Blame It on the Billionaire

by Naima Simone

  So this was how the one percent lived.

  Enlightening.

  And intimidating as hell.

  Finally, the guard ended his conversation and glanced down at her.

  “Mr. Webber is currently in the first men’s room in the east wing. He instructed you to meet him there.” He turned and pointed toward the rear of the foyer and a corridor that branched off to the right. “If you’ll follow that hall to the end, make another right. The men’s restroom is the last door on the left.”

  “Thank you.”

  Relief poured through her as she marched forward, ready to have her errand done so she could return to real life. Which didn’t include this uncomfortable tumbling in her stomach.

  Well, her life in Chicago didn’t include it. In Tatumville, she’d been intimate with this feeling—this sense of not belonging, of not being worthy. When you were the daughter of the town Jezebel, who was also a drunk, people tended to stuff you in the “won’t amount to much” box. But when Nadia and Ezra left her hometown and started over in Chicago, she’d vowed never to let anything, or anyone, make her feel that insignificant again.

  The music drifted away until she could barely hear it as she traveled down the hall. Her cell phone buzzed in her jeans pocket, and she paused to fish it out. A grimace crossed her face as she read the text.

  Terrance Webber: Where are you, Nadia? I need the shirt ASAP. They’re about to serve dinner.

  Inhaling a deep breath, she held it for several seconds, then slowly released it. Being snippy with the boss was a definite no-no.

  Nadia: I just arrived. I’ll be at the restroom in a minute.

  She typed the reply and started walking, tucking the phone in her back pocket. The sooner she got this over with the bet—

  “Oof.”

  The air barreled out of her lungs as she slammed into the wall that had just sprung up in the middle of the corridor. She stumbled back several steps, and the garment bag tumbled from her fingers. Big, strong hands gripped her forearms, steadying her before she could follow Mr. Webber’s shirt to the floor.

  “Thank you. I’m sorry about...that...”

  Her words dried up on her tongue as she met a unique gaze. Heterochromia, it was called. She’d looked it up soon after starting her job. One vivid, sky blue eye, and one forest green. Startling and beautiful. And only one man she knew possessed it.

  Grayson Chandler. President of KayCee Corp. Her employer.

  And the man she’d been secretly lusting after for over a year.

  Oh, God. Surely You couldn’t be so cruel.

  But as Grayson cocked his head to the side and skimmed his gaze from her face, down her body and back up, she had to admit that yes, indeed, God might have a mean streak. Otherwise, why else would He allow her to come face-to-face with this beautiful man while she looked like something that had been dragged over home plate a couple of times?

  He bent down and snagged the forgotten garment bag from the floor. Standing, he offered it to her, a smile quirking the corner of his mouth. Wow...that mouth. Full, sensual with a deep dip in the center of the top lip. Her fingers itched to trace it, to test the softness. She shivered, and from the narrowing of his eyes, she didn’t think he missed it.

  “I’ve heard of Cinderella showing up late to the ball clothed in a beautiful gown. But not with her dress in tow.” He held the bag out to her, arching an eyebrow. “I think you need an upgrade in fairy godmothers.”

  “Yes, well, Cinderella was high-maintenance,” she murmured, accepting the luggage.

  A sharp bark of laughter escaped him, and from the slight widening of his eyes and the surprise flashing through the blue-and-green depths, it seemed the crack of amusement caught him off guard. Join the club.

  “And you’re not high-maintenance?” he asked, slipping his hands into his tuxedo pants.

  The movement opened his black jacket, offering a glimpse of his pristine white shirt stretched across a broad, powerful chest and flat abdomen. Heat tangled in her belly, and she fought the urge to cover it with her hand. As if that futile gesture could contain it.

  “You would be the first, then,” he said. Before she could respond to that loaded statement and the hint of bitterness in it, he continued. “I’ve never met the anti-Cinderella before, and I have to admit I’m curious. After you change, will you allow me to escort you to the ballroom?”

