Waking Up with a Billionaire (The Overnight Billionaires Book 3)

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Writing is a solitary job, but it takes a village to get a book published. And I’m very fortunate to have such a great village:

My agent, Laura Bradford, who keeps my feet firmly planted on the ground so my head can remain in the clouds.

My editor, Alex Logan, who fits together all the puzzle pieces and keeps me on the right track.

All the copy editors, proofreaders, cover artists, publicists, and sales reps at Grand Central, who work so hard and efficiently at their jobs.

The Land of Enchantment Authors, who are not only my writing support system but also my dear friends.

The ladies of the Dog-Eared Divas book club, who never let me forget the reason I started writing in the first place—the desire to give my readers the same feeling of contentment I get when I finish a good book.

My family, which loves me despite the craziness of deadline week, and keeps me smiling and feeling so blessed.

And last but not least, my readers. Your love of my characters and stories is what keeps me seated at my laptop and tapping away. Thank you for all your support. Mwah!

T
he lobby looked like a Concord grape that had been stomped beneath a boot heel. Variations of the color purple were splattered everywhere. The polished marble floors. The plush velvet couches. The contemporary light fixtures. The highly polished surface of the reception desk. Even the dress of the svelte blonde who sat behind it. And if there was a color that Chloe McAlister hated most, it was purple.

Purple was the color of her childhood bedroom. The color of Napa Valley at dusk. And the color of bruises. Deep, painful bruises that faded from view, but never from one’s heart. Standing in the midst of all that purple, Chloe felt slightly sick to her stomach. For a second she thought about turning tail and walking right back out the tall glass doors with their stenciled-on lips. Unfortunately, if she wanted to overcome the past, she needed to deal with the present. At the present moment, she needed money.

Fidgeting with her bangs, which she’d just butchered that morning, she walked to the receptionist’s desk, where the blonde was talking on the phone. The receptionist watched her approach, her gaze sliding over Chloe, who no doubt stuck out like a withered raisin on the vine in her basic black secondhand dress and scuffed high-heeled boots. The blonde looked away. The snub didn’t bother Chloe. She had spent the last six years of her life trying to blend into the woodwork, trying to be someone no one took note of. She stepped up to the high counter of the desk and cleared her throat.

The blonde ignored her and continued her conversation. “I think he’s so much sexier now. I mean he was sexy before, but now he’s like a hundred and ten on the hot-o-meter. And the way he looks at you with those eyes. It’s like he’s consuming everything about you all at once—and not just your looks, but your secret desires and naughtiest wishes too.”

Chloe rolled her eyes. “Excuse me.”

The blonde stopped talking and sent Chloe an annoyed look. “I’ll have to call you back, Tiff.” She placed the receiver in the cradle. “Can I help you?”

“I’m here to see Mr. Grayson Beaumont.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No. But I’m friends with—”

The woman didn’t let her finish. “It doesn’t matter who you’re friends with. You can’t just walk in and ask to see one of the owners of the biggest lingerie company in the world. You have to have an appointment. We can’t just take walk-ins. What do you think this is…Supercuts?” She swept her hand in a dismissive gesture. “Come back when you get a clue.”

Chloe’s hands tightened into fists. But before she could do something really stupid—like pop the rude receptionist in the mouth—a delivery guy pushed Chloe out of the way with a bouquet of white roses in a huge rubber ducky with a little blue sailor’s hat. While the ducky was cute, the roses were all wrong. Chloe would’ve filled the sailor duck with Shasta daisies and ocean breeze orchids. Or at least something more whimsical and fun.

“Another flower delivery for Deacon and Olivia Beaumont,” the guy said. “And I’ve got three more in the truck.” He set the ducky on the counter, but when it blocked his view of the receptionist, he moved it to the floor at his feet. “With all the deliveries I’ve made in the last two days, you would think that the Beaumonts just gave birth to the next crown prince of England.” He smiled at the blonde and winked. “So have you thought about it, beautiful? Are you ever going to agree to have drinks with me?”

The blonde tipped her head coyly. “I told you that I have a boyfriend.” She sounded about as sincere as when she’d asked Chloe if she could help her.

The delivery guy rested his arms on the high counter and flexed his biceps. “So what? I’m talking about drinks, not marriage. What is one drink going to hurt between friends?”

“Well, maybe just one drink.” The blonde pulled a business card from the holder and wrote down her number while the flower delivery guy tried to peek down the neckline of her dress. With both preoccupied, Chloe saw an opportunity and took it.

