by Claire Adams
BILLIONAIRE’S CINDERELLA
By Claire Adams
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 Claire Adams
Get Each of My Newly Released Books for 99 Cents By Clicking Here
Like me on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Claire-Adams/547513332025338
Newsletter: – Click here to get an email as soon as the next book in the series is available.
Click here to get my book Swipe for free
Click here to get Book #1 Billionaire Christmas for Limited Time Price
Click here to get Book #2 Billionaire’s Princess for Limited Time Price
CHAPTER ONE
Kiara
The lawns started getting larger before giving way to large tracts of land divided by impeccable hedges and wrought iron gates. My fingers tightened on the steering wheel as I took the turn towards my childhood home. My tiny, attic apartment in Brooklyn seemed like a dream as I drove along the Long Island road. I fought the urge to swing the car into a tight U-turn.
It was easier to pretend in Brooklyn because no one was really looking. Here, everyone took one glance at me and realized I didn't belong. Poor Kiara Davies, the girl who wore her brother's hand-me-down jeans to school. The one whose fancy address was the joke of Long Island. Here, everyone knew the long, unkempt driveway led to nothing but a pine board cottage so old another cobweb could cause its collapse.
My phone rang. "Daniel? I'm so sorry. Did you get my message? I had to leave right away for Long Island."
"Yes, Kiara, I got your message at the last minute. And everything worked out with the reservation." Daniel's cultured voice had an edge.
I accelerated as I rushed to apologize again. "I'm so sorry I had to cancel. It was just such short notice and, ah, our handyman is out of town."
"Luckily, I'm taking the head of marketing out to dinner. Father thinks I'm finally showing some initiative." Daniel paused to let his quick thinking impress me. "Did you call a driver?"
I frowned over the rusted hood of my old pickup truck. "No. I decided to drive myself. It might be nothing."
"Well, your father was right: there was a big storm a few days ago. I hope the house is not too badly damaged."
I bit my lip to stop from saying I hoped the whole house had been blown into the Atlantic Ocean. Then, I had to slam on the brakes. The four-way stop by the gas station had come up quicker than I’d thought it would, and one tired squealed as I ground the old pickup to a stop.
"What was that?" Daniel asked, alarmed.
"It was-" I started to say “nothing,” but a car slammed into me from behind. The pickup truck careened sideways through the intersection and crunched into the base of the gas station sign.
The old-fashioned sign creaked as it swung above my head, and I held my breath. Knowing my luck, it would crash down at any second and smash the rest of the junked-out truck.
"Are you okay?" two voices asked at once.
I blinked and realized I had to answer the police officer at my window before I located my phone and answered an irritated Daniel.
The officer was young, his black hair shiny as he poked his head through the broken window to see if I was bleeding. I held up both arms and turned my head to prove I was uninjured, then I pushed the officer back and kicked open the door.
"Here's my insurance and the number for my lawyer. They can sort it all out." The other driver smoothed down his Polo shirt and barely glanced at the warped hood of his sports car. "If you don't mind, my friends there are going to give me a lift. We've got a party to get to."
The police officer scowled, but said nothing. He'd been coached to ignore the behavior of the neighbors unless they were blatantly breaking the law. All the complaints and lawyers were too big of a hassle for their small department, and he was constantly reminded his number-one job was to keep the peace. It might have bothered him that letting the rich kid walk away from the scene of an accident was considered “keeping the peace,” but he said nothing as the carload of party-goers sped away.
I turned to survey my pickup truck and blinked back hot, stinging tears. The back bumper was crumpled and hanging down to the asphalt. The bed of the truck was bowed, and the left wheel well was smashed in far enough that it pressed into the tire.
"Don't worry," the police officer said, "I'll call you a cab."
"No, no. It's fine," I said.
"I can't let you drive that vehicle, miss. I've got a cab driver that can be here in ten minutes."
I heard the familiar hum of another sports car flying towards the gas station intersection. "No, thanks."
How could I tell the police officer that one cab ride, even just a few miles down the road, would wipe out my entire bank account? That didn't fit the profile of the neighborhood. My only hope was to catch a ride with the next bunch of party-goers. I moved around the wreck of my pickup truck and ran my fingers through my long, loose hair.
I had a smile all ready, but when the electric-blue Tesla came into sight, my expression went blank.
Teddy Brickman leaned over a sequined-spangled supermodel and called out the window, "Everything all right here? Need a lift?"
"No. Thanks. He's calling me a cab." I struggled to talk around the lump in my throat.
His blue eyes were as bright as the blinding paint job on his car. "You sure?"
"Cab's already on its way." The young police officer came to stand next to me. The two men sized each other up, despite residing on entirely different planets.
"All right then. Nice to see you around again." Teddy hit the accelerator and tore through the intersection, leaving nothing behind but the wispy giggles of his supermodel companion.
"You know Mr. Brickman?" the police officer asked before he caught himself.
