A Billionaire Between the Sheets (27 page)

“Stop right there, Deacon Beaumont!”

She looked at the EMTs. “Get these straps off me. I'm not going to the hospital.” They glanced at each other before they did what she asked.

Deacon came striding back over. “Oh yes, you are going to the hospital. Now lie back down, Olivia.”

“No.” She hopped off the gurney and met him toe to toe. “I'm not going anywhere until I've said what I came to say.”

Deacon released his breath. “I get it, Olivia. If your designs are going to make it, we need to be at the fashion show. And if you hadn't pissed me off so much the other night, I would've realized that and stayed until after the show.”

“I pissed you off?” She pointed at his chest. “You punched my father.”

He blinked. “Your father? That street bum is your father?”

“He's not a street bum. He's a salesman who just happens to prefer the outdoors to four walls.”

Deacon studied her. “So why didn't you tell me that?”

“Because you never gave me the chance. Like always, you just barged in and took over. Just like you did today. You answered my phone—my phone—then assumed you knew why I was here without once waiting for me to tell you.”

“She is right, Deke,” Nash said.

Deacon shot him a mean-looking glance before he turned to Olivia. “So are you telling me that Samuel didn't call you and ask you to stop me from getting on the plane?”

“No, I'm not telling you that at all. Samuel did call me. And he did want me to stop you from leaving. At first I thought I rushed to the airport because I didn't want my designs to fail.” Her voice lost some of its belligerence. “Those are my designs that are going to be on the runway tonight—designs that I have spent most of my life working on. And I'll admit that I want them to be a success.” She tipped up her chin and tried not to lose herself in the deep purple-blue of his eyes. “But when I saw you sitting on the plane, I realized that my designs had nothing to do with me not wanting you to leave. I don't want you to leave, Deacon, because I realized that I don't want to live without you. And it doesn't seem to matter that you're Michael's son—”

Donny John cut in. “There seems to be some confusion on fathers here. Deacon is my son, not Michael's.”

When she sent Deacon a questioning look, he nodded. “It's true. Michael was infertile. The letter my mother sent Michael was just to tell him about my birth in the hopes that a nephew would mend things between the two brothers.” He stepped closer. “Now what were you saying about not being able to live without me regardless of who my father is?”

She might've been annoyed with his arrogance if the hopeful look on his face hadn't been so cute. “I don't care who your father is. To me you'll always just be Deacon. The arrogant, controlling boss who walks into a room and takes charge. The sweet, caring man who took me to Paris. The polite Southern gentleman who pulls out my chair and opens my doors and makes me feel like a woman. Not a weak woman, but a strong woman who can be anything she wants to be. Even if the only thing she truly wants to be is your woman.” She tried to continue her speech in a strong voice, but it was hard to appear strong when a tear leaked out of her eye. “I love you, Deacon. That's why I drove like a maniac to get here. Why I bought a ticket to Louisiana. And why I got on the plane and made a fool of myself.”

Deacon studied her as if he were studying a sales spreadsheet, his gaze intense, as if he were ferreting out all her secrets. Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, he spoke. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Her eyes narrowed. “I spilled out my heart to you and all you can say is ‘okay'?”

“No. I have some other things I'd like to say, but they'll need to wait. Right now we need to get you to a fashion show.” Without waiting for a reply, he swept her up in his arms and carried her out the door.

W
hen Deacon and Olivia arrived at the hotel where the fashion show was being held, the main ballroom was already filled to capacity. Celebrities and honored guests sat in the rows of chairs that surrounded the catwalk, and television equipment and cameras filled every other available space.

The backstage was even more chaotic. Designers, hair stylists, and makeup artists swarmed around supermodels, adjusting bras and panties, fixing hair, and touching up makeup. Reporters and photographers circled, taking notes and snapping pictures, while a camera crew interviewed the models as they were being primped. In the midst of the mass confusion, Samuel stood, his usually perfect hair mussed and his tie crooked. When he saw Olivia, he hurried over.

“Thank God you're here,” he said. “One of the models has the flu. Another went on a doughnut binge this morning and looks pregnant in the Romeo bra and panty set. And the stage backdrop for the Lothario Collection is all wrong.”

Olivia expected Deacon to start issuing orders, and when he didn't, she glanced over to find his eyes wide and his mouth partially open in stunned shock. For the first time, he looked like he didn't have a clue what to do. That alone was enough to put a smug smile on her face. Especially after his lame reply to her heartfelt speech at the airport. And after he hadn't spoken a word on the way to the hotel. Not one word. He'd just driven the Porsche like a movie stunt man in a car chase while Olivia fumed.

