A Billionaire Between the Sheets (19 page)

He removed the hand that cupped his face. “I'm afraid I can't, Francesca. I need to get back to San Francisco.”

She nodded slightly. “I see. And the condos? I won't trust my money to some construction foreman, Deacon. I thought I made that perfectly clear.”

“You don't have anything to worry about. Your money won't be entrusted to a construction foreman. In fact, your money won't be used at all.”

Her eyes flickered. “So Michael's daughter paid you for the shares?”

Obviously his father had talked too much. Deacon shook his head. “This has nothing to do with Michael's will. I've just decided not to build the condos.”

She studied him for a moment as if trying to figure out if he was kidding. When she realized he wasn't, she released a loud, cynical laugh. “So French Kiss lured you away just like it did your uncle? Why am I not surprised? Obviously cheap lingerie is the Beaumonts' weakness.”

Deacon smiled. “It would seem that way.”

With anger radiating from every pore, she walked to the door and called to her maid. “Sadie, would you show Mr. Beaumont out? Our business is concluded.” As he walked past, she added, “I'd be careful putting all my eggs in one basket, Deacon. From what I hear, French Kiss isn't going to be around very long.”

“Then you heard wrong,” Deacon tossed over his shoulder as he walked out the door.

W
hat are you looking at, Cuz?” Nash asked.

Olivia continued to peer out the kitchen window. “Did you sweep my driveway?”

“No, but I'll be happy to do it once I finish the omelets.”

She turned and looked at Nash, who stood at the stove flipping the fluffy yellow eggs with a spatula. In the last two days, he'd become Olivia's shadow. Almost like he was under strict orders not to let her out of his sight. And she didn't doubt for a second that he was. But if Deacon was so worried about her, then why hadn't he called?

“Some guy in a trench coat did it.”

Olivia glanced at Grayson, who sat at the breakfast bar, spooning Cap'n Crunch cereal into his mouth. In the last week, he'd gotten more comfortable around Olivia and wasn't quite as soft-spoken or shy.

“You saw him?” she asked.

“Yeah, I caught him after I'd beaten Nash like a drum.”

“You did not beat me like a drum.” Nash turned from the stove and pointed the spatula at Grayson. “The only reason you got back to the house first was because I slowed down to talk with that cute jogger.”

Grayson shrugged and spoke around a mouthful of cereal. “Doesn't matter how, it only matters that I got back here first. So who is the guy, Olivia? The trench coat is more than a little creepy, but he has one righteous beard.”

Still stunned by Grayson's revelation, it took her a moment to answer. “He sells lemon juicers to the tourists, but I don't know his name. Nor why he would put out my trash, plant flowers in my garden, and sweep my driveway.”

Nash set a plate holding an omelet in front of her. “And you've never met the guy?”

“Not that I know of. In fact when he sees me, he never says a word.”

The hardness that entered Nash's eyes took Olivia by surprise. Obviously the easygoing Beaumont had another side.

“The next time you see him, I want you to call me,” he said.

“I really think he's harmless, Nash.”

“Maybe, but I don't want you taking the chance.” His cell phone pinged, and he took it out of his pocket and read the text before quickly texting a reply.

Trying to act nonchalant, she took a bite of her omelet. “So I guess that was Deacon.”

Nash put the phone back in his pocket. “Yes, it's hard to get away from Controlling Deacon.”

Unless you've had sex with him. Then it isn't hard at all
.
Two days, almost forty-eight hours, and she hadn't heard a word from him. Talk about feeling insecure. And annoyed. Very, very annoyed.

“So I guess his business took him longer than he thought,” she said.

Nash went back to cooking. “There were a few loose ends that needed tying up.”

“With his company? Or Francesca?” She had no business bringing Francesca up, especially when Deacon had assured her that the woman wasn't his girlfriend. But she couldn't seem to help herself, and the reactions from both men only added to her jealousy. Nash's eyes widened, while Grayson laughed.

“I'm sure Francesca would love to be tied up with Deke,” he said. “She might act like her loaning him money is only business, but we all know that she expects more than interest in return.”

Nash reached out and cuffed his brother in the back of the head. “Shut up, Gray.”

“Hey!” Grayson glared at Nash. “What's your problem?”

“My problem is that you don't know when to keep your mouth shut. First you can't talk to women, and then you say too much.”

