Beauty and the Billionaire (BILLIONAIRE BOYS CLUB NOVEL) (4 page)

Buchanan Manor never had visitors.
Hunter
never had visitors. Even the Brotherhood never came to visit. He usually went to visit them, and with a bodyguard in tow.

He felt an incredible urge to head toward the guest hall in the east wing, where she was housed. He wanted to pass down the hall and perhaps spot her exploring. Did she like his house? Or did she find it old and stodgy and overbearing?

His hand touched the scars on his cheek, feeling the deep, ugly grooves still carved into his flesh after all this time.

And clenched his hands on his desk, quelling his excitement.

***

Dawn broke bright and early, shining through the massive windows along the far wall. Gretchen bounded out of bed, already feeling restless and ready to begin the project. On the other side of the bed, Audrey mumbled and rolled over, going back to sleep.

That was fine with Gretchen. It’d give her a chance to get her bearings.

She dressed quickly, considering the bell pull, and decided to head out on her own. Dinner had been brought to them last night but it had been . . . strange. A few meager sandwiches and a can of tuna for her cat. She’d considered that Igor might not be the most welcome here and had brought cans of food and a portable litter pan, but it was downright odd that the cat seemed to be welcome and her sister was not. And since the welcome had been so incredibly warm she decided that perhaps this morning she’d explore a bit on her own before alerting their host that she was awake.

The halls of the house were eerily silent, to the point that she stopped and turned her phone to vibrate. A phone call would alert someone to her presence, and . . . she paused. Why was she feeling the need to sneak around? There was no one in this mansion. And after all, she’d been invited. So why the vague sense of guilt?

Probably because the butler had been such a jerk. If he was the welcoming party, she could see why no one else was here. She wondered if the owner was quite as big an asshole as his employee. Perhaps the unfriendly Mr. Buchanan had given his butler instructions to make their welcome an unpleasant one because he wasn’t a fan of the project. Maybe he didn’t want her here and was permitting it only for the sake of the project.

Though if he didn’t want her here, then why would he allow it? Why wouldn’t he make other provisions to take the letters off-site in a controlled manner and have her work somewhere else where he wouldn’t be disturbed?

None of it made any sense.

Gretchen wandered the halls, admiring the costly furnishings and the architecture of the place, but the more that she wandered, the more bizarre it seemed to her. Though the place was spotless, she had seen no one at all. Didn’t a place this huge need a massive staff on hand? She’d seen enough documentaries about British aristocracy and the huge staff that the manor houses carried. This was practically American aristocracy, right? So where were the employees? She found it hard to believe that Buchanan would be doing his own dishes and dusting his library.

She eventually made it back to the main foyer of the house. Then she headed across the hall to the next wing. For some reason, it was oddly pleasing to hear the distant whirr of vacuums. That meant someone else existed in this enormous mansion.

Following the sounds, she pushed open doors until she found the source—an army of maids thoroughly cleaning one room. There had to be twenty women in there busy with vacuums and dusters.

“Hi there,” Gretchen called.

They stopped what they were doing. One woman froze mid-feather-dust, and the one wielding the enormous vacuum shut it off. They were all middle-aged to elderly, and they stared at her as if she were a ghost.

Gretchen gave them a friendly little wave, though she was feeling a bit odd about such things. This place was crazy. “You guys work here?”

As soon as the question left her mouth, she felt like an idiot. They were wearing traditional black-and-white maid costumes that Gretchen thought only existed for costume parties, though a more modest kind than she’d seen for Halloween. Of course they worked here. “I’m staying in the east wing,” she said lamely. “Working. Nice to see you all.”

“No one’s supposed to be in this wing,” one woman said after a moment. “Today’s Saturday.”

“Umm, okay.” She glanced around, but everyone seemed to be waiting for her to go. “Why can’t we be in the west wing today again?”

“Because it’s Saturday,” another woman said. “Off limits except to the cleaning crew.”

“Yeah, okay, but why?”

The woman shrugged. “That’s how it is. We don’t make the rules. We just work here.”