  Mortification swelled inside her chest, scorching a path up her throat and pouring into her face. It figured that when she stepped into a fairy tale and met Prince Charming, instead of being the bejeweled, beautifully gowned princess, she was the poor scullery maid. Only thing missing was the ash on her face.

  Clutching Mr. Webber’s shirt tighter, she hiked up her chin. She might be embarrassed, but damn if she’d show it. “Actually, I’m only here to drop off this shirt for my supervisor. He’s the guest, not me.”

  He frowned. “It’s Saturday. Aren’t you off the clock?”

  She shrugged. “Technically. But when the boss calls...”

  “Are you getting paid overtime for this little errand?” he pressed.

  She didn’t reply. They both knew the answer. And judging by the darkening of his eyes, from irritated to thunderous, he didn’t like it. Why did that send a thrill tripping down her spine? Especially when it was Grayson’s employee who had delivered the order for her to be here? She refused to analyze the first or share the second.

  “What’s your supervisor’s name?” he asked. No, demanded. The hard, flat tone brooked no refusal. Again, that trickle of excitement, only this time it sizzled, arousal hardening her nipples, clenching her belly...pooling heavy between her legs.

  She didn’t do controlling men. Not after the childhood she’d experienced and all the things she’d witnessed between her mother and her “boyfriends.” In many ways, Grayson reminded her of those men. Rich. Handsome. Pillars of the community. Respectable. Untouchable. Except for furtive meetings with her mother in the alleys behind bars or in the back seats of expensive cars.

  Yes, he bore more than enough resemblance to those hypocrites that she should shy away from him. But from the first, Nadia had been drawn to his lovely mismatched eyes, the sharp angles of his cheekbones, nose and jaw. The carnal perfection and temptation of his mouth. The tall, elegant frame with wide shoulders and chest, a tapered waist and long, powerful legs.

  But unlike those men who’d ignored her mother on Main Street but couldn’t get enough of her on back streets, Grayson seemed to possess a core of integrity. The few times they’d run into each other since she’d started working at KayCee Corp, he’d been nothing but respectful, his gaze not dipping to linger on her generous breasts or her equally generous ass. He’d never uttered sly innuendo or propositioned her. It’d been...refreshing. And had only deepened her schoolgirl crush.

  Yet none of that justified her reaction to that implacable, disobey-and-bear-the-consequences tone. Or explained why she imagined him clasping her chin in his big hand, holding her still for a hard, hungry kiss while cuffing her arms above her head.

  Arousal rippled through her, and she clenched her thighs.

  “Cinderella,” he said, stepping closer, while she stared up at him like prey caught in the unblinking stare of a predator on the hunt. “His name.”

  “W-why?” she stammered. Oh, for God’s sake. She tipped her head up, drawing her shoulders back. “Why do you want to know?”

  Why do you care?

  “So I can have a very civil conversation with him about taking advantage of his employees and not compensating them for their time. To discuss how not to abuse one’s position of power over another, including expecting them to be at one’s beck and call.”

  “There’re a lot of ‘one’s’ up in there,” she grumbled. Shaking her head, she ignored the curl at the corner of his mouth, and the warmth it caused to slide thr
ough her veins. Like liquid sunshine. And all because she’d made him smile. Somewhat. Good Lord, woman. Get it together. “I can’t do that. One, I need my job, and two, it’s no big deal.” Even though it kind of was.

  “Oh, but it is,” he purred, mirroring her thoughts. “And you don’t have to worry about your job, Cinderella. Whoever he is wouldn’t dare to fire you.”

  The arrogance and satisfaction in his assurance shouldn’t have been sexy, but damn, it so was. Even the fact that he didn’t remember her, though they’d met a handful of times, couldn’t diminish the desire he stirred in her. Did it sting? Oh yes, and more than a little. But she worked for his company, not for him directly. And if life had taught her anything, it was to be realistic. Men who were constantly photographed with sophisticated, slender, gorgeous socialites, actresses and models wouldn’t notice a small-town, curvy, unassuming secretary.

  So yes, him not recognizing her made sense. Still hurt, though. Every woman—even Cinderella—longed to be memorable. Especially to the man who starred in her every dark, sweaty, erotic dream.

