Billionaire With a Twist 2 Read online

  Polite chuckles drifted across the grounds.

  “But when I say that this piece needs no introduction—” Somehow, in that huge crowd, Hunter’s eyes found mine, and held them. “I mean it. Ladies and gentlemen, just watch the damn film.”

  Genuine laughter this time, quickly hushed as the audience turned their attentive gazing to the wide screen behind him. I gazed too, somehow certain that between the last time I had viewed the reel and now, some terrible flaw had crept in.

  It opened with the shot of a sun rising, the grizzled voice of an old man saying, “First time I drank Knox bourbon? Well, I reckon they don’t make history books go back that far. But damn me if that taste ain’t the same…goes down smooth, like the tears of an angel…”

  And then I knew it would be just perfect.

  #

  The crowd applauded heavily at the film’s conclusion, and I scanned them quickly, looking for allies and enemies. The Douchebros were the only ones not applauding at all, but besides them I’d estimate at least eighty percent of the audience was enthusiastic in their response.

  We’d done it. We’d really done it. We’d shown everyone what we could do.

  “Thank you!” Hunter called out over the cheers. “Thank you, everyone, for that wonderful show of support. Of course, I couldn’t have done it without Allison Bartlett, a vital proponent of this new branding strategy and an advertising genius!”

  Had I thought I felt good before? It was nothing compared to how good I felt now.

  I flashed a smile up at him and kept scanning the crowd. Happy face, happy face, intrigued face, intrigued happy face, concern—concern?

  My stomach dropped.

  Oh no.

  The concerned face belonged to a board member. And it was right next to a lot of other concerned faces that also belonged to, you guessed it: board members.

  The group was clumped around Ms. Standish who I had been talking to earlier. I couldn’t hear what they were saying; even if it hadn’t been so loud, it looked like they were whispering. Their gestures were urgent but abbreviated, as if they were trying to keep them from being seen.

  I started to make my way casually over, intending to accidentally-on-purpose interrupt their cabal, but before I was halfway there they broke apart and tromped over to the stage, clumping once again around Hunter.

  I gave up all pretense of being casual and increased my speed, trotting over just in time to hear, “We need to talk to you inside, Mr. Knox.”

  “I’m coming too!” I threw in.

  Several of the board members started, not having seen me, but Ms. Standish just surveyed me and then nodded shrewdly. “I think that’d be best.”

  I followed them inside, wishing I could take Hunter’s hand for comfort.

  What the hell was going on?

  #

  Chuck.

  That goddamn motherfucker Chuck was what was going on.

  He leaned back in Hunter’s luxurious black leather armchair, sprawling out over it as if he owned it and everything else in the manor. “It’s quite simple. We’ve decided to remove Hunter as CEO and go in a different direction with the rebrand.”

  I felt the floor falling out from underneath me. Anger and disbelief warred in my brain. “No, you can’t!”

  “Damn right you can’t,” Hunter snapped, his fury cold and hard. “What the hell are you thinking springing this, Chuck?”

  A board member shuffled her feet nervously. “This does seem a bit sudden, Charles. Perhaps if we took some time to reconsider…”

  Chuck sighed regretfully. “You know I can’t do that, Irma. Not when the whole future of the company could be at stake.”

  Irma sighed and looked back down again, cowed.

  “There are rules, Chuck,” Hunter said, his voice ice. “There has to be a majority vote, there has to be a good reason—”

  “There’s the very best of reasons,” Hunter said. “Oh, you tried to bury it, but Allison’s colleagues very obligingly dug it up for me. Remember Slade, Inc.?”

  Hunter went still.

  What had the Douchebros done now?

  “The board doesn’t have your sterling memory, of course,” Chuck went on. “So I refreshed it, in the emergency meeting we had just now. Showed them all the evidence, all the meeting notes and memorandums which that young Chad fellow so enterprisingly fished up, all detailing how you drove that company into the ground in your reckless need to prove you were worth something out of the shadow of your grandfather. And you did it the same way you’re doing it to Knox, refusing to listen to the concerns of your board while proceeding with a costly advertising strategy that will strangle Knox Liquors like a noose and utterly deplete the profit margins.”

