Waking Up with a Billionaire (The Overnight Billionaires Book 3) (2 page)

He snorted. “Sell that to someone else. You aren’t the type of woman who cares about being immortalized or famous.”

She finished organizing the paint tubes and centered the rubber ducky bouquet on the table before turning to him. “You’re right. I don’t want to be immortalized. In fact, I don’t want you to paint my face.”

His eyes studied her with their disconcerting intensity. “The last time you didn’t want your face shown, it had to do with bruises. What’s your reasoning this time?”

“I’m shy.”

His gaze sizzled down her body. “And yet you’re willing to strip naked for me.”

The possessive way he said
for me
had heat sweeping through her body, flushing her cheeks and settling in wet warmth beneath her Romeo panties. Annoyed by her reaction, she snapped, “Look, do you want to paint me or not?” She glanced at the divan. “It would have to be more exciting than painting a wormy apple.”

One of the things that annoyed her about Grayson was that she could never get a good read on his emotions. But for once she read the pain that crossed his handsome features extremely well. It flickered through the lavender fields of his eyes for just a moment before it was gone. He set down the paintbrush he’d been cleaning and moved out from behind the easel.

“Sorry you made the trip for nothing,” he said. “But I’ll have to pass. I don’t paint women anymore.” Then, without another word, he walked out.

Long after the door slammed, Chloe stood there feeling stunned. Not only because she wasn’t going to get the money she needed but also because of his parting words. He no longer painted naked women? It didn’t make sense. Anyone who saw one of his paintings knew that the man had been born to celebrate the beauty of a woman’s body. And now he was going to give that up to paint fruit?

Curious about what had changed his creative thinking, she stepped around the easel to study his painting. She expected to see a perfect, shiny red apple. Instead there was nothing on the canvas but a big black X.

It appeared that women weren’t the only things Grayson couldn’t paint.

G
rayson had lost it. He knew this and had known it for the last six months. But he just hadn’t known how much he had lost it until Chloe McAlister had walked into his studio wanting to pose for him. Until that moment he’d thought there was a chance that he could pull himself back from the deep, dark abyss that threatened to consume him. After all, he was the levelheaded Beaumont, the one who could stay calm in any given situation. But he didn’t feel calm now. He felt as if he’d toppled right over the edge of insanity and was flailing around trying to grab on to anything that would save him from hitting rock bottom.

He headed for the elevators. He had just bought a brand-new Bugatti sports car, and he planned to drive until the desperate panic that clawed at his guts subsided. But on the way down to the parking garage, the elevator stopped at the lobby. And when one of French Kiss’s top models stepped in, he changed his plans.

“Gar-a-son?” Natalia said in her thick Russian accent. “Is that you? I had heard that Paris made you a little more…how do you say in English…hungry? Just look at you. You look like my uncle Bo-o-oris.” She stroked a hand over his beard. “But much younger and much sexier, of course.”

Grayson ignored the doors opening at the parking garage and pulled her into his arms and kissed her. She didn’t protest. The times he had painted her, she’d made it perfectly clear that any advance would be more than welcome.

“Oooh, you are hungry,” she whispered against his lips as she curled her arms around his neck and her leg around his waist. Grayson guided her back against the wall of the elevator.

He wanted to feel desire, or passion, anything that would stop the panic. But all he felt was disappointment. Not in Natalia. She was a beautiful woman and kissed like she modeled, with enthusiasm and heat. No, his disappointment was in himself for using her. He didn’t use women. At least he never had before.

He’d started to pull away and apologize when the elevator doors opened and he found himself looking into the big brown eyes that had started his downward spiral. Eyes that rolled up in disgust. At one time he had found the habit endearing. Not anymore. A road trip had cured him of any endearing thoughts toward the woman. Paint her naked? Not in this lifetime. He’d rather be locked in a closet with a rabid wolverine then spend hours in a studio with Chloe.

With his eyes still locked on hers, he deepened the kiss, causing Natalia to moan and Chloe to release an exasperated grunt as she stepped into the elevator.

Natalia finally noticed that they were no longer alone and stepped away. “Gar-a-son”—she swatted his chest—“you make me forget myself.” She turned her full model-smile on Chloe as she pushed the tenth-floor button. “What is it with American men and elevators?”

Chloe sent him the same look she always seemed to give him—hatred mixed with contempt—and pushed the button for the lobby. “I think it has to do with having a woman cornered with no means of escape.”

Natalia laughed. “Perhaps you are right.” She glanced at Grayson. “Although I have no desire to escape.” Only seconds later the elevator stopped, and she gave him a quick kiss on both cheeks before she got out. “I have to meet with Samuel in the design studio, but I should be done by five. Call me.”

