A Billionaire Between the Sheets (15 page)

The elevator silently slid to the bottom floor and opened with a ping. Before him the lobby beckoned like Emerald City. Suddenly Deacon realized that he belonged in this world as much as Dorothy belonged in Oz. His life was back in Louisiana without this glitter and glitz. And without the confusing emotions a certain blonde evoked.

He stepped out of the elevator. “Let's go for it, Francesca. I'll contact the contractors and we'll start breaking ground as soon as possible.”

I
was only nine when my father disappeared,” Olivia said as she hand-stitched the binding to the mock-up corset. “And yet I still think about him almost every day. Which is silly since he probably hasn't given me a second thought.”

Grayson's gaze lifted from his sketchpad. They were the same color as Deacon's and Nash's, but Grayson's eyes held an innocent compassion that would make anyone want to share their deepest hurts. Which made Olivia continue to babble.

“I wanted to blame my mother. I thought if she hadn't been so wrapped up in money, my father wouldn't have left after his company went bankrupt.” She re-threaded her needle and went back to work on the deep-purple corset fitted to the dress form. It was one from the Valentino Collection. A sexy confection of velvet and ribbon lacing.

“Then, when I became a self-conscious adolescent,” she said, “I blamed myself. I thought if I'd been cuter, smarter, more lovable, it would've been enough to make him stay. It was Michael who finally made me realize how wrong I was.” She pushed up her glasses. “Not because of anything he said, but because of his actions. He had faith in me.” She paused. “Then I went and almost bankrupted his company.”

Grayson skillfully wielded the charcoal pencil. “From what Deacon says, French Kiss was on its way to bankruptcy long before Uncle Michael died. And he was right to have faith in you.” He stopped sketching and looked around the large design studio. “All these works of art are yours.”

Olivia followed his gaze. Sunlight streamed in through the tall windows, gilding the dress forms draped in their colorful satins and silks as if they were princesses in a fairy-tale ballroom. Each designer danced around their princess, their attention completely focused on the design. She understood how they felt. While she struggled to remain on task with everything else in her life, she had no problem remaining focused here.

In the past week she'd completed her own pieces for the new collections, including the dark-purple corset with its silver binding and lavender ribbon laces. And she was starting to believe Samuel and Grayson. She was an artist.

For a long while she and Grayson worked on their own creations without saying a word. The silence would've been uncomfortable with any other man, but with Grayson it just seemed right. There was something so soothing about the glide and pull of the needle and thread accompanied by the wisps of Grayson's pencil as it softly stroked the paper.

“What are you drawing?” she finally asked.

“Just a few ideas I have for the next catalog.”

“Can I see them?”

He turned the sketchpad. It was a drawing of Olivia, her expression intent as she worked on the corset. There was nothing sexual about what she was doing—it was just a woman in skinny jeans and a button-up blouse sewing—and yet the entire undertone of the drawing was sexual. She should've felt embarrassed that Grayson had pictured her like that. She didn't. Probably because there was nothing sexual about their relationship. He treated her like a sister, and surprisingly, she felt that way.

“It's beautiful, Grayson,” she said, “but we can't use that in the catalog. We need models.”

He shook his head. “No, we don't. We need ordinary women in love.”

“Are you saying that I'm ordinary?” she teased.

He blushed. “Not at all. I'm saying that even beautiful women are more beautiful when they're doing something they love. You're in love with design, and it shows in every movement, in every emotion that plays across your face.”

Before she could even begin to marvel at his perception, a voice broke the silence.

“Here you two are!”

She pulled her attention from the sketch to watch as Nash wove his way through the tables. At least she thought it was Nash. The camouflage pants and T-shirt had been replaced with dove-gray pants and a light-lavender dress shirt. But his new clothes weren't as startling as his clean-shaven face. A face that was so handsome that she understood why the women—and men—of the design staff had stopped work and were now staring in openmouthed lust.

While the attention would've had most men puffing up with pride, Nash behaved as he always did. He stopped to admire each designer's work, said something that had them laughing, and then slapped them on the back before he continued on his way. This easygoing friendliness had endeared him to Olivia. And after only a week, she felt as if she'd known him all her life.

