The Billionaire's Desire (A Billionaire BWWM Steamy Romance) (20 page)

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"No,
not her, anyone but her."

I
didn't say that of course.
 
The
caramel-skinned goddess who made my heart stop the minute I laid eyes on her
would have no idea why I wanted to immediately send her away.
 
I'm not sure I understood myself.
 
All I knew was that looking at her
caused me
physical
pain.

 
I had never felt desire like this… Not
for Dana. Not for any of the women who had flung themselves at me prior to
Dana.
 
This was something entirely
new.
 
I felt myself break out into
goose bumps from the nape of my neck all the way down my back as all of the nerves
in my body sent their message directly to my cock.
 
And that message was, "
take her."

I
needed to get myself together.
 
And
the only way to do that was to work.
 
That’s what I needed to focus on, not her sweet young breasts bobbing
like ripe melons in front of me as she inhaled nervously.

"You're
an intern? Great, that means I won't have to pay you if you fuck things
up."
 

Her
face fell for just a moment, and I immediately felt like shit. I wasn't sure
why I was being so cruel, other than it helped distract me from the painful
throbbing in my groin.
 
I turned
away as she tried to compose herself, unwilling to watch it continue to fall as
I spoke further.
 
"You belong
to me now.
 
I'll need your cell
phone number and your address on this piece of paper right here," I
dismissively tapped a blank sheet on my desk.
 
"And I need you to start
researching the licensing agreements my ex-wife signed without my knowledge.
 
I need to know how fucked we'd be if I
terminated the contracts today."

I
expected to hear her protest.
 
I
expected her to stammer in confusion.
 
After all, she was only a college student.
 
She radiated a fresh eagerness that was
just waiting to be crushed by me, Zachary Kingsley, the consummate workaholic
asshole.

But
instead of protests, I heard a faint scratching sound.
 
I turned to see her bent over the blank
piece of paper, writing down the information I had demanded in smooth, bubbly
script.
 
As she bent, my eyes were
drawn to the deep valley of her cleavage.
 
Her smooth, latte skin was made of softness and curves.
 
As she stood back up, I almost commanded
her to bend back over again.
 
I
hadn't finished staring yet.

I
stared further as she absentmindedly smoothed her hands down her hips and
looked me in the eye.
 
"Yes,
sir," she said softly.
 
The way
she called me 'sir' made my cock grow even harder. "What would you like
next?"

"A
cup of coffee," I croaked.
 
"And then we get to work."

I saw
Dalton, the sly old devil, slip from the doorway with a smile on his face.
 
He had always hated Dana.
 
He knew exactly what he was doing
putting this gorgeous girl in front of me.

I
needed to give him a raise.

"What
did you say your name was?"

She
picked my mug off of the desk, my favorite chipped one.
 
"I didn't sir.
 
My name is Nakia James."

I
extended my hand and she slipped hers into mine.
 
I watched as my hand nearly swallowed
it.
 
The touch of her skin was
electric, sending painful surges directly to my groin.
 
My eyes lingered on the soft curve of
her neck where it met her shoulder.
 
I wanted to bury my face there and inhale deeply.
 

"Nakia,
I need you to go down to the filing room and pulled the accounts for Winxhing,
Jioxchin and Nanchun.
 
Do you need
me to spell that?"

"No
sir," she said, quickly jotting down what I had said.
 
"I'm familiar with the biggest
third party licensing companies in the world."

I had
to admit, I was impressed.
 
"Grab them and get back up here.
 
We have years of mistakes to correct,
and we’re doing it right now."

As she
turned towards the elevator, I had a momentary flash of worry.
 
Was I being too hard on her on her first
day?
 
I let my eyes sweep down to
where her waist drew tight over her generous hips, my well practiced gaze
recognizing several subtle modifications she had nearly invisibly stitched into
to the skirt. I was immediately taken with the hand stitched detail at the
belt-loops, that little couture subtlety that marked a true artist. It was
beautiful work… Painstaking and flawless and every bit as stunning as the woman
wearing it.

No… If
anything, it was her who was going to be too hard on me. Not touching her was
going to be the hardest thing I ever had to do.

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The
elevators swooshed open and I heaved a sigh of relief to see that August was
still behind the desk at reception.
 
"August!" I hissed as my heels clacked against the marble
entryway.

"Nakia!
Were you just up in Mr. Kingsley's office?" Her eyes were wide with a
mixture of fear and awe.

I
didn't know what else to say, so I decided on the truth.
 
"Yes and I need your help.
 
Where are the licensing files
kept?"

"Back
here, I'll show you," she said, gliding up from her chair.
 
"What do you need?"

I read
off the list Mr. Kingsley had given me.
 
"What does he want those for?" she mused.
 
"What is he up to?"

"Something
about righting the mistakes of years in the next few days."

"That
sounds...ominous," she observed.

I
blinked. "I guess it does," I agreed.
 
"But they don't pay me enough to
second guess the owner."

She
stared at me.
 
"I thought they
didn't pay you at all?"

"That
was a joke, August."

"Pfft,"
she snorted.
 
"And with
clothes, cab fare and the cost of takeout, I make pretty much the same as you
do!"

