over the trails in the mountains, galloping fast and hard till both man and horse were covered in sweat. Making sure all those terrible emotions were completely gone, the rage and the grief and the guilt, until he was empty, hollowed out. But sometimes it didn’t work and then all that was left was to take his rifle and practice shooting at tin cans. That focused him like nothing else, everything narrowing to the target and his finger on the trigger, seeing how accurate he could get. It was like meditation.

  When he was finally old enough to enlist, he didn’t hesitate, applying for SEAL training as soon as he could, just like his older brother. It had been hard, brutal, and he’d enjoyed every second of it, loving the discipline involved, loving the way it had pushed him both mentally and physically. He’d graduated from the training with the best scores of anyone in the past five years, doing even better than Van. But he’d refused a command position, heading straight into sniper training. He needed the intense focus and mental discipline re
quired of a sniper, and he didn’t want to do anything else. He still didn’t.

  He landed another punch on the bag, the power of it shuddering through his arm, and as he did so felt awareness prickle at the back of his neck.

  Crazy that he should be so conscious of her, even here, even as he was punching the shit out of the bag in front of him. Nevertheless, he was.

  “Sorry to interrupt, but I have a question,” Grace said quietly from the doorway.

  He didn’t look up, keeping his focus on the bag, drawing his arm back for another left hook. “What is it?”

  “How did you find out? About Griffin, I mean?”

  There wasn’t any reason not to tell her. “My father died just over two weeks ago,” he said flatly, “He left a letter for me. And a file that included the info I showed you on my phone, the photos, financials, text conversations.” Lucas launched another hit on the bag, the emptiness inside him echoing with the sound of his fist against the heavy canvas. He’d felt nothing hearing the news that Noah had died and that hadn’t changed. The old man hadn’t given a shit about him and the feeling was mutual. “The letter said that you were in danger and that I had to protect you.”

  “Your father?” Grace’s voice was full of shock. “But … how did he know?”

  “No idea. The man Griffin was working for”—a right hook this time, to the side—“Cesare de Santis. Was Dad’s enemy. I presume Dad was keeping tabs on his illegal activities.”

  “But why would your father care about me?” She sounded genuinely mystified. “I only met him once. That time you invited Griffin and me to that garden party.”

  Lucas didn’t know why his father would take such special interest in one of his enemy’s employees and the wife that employee left behind either. He’d spent the last week or so trying to puzzle out Noah Tate’s motivations and still didn’t understand why protecting Grace had been been so important.

  “I don’t know.” Lucas launched another punch, the sound of his fist hitting the bag deeply satisfying in a way he’d always found impossible to describe. “It doesn’t matter anyway. You’re in danger, I’m protecting you. End of story.”

  She said nothing to that, but he knew she was still there, because that awareness of her was unfurling down his back like that electrical current had somehow moved and was now concentrated directly on his spine.

  It was distracting. Which was the very opposite of what he was trying to do here.

  Finally Lucas dropped his fists, his breathing slowing, but not that much because it took a lot for him to get breathless these days, and turned toward the doorway.

  She had to leave. Now.

  * * *

  The moment Grace had pushed open the gym door, she knew she’d made a mistake.

  Lucas, dressed in nothing but a pair of workout shorts and tank top, was standing in front of a punching bag, his fists driving into the canvas like jackhammers. His golden skin was gleaming with sweat, his tank sticking to his body, molding over the most incredible muscles she’d ever seen in her life. He put even Griffin to shame and Griffin had been pretty fit.

  For a second all she’d been able to do was stand there and stare at him. Unable to drag her gaze away from the way the light coming through the windows lit him up, made him glow. Made him look even more like that stern warrior angel she’d imagined him to be—

  No. That was wrong. He didn’t look like a celestial being right now. Yes, he was still beautiful, but it was a different kind of beauty. Golden skin and deep gold hair, wide shoulders and lean waist, powerful arms that drove his fists into the bag with explosive strength. Muscled and sleek as a great cat. It was a raw, animal kind of beauty now. Fierce and strong and nothing like cold.

  And maybe that was the worst part about it.

  There was something about the way he hit the bag that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. His punches were precise and yet there was a wildness to the energy around him, a hot, violent energy. His lips were peeled back in a grimace, his expressionless features drawn in tight, fierce lines. As if the bag were the source of all evil and he was trying to beat it to death with his fists.

  That was the problem with extreme cold and extreme heat. Sometimes it was difficult to tell them apart.

  She’d stood there watching him, absolutely mesmerized, forgetting what she’d even come here to ask, so she’d said the first thing that had entered her head, a question about how he’d known about Griffin.

