A Billionaire Between the Sheets (22 page)

A name that was very familiar.

S
omething had happened at French Kiss. Something that had Deacon worried. After the phone call in Paris, Olivia immediately sensed a subtle change in him. But surprisingly, she wasn't concerned. She trusted Deacon to handle the situation, whatever it might be. So rather than question him, she decided to take his mind off it. She had never been much of a seductress, but suddenly she found herself seducing…and loving every minute of it. She enjoyed tempting Deacon. Enjoyed watching his eyes darken and his body tremble with need. Enjoyed feeding that need until it consumed them both.

And she didn't just enjoy the sex. She enjoyed being with him. Sightseeing. Talking. Or lying together in bed. Which was why she couldn't help feeling disappointed when she woke and he wasn't next to her. Sitting up, she blinked the sleep from her eyes and tried to get oriented. She wasn't in a hotel in Paris. Or on French Kiss's private plane. She was in her bedroom. An image of Deacon lifting her out of the Porsche and carrying her through the garage came back to her, and she smiled.

He was probably in the bathroom. Or better yet, in the kitchen making coffee. But when she crawled out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom, he wasn't there. Nor was he in the kitchen or in any other room of the house. And neither was anyone else. No Nash. No Grayson. And no Babette.

Seeing that it wasn't yet eight o'clock on a weekday morning, it didn't seem right. The brothers never went to work before a run and breakfast—usually no earlier than nine o'clock. The thought of their morning run had her stepping out on the balcony and looking up and down the street.

“Good morning, Britney!”

She turned to find Mr. Huckabee sitting on his balcony reading the newspaper. She lifted a hand in greeting. “Good morning.”

He got up, and she was relieved to find his dangling parts covered by a hot pink thong. “What do you think?” He held out his hands and turned to display his flabby butt. “Your houseguest gave them to me. And I must admit that they're more comfortable than the rhinestone ones. Doris loved the flash, but those stones irritated the hell out of my hemorrhoids—”

She cut him off before things could get grosser. “Well, they look great, and I've heard that neon is making a comeback.”

He turned around and grinned. “Babette said the same thing. Once she came down from her LSD trip, she turned out to be a nice girl. I was sorry to hear she's moving out. Is she going back to Paris?”

Babette wasn't going back to Paris. It seemed she liked America more than she'd let on, and despite her disastrous line of men's lingerie, she had done very well on Olivia's designs. Even Samuel thought so and had hired her as a full-time seamstress.

“No,” she yelled over to Mr. Huckabee, “she's not going back to Paris. She's getting an apartment here in San Francisco.”

“Well, I'll miss her.”

Olivia would too. At times Babette had been annoying, but like a hyperactive poodle, she had something lovable about her.

“You haven't seen her or my male houseguests this morning, have you?” she asked.

“Babette headed for the trolley this morning. But I haven't seen the boys since yesterday.” He moved to the railing. “Now that Babette's leaving, I hope you're not thinking about having a little ménage. Because Doris and I tried that a few times and it never worked out—one person always feels like they got the short end of the stick. Now orgies are a different story. In an orgy there's always plenty of sticks to go around.”

She tried to keep the orgy visual out of her brain, but there it was in a tangle of wrinkled limbs and limp body parts. She was relieved when her cell phone rang.

“I'd better get that, Mr. Huckabee,” she said before hurrying inside to answer the phone. Deacon had bought her a new phone in Paris, along with a cute little cover with the Eiffel Tower on the back. He said it was to remind her of their trip. But she didn't need a reminder. She would never forget Paris as long as she lived.

“Olivia?” Her mother's voice startled Olivia out of her daydream. “Are you there?”

“Sorry, Mom. I guess I forgot to say hello.”

There was an exasperated sigh. “You also forgot to come help me go through Michael's things. That annoying real estate broker wants to show Michael's study, and to be honest, I don't trust him as far as I can throw him.”

Olivia realized she had put off the job for as long as she could. “Okay, Mom, I'll head over now.”

“Fine, but we have to be done by one. I have a tennis match at the club.”