  “Now, see here,” another board member cut in gruffly. “No need to be melodramatic. We just had some concerns. You tried a risky new strategy there with no statistical backing, and Chuck tells me you’re going with another untested one here, and well, I have to give a vote of no confidence.”

  Chuck stood, hands clasped behind his back, his face mournful. “You’re a great kid, Hunter, you really are. I wanted to give you a chance. I looked everywhere for evidence that you could be trusted in such a high position—” he turned, meeting my eyes with a sly smile only I could see, “but even your ad exec doesn’t have faith in you.”

  I gaped, dumbfounded. “What…what do you…?”

  “‘He wants to run everything himself,’” he quoted. “‘He thinks the family name is sacred, that he’s a missionary.’ Does that sound like someone concerned about their fiduciary responsibility to the shareholders? You did say that, didn’t you?”

  I could feel Hunter’s gaze on me, feel his eyes demanding answers.

  “Not like that—” I pleaded.

  He raised his voice. “You did say that, didn’t you?”

  “It wasn’t like that—”

  “I believe you were most worried about him running the company into the ground before he’d admit the company needed an advertising strategy in the first place?” Chuck continued. “You kindly went on for some time in this vein, all about how he distrusted advertising methods and would prefer not to utilize anything other than word of mouth. How you were so worried that he was only going along with your particular scheme in order to placate your sister, who he is currently dating. I’ve passed your information on to the board; they saw my point of view much more clearly after that.”

  I heard Hunter next to me, a sound as if he’d been stabbed.

  “It doesn’t matter!” I protested. “Look around you; the rebrand is launching! And it’s a strong campaign. You can’t stop this!”

  My voice cracked. I couldn’t look Hunter in the eye; I knew exactly the look that would be in them, the hurt, the betrayal…

  Chuck sneered. “One little party, out in the middle of nowhere? Nothing’s been announced. All anyone will ever remember of this event and your little film school project is some sentimental slop about the old company. It’s time for a new chapter—and I know exactly which of your colleagues can help me write it.”

  The Douchebros.

  Oh God. Everything I had worked on so hard…

  “You—you—” Hunter’s fist rose, and for a terrible second I thought he was about to hit Chuck. I grabbed at his arm and the look he shot me was so poisonous I stumbled back, shocked.

  Hunter growled, and stormed from the room.

  I wanted to stay, wanted to argue the board members back around—they could be reasonable, I knew I could make them see reason—but—

  But Hunter needed me.

  I raced after him, trying not to trip in my heels. “Hunter! Hunter, slow down! We can go back, we can fix this—”

  He whirled unexpectedly, grabbing my arm. “Did you say those things?” he hissed.

  “Yes, but—”

  He let go and backed away, looking at me as if I were a snake.

  “Hunter, you have to understand—”

  “I don’t have to und
erstand anything,” he growled. “And certainly not you.” Pain lit his eyes. “I believed in you, Ally. I believed in you and you stabbed me in the back and ruined—the, the one thing that mattered most to me.”

  I opened my mouth, tried to think of something to say. Nothing came out.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and when he opened them again the pain was gone. There was nothing there but ice. “I want nothing more to do with you. Pack your bags and leave.”

  TO BE CONTINUED...

  What happens next? Hunter and Ally’s story continues in BILLIONAIRE WITH A TWIST: PART THREE, available September 30, 2015

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  Do you enjoy fun, romantic reads? Read on for a sneak chapter of THE ART OF STEALING HEARTS by Stella London, available September 30, 2015.

  Meet Grace and St. Clair: she’s an aspiring gallery girl, he’s the sexy billionaire art collector. Together, they’ll discover a world of romance in the hot new series by Stella London!

  THE ART OF STEALING HEARTS available September 30th!