  The explanation about his father seemed strange to her, since although she’d met Noah and even had a nice five-minute conversation about art with him, she couldn’t even begin to guess why he’d given his son the charge of protecting her. Even given Griffin’s link with his enemy.

  It seemed … strange.

  That Lucas had simply accepted the responsibility without argument had also seemed strange. Then again, maybe not. He was a soldier—no, scratch that, he was Navy, which made him a sailor—and following orders was what a military man did.

  You should probably get out of here now.

  Lucas launched one more punch into the bag and she found herself watching the lithe grace of him, fluid and elegant, the flex and release of his muscles its own sensual poetry.

  She still couldn’t believe she’d put her arms around him out there and given him a hug. She’d just been filled by the most intense gratitude that he’d gone and rescued her canvases. That they weren’t going to be left to be torn apart or destroyed by whoever was after her, because people could be so destructive after all. No, the canvases would be saved, because Lucas had decided to go get them for her and bring them here. And not only that, he’d brought all her art supplies with him.

  For some reason, he’d changed his mind for her, and since he didn’t seem to want to hear her thanks, she’d let him know in other ways. With a hug.

  Except as soon as she’d put her arms around him she’d realized she’d done the wrong thing. He’d gone rigid in her arms, his muscles locking up tight, holding himself so still and stiff it had been like hugging a marble statue. And that antsy feeling that had gripped her in her apartment when he’d held her up against the wall had gripped her again. Restless and hot. Making her want to press her palms to the hard plane of his chest, push against it, test it. Peel away the black leather and see what he looked like underneath.

  Which was wrong. Very, very wrong.

  She hadn’t been able to let go fast enough.

  Over by the punching bag, Lucas let his fists drop and he turned toward the doorway. Despite the gleam of sweat on his skin, he wasn’t even breathing hard. His eyes seemed to burn a very intense blue, as if punching the bag had gotten rid of all the ice in them.

  “You should leave,” he said shortly. “I need to finish my workout.”

  A wave of heat went through her, making her feel like her cheeks were on fire, though why she should be blushing so fiercely she had absolutely no idea.

  “Sure, okay.” She ran a distracted hand through her hair. “I just need to know … if there’s anything I’m supposed to do.”

  “Stay inside.”

  “Stay inside? That’s it?”

  He raised a hand and wiped the back of it across his forehead. “I can’t have you going outside and giving away the fact that you’re here, so yeah, that’s pretty much it.”

  Grace scowled. “But I’ve got a job to go to. Tonight in actual fact.”

  “Leave it to me. I’ll handle it.”

  “What do you mean you’ll handle it?”

  “I mean, I’ll be calling them to hand in your resignation.”

  He said the words like they meant nothing, as if it were no big deal to leave a job that was all that was standing between her and having to leave her little apartment. Her earlier gratitude suddenly drained away like water out of a cracked bucket.

  “What?” She had a horrible feeling her voice had cracked just like that bucket had. “I can’t resign!”

  Lucas raised a blond brow as if he didn�
��t like her tone. “I have no idea how long it’s going take me to get those men off your tail and ensure your safety. And until that happens, you’re not going anywhere.”

  Understanding began to sink through her. Of the reality of her situation and what it was going to mean. The past couple of hours had passed in such a blur she hadn’t really had time to think about it, but now …

  “But I can’t resign,” she repeated, quieter this time.

  “Will they give you time off indefinitely then?”

  She swallowed. “No.”

  “Then you have no option but to hand in your notice.”

  Grace opened her mouth. Then closed it, panic beginning to wind its fingers around her throat. This was all happening way, way too fast and she didn’t like it.

  “If I resign I have no money,” she forced out. “And if I have no money I can’t pay my rent. What the hell am I going to do?”

  As per usual, his expression betrayed no reaction. “What about your housing allowance?”

  “It’s not enough. It only lasts a year, which means I only have it for another six months anyway.” Her panic began to deepen.

  When Griffin had been alive, his pay had been enough to keep them in modest comfort while she worked part-time in various different jobs, earning her the money to buy her art supplies. But now he was gone, her widow’s pension and her own part-time earnings were barely enough to pay the bills, let alone buy any new paints.

  She tried not to let it worry her, because if worse came to worst she could always work full-time in the bar. That would leave her no time to paint of course, but maybe it wouldn’t be for long.

  What didn’t help was the memory of her childhood, of being poor, of being dragged from state to state as her father took on temporary, often seasonal work that barely paid enough for rent and food, let alone the art supplies he needed. “It’ll all be worth it,” he’d told her once, when she’d been small and had complained about not being able to get a new dress she’d liked. “Once Daddy sells a few more paintings.” That had been before poverty and lack of success had made him bitter, had made him mean.