Waking Up with a Billionaire (The Overnight Billionaires Book 3) (7 page)

Her eyebrow lifted. “Hmm, well, you’re here now, so let’s get started. And please call me Deirdre. After all, we’re family.”

“Sorry,” he said. “My mother was a stickler for showing respect to one’s—” He stopped when he realized what he had been about to say. Unfortunately, it was too late.

“Elders,” she finished the sentence for him, looking as if she had just swallowed a lemon whole. “Yes, well, be that as it may, this
elder
would like to be called Deirdre.”

He cleared his throat and loosened his tie. “So how can I help you with the benefit…Deirdre? Did you need money? Some of French Kiss’s employees to help you pull it together? All of my resources are at your disposal.”

She smiled slyly. “I was hoping you would say that. Because your resources are exactly what I need.”

Just that quickly he started to panic. How had he forgotten the last benefit that Deirdre had put together? The Romeo costume with tights that she’d wanted him to wear had been damned humiliating. Which was why he’d had to switch costumes with Nash. But since Nash wasn’t here, there would be no getting out of whatever she had in store for him this time.

He swallowed hard. “Exactly what kind of benefit is this?”

“Since your mother passed away from cancer, I thought it was fitting to champion that cause.” She smoothed out her cream-colored pants and crossed her legs. “At the time I offered my services to the American Cancer Society, I thought I would have all the Beaumont brothers at my disposal to help with the charity event. But then Nash decided to get married, and Olivia got pregnant with my most precious grandson.” Her gaze locked with his. “So that only leaves you.”

The feeling that crept up his spine could be described only as fear. He cleared his throat. “I don’t think that’s true. Nash will be back in a week, and after talking to Deacon, it sounds like he’s got the baby thing under control so he shouldn’t have any problems helping out as well.”

Deirdre’s eyebrow lifted. “Really? Is that what he told you?”

Grayson nodded. “I guess all Mikey does is sleep.”

“Hmm?” Her coral-painted lips tipped up in a knowing smile. “I think that Deacon is figuring out who is in control as we speak.” The smile faded. “So where was I? Ah, yes, you were telling me that you would be more than happy to offer all the resources I need for the charity event. And since you are the talented one of the bunch, I’ve decided that an art show featuring your paintings will be the perfect way to help raise money for cancer research.”

Grayson felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. Art was the last thing he wanted to think about. “I’m sorry, Mrs.…Deirdre, but I don’t think that’s going to work.”

Her spine stiffened. “Of course it’s going to work. I realize, with Nash and Deacon gone, you have a lot to do here. So I don’t expect you to pull it together. I’ll be in charge of finding the venue, caterer, and so forth. All you have to do is donate the paintings.” She opened her purse and pulled out a pen and day planner. “What day would be good for me to come to your house and see your collection of paintings? How about tomorrow at two?”

“No!” The word came out a little too loudly. When she glanced up in confusion, he tried to cover his mistake. “I mean I don’t keep my paintings at my house.”

Her eyebrow hiked up. “Really? Then where do you keep them? Because I stopped off at your office and didn’t see anything but some bad paintings of apples. Were you teaching one of the models to paint? Because the woman has no talent whatsoever.”

Grayson felt his face heat. “I’m sorry, Deirdre. I’m afraid that I don’t have enough paintings for a show. I gave you most of my paintings to auction off at the Lover’s Charity Ball.”

“But that was six months ago. Certainly you’ve painted more by now.”

“I’m afraid not. But what I can do is get another artist to donate paintings for the benefit.”

Her eyes darkened, and he thought she was going to storm out like Miles and Natalia. He should’ve known better. Deirdre Beaumont didn’t storm. After only a moment, she calmly made a note in her planner before she got up and walked out.

Which was much more terrifying.

It was like she had just marked him for a hit.

C
hloe should be steaming mad. Surprisingly, she wasn’t. At least, she wasn’t anymore. She had been thoroughly pissed after Grayson had locked her in his room. She’d screamed and ranted and thrown a major fit, which included slapping paint all over Grayson’s pristine white walls. After she did that, her anger sort of fizzled out.