  CHAPTER 1

  My mom taught me that art is everywhere; you just have to look. “Keep your eyes open, Grace, and you can always find the beauty,” she said, filling our small apartments with gorgeous paintings and bright colors, pointing out shapes and compositions as we walked city streets. Her love of art inspired mine, but right now my heart and head are pounding under the stress of running late, so it’s hard for me to notice anything pretty about the traffic literally standing between me and the chance of a lifetime.

  “Um, excuse me?” I pipe up from the back seat of the immobile taxi cab, anxiously looking at the driver slumped in his seat. He ignores me.

  I check my watch again: 8:41 am. Crap! I bite my lip to keep from yelling. Crapcrapcrap. I’m supposed to be at Carringer’s Auction House in nineteen—make that eighteen—minutes. First BART was late, and now I’m spending the last of this week’s tips to be trapped in this smelly cab, sweating under my best business outfit. My only business outfit.

  After a year of dropping off resumes and talking up gallery owners and museum directors, I’d nearly given up hope of finding a job in the art world until last week when the best auction house in San Francisco called me. Carringer’s deals in the most sought-after and highly-valued art and antiquities in the world: French Impressionist paintings, Chinese ceramics, Native American head masks, Greek sculptures…I get chills just imagining the masterpieces that flow in and out of those vaults. If I’m late to this interview, the first opportunity I’ve had in months might slip away and I’ll be serving spaghetti and meatballs at my waitress gig until I permanently smell like marinara and am too old to remember the specials.

  “Sir?” This time I rap insistently on the plexiglass separating me from the driver. He eyes me in the rearview mirror. “I’m super late. Is there a short cut or something you could use?”

  The minute hand on the watch my mother gave me jerks forward again and we’ve gone less than a block. Why aren’t we moving?! As if the obvious answer wasn’t right outside my window, honking and spewing fumes and inching along like snails on their way into the financial district’s high rise office buildings.

  The driver just laughs at me. “What do you think?”

  I think you smell like someone Febreezed over a cigar shop. But it’s the number one rule of waitressing: rudeness never pays. “How much further is Gold Street?”

  The cabbie shrugs. It’s 8:43.

  “Is it close enough to walk?” I press him.

  “Sure,” he says. “Everywhere is close enough to walk to eventually.”

  Screw this. There is no possible way for me to arrive looking cool and collected as planned anyway since my makeup probably already looks like a Jackson Pollock, and I’m not going to let some stupid traffic keep me from my dream. “Here,” I say, tossing a pile of ones onto the front seat and scooting out the door. “I’ll take my chances.”

  The cab driver rolls his eyes. “Maybe ten blocks,” he says. I inhale a deep breath of crisp ocean air, steady my purse on my shoulder, and start jogging.

  Immediately, my sensible yet stylish heels feel like vice grips on my toes. My feet are used to day-long shifts in sneakers, and it’s hard to run in a skirt, but I can’t give up. My carefully blow-dried hair is getting wind-whipped and frizzy, and my bangs are sticking to the sweat beading on my forehead.

  “Sorry! ‘Scuse me! Coming through, please!” It’s like running an obstacle course in heels.

  I dodge through the crowd, trying not to think about the frazzled and sloppy impression I’m going to make. In the meantime, I force myself to focus on the beauty of this city: the long shadows of the tallest buildings, the modern architecture, the sunlight reflected and refracted off a thousand windows, the blue sky beyond. I love San Francisco, even though right now it is not loving me back.

  One. More. Block. So. Close. I can almost see the brass carvings and scrolled handles on the thick auction house doors as I cross Gold Street and round the corner…and smash right into the muscular chest of a man coming from the crosswalk.

  I shriek at the same time he says, “Whoa, there,” like he’s a cowboy, except he’s as posh and polished as can be. He holds his coffee cup out in front of him like a bomb and I see the brown liquid dripping down his blue tie and white shirt.

  “Oh my God!” I grab some clean tissues out of my bag. “Here, let me help,” I say, reaching for his tie, but he’s already shaking it out. Luckily, most of the drink seems to be splattered on the concrete.

