Billionaire With a Twist 2 (12 page)

“Now, see here,” another
board member cut in gruffly. “No need to be melodramatic. We
just had some concerns. You tried a risky new strategy there with no
statistical backing, and Chuck tells me you’re going with
another untested one here, and well, I have to give a vote of no
confidence.”

Chuck stood, hands clasped behind his
back, his face mournful. “You’re a great kid, Hunter, you
really are. I wanted to give you a chance. I looked everywhere for
evidence that you could be trusted in such a high position—”
he turned, meeting my eyes with a sly smile only I could see, “but
even your ad exec doesn’t have faith in you.”

I gaped, dumbfounded. “What…what
do you…?”

“‘He wants to run
everything himself,’” he quoted. “‘He thinks
the family name is sacred, that he’s a missionary.’ Does
that sound like someone concerned about their fiduciary
responsibility to the shareholders? You did say that, didn’t
you?”

I could feel Hunter’s gaze on me,
feel his eyes demanding answers.

“Not like that—” I
pleaded.

He raised his voice. “You
did
say that, didn’t you?”

“It wasn’t like that—”

“I believe you were most worried
about him running the company into the ground before he’d admit
the company needed an advertising strategy in the first place?”
Chuck continued. “You kindly went on for some time in this
vein, all about how he distrusted advertising methods and would
prefer not to utilize anything other than word of mouth. How you were
so worried that he was only going along with your particular scheme
in order to placate your sister, who he is currently dating. I’ve
passed your information on to the board; they saw my point of view
much more clearly after that.”

I heard Hunter next to me, a sound as
if he’d been stabbed.

“It doesn’t matter!”
I protested. “Look around you; the rebrand is launching! And
it’s a strong campaign. You can’t stop this!”

My voice cracked. I couldn’t look
Hunter in the eye; I knew exactly the look that would be in them, the
hurt, the betrayal…

Chuck sneered. “One little party,
out in the middle of nowhere? Nothing’s been announced. All
anyone will ever remember of this event and your little film school
project is some sentimental slop about the old company. It’s
time for a new chapter—and I know exactly which of your
colleagues can help me write it.”

The Douchebros.

Oh God. Everything I had worked on so
hard…

“You—you—”
Hunter’s fist rose, and for a terrible second I thought he was
about to hit Chuck. I grabbed at his arm and the look he shot me was
so poisonous I stumbled back, shocked.

Hunter growled, and stormed from the
room.

I wanted to stay, wanted to argue the
board members back around—they could be reasonable, I knew I
could make them see reason—but—

But Hunter needed me.

I raced after him, trying not to trip
in my heels. “Hunter! Hunter, slow down! We can go back, we can
fix this—”

He whirled unexpectedly, grabbing my
arm. “Did you say those things?” he hissed.

“Yes, but—”

He let go and backed away, looking at
me as if I were a snake.

“Hunter, you have to understand—”

“I don’t have to understand
anything,” he growled. “And certainly not you.”
Pain lit his eyes. “I believed in you, Ally. I believed in you
and you stabbed me in the back and ruined—the, the one thing
that mattered most to me.”

I opened my mouth, tried to think of
something to say. Nothing came out.

He squeezed his eyes shut and when he
opened them again the pain was gone. There was nothing there but ice.
“I want nothing more to do with you. Pack your bags and leave.”

TO BE CONTINUED...

What happens next? Hunter and Ally’s story continues in
BILLIONAIRE WITH A TWIST: PART THREE
,
available September 30, 2015

On Facbook:
https://www.facebook.com/lilamonroebooks?fref=ts

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https://twitter.com/lilawrites

@LilaWrites

Do you enjoy fun, romantic reads? Read on for a sneak chapter of
THE ART OF STEALING HEARTS
by Stella London,
available September 30, 2015
.

Meet Grace and St. Clair: she’s an aspiring gallery girl, he’s the sexy billionaire
art collector. Together, they’ll discover a world of romance in the hot new series by Stella London!

THE ART OF STEALING HEARTS
available September 30th
!