She was
still giggling as she unlocked a small room off of the main office area.
 
I blinked at the utilitarian grey file
cabinets.
 
They seemed so out of
place in this otherwise fashionable building.

"They
should
be alphabetical, but I'm not
sure.
 
Mr. Kingsley's ex-wife is the
only one who ever came in here." August tapped her heel nervously.
 
"In fact, I feel kind of creeped
out even being here." She looked around the cramped space.
 
"It's like this room is haunted or
something."

"Luckily,
I never knew her."

"She
was hell.
 
Pure hell."
 
August chewed her nail as her face went
far away.
 
"I think the only
person who is sad she is gone is Mr. Kingsley."

I felt
a peculiar tug at my heart. And suddenly, I was angry
at
myself. Why should I care that Mr. Kingsley missed his ex-wife? Was I really so
naïve as to think that he would ever spare a passing glance for me?

"Well
then, I'd better get to work!" I heard an unnaturally high pitch in my
voice, one that someone who actually knew me would recognize as a note of
rising panic. Luckily, August and I had only met this morning, and so I chose
to believe she didn't recognize my desperate need to be alone.

"Good
luck, then." She wavered for a moment, hesitating like she wanted to offer
something else before she turned crisply on her heels and strode back to her
desk with all the grace and poise of a runway model.

Once I
figured out Dana Kingsley's filing system, which admittedly did take me several
moments, I located the files with ease. And then I squared my shoulders again
and tried to remember the affirmations I had chanted to myself this morning.
 
Why did Mr. Kingsley have me feeling so
off-balance? Why would my heart not stop thudding in my ears whenever I flashed
back to the image of him standing at his office window, his broad shoulders
tapering down to his narrow waist? I kept imagining what it would feel like to
run my fingers through that wavy hair, mussing it up a bit, stroking it across
his forehead as his lips sought mine.

"Dammit!"
I exclaimed aloud, and slammed an unsuspecting filing drawer shut. I needed to
get a hold of myself. This was an internship, nothing more and I had somehow
fallen into the role of personal secretary to my business idol.

I
needed to keep this professional and not let feelings get in the way.

I
needed to do this right.

With
that new resolve, I stepped back out of the filing room and shut the door
carefully behind me. Talking the files up under one arm, I practice inhaling
and exhaling with each step. By the time I reached the elevator bank, I had
made my decision. I would work as hard as I could to prove myself to Mr.
Kingsley. I would be the best damn intern there was. And I wouldn't let any
delusions of wondering how his lips tasted stand in my way.

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There
was so much work to be done. And yet here I was, hiding in a hotel room instead
of doing it.

And all
to avoid my new intern.

The
first thing I had had Dalton do after I sent Nakia home was find me a new place
to live. The apartment had been where I lived with Dana. If I had a prayer of
starting over, I needed to have my own space. While he began calling real
estate brokers, I went to the website of my favorite hotel and booked the
presidential suite. It was convenient to work and had the added benefit of
having my favorite restaurant right there in the lobby.

Everything
I could ask for, except for one thing.

I
wandered to the window, looking down at the street below. I was overlooking my
own building, a rather ominous reminder of the amount of work I had ahead of
me.

I
snapped the shade shut and walked back to my luggage.

I
ignored my suits, my shoes, my cufflinks,
my
electronics. For some reason, my eye went right to my long neglected sketchpad.

I
opened it up, leafing slowly through the pages of my past. Old ideas, never
seeing the light of day, slowly petering out until the last few pages were just
frustrated line drawings, little columns of figures in the margins as I
calculated the cost of my vision.

I
turned to a fresh page and put my pencil to the paper. There was something that
needed to come out.

As I
idly drew the pencil across the page, a form began to emerge. I added shading,
reaching for a warm brown Prismacolor to add caramel highlights to the
skintone. A curve here, a swoop there, a softly angled brow. I furrowed my own
brow as I considered the proper shade for the full lips, lost in my own little
fantasy of creation.

When I was finished, I snapped the sketchbooks
shut. Suddenly I had an idea that could not be denied. The inspiration I had
been yearning for for months in France suddenly came barreling back into my head.
I threw on my jacket and headed to my office, ready to work.

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I tapped my pencil nervously
against my notepad, trying my best to collect my thoughts before Mr. Kingsley
noticed my mind was elsewhere. Luckily, his back was to me, his focus
completely on the computer screen in front of him.

I took a deep breath and tried
to focus as well, but my mind kept dragging me back to last evening's class.

Midterm grades had been posted.
I nodded when I saw the string of A's....until the B- in Design Techniques
smacked in the face like a splash of cold water on my dreams.

Of course I had marched right
up to my professor and demanded to know the reason. My work was perfect, I knew
it was. Everything was on time and exactly to her specifications.

Professor Aster Bloom was just
as flowery as her name. She had smiled vacantly at me as I approached her desk,
like she had no idea why I would be on the warpath.

"May I talk with you about
my grade?" I asked her, feeling the tension in my jaw.

