Read The Billionaire's Desire (A Billionaire BWWM Steamy Romance) Online
Authors: Mia Caldwell
The Billionaire's Desire (A Billionaire BWWM Steamy Romance) (18 page)
Dangerous Hearts
(BWWM Billionaire Steamy Romance)
© 2015 Mia Caldwell
All Rights Reserved. This book or
any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express permission of the publisher except for the use of brief
quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction.
Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is
purely coincidental. The characters are all productions of the author’s
imagination.
Please note that this work is
intended only for adults over the age of 18 and all characters represented as
18 or over.
Kindle Edition
This
book is dedicated to Denise. Love is blind, but friendship is created with both
eyes open. Thank you for always being there, from the very bottom of my heart.
-Mia
"Kia?
Kia!
Earth to Kia, hello?"
I
nearly fell off my chair when I looked up and saw Rayna standing over me
impatiently. "Shit girl, how long have you been there?"
She
looked pointedly over her shoulder at the clock over the studio door.
"Long enough. Geez, you get ridiculously focused, Kiki."
I bit
my lip. I had asked her not to call me that. That was my mother's name for me,
no one else's. But that wasn't a fight I wanted to get into at eleven o'clock
at night.
Instead,
I looked down at the fiddly piece I was draping. Focus wasn't even the half of
it. I needed everything to be perfect for my garment for patternmaking class.
"Focused. Yeah, I guess I am," I sighed ruefully, rubbing my hands
over my face.
Rayna's
impatience suddenly switched over to puppy-dog pleading. "Could you take a
look at my bodice?" she begged, her big brown eyes wide and innocent.
"I don't know what I did."
I
sighed and stood up, stretching out the kink that had settled into my back.
Patternmaking was giving me old lady aches and pains at twenty years old.
"What's going on?" I yawned.
Rayna
shook her head. "It just won't...fucking...work!" she spat
hysterically.
I
recognized the sound. It was the panic of the last minute. We were all in the
studio late, under the gun to finish our final projects before midterms. I was
sympathetic, though still resentful of the intrusion. I had my own work to do.
"Here
it is, the fucker." Rayna gestured impatiently towards a scrap of floral chiffon
she had pinned to the muslin bodice.
It took
only a glance for me to see the problem. "Rayna, it's not on grain,"
I sighed. "That's why it's pulling."
"Oh
fuck," she moaned, "I knew it. What should I do?"
"Nothing
else to do," I said. "You need to cut it again."
Rayna
made a little choking noise. "I don't have time for that!" she
half-screamed. Several heads poked up from the whirring industrial sewing
machines to stare daggers at us. "I can just fake it."
"You
really can't," I warned her. "It'll never lay right."
"Whatever."
She rolled her eyes, turning away from me to jab pins into the mannequin.
I
waited a beat, and then turned back to head back to my work, shaking my head.
She was making more work for herself by insisting on using the bad piece.
Better to just start over again.
If something is worth doing, it's worth
doing right.
I couldn't help but hear my mother's voice in my
head during situations like these. She had drilled that little saying in my
head so hard that even now, with her gone these past eighteen months, I could
still hear it as clearly as if she were standing right next to me.
I shook
my head to clear it. I didn't have time to get wistful about my mother, not at
this late hour. I knew she was in a better place now, one where her body wasn't
slowly betraying her a little each and every day. She saw me through to
college, she helped me get into Forest University on scholarship, one of the
only Black girls accepted into the design program. And now I was here making
her memory proud.
I bent
my head back down again and picked up my needle. Padstitching the lapel of the
suit I was working on was laborious, a step a lot of other people would have
skipped. But not me.
"Hey!"
Leilani Holt, our TA, burst into the studio, makeup still expertly applied even
at this late hour. She punctuated her entrance by banging the door open
dramatically, making sure all eyes were on her before she went on. She smiled a
wicked smile and took a deep, breath before continuing. "You guys ready for
this? They posted the internship recipients!"
She
waited a beat while we all stared at her in shock. It was 11:04 PM, the day
before midterm critiques began, why was the notice going up now? We all eyed
each other in mute incomprehension....
Then
pandemonium broke out.
I hung
back, watching everyone else shove and stumble over one another to be first.
The bulletin would still be there when I was done with this lapel. And besides,
it was nice to be alone with my thoughts.
The
door burst back open and Rayna stood staring at me. "Kia!" she
shrieked!
Three more girls piled
behind her, all staring at me like I had sprouted another head.
I
froze, needle held aloft. "What?"
"The
Kingsley internship...," Rayna stared at me. "They gave it to
you!"
☼
☼
☼
"Attitude
is everything," I exhaled.
And
with that one last affirmation under my belt, I straightened my shoulders and
stared down my reflection in my full-length mirror.
"You
can do this." I wrinkled my brow and tried to look fierce. "You've
already done it."