And now she was making them nervous.
Well, wasn’t this awkward
. Gretchen pointed at the door behind her. “I’m . . . um . . . just going to leave, I think. Have you guys seen Mr. Buchanan?”

“No one sees Mr. Buchanan except Mr. Eldon,” the eldest maid offered helpfully. “Do you want me to call Mr. Eldon?”

“No, that’s okay. I already had my fill of Mr. Eldon.” Gretchen glanced at the door, then back at the maids. One wing was closed yesterday because it was Friday. This wing was closed because today was Saturday. “So tomorrow’s Sunday. What happens on Sunday?”

“Boathouse and Greenhouse,” one of the women offered. “And any outlying buildings or special projects.”

“And Monday?”

“No one works on Monday or Tuesday. Wednesday is the north wing, Thursday is the east wing, Friday is the south wing, and Sunday is the west wing.”

“You do a different area each day of the week? Huh. Which day of the week is Mr. Buchanan’s room?”

“Wednesday.”

So he lived in the north wing. Not the same wing as her. “And the rest of the family?”

“No one else lives here except Mr. Eldon and Mr. Buchanan.”

In this big house? Only two men? How positively . . . creepy. And lonely. And an enormous waste of all this incredible space.
“I see. Well, I think I’m going to finish taking a look around, if that’s okay with you guys.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to ring Mr. Eldon?” One woman pulled out a phone that looked remarkably like a walkie-talkie. “I’m sure he’d—”

“No, I’m good. I was just heading down to the kitchens. Can you tell me where they are?”

“There’s three kitchens,” one maid volunteered. “But the only one that’s kept stocked is in the north wing.”

Spiffy.
“Thank you. Is there a kitchen staff?”

“Just Mr. Eldon. He prepares all of Mr. Buchanan’s meals. He’s probably there right now.”

“I see.”
Jeez. This was sounding weirder by the moment
. Gretchen knew the rich were eccentric, but this was a little ridiculous. “Well, skip that, then. I’m not that hungry after all. I’ll check the kitchens out some other time. Thanks for your help, ladies.”

She left, quickly shutting the door before they could protest—or worse, call the oh-so-pleasant Mr. Eldon.

Gretchen headed back to the main hall, heading toward the familiar part of the house before she got lost and someone had to call Eldon on her. It was still early enough that she could get a good day’s work in on Astronaut Bill before Eldon returned to show her where they were keeping the letters. She could return, wake up Audrey, spend some time with Igor, and relax. And work on her book like she was supposed to. Even better, she could ring the bell and force that awful Mr. Eldon to make them breakfast. The thought of him slaving over a stove for her and Audrey had a certain appeal.

And yet . . . Gretchen turned. Then, after a moment’s thought, she headed up the stairs to the north wing.

She was being nosy, she told herself. She just wanted a glimpse of what the mysterious Mr. Buchanan looked like. Maybe he’d be just as weird and unpleasant as Mr. Eldon. But her imagination was fired up.

Plus, she’d use any excuse to avoid spending manuscript time with Astronaut Bill. Maybe it was time Astronaut Bill met up with a fearsome race of skinny, bald giant butlers that needed to be slaughtered.

It would be satisfying, if not a bit bloodthirsty. At least it was just fiction.

***

When Gretchen had thought she’d want to see the master of the fabulous house, she hadn’t thought that she’d see . . . well, all of him.

After exploring the north hall for a time, she turned down another section of the wing, the faint sound of piped-in rock music drawing her forward. She’d headed toward the sound . . . and stopped.

At the end of the hallway, not a hundred feet from where she was standing, a door was opening. Steam rushed out in a billowing puff, along with the source of the loud music. A man emerged, rubbing his head with a fluffy white towel to dry his hair, humming to himself. His face was hidden from her but . . . nothing else was.

And oh, mercy, he was gorgeous.

He was utterly naked, his skin gleaming with wet drops from his shower. His legs were tanned and shadowed from the wet hair clinging to them, and his legs were thick with cords of muscle. Nice, wet cords of glorious muscle. A tattoo traced across one bicep.