"Once upon a time," I muttered. I was too busy doing the calculations in my head to think about Teddy Brickman and his far-reaching reputation. What did it matter that I grew up side-by-side with one of the richest playboys on the Eastern Seaboard if I couldn't even tip a cab-driver without overdrawing my bank account?
"I'm sorry about your truck, miss."
"Kiara Davies," I said as I tried the math again.
"Did you want me to tow the truck any place special, Ms. Davies?" The young officer hovered nearby as I wrenched open the truck door and dug around for my purse and phone.
Daniel had hung up long ago, and I wondered if he would call back. All he really knew about me was my address. I was sure once Daniel Finley, Harvard grad and sole heir to his father's textiles empire, found out I was dirt poor, he wouldn't ever call again.
"She can leave the truck here." Two men from the gas station ambled over to access my truck.
I smiled and raced to give old Jim a hug. "I don't think it's worth saving this time."
"I'm not having your father come back from Afghanistan to find we scrapped his favorite truck." He nudged his son. "Stop staring."
Jim Jr. cleared his throat, but could not take his eyes off me. "Nice to see you again."
"You live around here?" The young officer jockeyed to get back in my sight lines. "I would give you a lift, but we're not allowed."
"I'm just here for the night," I said, hoping it would turn
out to be true.
Then the cab pulled up, and my heart sank. After I paid for the cab ride, I would have to wait for my paycheck to clear before I could afford to get back to Brooklyn. How was I going to explain that to my bosses?
"I'll give you a ride," Jim Jr. said.
"No. You're already doing me a huge favor by taking this hunk of junk in. I'll be fine." I smiled at the men and slipped into the back of the cab.
"I could have helped," Jim Jr. muttered as the cab pulled away with me inside.
Old Jim laughed. "If she said she'll be fine, then she'll be fine. She's a Davies, son; probably the toughest one of the whole bunch."
I almost believed that until the cab-driver bumped along the overgrown driveway and finally caught sight of the homely, little cottage.
"This is it?" he asked. "Crazy. I mean, your neighbors have cars bigger than this place."
"Thanks." I got out of the cab and considered lowering the driver's tip.
"You could sell this place and make a fortune."
I sighed and gave the driver everything I had left. "My family doesn't take easy outs."
It was true. After my great-grandfather squandered the family fortune down to nothing but a plot of land on Long Island, the Davies had gone a different way. My grandfather built the cottage and then enlisted in the United States Marine Corps. He ensured future generations would have a respectable address and a name to be proud of.
I was certain my grandfather intended his offspring to use the opportunities he gave them, but they felt the need to follow in his footsteps. Both my father and brother were Marines. If my mother hadn't wrung a promise out of all of us before she succumbed to cancer, I would have enlisted, as well.
Instead, I was alone, facing the tiny scrap of a cottage by myself.
My phone rang. "Daniel?"
"What was all of that? Are you all right? I had to step away from the table to call you back. Did I tell you the head of marketing is here with me?"
"I'm sorry. It was just a fender-bender."
"Well, you should have said something." Daniel gave an exasperated sigh. "Did you at least make it home?"
I started towards the cottage. "Yes. I'm just going to assess the storm damage and head back as soon as… Oh, I should have known!"
"Kiara, for goodness sake, don't yell into the phone. I'm in the lobby of Raffey's. What are people going to think?"
"I'm sorry, Daniel. It's just there isn't any storm damage, at all." I strode around the outside of the cottage as the anger built up inside me. "It looks like my stepsisters were here and threw a huge party."
"Is that all?" Daniel sniffed. "How about you tell me all about it when you get back."
"Sure. I mean, yes. Go back to your dinner. And, thanks for calling." I hung up the phone and kicked a red, plastic cup across the lawn.
Two beer kegs stood abandoned at the foot of the back porch steps. An avalanche of furniture spread out across the lawn down towards the ocean views. My step-sisters had hauled everything outside to make a dance floor in the tiny living room. Two dining room chairs held up a closet door that supported a wide array of liquors. I marched past the makeshift bar and peered inside a splattered window.
Someone had sprayed sticky champagne all over the windows and left the bottle balanced precariously on a bookshelf. More books had been hauled from the shelf and arranged on the scuffed dining room table to form some sort of drinking game. Spills, empty cups, and wadded-up balls of paper littered the whole room.
I turned and walked blindly away from the mess. My stepsisters, fueled by a very small trust fund their mother gave them, did nothing but leave messes for me to clean up. My father's second marriage had only lasted until his next tour, but it was long enough to leave us saddled with the wild twins. Their mother was away in Europe, charming men who lived in palaces. While that abandonment forged a kinship between us stepsisters, it wasn't enough to tame the younger girls.
Cursing my stepsisters without really being able to blame them, I bumped into the split-rail fence at the edge of the property. From there, the long, tangled grass gave way to the smooth, manicured lawns of the Brickman Estate. In a moment of weakness, I let my eyes travel up to the castle-like silhouette of my neighbor's palatial home.