Landing
the internship as only a sophomore was one thing. Actually succeeding at
Kingsley Designs was going to be something else entirely. I was going to have
to work harder than ever to balance this with my classes and oh hell, maybe
even sleep once in a while.
But if
something is worth doing, it's worth doing right and there
was
no way I was going to let this opportunity pass me by. It would be an affront
to my mom, her memory and everything I had worked for.
"You've
got this," I scowled sternly, aping my mother's fierce expression.
I tried
to convince myself that the confidence I was now feeling was genuine. I was
smart; there was no denying that. Smart enough to have the highest GPA in my
sophomore design class. I had a scholarship to maintain, and grants I still
needed to apply for. All of that left very little time for a social life, much
less a dating life. But that was the price I paid to be able to attend the most
elite design school in the state. Putting my nose to the grindstone from day
one is what had gotten me an internship and I wasn’t about to slow down now.
I
figured there would be time to date and have fun once college was over.
I stood
naked in front of my closet, smoothing my fingers over the row of hangers as I
considered my wardrobe options. You couldn’t walk into the offices of Kingsley
Design wearing just any old thing…
I
needed something special. I needed something I’d made with my own two hands.
The 50s style cardigan was a deep saffron
yellow color that brought out the gold tones in my caramel skin and made the
gold flecks in my brown eyes stand out. I’d spent days pouring over different
merino wools before deciding on this exact color. It was perfect.
I
needed the right blouse…
I
reached for one of my favorites - a deep V-neck blouse in a bright teal color
that I had hand sewn to both flatter and minimize my generous cleavage. It was
conservative enough that I wouldn’t look like I was trying too hard, and
revealing enough to be fashion forward.
A
simple A-line skirt completed the look. I pulled it free, holding it in front
of my curvy waist, admiring the way it flared flatteringly over my hips. Each
wave of fabric was perfectly uniform and I’d spent hours hand stitching the
belt loops in a delicate pattern nobody would ever notice.
But I
noticed, and it made me smile every time I put it on...
If something was worth doing...
That
brought me to the shoes. My slim ankles were my favorite body part, and I had
chosen a pair of kitten-heeled slingbacks with a delicate ankle strap. They
were the finishing touch. A dash of something old to go with something new.
They
once belonged to my mother. And though they pinched something fierce, I knew
they were exactly the right choice.
In some small way, I was taking her with me today. If she was watching,
I hoped it would make her proud.
Once more I turned to my reflection and
gave myself deep consideration. I smoothed down my thick, natural hair, wishing
the humidity wasn't so oppressive. It was October, for heaven's sake, there was
no excuse for how hot the weather still was. And there was no excuse for what
it was doing to my curls. In a fit of frustration I wound it into my usual
quick bun, slicking it back and tucking the loose strands behind my ears with a
set of bobby pins.
"There,"
I told myself. It was the best I could do. A slap of mascara on my dark lashes,
and a swipe of lipgloss across my full lips were the last finishing touches.
I was ready for the first day of the rest
of my life.
Grabbing
my portfolio, and double-checking to make sure that my keys were in my purse, I
stepped out of my tiny studio apartment on to the sunlit city block. I
regretted wearing a cardigan almost instantly.
It was a steamy hot morning, the kind of
morning that promised only sweaty misery for the rest of the day.
I held my arms away from my sides in a
desperate attempt to keep from sticking to myself.
It was
early in the morning, so much so that the usual crush of pedestrians on the
sidewalk outside of my basement apartment was nothing more than a sparse
smattering of people striding along.
They were all busily confident: sipping take-out coffee, and checking
their smart phones. They all looked so competent and adult.
I felt
like an imposter in their midst.
But I
wasn't, I reminded myself. They were all playacting, just like I was. That was
something my mother always reminded me, whenever I would go upstairs to her
darkened bedroom and weep over not fitting in in high school. "Kiki, they
are all just pretending, just like you are. Some are just better at it than
others."
I knew
it killed my mother to watch me struggle through high school, especially since
her poor health made it difficult for her to be anything more than a quiet
observer on the sidelines. I had to grow up fast when her disease debilitated
her to the point where we switched roles, and the daughter began to take care
of the mother. Even though she couldn't do things like zip up my prom dress
when I finally realized I needed to go stag, or even simple things like braid
my hair, she still was always there to talk to.
I
wished she could see me now.
Kingsley
Designs was one of the top designers of mid range women's knitwear. Their
licensees included some of the most popular and well-known brands sold to high
class department stores around the world. Zachary Kingsley had built it all
from scratch only ten years ago…
He was
one of my idols, both as a designer and as a businessperson, someone who I
hoped to emulate in my upcoming career. To have landed an internship at his
company was mind-boggling. I had been following his career since I was in
junior high school and began cruising the pages of WWD magazine.
