A Billionaire Between the Sheets (14 page)

“Then why didn't he leave it to me?”

“Maybe he actually listened the last time I talked with him.”

Olivia moved closer. “You talked to Michael about me?”

Samuel nodded. “It was after his first stroke. I stopped by the hospital to see him.” He shook his head. “It was sad to see the commanding owner of French Kiss reduced to someone who had no control of his speech or the right side of his body. But his brain still worked. I started to talk about my ideas for new designs, but he stopped me. After a few grunts and a jabbed finger at your picture, I figured out that he wanted to hear about you and how you were taking care of the business.”

Michael had wanted the same information every time she'd visited him. But she'd refrained from talking about the company—mostly because she didn't want him knowing how bad things had gotten. “So I guess you told him.”

Samuel leaned back and smoothed out the creases in his pants. “He needed to know—not only about the company going bankrupt but about his mistake in trying to force you to be something you aren't.” He looked up. “You know why you're so easily distracted, Olivia? It's because you're a creative person, and creative people struggle to think with the left side of their brain. Their mind isn't on everyday life. It's on their last creation—their last brushstroke, pencil sketch, piano note, or typed word. And Michael couldn't see that because he thinks with his left brain. So he just thought you were forgetful. He didn't know you were a genius.”

“I'm not—” she started, but he held up a hand.

“You are. You just needed to have someone give you the confidence.” The faint smile reappeared. “And if the new boss is responsible, then I love the man.” He winked at her. “And you should too.”

D
eacon didn't know what he expected when he walked into Michael's office for the first time. Maybe he expected to feel some kind of visceral connection. Instead all he felt was anger. Anger over the paintings of Paris that covered the walls, and anger that Michael had died before Deacon could prove that he cared nothing about his biological father.

So it felt good to release some of that anger on the presumptuous woman who sat behind the desk. His plan had been to wait Anastasia Bradley out and see if she led him to the person who was trying to sabotage the company. But the sight of her reclining in the leather chair with one purple high heel on the desk while she leafed through a magazine didn't sit well with him. And he discovered that he'd lost his patience with Ms. Bradley.

He cleared his throat, and she glanced up from
Harper's Bazaar
magazine. The distaste that crossed her face mirrored his own feelings. “Did you need something, Mr. Beaumont?”

“Actually”—he strolled into the room—“there are a few things I need, Ms. Bradley.” He held up a finger. “One, I need your resignation.” He held up another finger. “Two, I need you out of this office.” Another finger went up. “And three, I need the name of the asshole who is trying to rear-end French Kiss.” While she stared at him like a largemouth bass, he stepped closer. “The first you have two hours to deliver. The second you'll need to do within the hour. And the last you'll need to give me now. Unless you'd rather I called the FBI.”

He didn't want to bring in the federal government. Government and big business didn't mix. But it wasn't an idle threat. If push came to shove, he would have no problem calling the feds. He just wasn't about to call them until he had a handle on what was going on in French Kiss. It didn't look like Anastasia was going to help him out with that.

Shock was quickly followed by anger, and her true colors came out with a vengeance. “You have nothing on me,” she hissed as she rose to her feet. “So go ahead and call the FBI.”

“Nothing?” He lifted an eyebrow. “What about breaking and entering? I saw you in Ms. Harrington's office. Now who were you talking to?”

A slight flush colored her cheeks, but other than that, she was one tough cookie. “If you're referring to the other morning, that was strictly business. I stopped by to leave Olivia the new catalog mock-ups. When she wasn't there, I left them on her desk.”

“In a locked office.”

She smiled slyly and shrugged. “I guess her airheaded assistant forgot to lock up.”

Deacon crossed his arms to keep from reaching out and shaking the truth from her. “And the phone call I overheard?”

“What phone call? I don't remember a phone call. And unless you have a recording, it's your word against mine, Mr. Beaumont.”

He studied her for a long moment. “On second thought, I think I want you gone from French Kiss now.” He picked up the phone and dialed. “Kelly, could you have security send someone up to escort Ms. Bradley off the premises? Thank you.” He hung up the phone. “You're right, Ms. Bradley, I don't have proof. But unfortunately for you, in order to ruin a person's reputation, you don't need proof. You just need a rumor. And I intend to start that rumor.”

Her eyes narrowed. “As if anyone would believe an ignorant hillbilly.”

“An ignorant hillbilly with the power to fire your ass.”

She sent him another scalding look before she jerked open the top desk drawer and started pulling things out. He grabbed one of the empty boxes by the door.