  “I appreciate your concern, but my lips are sealed, and I really need to—”

  “What would it take to unseal them?” he murmured, and she stiffened, shock winging through her as his gaze dropped to her mouth. And stayed there.

  Nervous, she sank her teeth into her bottom lip, and something flashed in his eyes. On another man, she would’ve labeled it lust. But not him. Never him.

  “Tell me what I need to do. What you need me to give you,” he added.

  Her apparently filthy mind supplied answer after answer, and none of them had to do with clean shirts, bosses’ names or uncompensated time.

  She cleared her throat. “I don’t—”

  The hallway plunged into darkness.

  “What the fuck?” Grayson snapped.

  Yes. What the fuck indeed.

  Three

  “Any word yet?”

  Grayson glanced down at the woman sitting on the floor of the hallway. The light from his cell phone revealed her back pressed to the wall, her long, entirely-too-gorgeous legs stretched out in front of her and crossed at the ankles. Jesus, what this woman did for denim...

  Dragging his attention away from the siren’s call of her thighs, he returned it to the cell in his hand. “Citywide blackout,” he replied, his voice rougher, more abrasive than usual. Unexpected, and inconvenient, lust clawed at him. “I wasn’t able to get any calls out, but I managed a couple of texts. According to my friend, the police are advising everyone to stay where they are. Which won’t be a problem for us. It seems the tech guru who owns this mansion installed a state-of-the-art security system that has now malfunctioned, locking us all inside.” Grayson shook his head. He’d met the man earlier. The guy epitomized the definition of “book sense but no common sense.” As the grandiose house and the money spent on it testified. “So until the blackout is over, and power is restored, we’re trapped here.”

  Quickly, he typed out a text to his parents, but it didn’t go through. Damn. But at least he knew they were safe somewhere in this building.

  “Shoot,” she muttered, thrusting her hand through her thick brown hair.

  No, not brown. That was a woefully inadequate description for the beautiful blending of auburn and shades of copper and chestnut.

  “Yes, I’m afraid you’re stuck with me for the foreseeable future,” he drawled, lowering to the floor and setting his cell phone between them, so the flashlight app created a small, dim circle of light. Drawing his legs up and propping his wrists on his knees, he glanced at her. “Look on the bright side. I could be your supervisor.”

  He chewed up the word supervisor, angry still at the thought of the nameless, faceless man. What spoiled, selfish asshole made his employee traipse all the way out to the Gold Coast to bring him a shirt on the weekend? She still hadn’t revealed his identity, but he intended to find out. And when he did, Grayson would enjoy throwing around his last name to put the fear of God in the man. No, the fear of a Chandler.

  “Good point,” she agreed absently. But then a smile lit her face, and a peculiar and unwelcome catch snagged in his chest. Forget the light from his phone, the beauty of that smile could illuminate the entire building. Hell, the Chicago skyline. “Oh, thank God. He’s safe.”

  “Who’s safe?” he asked, because screw it, he was curious about her. Any woman who showed up to the DuSable City Gala in a leather jacket and skinny jeans was way more interesting than one in a gown and jewels.

  At first, he didn’t think she’d answer, but after a moment, she said, “My brother. I left him at his baseball game, but he’s at a friend’s house instead of on the road.”

  “Did you try reaching your parents? Just in case he wasn’t able to contact them?” Almost as soon as the words exited his mouth, he wanted to snatch them back. Emotions flickered across her face, there and gone before he could decipher them. Well, except for one. Pain.

  “It’s just my brother Ezra and me,” she said, tone flat.

  He recognized that particular note. Too well.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured, curling his fingers into his palms until the short nails bit into the flesh. It was either that or erase the distance between them and cup her too-lovely face. “I know the pain of losing someone, too.”

  Her eyes, as dark as espresso, softened. She shook her head. “No, I’m sorry for your loss.” If he hadn’t been studying her so closely he might’ve missed the slight shift of her hand from her lap. As if she, too, considered touching him, but decided not to at the last moment. “My parents aren’t dead. They’re just not...here. I’m my brother’s guardian, and we moved to Chicago a little over a year ago. It’s just us.”