He flashed her a blinding smile before his gaze rested on the corset. “Nice. Is that part of my collection?”

Nash did have a corset in his collection, but with its black leather and studs, it was much edgier than this one. Although Olivia had yet to see the edgy side of Nash. He just seemed like a good ol' country boy to her.

“No,” she said. “I have my designers working on yours and Grayson's.”

His eyes sharpened, and then twinkled. “So Deacon is all yours?”

She blushed. Until now she hadn't given it much thought. But Nash made her realize that she had taken all the designs Deacon liked. Something she didn't want to acknowledge.

“So what happened to the grizzly bear that made me breakfast this morning?” she asked in an attempt to change the subject. Nash was an excellent cook and had made the most amazing brioche French toast that morning. It had sent Babette into fits of French praise.

Babette was still living with her. Olivia had bought her a plane ticket, but Babette kept postponing the departure date. And Olivia didn't know if it had to do with the fact that she didn't miss her beloved Paris as much as she claimed, or with Nash and Grayson's shirtless morning runs. Even now Babette ogled Nash from the table where she worked. Once Samuel had taken charge of the whiny woman and given her direction, she had turned out to be quite a talented seamstress.

“A grizzly bear?” Nash stroked his chin as if his beard were still there. “I'm crushed.”

“Right,” Olivia said. “I don't think you'd be crushed over anything a woman said to you. So why did you shave?”

His smile dropped. “I had an idea last night, and I made the mistake of telling my big brother.”

“An idea? For the new line?”

“Sorta. It has more to do with the image of French Kiss.” He glanced at Grayson, who had gone back to sketching, but now with a smirk on his face. “I wouldn't look so smug about me being beardless, Grayson. Your beard is next on the shaving block. Although with three hairs, tweezers will probably work better.”

Grayson lowered the sketchpad. “I'm not shaving my beard. It just got going.”

“It doesn't look like it's going anywhere to me. But you'll need to take that up with Deacon. He scheduled some photo shoot for us this afternoon.”

“Us? Your big idea was taking pictures of us without beards?”

“No. My big idea had to do with releasing the news that French Kiss has new owners.” Nash glanced at Olivia. “At least for a short time. I got to thinking about how much women love men to buy them sexy lingerie. But there are a lot of women who don't have a husband or boyfriend to do that for them. So that's where the Beaumont brothers come in. Since we picked the ones we liked the most from your designs, Olivia, it's like we're choosing lingerie for all the women of the world. I thought we could open up social networking accounts where we can actually tweet and post with the customers.”

“That's genius,” Olivia said.

Nash looked uncomfortable with the praise. “Look, I'm not a businessman like Deacon, but I figured it was worth a shot.”

“It's an amazing idea, Nash,” she said. “With the new collections coming out, it makes perfect sense to present the Beaumont brothers as the new faces of French Kiss.”

“Well, I think it sucks,” Grayson said. “You and Deacon can go barefaced if you want, but I'm keeping my beard.”

As popular as beards had become with young men, Olivia knew that they weren't quite as popular with young women. And if the marketing strategy was going to work, Grayson would have to shave.

“Okay,” she said, “but I have heard that if you shave off a beard, it grows in thicker.”

Grayson's eyes narrowed. “Thicker?”

“So I've heard. And if you want to test the theory, I just happen to have some disposable razors in my bathroom.”

It took only a second for Grayson to make his decision. “Fine,” he said as he got to his feet, “but only for you, Olivia. And I'm growing it back right after the shoot.”

Nash rolled his eyes as he followed his brother. “I'm sure that will only take a few hours.”

Once they were gone, Olivia went back to work. But her heart was no longer in it. She kept thinking about the photo shoot. Of course she shouldn't go. If she'd learned anything from the boardroom kiss, it was that she and Deacon couldn't be in the same room without sparks flying. Which was why she'd been hiding out in the design studio. Obviously Deacon had felt the same way. He hadn't once sought her out. Instead he'd kicked Anastasia out of Michael's office and pretty much taken complete control of the company. She should've felt angry. After all, she was the one who was supposed to be in charge. But instead she felt as if a huge weight had been lifted off her shoulders.