“What difference does it make if Olivia knows about Francesca?” Grayson paused. “Unless…” He glanced at Olivia, and she couldn't help blushing. His eyes widened before he released a puff of air. “Well, shit.” He ran a hand over his smooth jaw. “I didn't realize it was serious.”

“It's not,” she said in a rush. “We're just…we just work together.” She didn't have a clue why tears filled her eyes.

Seeing them, Nash nodded at Grayson. “Why don't you go outside and see if you can find the trench coat guy? I'd like to have a few words with him.”

Grayson's concerned eyes remained on Olivia as he got up. “Sure.”

Once he was gone, Nash took his vacated chair. “So it's worse than I thought.”

She hadn't thought it was that bad until Grayson placed the image of Deacon tying up Francesca in her head. Now she felt like she might be sick. She pushed away the omelet.

Nash swiveled her barstool toward him. Up close he was just as good-looking as any top male model. Maybe even more so. But Olivia discovered that while she could appreciate his good looks, she wasn't attracted to them. She liked her men a little more bossy and intense.

“You need to know something, Olivia,” he said. “We Beaumonts have a weakness for women. And as much as we might want to ignore the gene our daddy gave us, we can't help giving in to our need to paint…seduce…or save any female within a mile radius. And more times than not, this weakness leads to a broken heart.”

“Are you worried that I'm going to break your brother's heart, Nash?”

His eyes turned soft. “No, Olivia. I'm worried he's going to break yours.”

Since she couldn't talk around the lump in her throat, she just sat there staring at her clasped hands in her lap. Nash had brought everything into perspective. She hadn't had sex with some random guy from the office. She'd had sex with a Beaumont. And after being around them, she knew they were different from most men. They
were
heartbreakers. Men whom women should steer clear of if they had any brains. Obviously Olivia had none. And now it was too late. Her heart might not be broken, but after two days without hearing from Deacon, it definitely felt bruised.

“I'm not saying that Deacon would intentionally hurt you, Olivia,” Nash continued. “He's a good man. I'm just saying that you should take things slow.”

She had to wonder if having sex on a desk was taking things slow.

“That bird's back,” Nash said. “If you have a gun, I could take care of him for you. I'm not as good of a shot as Deacon, but from this distance, I'm pretty confident.”

“I'm not. You couldn't hit the broadside of a barn at ten paces.”

The smooth Southern drawl had Olivia's heart doing a somersault in her chest. She glanced at the doorway to find Deacon standing there, looking extremely sexy in faded jeans and a white button-up shirt. He gave her a lazy smile, the kind that started slow and unfurled into something hot and primal. It made her feel primal—as if she wanted to pounce and devour him. Instead she took an uneven breath and stated the obvious. “You're back.”

The smile grew, displaying a dimple in one cheek. Deacon had a dimple? It figured. “I'm back,” he said. His gaze sizzled over her pink suit to the toes of her crossed purple heels before moving back to her face. “You're headed to work?”

After wiping her mouth with a napkin, she got up and smoothed down her skirt. “I was going to catch the trolley.”

Without taking his eyes off her, Deacon took the keys out of his pocket and tossed them at Nash. “You and Gray can take the rental car.”

“I'd rather take the Porsche,” Nash said.

“I'm sure you would.” Deacon continued to stare into her eyes. “But it's not happening. Now get Gray's butt in gear and get to French Kiss and keep an eye on things.”

“It's Saturday.”

“Which is a perfect time to catch someone doing something they're not supposed to be doing.”

“And talking about doing something you're not supposed to,” Nash said dryly, “where will you be, big brother?”

“Olivia and I are going out of town to do some research.”

Nash stepped closer, and the hard look returned. “I'm not liking this, Deacon. She's in over her head.”

“What is all zee commotion?” Babette stood at the top of the stairs in a pair of ugly poodle pajamas. “Can't a woman sleep in on a Saturday morning?”

Without a word to his brother or Babette, Deacon took Olivia's hand and led her down the stairs to her bedroom on the second level. She had made up her mind to take Nash's advice. Unfortunately, Deacon had other plans. Within two seconds flat, he had the door closed and Olivia in his arms. The kiss was hot and deep, and almost made up for the lack of communication.

Almost.

Olivia pulled back. “Why didn't you call?”

He looked surprised by the question. “I thought you didn't want a stalker for a boyfriend. So I figured I'd give you some time to consider the question.”

“The question?”