After Olivia got off the phone with her mom, she tried calling Deacon. When he didn't answer his cell phone, she made herself a cup of coffee and headed for the shower. Since Deacon had her car, she called a car service. On the way she tried Deacon again, and when he still didn't answer, she called the office.

“Mr. Beaumont's office.”

Olivia rolled her eyes. “Hi, Kelly, it's your other boss, Ms. Harrington.”

“Oh, hi! Did you have fun in Paris? Nash told me that Mr. Beaumont took you to look for photo sites. Did you find one?”

“As a matter of fact, we did. I think we're going to shoot the catalog in Paris.”

“No shit! Oops, sorry about that—but, I mean, Paris. That is way cool.”

Olivia couldn't contain her excitement. “It was amazing. Just amazing. I took pictures and will tell you all about it when I get to the office. And Deacon—I mean Mr. Beaumont and I talked about it and think that you should come to Paris with us when we do the photo shoot.”

“OMG! Are you kidding? That would be amaze-balls.”

Olivia laughed. “But first we need to focus on the fashion show. There's about a zillion things I need to get done. And I'm thinking that since you and Mr. Beaumont get along so well, I might hire another assistant for me. How do you feel about that?”

“Great! Then we can just be friends and you can tell me all about your trip to Paris and the sex you had with Mr. Beaumont.”

Olivia laughed. “Speaking of Mr. Beaumont, I've been trying to call him. Is he in his office?”

“Yes, but he's in an important meeting and doesn't want to be disturbed.”

“What meeting?”

Kelly's voice became hushed. “I didn't catch all of it, but it has to do with Mr. Beaumont having a mistress.”

Olivia felt her stomach clench. “Deacon has a mistress?”

“No, not that Mr. Beaumont. The dead Mr. Beaumont.”

“You must be mistaken, Kelly,” Olivia said. “Michael didn't have time for a mistress. He was too busy with French Kiss.”

“He might've been busy, but he wasn't too busy to knock a woman up and get an illegitimate kid. An illegitimate kid who is contesting the will.”

No more than ten minutes later, Olivia stood in front of Michael's mansion trying to steady her suddenly topsy-turvy world. Michael had an illegitimate child? It didn't make sense. Michael would've told her if he had a child. Of course he hadn't told her about the will and giving the company to his nephews either. So what made her think that he would have shared this? A part of her wanted to head to French Kiss and bust into the meeting. But the other part knew that would do more damage than good. She felt too raw. So raw that she couldn't get a word out when her mother opened the door.

Since Deirdre had a tennis match that afternoon, she wore a formfitting lime-green sports top and matching skirt, and her blond hair had been pulled back into a chic ponytail. While she had never been an attentive mother, she'd always been a perceptive one. She took one look at Olivia and took charge.

“Come inside. You look like you're about ready to throw up or pass out.” She led Olivia into Michael's study and sat her down in a chair in front of the fireplace before heading to the minibar.

Unlike his office at work, Michael's study didn't have one painting of quaint Parisian cafés. In fact there were no paintings at all. On one wall were large windows that looked out over the garden, and the other walls were lined with walnut bookcases filled with business awards and books. Not that Michael had been an avid reader. When he took the time to read, he had preferred
Forbes
magazine.

“Here, drink this.” Deirdre handed her a glass of brandy. While Olivia took a sip, her mother picked up a box from the cluster by the door. “I know it's sad to have to pack up Michael's things, but we'll get through it. In case you haven't figured it out, the Harringtons are survivors.”

Olivia didn't feel like a survivor. She felt like a drowning victim. She cradled the glass in her hands and took deep sips as she watched her mother pack up some of the books. After the glass was empty, she felt less shaky, but not less deceived. She wanted to ask her mother about Michael. But of course she couldn't do that. Not when it could involve a mistress that her mom knew nothing about. Although if Kelly had overheard correctly, the information would be out soon enough.

“So did Michael ever talk about his past, Mom?” she asked.

Deirdre closed the box of books. “Michael talked about three things. Paris. French Kiss. And you.” She looked up. “He loved you, Olivia. I don't know why he left the company to his nephews, but I do know that he loved you.” She grabbed another box and moved to the fireplace, where she picked up one of the brass statues from the mantel.