“What, Deacon?” she said. “Don't tell me that you don't know what to do.” She might've continued to rub it in if the show wasn't starting in mere minutes. Looking around at a scene she had witnessed dozens of times before, she felt an invigorating excitement.

“Which model has the flu?” she asked as she took Samuel's clipboard.

“Leila.”

Olivia flipped through the list of models. “It's too late to call one of the alternates, we'll have to divide up the designs Leila planned to wear.” She ran her finger down the list. “Charlize and Renee have similar measurements. Get them fitted now. Let's not worry about the backdrop. Once the models are on the runway, no one will be looking at it anyway. And as for the poochy tummy, let's go with it. It might make women around the world feel a little better about their own bodies. Also, you'll need to call Kelly and have her bring me something from my house to wear on the runway—she can choose.”

While Samuel raced off to do her bidding, the side door opened, and Donny, Nash, and Grayson walked in and joined Deacon, who still stood by the door. He no longer looked shocked. In fact he was smiling. And surprisingly, Olivia smiled back before she started issuing orders.

“Grayson, you'll need to get dressed. You'll be going out with two of the models at the end of your collection. And the same goes for you, Nash.”

Grayson nodded while Nash gave her a salute. “Yes, ma'am.”

“Deacon, you'll go out last.” She didn't wait for him to reply before she clapped her hands. “Now let's get to it. We've got a fashion show to pull together.”

But her excitement left quickly enough as one problem after the other cropped up. The pop singer they'd hired to open the show split a seam in his pants and had to have them quickly stitched, but once he got onstage, he rocked the house. Olivia adjusted the deep-purple bra of the first model before sending her to Samuel, who stood at the top of the stairs wearing a headset and issuing orders into the microphone.

Once the model stepped out onstage, there was nothing for Olivia to do but hold her breath and watch the backstage monitors as the model pranced down the runway like a pony on parade. It wasn't until she made her first turn that the crowd broke out in deafening applause, and Olivia's stomach released a mere fraction. But this was only one design. There were dozens more to come. And with each model and each round of applause, she relaxed a little more.

During a commercial break, Kelly arrived with a dress flung over her arm. It wasn't one of Olivia's business suits. It was a sleeveless purple-polka-dotted dress with a flared skirt that Olivia had bought on impulse and never worn.

“I thought it was time for our top designer to strut her stuff,” Kelly said with a smile. “And I think this shows off your creative personality better than those stuffy suits you've been wearing.”

Olivia held up the flirty dress and smiled. “I think you're right, Kelly. And call me Olivia.”

Kelly laughed. “I get the feeling that we've both done a little evolving since the Beaumonts have arrived.” She took Olivia's arm and led her back to one of the makeshift dressing rooms to help her change into the dress.

Because she was still confused and needed some advice, Olivia spilled her guts about what had happened at the airport.

“‘Okay'? That's all he said?” Kelly zipped the dress and handed Olivia the purple high heels she'd brought.

“That was it. And since you've dated a lot of guys, I was hoping you'd know what it meant.”

Kelly blushed. “Actually, I haven't really dated that many guys—okay, so I've only dated five guys. And one was in third grade. But I know a good guy when I see him, and Mr. Beaumont is a good guy. If he said ‘Okay,' then I think everything is going to be okay. Now we better hurry before the show ends without you.”

Once the makeup artist gave Olivia the once-over with his brushes, she and Kelly hurried back to watch the rest of the show.

Grayson and Nash turned out to be naturals. Grayson even gave the camera a sexy little smile as he walked down the aisle with a model on each arm. Nash was a little more theatrical. He had coached the girls he walked with, and when they reached the end of the runway, they gave him a kiss on either cheek as he flashed a brilliant smile and winked.

The Valentino Collection was the grand finale, and Olivia couldn't help taking extra time with the models before they climbed the stairs to the stage. The last one out wore the purple lace-up corset. Olivia had just retied the bow in front for the third time when Deacon spoke.

“I liked it better on you.”

She glanced behind her. He had changed into a gray suit, purple shirt, and silver tie, and the supermodels couldn't seem to take their eyes off him.

“You look nice,” she said.

“So do you,” he said, even though his eyes remained locked with hers. “New dress?”

Before she could answer, Samuel hissed at them, “Stop gawking at each other, you two, and get up here. You're on next.”

Olivia looked away from Deacon and realized that all the models had moved out onstage and Samuel was frantically motioning to the two of them. Deacon took her arm and helped her up the stairs, where Samuel fussed with her hair before giving her an air kiss on either cheek.