Since Michael's first stroke, she'd been responsible for everything. Every concern and complaint from the board, her staff, retailers, customers, and what felt like the world, had been her responsibility to deal with. Until Deacon had stepped into the boardroom.

According to Kelly—who had become more his assistant than Olivia's—in the last week, Deacon had set up meetings with every department in the company and asked for their ideas, opinions, and concerns. Once he had Kelly compile the information, he'd made decisions that Olivia had never been able to bring herself to make. Some people had been fired, some issued warnings, and others promoted. Every judgment he'd made, Olivia completely agreed with. With Deacon in charge, she felt it was possible to save the company. And not just possible but probable.

There was only one fly in the ointment of her contentment. Parker had become a bit of a stalker. Under the guise of remaining friends, he'd started showing up to take her to lunch, and because she felt guilty about breaking up with him, she went. But it was starting to get old. Especially when he talked nonstop about how Deacon was out to get him and was having Kelly send him on wild goose chases just to keep him away from the office and Olivia.

“So are you trying to avoid me?”

The words, spoken in a silky Southern voice, had Olivia pricking her finger with the needle. Before it could spill a drop of blood on the velvet, she stuck it in her mouth and turned around.

Deacon no longer wore jeans and an un-tucked-in shirt to the office. He wore a gray suit similar to the one he'd worn at the board meeting. But this one looked more fitted. The jacket clung to his broad shoulders and tapered at his waist, and the pants hugged his hips and outlined his long legs. His designer shirt was French Kiss lavender, bringing out the deep violet-blue of his eyes. He didn't wear a tie, and it was hard to look away from the open collar of his shirt, where solid chest met 100 percent silk. Since she wore jeans and a loose-fitting blouse, it was as if they had traded places completely. He was the well-dressed boss, and she the casually dressed relative.

She turned back to the corset. “I don't remember being called into a meeting. Not that I've had the time.”

There was a long pause, followed by a tired sigh. “Time does seem to slip away from you here. Damn, I can't even remember what day it is.” He paused. “Obviously casual Friday.” She could almost feel his gaze running over her. He moved closer, so close that the soft wool of his pants brushed against the denim of her jeans. She tried to stay focused on the corset, but her hand shook so badly that her stitches would have to be taken out and redone.

“Mine.” He reached out and his fingers entwined in the ribbon she'd yet to tie, sliding down the satin in a slow caress that took all the oxygen from the room. For some weird reason, suddenly Olivia didn't feel as if the sexy underwear was on the lifeless mannequin. She felt as if it were on her—the rigid frame hugging her waist and the low bodice offering up her breasts. Taking the ribbon ends in each hand, Deacon pulled until the crossed lacing gathered and the eyelets almost touched. The air in her lungs rushed out, and her heart jarred almost painfully against her rib cage as he tied a perfect bow.

While she struggled for breath, his fingers slid to one end of the ribbon, his thumb rubbing the smooth satin against the pad of his forefinger. The slow circular motion caused heat to settle between her legs.

“I like it,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper. “I like it a lot.”

She glanced up from his hypnotic fingers and found him watching her with hot eyes that took the rest of her breath. Then she was leaning toward him, grabbing the front of his shirt, and pulling his lips toward her.

The kiss was hot. Wet. Deep. And over much too quickly. He pulled back, and she opened her eyes to find him studying her with a mixture of surprise and desire.

“Olivia?” Her name came off his kiss-dampened lips sounding so sexy that she leaned in for another kiss. He stopped her. “Unless you want me to take you in front of every designer here, I think we need to stop.”

She blinked, and her gaze moved around the room. Sure enough, everyone had stopped working and was watching their boss almost rape the new owner of French Kiss. Samuel looked amused, while Babette shot eye-daggers. Before Olivia could die from embarrassment, Deacon did what he was good at—he took charge. Giving her arms a reassuring squeeze, he spoke loudly enough for the entire room to hear.

“My apologies, Ms. Harrington. Obviously you and your design team are on the right track. That corset had the desired effect.”