His brow knotted. “Okay, what happened while I was gone? Because when I left, I felt like you and I were on the same page. But if something's changed…”

“What question?”

He studied her for a moment before speaking. “Do you want to be my woman, Olivia Harrington?”

Nash's warning dissolved beneath the hard
ka-whack
of her heart. Trying to control her budding happiness, she adjusted the collar of his shirt. “Oh. That question.” She smiled. “I guess so.”

He tipped up her chin. “You guess so?”

A smile spread over her face. “Okay, yes. I'll be your woman.”

The growl he gave was caveman possessive. He picked her up and spun her around until she giggled. Then he gave her another melting kiss before setting her on her feet. “You'll need to pack an overnight bag.”

“An overnight bag? Where are we going?”

“That's for me to know, and you to find out.” He swatted her on the bottom. “Now hurry up, woman. We're on a schedule. Because in business and pleasure, timing is everything.”

This wasn't taking things slow. This was taking things fast and furious. But as Olivia packed, she discovered she didn't care. She wanted to be with Deacon, and if that meant she'd have to deal with a broken heart later, then so be it.

Deacon drove the way he did everything—fast, capably, and with a focus that Olivia envied. Not that she had trouble focusing. When Deacon was near, he became the center of her universe. She spent the ride completely captivated by the man in the aviators next to her. He'd put the top down, and the wind ruffled his thick, dark hair. There were crinkled lines at the corners of his eyes, and since he wasn't much of a laugher, she figured they had come from all that eye-narrowing. It looked like he had forgotten to shave that morning because dark stubble covered his angular jaw and looked extremely sexy.

“What's going through that head of yours?” he asked, as he took a corner like a Formula One racer.

She studied his hand on the gearshift, his forearm muscles flexing as he shifted to a higher gear. “I'm wondering why you're being so secretive,” she said. “Especially if we're just scoping out some settings for catalog photo shoots.”

He glanced over. “You aren't very patient, are you? I bet you were one of those kids who tried to find their Christmas presents before their parents even got them wrapped.”

“My parents didn't wrap presents. They had them wrapped.” She grinned wickedly. “Although I did unwrap a few one year. I thought I'd rewrapped them perfectly, but my dad figured it out.”

“Michael?”

She shook her head. “My biological father.” She glanced out the window, searching for another topic of conversation. Before she could find one, Deacon reached out and took her hand, interlocking his fingers with hers.

“So tell me about your dad.”

She shrugged. “There's nothing much to tell. He and my mom got a divorce when I was nine, and he disappeared from my life.”

“Disappeared? You mean you haven't seen him since you were nine?”

She shook her head. “He had some kind of a mental breakdown and took off for parts unknown. If you know my mother, it's understandable. If it hadn't been for Michael, I would've run for the hills after I graduated from high school.”

Deacon let go of her hand to downshift. Once he had, he took her hand again and stared out the windshield as if in deep thought. No doubt worried about the genes she'd inherited.

“I was kidding,” she said. “I'm not much of a runner.”

He glanced over at her. “It's not understandable, Olivia. I don't care what your mother did. That doesn't excuse your father from leaving his only daughter and never once trying to get in touch with her. Donny John wasn't the best dad, but at least he stuck around. And if he hadn't, I would've been pissed.”

“What good would that do? Getting mad wouldn't have brought him back.”

“No, but sometimes it just feels good to let off some steam. To confront the injustices of the world and yell out your anger about them. Or is keeping your emotions in check something else my uncle taught you?”

“We all can't be like you, Deacon, someone who has no trouble letting people know exactly how you feel.”

“And why not? If you let someone know how you feel, then there are no surprises—everything's out on the table.” He pulled into a parking lot, and she realized they were at the private airport where they kept French Kiss's jet. He drove straight onto the tarmac, where a man was waiting to open Olivia's door. He helped her out with a smile and then rounded the car to accept the keys from Deacon.

“When can we expect you back, sir?” he asked as Deacon discreetly handed him a tip.

“Not until Tuesday night.”

“Tuesday?” Olivia said. “I can't be gone that long! I have too much to do to get the collections ready for the fashion show.”

“I spoke with Samuel.” Deacon handed their bags to another man, this one wearing a polo shirt. “He assured me that he has everything under control.” He took her arm and led her up the stairs of the plane.

Olivia started to argue the point, but was stopped by a smiling flight attendant in a purple skirt, starched white blouse, and neck scarf in a purple kiss print.