He was hung, too, Gretchen didn’t mind noticing. His cock lay semi-erect against his thigh, as if he’d recently pleasured himself.

Her gaze traveled upward, feeling almost lascivious at spying. But his chest was just as perfectly sculpted as the rest of him, deep grooves worn into the muscle and displaying a delicious lack of body fat. This was a man who worked out regularly and with great enthusiasm.

Much like the enthusiasm she was feeling staring at his broad shoulders and washboard abs, Gretchen thought to herself. There was something not quite right about the way one side of his body looked, as if the skin had too much shadow on it, but she was too far away to see what it was. A trick of the light, perhaps? A light dusting of chest hair covered his pectorals.

The towel fell, and she caught a glimpse of dark hair atop his head and strong, handsome features . . . and then the towel revealed his entire face.

Scarred. Broken. His mouth was pulled down on one side.

She gasped, unable to help herself. He’d been so perfectly sculpted that the sight of the ruin on his face had completely thrown her for a loop.

The man froze and turned toward her, as if seeing her for the first time. Recognition flitted across his face, and then he was wrapping the towel around his waist. “Get the fuck out of here,” he roared. One hand went in front of his face, shielding it from her gaze.

“Sorry,” Gretchen said in a high-pitched voice, taking a few cautious steps backward. “I didn’t mean to spy. I just—”

“Get out of here! Go! You’re not allowed down this hall!”

“I’m so sorry! I—”

“GO!”

Gretchen turned and ran. She didn’t stop running until she made it back to the east wing and slammed her bedroom door shut behind her. She leaned against it, breathing hard.

Holy shit.

She’d just seen the owner naked. Really naked. Hell, she’d practically ogled his nakedness and taken his measurements. And it had been some damn fine nakedness. The only thing that wasn’t perfect was his face. It was terribly scarred, but the more she thought about it, the more she was intrigued by it.

Not that she’d get a chance to find out the story behind it. Mr. Buchanan was seriously pissed that she’d seen him. She’d never seen anyone so mad. Gretchen winced, biting a fingernail.

Was she going to be fired from this job before she’d even started it? Just because she’d been bored and curious?
Shit.

***

Damn it all. That had not been how he’d wanted to meet Gretchen.

Hunter had planned it all carefully in his mind. He’d leave her some friendly notes, letting her know that he had an interest in the project he’d cultivated for her. He’d meet her in a well-shadowed room and let her have the impression that his face was not that bad. After a few chance meetings, he’d reveal to her his face and give her a chance to consider it in stronger light. Not daylight. Daylight was too harsh and unforgiving. Then, maybe when she was comfortable with his . . . disfigurements, they could move past it and be friends.

He’d not intended for her to see him. Naked. Fully exposed in more ways than one. His hands twitched, needing his pruning shears. Time in the greenhouse working on his roses always calmed him. Perhaps a few hours of tending to them would give him a chance to calm down and digest how things had already gone horribly wrong.

Hunter stared at the empty walls of his bedroom. No mirrors adorned the walls. He didn’t want to see his reflection staring back at him. Not in this personal space. His hand touched his newly shaved chin, and he thought for a moment, trying to see his face through her eyes. All he could see was one normal side of his face, and the other hideously distorted and scarred. The finger he was missing. The lacerated white lines that remained on his arm and chest.

Hunter dressed quickly and strode out of his room. Try as he might, he couldn’t get out of his mind the horrified little gasp she’d given at the sight of him. She’d seen everything. His scars had been laid open.

And she’d been revolted.

Chapter 4

Gretchen nervously deleted and undeleted the last paragraph of chapter thirteen, chewing on her lip. Any moment now, that tall jerk was going to show up and ask them to politely leave. Or hey, since it was Eldon, it probably wouldn’t be so politely.

And then what would Gretchen tell her agent? Tell Audrey?
I sort of got a look at the owner’s junk when I went exploring, and he’s not a fan of being ogled.
That would go over well. God, how could she have messed this up so quickly? She hadn’t even been here a full day yet. She glanced over at Audrey, but her sister was curled up on the bed, flipping through a magazine and glancing occasionally at her phone.