CHAPTER 1

My
mom taught me that art is everywhere; you just have to look. “Keep
your eyes open, Grace, and you can always find the beauty,” she
said, filling our small apartments with gorgeous paintings and bright
colors, pointing out shapes and compositions as we walked city
streets. Her love of art inspired mine, but right now my heart and
head are pounding under the stress of running late, so it’s
hard for me to notice anything pretty about the traffic literally
standing between me and the chance of a lifetime.

“Um,
excuse me?” I pipe up from the back seat of the immobile taxi
cab, anxiously looking at the driver slumped in his seat. He ignores
me.

I
check my watch again: 8:41 am.
Crap!
I bite my lip to
keep from yelling.
Crapcrapcrap.
I’m
supposed to be at Carringer’s Auction House in nineteen—make
that eighteen—minutes. First BART was late, and now I’m
spending the last of this week’s tips to be trapped in this
smelly cab, sweating under my best business outfit. My only business
outfit.

After
a year of dropping off resumes and talking up gallery owners and
museum directors, I’d nearly given up hope of finding a job in
the art world until last week when the best auction house in San
Francisco called me. Carringer’s deals in the most sought-after
and highly-valued art and antiquities in the world: French
Impressionist paintings, Chinese ceramics, Native American head
masks, Greek sculptures…I get chills just imagining the
masterpieces that flow in and out of those vaults. If I’m late
to this interview, the first opportunity I’ve had in months
might slip away and I’ll be serving spaghetti and meatballs at
my waitress gig until I permanently smell like marinara and am too
old to remember the specials.

“Sir?”
This time I rap insistently on the plexiglass separating me from the
driver. He eyes me in the rearview mirror. “I’m super
late. Is there a short cut or something you could use?”

The
minute hand on the watch my mother gave me jerks forward again and
we’ve gone less than a block.
Why
aren’t we moving?!
As if the obvious answer wasn’t right outside my window,
honking and spewing fumes and inching along like snails on their way
into the financial district’s high rise office buildings.

The
driver just laughs at me. “What do you think?”

I
think you smell like someone Febreezed over a cigar shop. But it’s
the number one rule of waitressing: rudeness never pays. “How
much further is Gold Street?”

The
cabbie shrugs. It’s 8:43.

“Is
it close enough to walk?” I press him.

“Sure,”
he says. “Everywhere is close enough to walk to eventually.”

Screw
this. There is no possible way for me to arrive looking cool and
collected as planned anyway since my makeup probably already looks
like a Jackson Pollock, and I’m not going to let some stupid
traffic keep me from my dream. “Here,” I say, tossing a
pile of ones onto the front seat and scooting out the door. “I’ll
take my chances.”

The
cab driver rolls his eyes. “Maybe ten blocks,” he says. I
inhale a deep breath of crisp ocean air, steady my purse on my
shoulder, and start jogging.

Immediately,
my sensible yet stylish heels feel like vice grips on my toes. My
feet are used to day-long shifts in sneakers, and it’s hard to
run in a skirt, but I can’t give up. My carefully blow-dried
hair is getting wind-whipped and frizzy, and my bangs are sticking to
the sweat beading on my forehead.

“Sorry!
‘Scuse me! Coming through, please!” It’s like
running an obstacle course in heels.

I
dodge through the crowd, trying not to think about the frazzled and
sloppy impression I’m going to make. In the meantime, I force
myself to focus on the beauty of this city: the long shadows of the
tallest buildings, the modern architecture, the sunlight reflected
and refracted off a thousand windows, the blue sky beyond. I love San
Francisco, even though right now it is not loving me back.

One.
More. Block. So. Close. I can almost see the brass carvings and
scrolled handles on the thick auction house doors as I cross Gold
Street and round the corner…and smash right into the muscular
chest of a man coming from the crosswalk.

I
shriek at the same time he says, “Whoa, there,” like he’s
a cowboy, except he’s as posh and polished as can be. He holds
his coffee cup out in front of him like a bomb and I see the brown
liquid dripping down his blue tie and white shirt.

“Oh my God!” I grab
some clean tissues out of my bag. “Here, let me help,” I
say, reaching for his tie, but he’s already shaking it out.
Luckily, most of the drink seems to be splattered on the concrete.

“It’s
fine,” he says, catching my hand. “There was too much
sugar in that latte anyway.” He looks at me as our fingers
touch, his eyes flecked with shifting shades of blue like Van Gogh’s
night sky and just as mesmerizing. I want to paint them, but then I
remember my priorities.