  More questions piled into his head, his curiosity about this beautiful woman insatiable. That in itself should’ve alarmed him. The last woman to elicit even a tenth of this magnetic pull had left his heart and pride battered and bruised.

  Still, she’d satisfied a small piece of his curiosity. That honeyed drawl. Definitely not a clipped, flatter Chicago tone. She hadn’t mentioned where she’d moved from, but he’d bet his favorite bottle of Glenlivet that she’d lived somewhere hot and south of the Mason-Dixon Line. The slightly exaggerated vowels and soft consonants flowed over his skin like a heated caress. He had the insane urge to strip naked and let it touch every inch of him.

  He shook his head as if he could somehow dislodge the thought. Yet...he couldn’t stop his gaze from roaming over her features. When he’d first bumped into her, he’d focused on steadying her and keeping her from falling backward. But when she’d lifted her head, he’d been struck dumb for the first time in his life.

  Years ago, he’d started boxing as a way to release aggression and get some exercise. He clearly remembered the first time he’d had his bell rung by a sparring opponent. The other guy’s fist had plowed into Grayson’s stomach, blasting the air from his lungs, leaving his legs rubbery and his head spinning. When he’d peered into this woman’s dark brown eyes and beautiful face, he’d been back kneeling on that mat again.

  Long-lashed eyes that turned up at the corners. Regal cheekbones to match the almost patrician slope of her nose with its flared nostrils. Below, her wide, full, utterly perfect mouth had him fighting the urge to press his thumb to it. Just to feel the softness of that slightly heavier bottom lip that formed a natural pout. That mouth would inspire both worshipful poems and dirty limericks.

  Then there was her body.

  Even the worn leather jacket, simple white T-shirt and ripped skinny jeans couldn’t detract from the lushness of her curves. If anything, the plain clothes emphasized the miracle that was her body. Tall, even in gym shoes, the top of her head brushed the underside of his jaw. Strong but slender shoulders. Beautiful, firm breasts that would more than fill his hands—and God, did he want to find out for himself if that were true. A tuc
ked-in waist that accentuated the wide flare of hips that had his palms tingling to cradle her—hell, degenerate that he was, he wanted to dig his fingers into her...leave his prints behind on that flesh. Impossibly long, thick legs and that ass. He briefly closed his eyes. God only gave asses like that to those He really loved... He must love the hell out of her. Round. High. Flawless. Made to be adored.

  Yes, Grayson’s first glimpse of her had pummeled the sense from his head and ignited his body like a struck match tossed in a pool of gasoline. Not even Adalyn had garnered that reaction from him.

  And sitting here with this woman in a private world carved out of darkness, he couldn’t deny that he wanted her. Wanted to feel her breath on his lips, his skin. Wanted to taste her mouth, taste that golden almond skin, discover its flavor for himself. Wanted to feel those abundant curves pressed to his larger, harder frame, adhered to him by sweat and lust.

  The clawing desire also had him mentally scooting back.

  Nothing that powerful could be good. Especially for him and his addictive personality. During his teens, it’d been the excess afforded him by his parents’ wealth and social status. Later it’d been women. Then he’d poured that intensity and driving need into founding and building KayCee Corp. And then into Adalyn.

  Yeah, he sensed that he could become wildly addicted to the woman next to him, whose vanilla and earthy scent—like fresh wind after a summer storm—reached out to him, tempted him. Hell, a woman whose name he didn’t even know.

  And that scared the hell out of him.

  And yet...

  “What’s your name?” he demanded.

  Her hesitation was brief, but he still caught it.

  “Nadia,” she said.

  “Nice to meet you, Nadia,” he murmured, stretching his hand out toward her. “Grayson.”

  Again, she paused. But then, she slid her palm into his. And when an electrical charge sizzled up his arm and straight to his cock, he instantly regretted touching her. Only pride kept him from jerking his hand away.