Grayson should’ve gotten out with Natalia—not just to explain that he wouldn’t be meeting her later but also to get away from Chloe. Instead he watched the doors close and realized that now he had no means of escape.

“New girlfriend?” she asked.

She stepped closer, and just that quickly his creative brain became consumed with her perfect features. What oil paint colors would he need to mix to re-create the creamy porcelain of her skin? The flushed peach of her cheeks? The blooming rose of her lips? And if he used a thousand different shades ranging from burnt sienna to gold ochre, he would never completely capture the depth and entrancing beauty of her eyes. It was too bad that her beauty was only skin deep.

The thought had his logical brain regaining control, and his gaze moved to her choppy, uneven bangs. “New bad haircut?”

She fidgeted with her bangs. “I know. I really butchered it. I guess I should check
beautician
off my career list.” She shot him a glance. “So what happened in Paris to screw up your painting mojo?”

It was his worst fear put into words, and he felt like she’d kicked him with her pointy-toed boots right in the balls. As soon as he caught his breath, he tried to deny it. Just as he’d been denying it to himself for the last six months.

“You think I can’t paint? Well, I can paint anything I want to paint. I just don’t happen to want to paint you.”

Chloe’s eyebrows lifted beneath the fringe of uneven bangs. “So you’d rather paint apples? Although that X looked nothing like an apple to me.”

His eyes widened. “You looked at my painting?”

She shrugged. “I was curious.”

While he struggled to get his anger under control, the elevator arrived at the lobby. Chloe lifted a hand as she stepped off. “Good luck with that apple.”

The sarcasm in the words sent his temper right off the charts, and he stepped out with her. But before he could tell her that a lot of talented artists painted fruit, the security guard took her arm.

“I’m sorry, miss, but I’m going to need to know what you did with the floral arrangement.”

Hearing the guard, some muscled guy in a white polo with a flower on the breast pocket came hurrying over. “Is she the one who took my ducky?” He pointed a finger at her. “Give me back my ducky!”

Grayson wasn’t sure why he did it—maybe because he had never liked bullies—but he stepped in front of Chloe. “What’s going on?”

The flower guy gave him the once-over. “I don’t need some street bum butting into my business.”

The security guard spoke up. “That’s not a street bum. That’s Mr. Beaumont.” He turned to Grayson. “I’m sorry for the disruption, Mr. Beaumont, but this man says he had his flower bouquet stolen.” He looked at Chloe. “And I did see this young woman with a big ducky of roses.”

“But I didn’t steal it.” Chloe looked at Grayson. “Tell them.”

For the first time since she had strolled into his studio, Grayson felt in control, and he wasn’t about to give up that feeling. He squinted. “I’m sorry, but do I know you?”

She rolled her eyes. “Very funny. Now tell them that I brought the floral arrangement to your office.”

Thoroughly enjoying himself, he smiled. “What exactly would I do with a ducky filled with roses?”

Just that quickly the belligerent young woman Grayson remembered so well made an appearance. And for some strange reason, he was happy to see her. “How about shove it up your ass!”

“Don’t you dare talk to Mr. Beaumont like that.” A blonde hurried up. Grayson didn’t recognize her face, but he did recognize the standard purple dress and heels that all the receptionists wore. The woman pointed a tangerine-colored nail, which clashed with her dress, at Chloe. “This is the same woman that was trying to sneak into French Kiss earlier. She thought she could see a Beaumont without an appointment.” The woman looked at him and batted her eyelashes. “As if you would want to talk to someone with a bad haircut and faux-leather boots. Which is exactly why I told her to take a hike and come back when she had a clue.”

As much as he was enjoying toying with Chloe, this woman’s arrogance didn’t sit well. Especially when he had grown up poor and knew what it was like to have bad haircuts and cheap clothing pointed out by the wealthier kids. He was about to put her in her place when the doors opened and two police officers walked in. Upon seeing them, Chloe raced toward the opposite doors.

The policemen gave chase, and Grayson figured that his fun was over. It was one thing to let Chloe get hassled by a security guard and another to let her get arrested and thrown in jail. Unfortunately, by the time Grayson got out to the street, the police officers had Chloe on the ground and were handcuffing her. Or trying to handcuff her. As he might have expected, she was putting up one hell of a fight.

“Get your hands off me! I did nothing wrong.”

“If you did nothing wrong, ma’am, then why did you run away from us?” The officer who had her on the ground finally got ahold of her wrist and pulled it behind her back.

“Let her go,” Grayson ordered as he walked up.

The other police officer stepped in front of him. “Back off. This is none of your business.”

“It’s exactly my business. I’m Grayson Beaumont, and I own French Kiss.”

The officer looked him over and laughed. “Sure you are. And I’m Donald Trump. Now go about your business before I haul you in for interfering with an arrest…or for loitering.”