  “It’s fine,” he says, catching my hand. “There was too much sugar in that latte anyway.” He looks at me as our fingers touch, his eyes flecked with shifting shades of blue like Van Gogh’s night sky and just as mesmerizing. I want to paint them, but then I remember my priorities.

  “I’m sorry about the spill, but I really have to go.” I check my watch. “I’m running late for an important meeting.” I start to turn away, feeling guilty, but his voice stops me.

  “So this is a run-by coffee-ing, then?” He has an accent. British. Sexy.

  I turn back, unable to keep from checking him out again. He has a mouth that looks like it was carved by Michelangelo, perfectly shaped lips that smile at me and highlight the sharp cheekbones as sculpted as the famous David’s. It’s like his face belongs in a museum. Whoa, there. “Should I call the police?” he asks.

  I smile despite my hurry, sure that my face is turning strawberry red. I’d love to stay and flirt with this gorgeous man, but there’s no time. “Look,” I say, backing away. “If you give me your card, I’ll happily pay for the cleaning bill, but I really do have to run.”

  He falls in step beside me like we’re old friends. “Oh, no,” he says, loosening his tie as he easily matches my sprint. “Don’t you worry about this old thing. I’ve been meaning to donate it.” He tosses it in a trash can as we speed down the sidewalk and I can’t help but notice the triangle of smooth chest showing now that he’s unbuttoned his collar.

  “It mostly missed my shirt, which is good because the public tends to frown on shirtless businessmen.”

  I imagine him shirtless and almost walk into a mailbox.

  “That was a joke,” he says, smiling.

  Over the smell of salty sea air and car exhaust I catch the fresh, soapy clean scent of him. “Oh,” I say, avoiding a pothole, and thinking that no one would frown at that body. “Funny.”

  “This meeting must be a big deal,” he says. “If you’re too distracted to converse with a handsome man.”

  “It really is,” I say, separating from him just long enough to weave around a woman walking a poodle. “Life-changing actually. It’s a job interview at Carringer’s.”

  “Ouch,” he says, putting a hand on his heart in mock anguish. “Not going to bite on the handsome line?”

  “Oh!�
�� Flushed, party of one, please. Thank God for the cool air. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just—”

  “So you’re admitting you do think I’m handsome?”

  “I admit nothing,” I say, laughing.

  He grins. “My kind of girl.”

  I stop to catch my breath as we arrive at the gorgeous façade of the Carringer’s Auction House building. Time to bid farewell to Mr. Charming. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little disappointed to see him go.

  He smiles at me face-to-face and oh dear God, he has actual dimples. “Good luck with the interview.”

  “Thanks,” I say, my gaze flicking to my watch one last time. It’s 8:54.

  “You’ll knock ‘em dead,” he says. I nod, trying to paste a confident smile on my face.

  I face the doors I’ve been dreaming about opening for the last week—well really, for the last twenty years—and feel hopeful again. I have five minutes to get inside and pull my shit together so I can show these people what I’m made of.

  One last thing first. “Are you sure I can’t replace that tie I ruined?”

  “Tell you what,” he says, his eyes twinkling. “I’ll swing by here next week and if you’re working, you can buy me a coffee.”

  Because he’s gorgeous and he made me feel better and I’ll probably never see him again, I’m suddenly brave. I say, “Off the record, I would definitely call you handsome.” I wink at him and enjoy the surprise on his so-totally-more-than-handsome face as I stride away from him and toward my waiting future.

  Inside, my bravery falters: this place is seriously impressive. A huge lobby with a polished marble floor, white marble columns reaching to the ceiling, and holy crap, an actual Rodin sculpture in the middle of the room. I stare at it, awed, until I notice a short, brisk-looking woman holding a clipboard. I nervously approach. “Hi, I’m Grace—”

  “Bennett? You’re the last to arrive.” She guides me out of the lobby and pulls me toward the main auction hall as I fiddle with my skirt and make sure my blazer is on straight.