“You did it, love. You've knocked their socks off.” He held back the curtain and waited for her to step out onstage.

She turned to follow his directive, but then froze. The runway spilled out in front of her, lined with beautiful models all wearing her designs. Suddenly Olivia was terrified. She didn't belong here amid all the lights and cameras. She took a step back and ran into Deacon.

He placed his hands on her waist and leaned down to whisper in her ear, “It's okay, Livy. I'll be right beside you.” He paused. “Forever.”

Before she could absorb his words, the announcer spoke. “And now I'd like to introduce to you the new CEO of French Kiss, Deacon Valentino Beaumont, and the designer of tonight's entire collection, Olivia Harrington.”

Deacon moved next to her and took her hand, his warmth and strength giving her the courage she needed to take the first step. They walked down the runway together while cameras clicked and the audience rose to its feet in applause. The applause continued long after Olivia and Deacon reached the end.

“They love you,” he said as he smiled at the crowd. “Almost as much as I love you.”

“You love me?”

Uncaring of the camera on a hoist that moved in for a close-up, he turned and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. “Completely. Now tell me you'll marry me and be my woman for life.”

It was hard to keep from flying into his arms. But since it would be her job to keep this arrogant man in line, she shrugged. “Okay.”

His eyebrow quirked before he laughed. “I guess I deserved that. Now, shall we seal the deal?” Then right there in front of the audience and millions of television viewers, he kissed her. Not a quick kiss but a long, deep kiss that had the runway models sighing and the applause getting louder. When he pulled back, all she could do was beam with happiness.

“I love you, Deacon Valentino. Although it would've been nice if you'd asked me at the airport instead of in front of millions of people.”

He flashed a smile. “Haven't I always told you that perfect timing is everything?”

There was a staccato of pops, and purple lip-shaped confetti filled the air. As it floated around them like a billion kisses, she had to agree.

I
f you want to make it in this business, you must immerse yourself in the story.”

That was the advice Eden Huckabee's editor had given her. But what Eden was getting ready to do was more than immersing herself. It was out-and-out insanity. Especially when the man who waited behind the double doors of the penthouse suite could be another Zodiac Killer. Or the real Zodiac Killer, since he'd never been apprehended. All Eden had was the word of a prostitute that he wasn't.

“He's a really respectful guy,” Madison had said, “who must be afraid of women. That's the only reason I can think of for the ‘no touching' rule.”

No touching. That's what had cinched the deal for Eden. She could immerse herself in the story as long as there was no touching. Taking a deep breath, she tapped on one of the doors before she used the room key that had been in the envelope she'd picked up at the concierge's desk. But before she could reach for the door handle, it turned. Eden tensed for flight, but her body relaxed when a young man who looked like Harry Styles from the boy band One Direction peeked out. He had long hair and pretty eyes, and still carried baby fat in his cheeks.

This was the man Madison called the Dark Seducer? No wonder he kept the lights off; he probably didn't want the escorts carding him. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. It appeared that all she needed to worry about now was being asked to perform a cheer in a parochial pleated skirt. Pleated skirts made her butt look the size of a front-loader washer, and she had never been what you would call coordinated.

While she was trying not to laugh, the young man was giving her a thorough once-over. His gaze wandered over her damp hair, rain-drenched coat, and wet high heels. It was raining cats and dogs, and since she had forgotten to bring cash to tip the valet, she'd been forced to park a good block and a half away. San Francisco had a lot of things, but parking wasn't one of them.

“So are you a hooker?” The teenager finally spoke. “Because you don't look hot enough to be a hooker.”

All the cuteness drained right out of him, and she had the strong urge to pinch his baby-fat cheeks until his eyes watered. “I believe that hot is in the eye of the beholder. And we're called escorts, not hookers.”

“What's the difference?”

Eden had wondered the same thing, but after meeting Madison, she'd learned that there was a big difference between being a hooker and being an escort. Hookers had pimps. Escorts had services. Hookers worked nightly. Escorts worked rarely. Hookers barely made enough to keep them in drugs. Escorts made a boatload of cash—not to mention the jewelry, vacations, and homes they received as bonuses. Hookers weren't picky about their clients. Escorts were very picky.

Which didn't explain why Madison had chosen this smart-mouthed yahoo.

“Are you going to let me in?” she asked. “Or am I not hot enough?”

He shrugged and opened the door.