Bending down, she scooped up the floral arrangement and headed for the elevators. The old security guy who sat on a stool didn’t even raise an eyebrow. In fact he got up and pushed the elevator button for her.

“You know that Mr. and Mrs. Beaumont aren’t here, right?” he said. “They’re both home with that brand-new baby, so you’ll have to leave it with their assistant, Ms. Wang—or I guess I should say Ms. Melvin. She got married to one of the company lawyers not too long ago. Me and the missus got invited to the wedding, and let me tell you, that was quite the shindig. But not as big of a shindig as when Mr. Nash Beaumont married that pretty little writer.”

Chloe had been invited to the wedding. In fact she was supposed to be a bridesmaid for Eden, alongside their other friend Madison. But that was the bad part about blending into the woodwork. It was hard to keep your friends. Especially when Eden had just sold her first book and gotten married to a panty billionaire, and when Madison was one of French Kiss’s supermodels.

“That’s sure one big rubber ducky.” The security guard continued to talk. He reminded Chloe of her grandfather—white hair, a ready smile, and lots to say. “You know what they named him?”

“Uh…no.” She glanced over her shoulder and was relieved to see the delivery guy still flirting with the receptionist.

“Michael Paris,” the security guard continued. “Michael, after the man who started the French Kiss lingerie company, and Paris because that’s where the idea for the company came from. And because Paris and Helen are famous lovers—and all the Beaumont men are named after famous lovers.” He counted off on his fingers. “There’s Michael Casanova, who started the company, and his brother, Don Juan. And then there’s Don Juan’s three sons—Deacon Valentino, Nash Lothario, and Grayson Romeo—who inherited the company and run it now.”

This wasn’t news to Chloe. Everyone knew about the Beaumonts’ middle names. It was hard not to when each brother had his own lingerie line named after him. Women all over the world wore bras and panties from the Valentino, Lothario, and Romeo Collections—Chloe included. But only because she got them free from Madison. Okay, and maybe because they were pretty.

The elevator doors opened, and she thanked the guard before she hurried in. Once inside, she peeked through the roses and tried to figure out what button to push. The shout of the delivery guy—“Hey, who took my ducky!”—had her taking a chance on the top floor. But before the doors could completely close, a distinguished older gentleman in an expensive gray suit slipped in.

He tapped a floor button before he glanced at his watch and shook his head. “Late again. My mother would be rolling in her grave.” He straightened his already perfectly knotted tie and finally noticed Chloe. Or not her so much as the bouquet she hid behind. “I’m going to assume that there is someone inside that rose garden.” With no other choice, Chloe shifted the ducky and peeked out. The man’s eyes widened. “Holly Golightly.”

“Excuse me?”

“My apologies,” the man said. “But your resemblance to Audrey Hepburn took me by surprise. Holly Golightly was the character she played in the movie
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
.” He cocked his head and pressed his index finger to his bottom lip. “The resemblance is uncanny—same symmetrical facial features, short, dark bangs, and expressive eyes.” He lowered his hand. “Please tell me you model.”

She shook her head. Although that wasn’t exactly true. She had modeled once, and for French Kiss, but not on purpose. And she’d signed the release only because she needed the money and her entire face had been covered by a big floppy beach hat.

“That’s too bad,” the man said as he pulled a card from his pocket. “If you ever change your mind, be sure to call me. Samuel Sawyer.” Since her hands were full, he tucked the card in the roses just as the elevator doors opened. He stepped out and gave her a knowing look over his shoulder. “Maybe when you call, you can tell me why you stole the ducky.”

The top floor wasn’t nearly as purple as the lobby. The hallway carpet was a neutral beige, and the office doors a natural wood. Next to each door was a gold nameplate, and it didn’t take long to find the one she was looking for. She stared at the name and was surprised at how nervous she suddenly felt.

Grayson Romeo Beaumont held no threat for her. In fact, of all the men she had met in her life, Grayson was the least threatening. He was shy and soft-spoken, with a calming effect on women that had had Chloe nicknaming him the Woman Whisperer. Not that his whispering had worked on her. After her one and only boyfriend had been physically abusive, she didn’t trust her own instincts where men were concerned. Just the thought of Zac had her knocking on the door a little harder than necessary.

The door flew open. The man who stood there wasn’t the man she’d expected to see. This man wasn’t a clean-shaven billionaire in a designer suit that had cost more than Chloe’s yearly rent. This man had a scruffy beard and thick brown hair that fell to his shoulders. He wore a white button-up linen shirt that was covered with smudges of paint, and faded jeans with rips in the knees and tattered hems that partially covered his long, bare feet.