"I should just ask Teddy for the money and get out of here," I muttered, but I was already shaking my head.
Far away across the sweeping lawns, a figure on the wide portico waved at me. I turned my back on him and sighed. There was only one thing I could do, and it wasn't beg charity from a obscenely rich neighbor.
Instead, I rolled up my sleeves and marched back to the cottage, picking up bits of the party-wreckage along the way.
My back was aching from hauling the furniture back inside, but everything was finally back in order. All the garbage was bagged up. The windows were scrubbed inside and out. The countertops were polished, and the kitchen was gleaming. I rubbed my neck, but surveyed the transformation with a small glow of pride.
It didn't matter that my errant step-sisters were refusing to answer my calls. The damage was repaired and everything was back to normal.
Except my life.
I didn't even know where to start with cleaning up my life. My grand plan of law school and a respectable career kept getting sideswiped by the twins. My law internship was already in serious jeopardy because of all the days off I had been forced to take and now this weekend was going to have to be extended.
My stomach clenched from the stress, but also let out of a growl of hunger. At least that was one thing I could fix. I headed down the back porch steps and into the garden.
When my mother was ill, I had planted the garden all on my own. The doctors had recommended a fresh and healthy diet to help her fight the cancer, despite her lack of interest in food. Though I had only been ten years old, I had learned to cook well enough to entice her even on her worst days.
"Bet a little fresh salmon would go well with that salad," a creaky old voice called.
Donna Martin, the ancient head chef from my other neighboring estate, shuffled through the gate in the split-rail fence. The gate was always open, and I smiled as she handed me a basket full of choice fillets.
"I saw your lights on." She was retired now and living in a cozy suite of rooms in the wing of the house that overlooked our property.
"You called my father about the party," I said. My father had lied to me about the storm damage because our conversation had to be quick and to the point. We had lost the overseas connection too many times to have real talks.
"I should have just called the police," Donna said with a shake of her white, fluffy hair.
"What you should do is come in for dinner." I helped her up the porch steps and then pulled the older woman into a tight hug. "I'm glad to see you."
"Oh, Kiara. I'm glad you're home." Donna blinked back tears and bustled into the cottage's tight kitchen. “Tell me all about law school."
Her shrewd smile meant she wouldn't believe me, but I told her, anyway. "I love it. My internship is really interesting."
"Interesting? People say Boy Brickman's new car is interesting because he gets a new one every week," Donna told me as she heated olive oil in a pan.
I laughed. She always called Teddy “Boy” and would until he proved himself to be a man by Donna's high standards.
"Law school is a lot of memorizing and a lot of paperwork," I admitted.
"So when are you going to follow your real passion?" she asked. She showed me how to fry up the fresh sage along with the salmon.
"Follow my real passion? That sounds like something only the idle rich can do."
"They wouldn't know how. All that money just gets in the way." Donna left the pan to sizzle as she turned to me. "You're allowed to be happy, Kiara."
I stood up straighter. "I am happy. I'm studying for the bar. I have an affordable apartment in Brooklyn. And, I met a very nice young man. He's a Harvard grad."
Donna's eyes sharpened. "So ar
e about half of them. Doesn't mean they're good enough for you."
I glanced out the window where Donna had nodded. The Brickman Estate was buzzing with sports cars, and every light in the forty-eight room mansion was blazing. The thumps and bass line of the loud party music drifted in and out of my cottage with the breeze.
I changed the subject back to food, and we spent our dinner ignoring the ever-increasing sounds of the party. Finally, Donna strained to her feet and shuffled down the back porch steps. Just as she reached the gate and gave me one final wave, my phone rang.
"Mr. Jason," I gasped. "Did you try to call me earlier? I'm so sorry. Are you still at the office? I finished my report on the Curtis deposition."
"No, Kiara. I thought it best to have this conversation after I'd left the office. I didn't want us to get interrupted."
I gripped the railing of the back porch. "Is everything all right?"
"Your work has been passable, Kiara, and we appreciate it. The real problem is, how should I say it? Your lack of passion for the law."
"Passion?" I asked with a hysterical edge to my voice. "I thought practicing law was more about professionalism than passion."
"True, yes. Your recent absences have created a less than professional reputation, but it is more your lack of passion that makes you the wrong fit for our firm." Mr. Jason's voice was steady.
"The wrong fit? Are you firing me?" I asked before the breath was squeezed out of my lungs by panic.
"We'll pay you through the end of the month to give you time to find a better fit. Good luck, Ms. Davies."
The phone line went dead. A wave of relief washed over me, but I quickly shook it off. Not only was I broke, but now I had no job. I couldn't even turn back to the cottage because the thought of disappointing…no one.
My eyes dried instantly, and I turned to face the empty cottage. I didn't even have anyone to disappoint. I was all alone.
The thought hung over me like a heavy cloud as I cleaned up the kitchen and did the calculations in my head. I would be stuck on Long Island for at least another 48 hours while my paycheck cleared. Then, I could afford a ride-share back to Brooklyn.