There was something very freeing and cathartic about painting, and she now understood why Grayson felt lost without it. Painting gave you a medium to express all your pent-up emotions. And that’s exactly what Chloe had done; she’d released all her anger in streaks and splats of paint. Not just her anger at Grayson, but also her anger at life. The wall became a huge abstract self-portrait of her past pain. The slash of purple represented her bruises from Zac. The blossom of pink, the frilly dresses her father had bought his only daughter. The blue, her mother’s face on her deathbed. And the huge splatter of red over the pink and blue, her mother’s betrayal.

Once the painting was finished, she’d promptly fallen asleep and slept better than she had in a long time. When she woke, she realized that having been kidnapped by Grayson wasn’t such a bad thing. Except for Grayson, no one knew where she was. Which meant that she was safe until her plane left.

After eating the stale crackers and peanut butter, she set about cleaning up the mess. Not that she was solely responsible for it. Grayson was one messy dude. He didn’t hang up his clothes, organize his T-shirts and underwear in separate drawers, or pair up his shoes in the closet. In the bathroom he didn’t put the cap on his toothpaste, separate hair products from over-the-counter medicine in the cabinet over the sink, or put his toilet paper on the holder. So she spent the next couple of hours doing those things for him.

She organized the silk shirts, gray suits, and purple ties in his closet, then categorized his paint-splattered T-shirts, worn jeans, running shorts, boxer briefs, and socks into different drawers of his dresser—tossing the socks that didn’t have mates. She lined up his paint supplies by color and brush size before moving to his nightstand. In the top drawer, she found sketchpads and all different types of sketching pencils. She went through the sketchpads and found them empty. Grayson really had lost his ability to create. She put the sketchpads back and opened the second drawer of the nightstand.

There was only one sketchpad in this drawer, and it looked as if it had seen better days. The front cover was worn and aged, and the wire binding discolored and misshapen. The first drawings weren’t very good, but still better than what Chloe could do. They were all of a dog sitting or sleeping. Gradually the drawings became better, with more action—the dog running, jumping, catching a ball. But it was the sketch after these that showed the artist’s true talent.

A woman stood at a clothesline with her lithe arms stretched up, hanging a sheet that billowed around her slim body. Her long hair waved in the wind, and a slight smile played on her lips as if she was thoroughly enjoying the task or thinking of something happy. More sketches of the woman followed. Her sitting at a sewing machine. Standing at a stove. Playing with the dog and two cute boys. Even though they were young, Chloe easily recognized the boys as Grayson’s brothers. Which meant that the woman had to be Grayson’s mother. A woman who had died of cancer just like Chloe’s mom had.

A sharp pang of pain and regret surfaced for a brief moment before Chloe pushed it down deep and closed the sketchpad. She’d started to put it back in the drawer when she noticed the smudged inscription on the cover. Holding it close, she read the words.

“To my sweet Graysie, Never stop creating. Love, Mom.”

Suddenly everything became crystal clear. This was why Grayson was so obsessed with painting. He viewed this as his mother’s last request. A last request he could no longer fulfill.

Again Chloe wondered what had caused his problem. Whatever it was, it had to have happened in Paris. He had been painting fine before he left. In fact for most of their road trip, he’d tried to talk her into posing for him.

She paused with her hand on the knob of the nightstand drawer as a thought struck her. A thought she quickly rejected. Her refusal couldn’t possibly be responsible for his painting drought. He didn’t even like her that much. No, his problem had no doubt started with some French beauty.

After she finished cleaning the room, Chloe was starving. Since there was no way to get out the door, she opened the window. The bedroom was on the second floor. She could probably figure out a way to get down, but then how would she get back in? Above her the balcony caught her attention. The night before, Grayson hadn’t locked the sliding balcony door after he’d checked on his seagull. Which meant that there was a good chance it was still unlocked. She calculated the distance between the decorative ledge that ran along the exterior of the wall and the balcony. It would be dangerous, but she had always enjoyed danger.