“Here, let me help you with that.”

“I don't need any help!” she snapped as she grabbed the box from him. He watched her remove everything from the drawers, but stopped her when she reached for the laptop on the desk.

“Unless you have proof that it's your personal laptop, it stays.”

She pressed her lips in a thin line. “You won't save French Kiss, you know. You can come up with all the collections you want, and it's still going to end up sold to the highest bidder.”

“Why, Ms. Bradley, you sound almost gleeful about that.” He cocked his head. “It makes a person wonder if you're not in cahoots with one of the companies that have made an offer. Avery Industries, perhaps?”

The flicker in her eyes was all the answer he needed. Not that he could prove it, but it was nice to know. The guard showed up, then stepped back as Anastasia strode out the door with her box.

“I don't need an escort,” she growled. “I know my way out.”

When the witch was gone, Deacon was left with the ghost. A ghost that had haunted him for years and refused to let up. Unlike Olivia's office, Michael's had a masculine feel. The shelving and desk were dark wood, the furniture brown leather and overstuffed. The only splashes of color were the paintings—paintings almost identical to his mother's pictures that he'd found in the garage. There was the same bridge over the Seine. The same angle of the Eiffel Tower. The same quaint café. And the same small lingerie shop.

Deacon had always thought Michael had left his mother after finding out she was pregnant. But looking at the paintings, he started to have his doubts. Why would a man want to be reminded of a woman he didn't love? It made no sense. But if it had been his mother who broke it off, why would Michael surround himself with painful memories?

“So you fired her?” Kelly peeked her head in, and when Deacon nodded, she walked in and closed the door behind her. “I could kiss you for getting rid of that bitch.” Before he could open his mouth, she held up a hand. “Not sexually. Just as an appreciative employee.” She sent him a heavy-lidded look and toyed with her necklace. “Unless you want more than appreciation.”

“Kelly,” he warned.

Her shoulders slumped. “Fine. You can't blame a girl for trying.” She looked around. “Isn't this a great office? Don't you just love Paris?”

“Not really,” he said dryly.

She pulled a phone from between her breasts and typed with her thumbs. “Get rid of Paris pictures from Mr. Beaumont's office.”

“This isn't my office.”

“Why not? You are the boss. Besides, I think Ms. Harrington is ready for you to get out of hers.” She walked over and took the painting of the café down and leaned it against the wall. It was funny, but Deacon seemed to breathe easier.

“Where is Olivia?” he asked.

“She called and said she'd be in the design studio for the rest of the day.”

“Is Parker with her?”

“Nope,” Kelly said. “He's getting his Corvette after I had it towed. Did you get a chance to case his office?”

“Not yet,” he said absently. “Are there men who work in the design department?”

“Sorta.” She winked. “If you know what I mean. Although I'm not too sure about Samuel. If he's not gay, he's asexual. There are no pheromones coming from that guy at all.”

“Good Lord.” Jason walked into the office. “Is sex all you think about?”

Kelly's smile drooped as her chin hiked. “As a matter of fact, I think about plenty of other things.”

“Name one.” While Kelly pondered the question, Jason looked at Deacon. “You want to go to a Giants game tonight? I've got two tickets for right behind home plate.”

If Deacon hadn't been up all night, he might've accepted. But he was dead on his feet and envied the fact that his brothers were now tucked into Olivia's guest room sleeping peacefully. Damn them.

“Thanks,” he said, “but now that Anastasia is gone, I wanted to get a look at her computer and see what I could find.”

“You fired her?” Jason asked. When Deacon nodded, he turned and high-fived Kelly. After the celebration was over, they dropped their hands and looked stunned by the show of solidarity.

Jason cleared his throat. “So how did she take it?”

“How do you think she took it?” Kelly said. “When I saw her being escorted to the elevators, she looked pissed.”

“That's putting it mildly,” Deacon said. “Although not pissed enough to rat out her accomplice. And I don't think they'll be as blatant as Anastasia was.” Even though this wasn't his office, and would never be his office, he sat down behind the desk and turned on Anastasia's laptop. “So did you find any more discrepancies in the accounts?”

Before Jason could answer, Kelly spoke. “I'll go to the game with you.” For the first time since Deacon had known her, she blushed. “I mean, if you need someone to go with you, I'm not doing anything else tonight.”

Jason's expression wasn't exactly thrilled. “Thanks, but since there's no sex involved, you'd probably be bored to tears. And unenthusiastic fans can really jinx a team.”