“I’m sorry about the
spill, but I really have to go.” I check my watch. “I’m
running late for an important meeting.” I start to turn away,
feeling guilty, but his voice stops me.

“So this is a run-by
coffee-ing, then?” He has an accent. British. Sexy.

I
turn back, unable to keep from checking him out again. He has a mouth
that looks like it was carved by Michelangelo, perfectly shaped lips
that smile at me and highlight the sharp cheekbones as sculpted as
the famous David’s. It’s like his face belongs in a
museum.
Whoa, there.
“Should I call the police?” he asks.

I
smile despite my hurry, sure that my face is turning strawberry red.
I’d love to stay and flirt with this gorgeous man, but there’s
no time. “Look,” I say, backing away. “If you give
me your card, I’ll happily pay for the cleaning bill, but I
really do have to run.”

He
falls in step beside me like we’re old friends. “Oh, no,”
he says, loosening his tie as he easily matches my sprint. “Don’t
you worry about this old thing. I’ve been meaning to donate
it.” He tosses it in a trash can as we speed down the sidewalk
and I can’t help but notice the triangle of smooth chest
showing now that he’s unbuttoned his collar.

“It
mostly missed my shirt, which is good because the public tends to
frown on shirtless businessmen.”

I
imagine him shirtless and almost walk into a mailbox.

“That
was a joke,” he says, smiling.

Over
the smell of salty sea air and car exhaust I catch the fresh, soapy
clean scent of him. “Oh,” I say, avoiding a pothole, and
thinking that no one would frown at that body. “Funny.”

“This meeting must be a big
deal,” he says. “If you’re too distracted to
converse with a handsome man.”

“It
really is,” I say, separating from him just long enough to
weave around a woman walking a poodle. “Life-changing actually.
It’s a job interview at Carringer’s.”

“Ouch,”
he says, putting a hand on his heart in mock anguish. “Not
going to bite on the handsome line?”

“Oh!”
Flushed, party of one, please. Thank God for the cool air. “That’s
not what I meant. It’s just—”

“So
you’re admitting you do think I’m handsome?”

“I
admit nothing,” I say, laughing.

He
grins. “My kind of girl.”

I
stop to catch my breath as we arrive at the gorgeous façade of
the Carringer’s Auction House building. Time to bid farewell to
Mr. Charming. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little
disappointed to see him go.

He
smiles at me face-to-face and oh dear God, he has actual dimples.
“Good luck with the interview.”

“Thanks,”
I say, my gaze flicking to my watch one last time. It’s 8:54.

“You’ll
knock ‘em dead,” he says. I nod, trying to paste a
confident smile on my face.

I
face the doors I’ve been dreaming about opening for the last
week—well really, for the last twenty years—and feel
hopeful again. I have five minutes to get inside and pull my shit
together so I can show these people what I’m made of.

One
last thing first. “Are you sure I can’t replace that tie
I ruined?”

“Tell
you what,” he says, his eyes twinkling. “I’ll swing
by here next week and if you’re working, you can buy me a
coffee.”

Because
he’s gorgeous and he made me feel better and I’ll
probably never see him again, I’m suddenly brave. I say, “Off
the record, I would definitely call you handsome.” I wink at
him and enjoy the surprise on his so-totally-more-than-handsome face
as I stride away from him and toward my waiting future.

Inside,
my bravery falters: this place is seriously impressive. A huge lobby
with a polished marble floor, white marble columns reaching to the
ceiling, and holy crap, an actual Rodin sculpture in the middle of
the room. I stare at it, awed, until I notice a short, brisk-looking
woman holding a clipboard. I nervously approach. “Hi, I’m
Grace—”

“Bennett?
You’re the last to arrive.” She guides me out of the
lobby and pulls me toward the main auction hall as I fiddle with my
skirt and make sure my blazer is on straight.

“Do
I look okay?” I ask but she ignores me and opens the doors.

She
shoos me inside where a woman in a sharp black two-piece business
suit is speaking to the dozens of men and women my age already
standing behind tables stacked with papers and glossy photo spreads.
She stops and glares at me as I make my way to the only empty table,
closest to her.