"Of course, Miss
James," she said airily, staring at me with her wide, watery eyes.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

I felt something inside of me
snap. "Why did you give me a B-?" I said icily, trying not to show my
frustration but failing miserably. "There's no good reason for it, and it
puts my scholarship in jeopardy. I've never missed an assignment, all my work
is perfect..."

Professor Bloom waved her
slight hand through the air like a bird taking wing. "That's just it,
Nakia," she said. Her voice was too kind to be cutting me this deeply.
"Your work is perfect. Too perfect. It's cold and impersonal. You
lack...warmth."

I exploded. "What does
that even mean?"

She turned back to her desk,
her hands flitting about nervously, just repeating the words under her breath.
"Cold and impersonal. No humanity. No artistry...."

I had clenched my fists and
turned on my heels, storming out of the classroom before the class was even
over.
 
I had barely slept all night,
and was up before the sun. I got dressed in my favorite handmade pieces...

And I had headed right to
Kingsley Designs.

Somehow in the past couple of
days, this had become my happy place. Hard work was not subjective here. I knew
Mr. Kingsley was impressed with me, and I was learning so much about the
business of fashion that I could almost forget that flighty professors held my future
captive in their fluttering hands.

“Nakia!

I snapped out of my reverie and
hurried over to Mr. Kingsley's desk. He motioned for me to look at his screen,
forcing me to bend over his shoulder, where I was treated to the heady scent of
him. I tried not to inhale too deeply as he stabbed the screen with his finger.

"Do you understand this
program?" he groused.

I looked at the CAD design
software he had. It was stuck on an ominous looking warning screen. "I've
never used it, no, but it looks similar to the one we use at school."

"Why the fuck does it keep
freezing then? Can you tell me that? I was just working on it when suddenly
this
box
pops up in my face," he
stabbed his finger into the screen again, making a ripple in the plasma screen,

"May I?" I asked.

He gestured impatiently.
"Be my guest," he said pushing himself away from the screen with an
exasperated sigh.

I bent over the keyboard,
conscious of the fact that my ass was pointed directly at him. For a moment I
hesitated to put myself so clearly on display.

But instead I wrenched my focus
back to the computer. In seconds, I realized what he had done wrong in locking
himself out of the program. With a few taps of the keys, I restored the main
design screen.

I could barely suppress my gasp.
"Is this one of your new collections, sir?" I exhaled.

Right away I could see that it
was flawless, the lines so perfect, the cut so exquisite, that I knew it would
be all the magazines would be able to talk about once he sent it down the
runway. Instantly I felt like an amateur. My design instincts were good.
Zachary Kingsley's were unparalleled.

Zack rolled his chair forward.
"Just something I've been working on," he said. There was something
different about his voice. Something softer.

I let my eye wander all over
this sketch, trying to figure out how he did it. The artistry was evident in
every line. I looked closer, breaking apart the pattern pieces in my mind,
trying to come up with how it would be cut to achieve the drape he'd created.
Then I noticed something a little off..."Oh but I think you've got a
little something," I poked my finger at the small imperfection.
"Right here there is a little asymmetry you might have missed."

I went cold the minute I said
the words. How stupid could I be? He wouldn't appreciate having his mistake
pointed out by a mere intern.

But instead of getting angry,
Mr. Kingsley just smiled and nodded his head. "That's my old dirty
string."

I turned and looked at him,
furrowing my brow. "Dirty string, sir?" I asked.

He leaned back in his chair. I
don't think I had ever seen his face so relaxed. "I find perfection
boring," Mr. Kingsley said. "It's cold, impersonal. I want my designs
to look like they were made by the human hand. To have that warmth that comes
with craft."

I could
feel the breath leaving my body. Of course. It all made sense. "But why is
it a
dirty string
?"

He
peered at me.
 
"Have you ever
heard the stories about how Amish quilters work?"

"Um,
I think so," I said. I really hadn't, but I wanted him to keep talking.
The expression on his face was breathtaking.

He
leaned forward, his eyes shining. "The Amish belief that only God can
create perfection. So in every one of their quilts, they deliberately make a
mistake, put something out of place. My father told me that story when I was a
little boy. He was teaching me how to weave on this huge old loom that we had
up in our attic." He smiled at the memory, his voice far off in dreamy. I
could almost picture the scene, the light filtering in through a dusty window
as old Mr. Kingsley guided his son's hands while he spoke. "He told me
that when you run a very vibrant color in your weft, you should always follow
that with an "old dirty string." Something rough, a little coarse.
Maybe the color is off, or maybe it's even ugly. That piece of dirty string
helps make the perfect, vibrant color even more perfect."

The
hard lines around Mr. Kingsley's eyes had softened, his warm mouth was curled
into a dreamy smile as he lost himself in his memories. And or the first time I
had met him, I saw that his hands were still.

"Thank
you, sir," I said trying to convey just how much he had helped me in only
a few words.

He
seemed to come out of his reverie and when he looked up at me, there was a new
expression on his face. One of wonder. "Why are you thanking me?" he
asked cautiously.

I
couldn't look him in the eye when he was looking at me that way. I focused on
the screen, on that gorgeously cut, saffron gown. "I think," I
hedged. "I mean, I think you just taught me more about design then
anything I ever learned in my Design Techniques class."