Next to her computer, Igor flicked his wiry little tail and whacked her on the wrist with it. She idly reached over and rubbed her fingers on his soft head. She had zero interest in working on more of sexist Astronaut Bill and his twerpy ladylove. She wanted to go look around. She wanted to take a good look at those letters she’d been sent here to transcribe and somehow turn into a book.

More than that, she wanted to find that naked man she’d spied on and apologize for gawking at him.

Maybe she could introduce herself. He had to be Buchanan. She could have asked Audrey about him, but then Audrey would be giving her suspicious looks and wanting to know just why Gretchen was so curious about the man. Gretchen didn’t want to field questions about him. He was a dirty little secret she was intrigued by, and didn’t want Audrey to ruin it for her with her disapproval. So she said nothing.

She thought of the curious way his face had been twisted on one side. She wondered what would have caused such—

At the knock on the door, she jumped.

Audrey sat up, swinging her legs off the side of the bed and tossing aside her magazine. “Don’t move,” she told Gretchen. “I’ll get it.”

Gretchen remained seated, but her gaze was glued to the door, peeking at it over her computer screen.

Sure enough, the sinister figure of Eldon lurked in the doorway. “Ms. Petty.”

“Good afternoon,” Audrey said coolly. “Can I help you with something?”

Oh, no
, Gretchen thought, unable to look away. Mr. Buchanan had complained about her snooping. He’d told that horrible butler that Gretchen had seen his junk, and now he wanted her gone. This was where her spying would be laid out and confessed, and she’d be embarrassed in front of her cool, competent sister and the unpleasant butler. She was going to be fired before she’d even begun. She just knew it.

“I’m here to show the other Ms. Petty the project she will be working on, if now is a good time.” Eldon’s lean face turned in her direction, waiting.

Not . . . fired?

Really? She sat for a minute, utterly surprised. Why had Mr. Buchanan not sent her away? She’d seen him in his birthday suit.

“Is now a good time?” Eldon repeated, his voice flat with dislike.

“A good time?”
Was it ever
. Anything to get away from writing. Gretchen snapped her laptop shut with an almost gleeful air. “Now is perfect. Audrey, can you keep an eye on Igor for me?”

“He’s a cat,” Audrey said with a hint of amusement, walking back to the bed and picking up the magazine. “Exactly how much watching does he need?”

“Just make sure he doesn’t eat a tassel or something,” Gretchen called out, heading out of the room and shutting the door behind her. She couldn’t help but smile at Eldon’s disapproving face. She’d thought for sure that he’d come here to send her away.

“Lead on, my friend,” Gretchen said cheerfully. “I can’t wait to see this project.”

The butler began to walk down the hall, glancing over his shoulder at Gretchen as if to reassure himself that she was following him. “Mr. Buchanan wanted me to set proper expectations for you in regards to this project.”

“Proper expectations? I think I hear a lecture incoming.” She barely resisted trailing her fingers along a lovely mahogany table. Pretty sure that wouldn’t meet the proper expectations.

“This will be a quite lengthy project,” Eldon droned in his dry voice. “It should take you at least a month to catalog and go through the letters.”

“I’m fine with that.”

“The letters are very old and should be handled with care.”

“Duh. I’ll be careful.”

He gave her a scathing look. “Further, they are not to be removed from the premises. They are also not to be photocopied or scanned in. Mr. Buchanan is very concerned about the privacy of the project and the family’s wishes.”

“Whatever you say,” Gretchen told him. “I’m just the hired help. You just point me at the letters and I’ll get to work.”

“Indeed.”

There was a wealth of unpleasantness in that one word, but Gretchen was determined not to let it bother her. “So the letters are from the Buchanan family’s archives? Is that correct?”

“I am not at liberty to discuss things,” Eldon said, his voice seeming to get even stiffer.

“Well, can I ask Mr. Buchanan about them? I—”

“Mr. Buchanan is busy. He is not going to be involved. Do not disturb him with your questions.”

