A Billionaire Between the Sheets (23 page)

Hoping to find the answer, she picked up the first letter. It was addressed to Michael and held one thin sheet of stationery with tiny purple flowers running along the top and bottom. The writing was artistic and beautiful.

Olivia stared at the letter. “So Michael does have a child.”

“Maybe.” Deirdre came over and took the chair across from the desk. “And maybe she was just some weirdo trying to get money from a wealthy man. You remember that song that Michael Jackson made popular. Although I always thought he protested too much about Billie Jean not being his lover and the kid not being his son.” She took a drink of her gin and tonic and nodded at the other letter. “What's that?”

“It's another letter.” Olivia put down the first and picked it up. It wasn't from the same woman. The handwriting was stronger—more masculine. She opened it and a picture fell out. She barely glanced at it before reading the words written on the piece of lined notebook paper. Five harsh lines with no heading or signature.

“So what does it say?” Deirdre asked. “Please don't tell me we have another illegitimate child who wants a cut.”

Without answering, Olivia reached for the photograph. It was a picture of Michael and a woman standing in front of the Eiffel Tower. The woman was looking at the camera, but Michael was looking at the woman. It wasn't his expression of adoration that Olivia noticed as much as the familiarity of his features. At this young age, Michael looked exactly like Deacon. Except for the eyes. Deacon didn't have Michael's eyes.

He had this woman's.

T
he hotel was one of the most expensive in the city, which wasn't surprising considering the woman who was staying there. As Deacon pulled the Porsche up to the front, a young valet hurried over to open his car door.

Deacon got out. “There's an extra twenty in it if you keep it parked out front.” He didn't plan on staying long. Just long enough to find out what was going on.

The kid nodded. As Deacon pushed through the revolving door, he heard the grinding of gears. It barely registered. Even after a good night's sleep, he still felt jet-lagged. Or maybe what he felt wasn't jet-lagged as much as broadsided. He hadn't expected someone to contest the will. And he certainly hadn't expected someone he knew to contest it.

At first he'd thought it was a joke. But after speaking to her lawyers that morning, he'd realized it wasn't. Now he wanted answers. And the best place to get them was at the source. Since the person he'd come to see had a penthouse, a bellboy accompanied him up in the elevator. The kid tried to start a conversation, but Deacon didn't feel much like talking. There were too many questions running through his head. He didn't even wait for her to finish opening the door of the suite before he started asking them.

“What the hell is going on, Francesca?”

Francesca smiled like a satisfied cat. “Well, hello to you too, Deacon.” She held open the door. “Won't you come in?”

“Since you wouldn't explain things on the phone, do I have a choice?” Deacon stepped into the foyer of the opulent room, but refused to go further. “Since when do you have a kid?”

She laughed, a harsh sound that grated on Deacon's last nerve. “You've always been so impatient, Deacon. Something that doesn't always work in business transactions.” She swept past him in a waft of expensive perfume.

“And this is a business transaction?”

She went to the minibar and pulled out a bottle of orange juice. “I learned from my workaholic daddy that everything is business.” She poured some orange juice in a glass, followed by a splash of vodka. She held up the glass. “Drink?”

He ignored the offer and moved farther into the room. “So where is this illegitimate kid?”

“He's in New Zealand right now. He lives there with his wife and two kids.”

Deacon snorted. “You'll have to forgive me if I have trouble seeing you as a grandmother.”

Instead of getting angry, she just shrugged and took a sip of her drink. “You're right. I've never been much of a grandmother. Or a mother for that matter. Which is why he was quite happy to take his inheritance from my father and leave the country.”

“So if he has money, why are you contesting the will?”

Her smile dimmed. “It's not about the money, Deacon. It's never been about the money. It's about setting things right.” She ran her long nails along the back of the couch on her way to the windows. “Do you realize that this is the first time I've been here? I've always resented the city for taking Michael from his hometown…and me.”

She stood with her back to him, her voice taking on a hard edge. “He wasn't supposed to go to Paris and fall in love. He was supposed to come back to Louisiana and marry me. I gave him my love, and I gave him my virginity when we were in high school, and how does he repay me? By bringing home his fiancée who he knew for all of two weeks. Two weeks.” She laughed. “What kind of idiot wants to marry a woman after only two weeks?”

Francesca turned. “But then fate took charge. Your mother fell in love with Donny John and broke it off with Michael.”

So his mother
was
the one who had broken it off. Deacon didn't know why that made him feel better, but it did.

“So if this isn't about money for your son, Francesca,” he said, “what is it about? Revenge for Michael not loving you like he did my mother? Because in case you haven't figured this out, Michael's dead. You contesting his will makes no difference to him now.”

She downed her drink and refilled it with straight vodka. “As it turned out, Michael didn't love your mother—he didn't even return home when she was dying. No, he loved money and power. He loved French Kiss. And as long as it continues, memories of Michael's betrayal continue.”

At her words, the pieces of the puzzle slipped into place for Deacon. “You were the one Anastasia was talking to on the phone that day. You're the one sabotaging French Kiss. Let me guess, you own stock in Avery Industries.”

She smiled. “You are just like Michael. Smart and business-savvy. Which is probably why I'm so attracted to you. Of course you won't be able to prove any of it. Nor will you be able to stop French Kiss from being sold—especially when all Michael's money will be tied up in a lawsuit.”

Deacon stepped closer. “That's it, isn't it? This isn't about your son. You just want to tie up Michael's money long enough to buy French Kiss for pennies on the dollar.”

Her smile died. “This isn't your fight, Deacon. So why don't you just let it go and take the money Michael's wimpy stepdaughter offered you? We're not enemies. In fact, we could still be friends.”