The suite was over-the-top lavish. The marble floors of the entryway gleamed in the light of the overhead chandelier. There was an opulent contemporary dining room table on the right. And in the living area, white couches and chairs surrounded a coffee table with a circular bed of blue quartz in the center that flickered with gas flames. Being wet and cold, Eden wanted to move closer to the fire. Instead she stood there, dripping on the marble floor and staring with awe at the spectacular view of downtown and the Bay Bridge. Obviously the kid made money. No doubt one of the growing number of Internet baby billionaires who struggled to spend their money. It wouldn't be a bad angle for a story. But one story at a time. This story was about Madison. It was Madison's perspective she needed to channel. What ran through her head when she walked into a hotel room? What did she see? Feel? And ultimately, how did she deal with selling her body for—

Eden's mind came to a screeching halt when hands settled on her shoulders. She jumped and then turned to point a finger like a mother with a naughty toddler. “No touching, young man.”

Looking duly chastised, he held up his hands. “Okay. Okay. I was just going to take your coat.”

“Oh. Sorry.” She slipped off the coat and handed it to him. Beneath she wore a black sequined cocktail dress that she'd worn to the Christmas office party. She thought it was sexy, but Baby Cheeks seemed thoroughly disappointed. His eyes lost their gleam of anticipation, and his shoulders slumped in the ill-fitting burgundy jacket. A burgundy jacket with a gold name tag pinned above the breast pocket.
Jeremy Ross
.

Eden's eyes widened. “You work at the hotel?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I wanted to work at Starbucks but they won't let you have a tattoo on your neck. Not that I have one, but I want to get one. I'm thinking that one of those Chinese dragons on my chest with its tail wrapping around my throat would be so wicked—”

A cell phone rang, and he pushed aside his jacket and took the phone off his belt clip. When he spoke, he used a lot more respect than he had with Eden. “Yes, sir. Okay, I'm leaving now.” He hung up. “I gotta go. The concierge said that if you need anything, just call down.” He was almost to the door when she stopped him.

“Wait! Where is my…date?”

He shrugged. “I don't have a clue. I just dropped by the complimentary fruit basket that goes with the suite.” He nodded at the basket of fruit on the bar. “Maybe the guy stiffed you.” He gave her the once-over. “If so, what could I get for twenty-one dollars?”

Eden lifted an eyebrow. “How about a swift kick in the seat of your pants?”

He rolled his eyes. “I don't see how you make a living as a hooker. You've got way too much attitude.” He turned and walked out the door.

When he was gone, Eden stood there for a few minutes not knowing what to do. Part of her was relieved that she wouldn't have a hand in sexually corrupting a minor, and the other part had gone back to being scared. So much so that she thought about helping herself to a couple minis from the bar. But Eden wasn't a drinker. Or a smoker. Or a midnight toker. Something that really annoyed her grandparents. Pops and Mimi believed that a glass of wine or the occasional hit of marijuana kept you from being an uptight asshole.

Which probably explained Eden's personality.

Trying to stay focused on the goal, she glanced around the suite and started her story:
The blue flames of the fire reflected in the floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a spectacular, rain-drenched view of the city. A view that had been bought for a price. But Madison had learned early on that anything could be bought for a price…even your soul.

Or was that too dramatic? Eden's boss, the editor of the small newspaper she worked for, always got on her for being too dramatic.

“You should write romance novels,” Stella would say. “Because with that kind of mushy prose, you'll never make it as a serious writer.”

But Eden would make it. She might write a little dramatically, but she had something that other people didn't have. Her father called it true grit. Her mother called it enlightened aura. And her brothers called it pain-in-the-ass stubbornness. Eden called it goal-setting. And she had never left a goal unaccomplished.

Never.

And right now her goal was to become the next Woodward and Bernstein. She wanted to do investigative reporting like her father had done before he had started teaching college journalism. So far she'd been given only human interest stories. Charity walks, doggy costume contests, and a night at the opera. But now she had a story that she could sink her teeth into. A story about the underbelly of prostitution. It was the first real news story Stella had given her, and Eden was determined to knock her editor's socks off with it. Even if it meant Eden had to go above and beyond. And this was certainly going above and beyond.

Taking her phone from her purse, she made a few notes describing the furniture, fireplace, and view. But the living room wasn't what she needed to describe as much as the bedroom. She glanced at the double doors to her left, and after only a moment's hesitation, she walked over and opened one.

Light from the living area sliced through the dark across plush white carpet and the puffy satin duvet on the bed. Was this the room where she would be expected to strip? Not that she was actually going to strip down to her skin. She wasn't about to go that far for a story. All she needed was a taste of what it felt like to be in Madison's shoes. Just a glimpse of the debauchery of the escort world. Once she had that glimpse, she intended to contract a bad stomach virus and get the heck out of there.