Kelly snorted. “As if the Giants have to worry about being jinxed. Their record this year has sucked worse than my last boyfriend. Their batting is dismal and their pitching even worse.”

Jason's eyes widened. “You follow the Giants?”

“Follow them? I've had sex with half the team.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me. I have work to do.”

Jason watched her go before he looked at Deacon. “What do you think?”

“I think it's doubtful. There have to be at least forty guys on the roster.”

“No, I mean do you think I should take her to the game?” Jason continued to stare at the doorway. “Just so the ticket won't go to waste, of course.”

“Of course.” Deacon bit back a smile.

After Jason left, Deacon checked out Anastasia's computer. He didn't find much. The files were all work-related, and if she'd corresponded with anyone from Avery, the e-mails had been deleted. Maybe he had misread her facial expressions. He was pretty beat, so it was possible. Figuring he wouldn't get anything productive done until he got some sleep, he closed the laptop and decided to call it a day.

When he stepped out of the office, he was surprised to find that Kelly had set up residence at the assistant's desk. All her girlie knickknacks cluttered the top, and she was happily tapping away on the computer with some kind of cartoon cat headphones clipped to her head. He was about to wave a hand in front of her face when she noticed him.

“Oh!” she yelled before slipping the headphones to her neck. “So did you need something, Mr. Beaumont?”

“Okay”—he held up a hand—“I get that you want me to move into this office. But even if I decide to, you're not my assistant. You're Ms. Harrington's.”

“Look, I'm not putting down Ms. Harrington. I think she's a real nice lady. But except for a few phone calls and setting up meetings, she really didn't know what to do with an assistant. And if you're worried about her being mad, don't be. I checked in with her just a few minutes ago, and she seems pretty happy right where she is. In fact I've never seen her so happy.”

“Where is—?”

“Design studio. Tenth floor.” She popped the headphones on and went back to her computer, yelling her next words. “But beware of Samuel. He doesn't like non-designers in his domain.”

But it wasn't some asexual designer who had Deacon pausing just outside the studio door. It was the sight of Olivia standing at a table with all the other designers gathered around her. They were talking about one of her designs, asking questions and throwing out ideas for fabrics. And while she had seemed hesitant in the boardroom, here she seemed right at home. She answered each question competently, didn't cut off anyone making a suggestion, and yet stood her ground when she needed to. But it wasn't her confidence that surprised him as much as the happiness that radiated from her like the rays of sunlight that spilled in through the windows.

She had always been attractive, but now she was utterly and completely captivating. And there was a part of him that was jealous as hell that he wasn't responsible for her look of joy. Which was crazy. Once he made sure French Kiss was solvent, he was out of there. He had no right to be jealous of a group of designers…or her boyfriend.

He was turning to leave when she glanced up. If he'd thought he was captivated before, it was nothing to how he felt when their eyes met. Suddenly he was drowning in twin pools of lush green and a rush of emotions so intense he had trouble catching his breath. Not just from desire, but also from something much more potent. But before he could examine the feelings more closely, his cell phone rang. With a simple nod, he broke eye contact and headed toward the elevators. Shaken, he answered without checking to see who the caller was. Which he regretted as soon as he heard the throaty voice.

“Did you forget something?”

Deacon waited until he was alone in the elevators before he answered. “Hello, Francesca.”

“Hello?” Francesca said. “You stand me up for the Fletchers' benefit dinner and all you can say is hello? You do realize that those tickets were six hundred dollars a plate.”

Damn, he'd forgotten all about the dinner.

“I'm sorry,” he said as he scrubbed a hand over his face. “But you've heard about my uncle's death. There were things I needed to take care of in San Francisco.”

“So I've heard. I talked with your father and he mentioned that you and your brothers have come into some money.”

Deacon rolled his eyes. He should've known that his father couldn't keep his mouth shut—especially around a beautiful woman. And even at close to Donny John's age, Francesca was beautiful.

“Not yet we haven't.”

“Difficulties with the will?”

“You could say that.”

There was a pause before she spoke. “You don't need to wait for money, Deacon. I've already transferred money into an account for you. All you have to do is say the word and work will start on your dream.”

This was exactly what he'd hoped for—the reason he'd spent the past few months escorting Francesca around. And once he got the money from Olivia, he could pay off Francesca and the condo project would be his free and clear. So why wasn't he more excited? He stared at the scrolled
F
and
K
on the elevator doors. Maybe because he'd gotten a taste of something bigger.