“And that’s fine, but I just thought that since—”

“You are not to bother Mr. Buchanan!” He turned a baleful gaze upon her. “He is a very busy man and does not want to be disturbed. Your being on location does not mean he is at your disposal.”

Whoa, what had crawled up his ass?
Had Buchanan said something to him? Gretchen raised her hands in a defensive posture. “I wasn’t suggesting that. I was just going to say—”

“If you are not interested in reviewing the project, Ms. Petty, I can let the publisher know that we are in need of another writer.”

“If you’d let me finish a sentence,” Gretchen snapped, “you would know that that is not what I’m saying at all. Just show me the damn letters.”

She half-expected him to snap back at her, but he only smiled.

“They are right this way,” Eldon said, gesturing. His voice was as cool as ice all over again, as if he didn’t have to try to be nice now that he’d gotten his way. “Please follow me.”

It was apparently time for a new plan. If she wanted to say hello—and apologize—to Mr. Buchanan, she’d have to see him when Eldon wasn’t around to glare at her. Maybe a late-night visit?

Nah, that’d probably just be weird.
He’d think she was creeping on him.

They moved down a long hall decorated in seemingly old-fashioned gilt and blue furnishings. Gretchen made a mental note of this, because she’d be damned if she was going to ask Eldon to show her where the room was again. Too bad she hadn’t brought her phone, since a GPS would be needed for this enormous building. So she noted the surroundings. Blue sofa, old picture with ridiculously ornate frame, case full of Fabergé eggs along the hallway wall, more blue settees, a golden statue, and an old oil painting of the ugliest man she had ever seen (also dressed in blue), wearing a powdered wig.

Then, they turned into a sunlit hallway, and Eldon paused in front of a pair of wooden double doors.

The butler glanced back at Gretchen. “I don’t think I need to remind you to keep these doors shut at all times. The library has many old and priceless books, and the hall here is quite sunny and could age them.”

“Of course,” she murmured, resisting the urge to shove his hands off the doorknobs and sweep the doors open herself. For a moment, she felt like a kid at Christmas. The house had been spectacular so far. What would the library be like?

Eldon pushed the doors open and stepped aside, and Gretchen stepped in, looking around in wonder.

The room was large, though that had been expected. At least as long as a basketball court, the room was two stories, with a flat, painted ceiling of a bright blue mural of dancing Greek characters. The room itself was floor-to-ceiling rosewood, shiny and gleaming. Row upon row of neatly ordered books lined the walls, and there were a pair of curling staircases on the end of each side of the room. Wrought-iron railings lined the second floor, and dotted amongst the endless rows of books were
objets d’art
. A small piano was delicately situated in the far end of the room near a few more dainty settees, a portrait hung off a decorative easel in another corner. A massive Victorian globe held a place of honor near the large fireplace.

It was a room of wonder and imagination. Gretchen was utterly delighted at the sight of it.
Holy crap. I get to work in here for the next month?
But she kept her cool and asked, “So this is where I’ll be working?”

“Indeed.” Eldon sniffed. “I should like to remind you that nothing is to be removed from the library—”

“Of course.”

“And please do not touch anything you do not feel you need for your project. Some of these items are quite valuable—”

“Of course.”

“And then I must remind you—”

“Not to open the doors and let the sunlight in because the books will turn to dust. Right.” He’d told her that not five minutes ago. She wasn’t likely to forget. “Do you want to warn me not to feed Mogwai after midnight?”

He stared at her.

“Never mind. Eighties joke.” Gretchen put her hands on her hips, trying not to show her excitement. She couldn’t wait to explore this place, but that wouldn’t happen with Eldon hovering. She needed to act like this was no big deal, and as soon as his back was turned, then she could do all the leisurely exploring she wanted. Time to seem bored.

Gretchen feigned a yawn. “So where are the letters?”

“Right this way.” Eldon made his way to the back of the room and gestured at a matching rosewood secretary desk. She’d seen furniture like this, but only in antique stores or museums. The legs were spindly and painted with delicate designs, and as she watched with growing delight, Eldon opened the desk, revealing a flat writing surface and myriad cubbies used for mail. “This desk has been designated for your work area.”