She lifted her gaze from his tanned toes to his purple eyes. Not the ugly purple of squashed grapes, but the deep bluish purple of the bachelor’s button flowers that grew in her grandfather’s garden. There were only three men she knew with eyes this color. One was at home with his new son, and the other was on his honeymoon. Which left one. Except this man didn’t act like the youngest Beaumont. Especially when he barked at her.

“Flower deliveries are dropped off at the front desk.” He slammed the door.

Chloe stood there for a moment in confusion before a smile lit her face. It seemed that the Woman Whisperer had finally decided to show his true colors, and not surprisingly, she was much more comfortable with this volatile Beaumont than with the shy, calm one she’d met six months ago. Without bothering to knock again, she turned the knob and walked in.

The executive suite didn’t look like an office. It looked more like a painter’s studio. A messy painter’s studio. A splattered white tarp covered the floor, a mishmash of furniture and props was piled in a corner, and canvases were stacked against one wall. The other wall held a black backdrop. In front was a purple divan like the ones in the lobby. A divan she’d seen in Grayson Romeo’s paintings. But in all his other paintings, a gorgeous naked woman had been draped over the divan. Today the long sofa held something else entirely.

Chloe squinted at the small red apple for only a second before her gaze turned to the man behind the easel. The few times she’d seen him sketch, his movements had been fluid and graceful, like his pencil was a figure skater gliding across ice. She had assumed that he would paint the same way, but she’d been wrong. His movements were brisk and brutal as he jabbed his brush into the acrylic paint palette he held before slashing it at the canvas as if he wanted to slice it in two.

“I guess painting apples is not as much fun as painting women.”

His head jerked up, and she set the ducky bouquet down on a table cluttered with paints and brushes and waggled her fingers. “Hey. Remember me?”

The paintbrush fell from his fingers and hit the floor, splattering black paint all over the hem of his jeans and his bare foot.

She smiled. “I guess you do.”

It took only a second for him to recover and for his eyes to narrow. “What do you want?”

Chloe let her smile drop. “I get it. You’re not exactly thrilled to see me. And after the way I acted on our road trip to Eden’s parents’ house, I can’t really blame you. I admit that I was a wee bit bitchy.”

“A wee bit?”

She held up her hands. “Okay, so I was a lot bitchy—especially when you were doing me a favor.”

“I didn’t do it for you. I did it for Madison.”

Chloe understood that. Madison could get men to do just about anything. And not just because of her voluptuous body, but also because of her kind heart and sweet nature. She was the antithesis of Chloe’s skinny body and belligerent attitude. Which probably explained why they were such good friends. Madison was the one who had introduced Grayson to Chloe. The one who had brought him to Zac’s apartment after Zac had beat the crap out of Chloe. The one who had talked him into driving Chloe to a safe place until Zac was arrested. And maybe that was why Chloe had been so mean to Grayson. She hadn’t liked that he’d seen her at her weakest. She didn’t like being weak. But she especially didn’t like people witnessing it.

“Well, anyway,” she said, “I’m sorry.”

She knew it wasn’t the best apology, but she expected some kind of acknowledgment. Instead he set down the palette before he grabbed a rag and leaned down to wipe the paint off his foot. She might’ve sworn off men, but that didn’t stop her from appreciating the view. Grayson had always had a nice body—long, lean, and well proportioned. She just hadn’t remembered his ass being so hot.

He straightened. “Is that why you came? To apologize with a ducky bouquet of roses?”

She cleared her throat, along with the image of his butt in the worn jeans from her mind. “No, the roses were being delivered to your brother. I just used them to get up here. The real reason I came is to let you know that I’ve changed my mind.” She forced a bright smile. “I’ve decided to let you paint me.”

He didn’t reply. Instead he just stared at her, and she realized that the snobby receptionist must’ve been talking to her friend about Grayson. His intense eyes felt like they were looking right through her and reading all her dark secrets and desires. And the last thing Chloe wanted was someone discovering her dark secrets. She looked away and started organizing the paint tubes on the table by color. Who knew that there were so many shades of yellow?

“So what changed your mind?” he asked. “I believe your words were, ‘The last thing I’d want to do is be exploited by a paint-by-numbers billionaire.’”

She cringed. Obviously she’d been bitchier than she remembered. Instead of apologizing again, she tried a compliment. “Well, that was before I saw some of your work. You don’t exploit women as much as immortalize them.”