Olivia set down her glass. “I thought he loved me, but maybe he just kept me at French Kiss because we were so alike.”

Deirdre turned to her. “Don't be ridiculous, Olivia. You're nothing like Michael. Michael got focused on one thing and you couldn't get him off it. You, on the other hand, are just like your father. Distracted by anything and everything.” When Olivia stared at her with surprise, she laughed. “Don't tell me that you don't know you drive people nuts with your inability to stay focused. Your poor teachers begged me to medicate you. Of course your father wouldn't hear of it. And Michael felt the same way. He said you just needed something to focus on—so he solved the problem by throwing money at your private schools and taking you to work with him. And you idolized him for including you when everyone else had tried to exclude you.”

It was true. She had idolized Michael for including her. And she wondered how he could've included her in his life and excluded his own child. It didn't make any sense.

“I wonder if these are worth anything?” Deirdre examined the bottom of a bronze statue of two little boys fishing. “Michael had them specially commissioned by a famous sculptor.”

Olivia got up and walked over to the fireplace to look at the sculptures. Since they had been too high up for her to notice as a child, and too familiar when she was an adult, she had paid little attention to them. Each depicted a different scene. Two barefoot boys fishing on a riverbank. An old man hunting with a rifle poised for the shot. An old woman in a rocker on the porch of a ramshackle house. A laughing woman sitting at a café. A little girl splashing in puddles in a rain slicker and boots.

“Michael commissioned these?” she asked as she reached out to reverently touch the little girl in the rain slicker. “This is me.”

Deirdre leaned closer. “Hmm, I don't remember you being so cute.”

Olivia rolled her eyes. “Well, it's me in the exact raincoat and boots he gave me for my eleventh birthday.” She pointed to the two boys fishing. “And I bet that's Michael fishing with his brother Donny John. And these two old people must be his parents.” She leaned closer to the woman at the café. It looked exactly like the café in the painting—the one she and Deacon had gone to. “Is this you, Mom? I didn't know you went to Paris with Michael.”

“I didn't. You know I hate traveling out of the country. It's hard to find a clean public bathroom.”

“So who—?” Olivia stopped, realizing too late what she was asking. But Deirdre didn't seem to be upset.

“I don't have a clue. Although she must've rated with Michael if he had her bronzed. It would appear that only the people he loved got the distinction. And don't look so forlorn, Olivia. I knew that Michael never loved me. But he was good to both of us and I'll always love him for that.” Her eyes narrowed on the laughing woman. “I wonder if this is the woman who had his child.”

Olivia turned to her. “So Michael told you about his child? Why didn't you tell me?”

“Because I found the letter she sent him by accident, and since Michael never mentioned it, I figured it was a secret he wanted to keep. How did you find out?”

“Michael's child is contesting the will.”

Deirdre's eyes widened. “The company? The house? Or everything?”

“I won't know the details until I talk with Deacon, but it doesn't sound good.” She looked at the bronze. “So who is she, Mom?”

“I don't know, but maybe we can figure it out.” She walked to the bookcase behind the desk and slid a stack of books to the side to reveal a wall safe.

Olivia followed and stood behind her. “I didn't have a clue this was here.”

Deirdre started dialing the combination. “I'm sure Michael told you in the instructions that were left with the house. But knowing you, you got distracted before you got to that part.”

Between French Kiss and Deacon, Olivia hadn't even gotten a chance to read the sheets of information the lawyers had sent her. But as soon as she got home tonight she planned on doing so.

“How do you know the combination?” she asked.

“I used to keep my jewelry in here.” The lock clicked, and Deirdre pulled open the safe door. She reached in and took out a stack of papers and handed them to Olivia. “Somewhere in here is the letter. I need a drink.”

While her mother walked to the liquor cabinet, Olivia took the papers to the desk and sat down. There were the usual documents that one would find in a safe: Deeds. Stocks. Michael's birth certificate. But beneath the legal papers were two letters and a sketchpad filled with designs. Olivia leafed through the pages and recognized the drawings immediately as Michael's original designs. There was even a design for the French Kiss logo. But what she hadn't noticed in the designs she'd seen before was the scrolled
A
at the bottom. Why would Michael sign his designs with an
A
?