Grayson glanced down at his tattered, paint-splattered jeans and couldn’t blame the officer. He did look like a vagrant. “Look, I can prove it.” He made to pull out his wallet, but then remembered that he’d left it in his studio. Unfortunately, the officer didn’t take kindly to Grayson reaching for something behind his back, and grabbed Grayson and shoved him against a parked car. Grayson’s reaction was more reflex than anything. When you grew up with two older brothers who loved to box, you had to have good reflexes. He didn’t intend for his elbow to clip the officer’s jaw and send him stumbling back. Before Grayson could ask if the guy was all right, the other officer joined the fray, and Grayson found himself lying facedown on the sidewalk next to Chloe.

He grunted as the cop’s knee dug into his back and cuffs were slapped on his wrists. “You want to tell them who I am?”

Chloe squinted. “Do I know you?”

Grayson didn’t know why he laughed. He should’ve been pissed that she had turned the tables on him. And he was pissed, but he could also see the humor in the situation. He continued to laugh as the police officer got him to his feet. The other one helped Chloe up. Of the two, he acted a little more friendly.

“So what’s your name?” he asked her.

For the first time since Grayson had known her, Chloe actually looked scared. She swallowed hard and cleared her throat a few times before she glanced at Grayson. “Chloe McAlister.”

“And do you have any identification on you, Ms. McAlister?”

She shook her head. “I don’t drive.”

That surprised Grayson. Growing up in a small town in Louisiana, he had started driving his dad’s beat-up cars when he was twelve. Not that Deacon had known Nash let him drive. Nash and Grayson kept quite a few things from their volatile older brother.

The officer nodded, then had her spell her name and give him her birth date before he did the same with Grayson. While he radioed in the information, the other officer tried to control the crowd that was forming.

“This is all your fault, Grayson,” Chloe grumbled.

He adjusted his cuffed hands and leaned against the cruiser. “How do you figure? I wasn’t the one who stole the ducky.”

“No, you were just the one who wanted to be an ass and not tell the security guard that I didn’t steal it. What happened to you? I thought you were the nice Beaumont brother—the one who always does the right thing.”

He had always done the right thing. Whether it was getting good grades in school or eating all his peas, he did what was expected of him and never complained. When you were being raised by two headstrong older brothers, compliance was the easiest route. So he had kept his mouth shut and gone along. If something had bothered him and he needed an outlet, he would go to his room and sketch or paint. Through his art he learned to express all the emotions that he couldn’t express in a household filled with men. His paintings were his release…or at least they had been. Now he couldn’t even paint an apple.

It seemed that Chloe was right. He had lost his painting mojo. Which left him with no outlet for the tumultuous emotions that swirled around inside him. Although being arrested had released some of his anger. In fact he felt pretty good at the moment, much better than he’d felt in months.

“Maybe I’m tired of being the perfect Beaumont,” he said.

“I didn’t say you were perfect. I said you were nice. Now you’re just as grumpy and mean as I am. And let me tell you, it’s not very becoming.”

He grinned. “I don’t think anyone can be as grumpy and mean as you are—”

“Mr. Beaumont!”

Grayson turned to see Deacon’s executive assistant, Kelly, weaving her way through the crowd. She wore the standard purple and gray that all employees wore, but Kelly always accessorized with her favorite cartoon cat, Hello Kitty. Today a headband printed with the little white cats held back her long black hair.

“What’s going on?” she asked. “Jason and I were coming back from my doctor’s appointment when we noticed the crowd.”

A crowd that was getting bigger. People were jostling each other for a front-row position. Something that Grayson wasn’t real thrilled about. Deacon didn’t like bad press, and one of his brothers getting arrested wouldn’t look good on the cover of a tabloid. Which was why Grayson was so relieved when Kelly’s husband, Jason, appeared. As one of French Kiss’s most competent lawyers, he immediately assessed the situation and took charge.

“I’m Mr. Beaumont’s attorney,” he said to one of the police officers. “I’d like to know what he’s being charged with.”

That seemed to get the officer’s attention. His eyes widened, and he pointed a finger at Grayson, speaking in an overly loud voice. “He really is a Beaumont? But what woman would want to wear panties he designed?”

“Just about half of the female population,” Kelly piped up. “The Romeo Collection is our most popular line.”

After only a moment’s pause, he quickly took Grayson’s handcuffs off. Unfortunately, it was too late. The crowd had been alerted to his identity. Phones appeared and started clicking. If he had been Deacon, he would’ve given an eloquent speech and made it clear that it had all been a misunderstanding. If he’d been Nash, he’d have flashed a charming smile and said something amusing. But Grayson had never been good at eloquent speeches or charm. So he just stood there as the cell phones snapped. Although he was taking the attention much better than Chloe. She had turned away and was cowering next to the police cruiser.