It didn’t take her long to remove the screen and pull Grayson’s painting stool over to the open window. If she could inch along the ledge to the balcony, she figured she could grab the metal railing and pull herself up. Unfortunately, the pulling-herself-up part was harder than she’d thought. She was struggling to get a good grip on the railing when her feet slipped off the ledge, and she was left dangling. The feel of cold air on her butt cheeks had her wishing that she’d taken the time to put on some jeans. Especially when she seemed to have an audience.

“Doris!” The yell almost made her lose her hold on the balcony railing. “There’s another woman trying to jump off the neighbor’s house and splatter her brains on the pavement.”

The image of her brains being splattered on the pavement gave Chloe the strength she needed to pull her body higher and get her foot between the bars. A few seconds later, she was standing on the balcony, looking into the beady eyes of a seagull. Figuring it wasn’t the seagull who had spoken, she glanced at the balcony next door. A little old man stood there as naked as the day he was born. Chloe averted her eyes, but it was too late. The image of the shriveled dangling thing was seared in her brain.

“So did Gary break your heart?” the man asked. “Is that why you want to kill yourself?”

“Grayson!” A woman came hurrying out the open balcony doors, and Chloe couldn’t help it. She looked. The little old woman was as naked and wrinkly as the little old man, her breasts drooping almost to her sagging stomach. “Our neighbor’s name is Grayson, Hammond, not Gary.” She turned to Chloe and smiled. “And this beautiful young lady doesn’t look like she’s trying to kill herself.”

“Well, she was. But she must’ve changed her mind.”

Chloe kept her eyes on the seagull, which was shredding the bamboo plant in the ceramic pot in the corner. “I wasn’t trying to kill myself,” she said. “I was just…practicing my rock climbing.” It was a pathetic lie, but one the old couple seemed to buy.

“We used to love to rock climb,” the woman said. “But as we’ve gotten older, we’ve had to give it up. Although we are going to go zip-lining on our Mexican vacation—naked, of course.”

While Chloe tried to get over the image of that, the old guy spoke.

“Mexicans embrace nudity much better than Americans. Although Gary doesn’t seem to mind nudity, since he paints naked women. So are you modeling for him or just shagging him?”

There was something about his bluntness that made Chloe laugh and give up on trying to keep her eyes averted. If the old people were okay with their nudity, she figured she could be. “No, I’m not shagging Grayson.”

“Do you want to?”

She rolled her eyes. “Even if I did, that’s none of your business.”

He grinned and exchanged looks with his wife. “Sassy little thing, isn’t she? Reminds me of you, Doris, when I first met you.”

Doris leaned over and gave the man a kiss on his wrinkled cheek. “But my sass didn’t stand a chance against your charm.”

The old man seemed to puff up with pride. “I was a charming son of a gun, wasn’t I? Of course, I wasn’t as charming as the Beaumont boys. First, the oldest one charmed Olivia right out of her power suit, then the middle one charmed my granddaughter right out of her uptight shell.”

“You’re Eden’s grandparents?” The words were out before Chloe could stop them.

The woman’s alert eyes snapped over to her. “So you know Eden?”

Chloe would’ve preferred to stay anonymous. The fewer people who knew she was there, the better. But there was no help for it now. She could only hope that the Huckabees left to go naked zip-lining before they could tell anyone.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m Chloe.”

Doris’s eyes widened. “The one who stayed with my daughter in Grover Beach after your boyfriend beat you up?”

Chloe felt her face flush. “That would be me.”

Doris flapped her hand. “Well, that’s nothing to be ashamed of, dear. We all make mistakes when we’re young. Just make sure not to make the same mistake again.” She smiled. “And living with Grayson is a step in the right direction. I have never met a young man who is so respectful and kind. Did you know he offered to water Hammond’s geraniums while we’re in Mexico?” She looked at the brightly colored blooms in the planter that ran along the balcony. “Although I’m wondering if we shouldn’t repot these and take them inside now that autumn is here.”

Chloe studied the flowers. “If they were geraniums, I’d say that you could keep them outside for a few more months. True geraniums are frost-hardy perennials. But those happen to be pelargoniums—a flower that most nurseries will sell as geraniums. And they need more care in colder temperatures, so I wouldn’t recommend keeping them outside longer than a few more weeks.”