“Mmmhmm.” She tried to seem casual and unexcited, even though she wanted nothing more than to sit down and run her hands along the wood.

“The letters are in this trunk.”

Gretchen glanced politely at the large steamer trunk set up next to the desk. “The container that holds the letters is in the trunk?”

“No,” Eldon said. “The letters are in the trunk.” He leaned over and flipped open the lid, revealing the contents.

There were letters, all right. She’d been expecting a lot of letters, of course. Maybe she just hadn’t properly visualized exactly how many letters. This trunk was filled top to bottom with envelopes, all neatly left in slit-open envelopes and lined up like playing cards. There had to be more than several hundred letters in that freaking trunk, maybe even a few thousand.

Her mouth fell open and she moved to the trunk, staring at the contents. “All these?”

“All these,” Eldon agreed. “They are cataloged by year.”

“I see that,” she murmured, touching a small tab separating a line of the envelopes. It was labeled 1885. She did a quick glance down the row, looking at the tabs to get an idea of the scope of the project. They started with 1872 and continued all the way up until 1902. “Are there really thirty years of letters in here?”

“So it seems.”

Holy crap!
Okay, so she hadn’t been initially excited about this project, but now she was fascinated. What could these two letter writers have to talk about for thirty years that would have been so interesting that the letters were carefully kept and preserved for all this time? “When can I start?”

“You can start tomorrow.”

***

“Yo
u’re fine with me going back to work and leaving you here?” Audrey awkwardly patted Igor’s wrinkly little head, then returned to brushing her hair, readying for work.

The hairless cat meowed and rubbed against her hand in response.

Gretchen, still lolling on the bed in her pajamas, patted the blanket to call the cat. She didn’t have a day job like Audrey. She didn’t have to get out of her pajamas if she didn’t want to. “I’m fine. I start the letters today, and if this weekend is any indication, Eldon’s the only one I’ll ever see. Mr. Buchanan is either avoiding us or not in residence, and either way suits me fine,” she lied.

After all, she knew the truth—not only was Mr. Buchanan in residence, but he was totally, completely avoiding Gretchen.

She knew why, of course. She’d seen the man naked as could be. Strangers tended to frown on that sort of thing, after all.

But Audrey didn’t know any of that. If her sister did find out, she’d insist that Gretchen leave at once. Audrey was a bit prudish about that sort of thing. Growing up, the twins had been models of decorum, and Gretchen had been the wild child. Now all the wildness had gone out of Gretchen and seemed to have slid into Audrey’s twin, Daphne. As for Audrey, well, she still had that good girl mentality.

“I’ve met Buchanan a few times, Gretchen.” Audrey brushed her pale red hair in rapid strokes, glancing occasionally at Gretchen through the mirror. “He’s not what I’d call friendly or pleasant. I just worry about you being here with only that man and that horrible butler.”

“I’ll be fine, Audrey. Me and Igor will just work on the book, live off sandwiches, and get this project done as soon as possible. It’s no big deal.”

Audrey paused from pinning up her hair into her typical workday chignon. “You’re sure? It’s not that far of a drive from the Hawkings building. I can get into a cab and come get you if—”

“If what? I fall down the stairs and no one notices my crumpled form for weeks? Come on, Audrey. You’ve seen this place.” Gretchen rolled over in the bed and gestured at the room. “This house could fit all of my apartment building in here with room to spare, and there’s only two guys living here. The odds of me running into him are slim to none. If I need anything, I just ring for Eldon.”

“I know. I still don’t like this.” She licked a finger and smoothed an errant strand of hair, staring at her reflection in the mirror. “It’s a weird setup.”

“Yeah, but if Buchanan was a creepster, there are lots of cheaper ways to get women. Hookers don’t cost nearly what the publisher’s paying me.”

“That is so not funny.”

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s kind of funny if you think about it. I’m the literary equivalent of a hooker. Give me a contract and I’ll do whatever you want, baby.”