I
didn't expect that I would meet him of course. I was just an intern, a peon;
someone who would fetch coffee and stay in the background while the real
designers worked their magic for him. I didn't even know if he was in town.
They said he had a château in France that he spent much of his time at these
days, reclusive and enigmatic since his highly publicized divorce. They said
he'd narrowly escaped having to give her half the company and now he was a
nightmare to work with.
I knew
better than to hope I would meet the man who used to be my idol. A lot has
changed since then. I know I had. And I guessed he had too.
We both had our own private grief.
I
squared my shoulders and stepped out onto the sidewalk on my spindly little
shoes, wobbling slightly as the heel got caught in a crack in the pavement. I
wobbled slightly, my traitorous mind perfectly picturing what it would be like
if I splattered all over the sidewalk on my very first day of my internship. I
felt like all eyes were upon me as I struggled to stay upright. At the last
possible moment, I pinwheeled my arms and lurched forward, managing to free
myself from my pavement prison with the least graceful motion I could summon.
Perfect. What a perfect start.
I
trotted quickly away, as if running away from the crack would make that
momentary blunder disappear.
The
Kingsley Building was three blocks away; three long, sweaty, city blocks. I
prayed my deodorant would hold.
When I
finally reached the air-conditioned lobby of the Kingsley Design building, I
had to stop and catch my breath. My whole body was covered in a light sheen of
perspiration, and I could feel my hair frizzing as I stood there.
Just
then, I caught sight of the smooth, perfectly coiffed white receptionist
sitting behind the huge expanse of glass topped desk in front of me.
"May
I help you?" she asked crisply.
She was one of
those
women. You know the type. Frosty cold, everything perfectly
in place, the kind of demeanor that let you know without any doubt that they
had never fallen down or perspired in their life. I felt a hot blush begin to
creep upward from my neck and set fire to my cheeks.
Fake it until you make it
, I
reminded myself.
I
squared my shoulders. "My name is Nakia James," I said smoothly,
surprised at how even my voice sounded.
If
it's worth doing....
"Today's the first day of my design
internship."
Her perfectly
groomed eyebrows shot up so high that they nearly zoomed off of her forehead.
She wasn't expecting me to be Black, I could tell that in an instant. I saw her
take a quick dart of her eyes up and down my sweaty, curvy frame, and my cheeks
flamed further.
But she
quickly recovered herself and her frosty demeanor broke open in a wide smile.
"Welcome home!" she trilled. "We've heard a lot of good things
about you, Nakia."
I was
startled. I had hardly expected such a warm welcome, not from someone who
looked like her.
My blushed
deepened further when I realized I had harshly judged her even as I assumed she
was judging me.
She
stood up from her desk, smoothed her skirt over her narrow hips and extended a
well-manicured hand. I surreptitiously wiped my own palm on my skirt and
extended it to her and she closed her cool hand around mine. "My name is
August. You're going to love it here!" she exclaimed. "And you've
come on a good day. Mr. Kingsley is expected to be making his first appearance
here in over six months!"
Instantly
my heart started thudding in my throat. "Mr. Kingsley is coming in from
his château?"
August
smiled. "I see you've done your research" she nodded. "Yes, he's
been running the company remotely ever since his…," she dropped her voice
to a scandalized whisper, "divorce."
I
nodded seriously, aping her solemnity.
When
she saw that I was appropriately awed, she smiled again. "I had better
warn you that everyone is pretty much scrambling around like maniacs. I'm not
even sure if your mentor is prepared for you to start today."
My
heart sank. "Okay, well then I guess I will just try to stay out of the
way.…"
August
grasped my hand again. "You can just hang out with me. You're the intern
and I'm the receptionist, both of us are going to get ignored today," she
sighed, huffing out of the corner of her mouth just like a Disney Princess.
I
decided I liked her. "August, huh? That's a pretty name."
She
gave a small snort. "I was born the first of the month, and my parents
went the entire thirty days arguing over what they should call me. When
September first rolled around, they finally decided that they would just name
me after the month I was born. I guess I should be grateful that I wasn't born
in November."
"Nice
to meet you, November," I grinned, extending my hand.
She
giggled.
Grabbing my offered hand,
she yanked me through a doorway and into the corporate office of Kingsley
Design. "Welcome to the dysfunctional family," she trilled, gesturing
with her hand for me to take it all in.
I had
to consciously close my mouth again after it fell open in wonder and awe. The
Kingsley Building was at the site of an old shipbuilding warehouse, and
retained all of the gritty industrial touches while simultaneously being the
most modern building I had ever laid eyes on. Designers scurried around with
notebooks in hand through the open floor plan. Each glass-topped desk was piled
high to bursting with design inspiration: magazine clippings, fabric swatches,
photographs and color cards. The contrast of the industrial trappings, the
modern fixtures, and the artistic jumble was everything that I had ever wanted
in the workplace.