But for now she might as well get a feel for her part. Channeling Mimi's favorite actress, Mae West, Eden placed a hand on her hip and strutted seductively into the dark room. “So what do you want, big boy?” She ran a finger along the cool, slick fabric of the duvet. “You want a slow burn or a fast trip around the world?”

There was a rustle before a smooth Southern voice spoke. “Personally, I've always liked things slow and hot. But I am a little curious as to what going around the world consists of.”

Eden dropped her phone, and it thumped to the carpet, but not half as loudly as her heart thumping against her rib cage. “I-I'm sorry,” she stammered as she turned toward the voice. “I didn't realize someone was in here.”

“Then who were you talking to?”

She tried to collect herself, but it wasn't easy when her knees felt like overcooked spaghetti. “I was just”—unable to think up a lie, she told the truth—“practicing.”

There was a long pause before he spoke. “Close the door.”

She tried to clear the fear that clogged her throat. “There's no touching, right?”

“I thought I explained the rules to your service.” His voice sounded closer. “No talking and follow my instructions to a tee.” The door slammed closed, causing Eden to almost jump out of her heels.

Being in the dark with a complete stranger had her reevaluating her goals. And being a good investigative reporter took a backseat to self-preservation and getting the hell out of there.

“Look.” She took a step closer to the door. “I'm sorry, but I don't think I can do this.”

“Obviously. You seem to have a problem keeping your mouth shut.”

Suddenly she wasn't scared as much as annoyed. “And you seem to have control issues.”

“I believe I'm paying two thousand dollars for that control.”

“Two thousand?” Eden couldn't hide her surprise. She knew that Madison made a lot of money as an escort, but she hadn't thought it was that much. “Are you kidding me?” Realizing that she didn't sound like an escort, she backpedaled. “I mean, Madison told me that I'd make much less.”

“She lied.” The words were spoken so close to her ear that she released a squeal. She backed away and bumped into the bed, sitting down with a bounce on the down comforter. The mattress dipped as his hands pressed on either side of her hips. “There will be touching.”

“B-but that wasn't part of the deal.”

“I don't know what kind of deal you made,” he said, “but the deal I made was for a woman who will do exactly what I say.”

“Exactly?” she squeaked.

He leaned closer, his breath falling against her lips like steam on a bathroom mirror. “Exactly.”

Before Eden could make it very clear that she wasn't about to do exactly what he said, he moved away. A few seconds later, a light clicked on. Not a light that lit up the room, but a soft recessed light that shone only on the bed. The Dark Seducer stood by the window, his tall, lean body outlined by the small amount of light that filtered in through the curtains.

“But you're right,” he said. “I won't be doing the touching. And you won't be touching me. Now take off your dress.”

With his words and the light on, Eden's determination to succeed returned. All she had to do was slip off her dress and endure just a brief sampling of the humiliation that Madison went through. Of course thinking you could do something and actually doing it were two different things. Her hands shook so badly she had to fist them for a few seconds before she reached for the straps of her dress. She tried to calm her nerves with a little mental justification:
This is no different from going to a nudist beach with your grandparents.
Except she hadn't been to a nudist beach with her grandparents since she was three.
The human body is beautiful and should be shared.
Except her body wasn't beautiful and she had never been good at sharing.
This is only a few minutes of your life.
Except as the dress slipped to her waist and revealed her bra, time seemed to stand still.

Then he spoke. “Take it all the way off.”

She swallowed, and her heart thumped in her ears as she wiggled out of the dress and dropped it to the floor. She thought about removing her heels, but Madison had said that he liked the heels left on. Just the heels. She tried to assess all the emotions racing through her so she could write them down later. Humiliation. Fear. Excitement. Excitement? Yes, it was there nibbling at the edges of her humiliation and fear.

“Now the bra and panties…slowly.”

This was her cue to exit, to grab her dress and phone and get the hell out of there. But her curiosity wouldn't let her. “Why do you do this?”

“Excuse me?”

“Why do you hire women?”

There was a pause, and she thought he wasn't going to answer her. And then his voice came out of the darkness, low, deep, and Southern-soaked. “Why else? Because I'm sexually deviant.”

His blatant response should've just reinforced her belief that he was a wealthy man who enjoyed victimizing women, but somehow it did the opposite. It made her see him as a human being with flaws. And Eden had always had a weakness for flaws. Probably because she had so many herself.