Hammond squinted at her. “So you garden?”

“A little.”

“Well, it sounds like more than a little,” Doris said. “It’s nice to know that we have a flower expert living next door.”

“I’m not living—” Chloe broke off when she heard a car pull into the driveway. She peeked over the balcony expecting to see Grayson’s sports car. Instead it was a gold Lexus. She quickly stepped back out of sight and made her excuses in a hushed voice. “Well, it looks like I have company, so I better go.” She turned to the sliding glass door and was relieved to find it unlocked. But before she stepped inside, Doris stopped her.

“I’ll just drop our house key by later—along with some of my special brownies as a thank-you for taking care of the flowers. Grayson loves my brownies.”

A car door slammed, so Chloe only nodded before she slipped inside and closed the door. The doorbell rang seconds later. Since she had no intention of answering the door, she walked into the kitchen and searched for something to eat. There wasn’t much. Obviously Grayson wasn’t a cook. She had just pulled a cartoon of eggs from the refrigerator when she heard the sound of a key being placed in a lock, followed quickly by the sound of the door opening and the click of heels on the wooden floor of the entryway.

Chloe didn’t know why she felt surprised that a woman had a key to Grayson’s house. Was it Natalia or another supermodel? Or maybe the woman from Paris who had screwed up his painting mojo? Chloe probably should’ve hidden, but curiosity got the best of her. Especially when the clicks were followed by the sound of a dead bolt being slid back. And since her entire savings were in her duffel bag, Chloe didn’t hesitate to head for the stairs. But instead of finding a beautiful supermodel, she found an attractive middle-aged woman going through the paintings leaning against the bedroom wall.

She stepped into the room. “Can I help you?”

The woman straightened and sent her a haughty look. “Oh. I didn’t realize that this was cleaning day.” She flapped a manicured hand and went back to looking at the paintings. “Well, go about your business. I just need to grab a few things.”

Chloe really should’ve let the woman think that she was the cleaning lady. It would’ve made everything so much easier. But there was something about her arrogance that didn’t sit well. “Who are you?”

The woman turned, and her gaze landed on Chloe’s bare legs beneath the T-shirt. “Ahh, I see my mistake. You’re not the cleaning lady. Which explains why Grayson was in no hurry for me to drop by the house without him.”

Chloe crossed her arms. “So if he didn’t want you dropping by, why did you? And how do you have a key?”

The woman’s eyebrow hiked up. “I have a key from when my daughter lived here.”

“You’re Olivia’s mother?” Geez, was everyone related?

“Yes. And I’m Michael Beaumont’s widow. And Deacon Beaumont’s mother-in-law. And Michael Paris Beaumont’s grandmother.”

Well, crap
.
Chloe dropped her stubborn stance. “I’m sorry. You should’ve told me that sooner.”

Mrs. Beaumont went back to looking at the paintings. “A woman should always familiarize herself with a man’s family. Especially if she’s looking to become part of it.”

“I don’t want to be part of Grayson’s family.”

Mrs. Beaumont lifted her head and studied her. “So you’re modeling for him?” Since it seemed like a good-enough excuse for being there, Chloe nodded. The information seemed to please Mrs. Beaumont. “Well, it’s good to know that he’s working on something else.” She waved a hand at the paintings she’d been looking at. “Because these certainly aren’t going to be enough for the charity benefit. He’ll need to get busy on painting more immediately.”

“Good luck with that.”

Mrs. Beaumont’s eyebrow lifted again. It was like it was attached to the woman’s frown. Her lips went down, and her eyebrow went up. “And just what do you mean by that remark?”

“Nothing.” Chloe changed the subject. “So what charity benefit are these for?”

“The American Cancer Society.”

“I guess that makes sense given that Grayson’s mother died of cancer too.” She hadn’t intended to attach the
too
. It just sorta popped out. She hoped that Mrs. Beaumont wouldn’t catch it. She should’ve known better.

“Too? Your mother died of cancer?”

Chloe shrugged. “Lots of people die of cancer.”