“We were never friends, Francesca.” He turned and walked out the door.

Once he left the hotel, he drove around to clear his head. Francesca was right. Unless Anastasia was willing to talk, he couldn't prove that Francesca had had anything to do with trying to lower French Kiss's stock for a buyout. And he couldn't see Anastasia talking, especially when she would become CEO when Francesca took over. As for the will contest, given Francesca's connections and money, she could tie up Michael's assets long enough to cause major problems for French Kiss—especially with the expense of the new collections. Which meant there was a good chance that French Kiss would be sold to the highest bidder.

He needed to tell Olivia—something he should've done sooner. Since it was almost noon, he figured he knew where to find her. He headed straight to French Kiss and the design studio.

He hoped to catch her working on one of the designs in his collection—something sexy that she could model for him later. Instead the studio was empty except for Grayson, who sat at Olivia's table, sketching.

“Is Olivia still at her house?” he asked as he walked in.

Grayson looked up. “No. She was gone when Nash and I got back from our run this morning. She left the garage door open again.”

Deacon couldn't help smiling. “She does that often.”

“That's why Nash stayed there today. He has some plan to put sensors throughout her house and then connect them to an app on her cell phone so she'll get an alert if something is left open or on.” Grayson shook his head. “I guess our brother is smarter than he looks. So did you meet with Francesca?”

Deacon nodded. “And the woman is as crazy as a shithouse mouse. I gather she was in cahoots with Anastasia to sell the company to Avery.”

Grayson continued to draw as if Deacon hadn't just dropped a huge bomb. “That doesn't surprise me. The woman has always been crazy, Deke. You were just too money-hungry to see it.” Since there was more than a little truth to that, Deacon couldn't argue the point. “So what about her son?” Grayson asked. “Do you believe he's Michael's?”

“He could be, but I think it's more likely that this is all some grand scheme that Francesca cooked up to get back at Michael.”

Grayson stopped sketching and looked up. “Isn't that what you wanted, Deke? Didn't you always want to get back at Uncle Michael? And not just for the way he treated us when Donny took us there to beg for money. But even before that, you seemed resentful of him for making millions when Dad couldn't seem to make a dime.”

Grayson was right. Deacon had wanted revenge. Revenge for Michael ignoring him and his mother when she was dying. And revenge on Olivia for making him feel like a beggar. But not anymore. Now he wanted to save French Kiss and Olivia. Or maybe he wanted French Kiss and Olivia to save him. “Okay, so maybe I was consumed with Michael. But he could've helped us, especially when Mom was so sick.”

Grayson stared at him. “Michael couldn't have kept Mom from dying, Deke. Her cancer was too advanced for his money to have made a difference.” He set the sketchpad down on the table. The top drawing was of a stern businessman in an expensive suit—his eyes intent, his mouth unsmiling. It took a full minute before Deacon realized it was a drawing of him. Was that how Grayson perceived him? Or was that how he really looked?

“Nash thinks that you're using Olivia to get back at Michael,” Grayson said. “Using her just like you used Francesca to get money for the condos. Is it true—?” His gaze swept to the doorway, and his eyes registered regret.

Deacon turned to see Olivia standing there. She was dressed casually, her sweatshirt faded, her jeans holey, and her flip-flops inexpensive. With her golden hair falling out of its ponytail and her face completely devoid of makeup, she looked young, fresh, and wholesome. Just seeing her filled him with an uncontainable joy. In two strides he had her in his arms and was breathing in all that wholesome goodness. It took a moment before he realized that she wasn't hugging back. In fact her body was stiff and unresponsive.

Deacon pulled away and noticed what he hadn't noticed before.

Her normally warm green eyes were cold. The kind of cold that froze a man's heart.

O
livia felt cold, and even the warmth of Deacon's arms couldn't dispel the iciness that seemed to be hardening around her heart. She had come to French Kiss to talk with Deacon. To give him a chance to deny that he had written the letter. To deny that he was Michael's son. But deep down she knew that there would be no denial, and Grayson's words only confirmed this.

Nash thinks that you're using Olivia to get back at Michael.

There was only one reason he'd want to get back at Michael, and that reason made everything that had happened between them nothing but a lie. All the deep kisses. All the passionate lovemaking. All the sweet talk about her being his woman. All of it had been nothing but lies. Nothing but a way to get back at Michael for not acknowledging Deacon as his son.

But even knowing this, her body still wanted to melt into his embrace. To feel his hands on her waist. To hear his heart beat against her ear. And it took everything she had to ignore the confusion in his eyes and keep her voice steady.

“So you're Michael's son.”

It wasn't a question. Just a tired statement filled with all the pain she felt.

His eyes flickered with surprise, and then he did what he did best—he took charge. Without a word to Grayson, he led her from the room and guided her to the elevator with his hand on the small of her back. She wanted to slap it away. To yell at him not to touch her. To never touch her again. But the elevator was crowded so she just stood there like a zombie while he greeted the people around them. They greeted him back, completely oblivious to the fact that they were only pawns in the game Deacon played.

Just like Olivia. Except now she knew.

When they got to his office, Kelly and Jason were talking at the desk. For once Kelly wore a conservative suit with the trademark purple high heels. Although her headband was Hello Kitty. She was giggling at something Jason had said, but when she saw them, she quickly got to her feet and brushed at her skirt.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Beaumont…Ms. Harrington. I put your messages on your desk, Mr. Beaumont. And I'll get you some coffee—”

“No thank you, Kelly,” Deacon said. “Just hold all calls, please.”

She must've read their solemn expressions, because her smile dropped. “Yes, sir.” She exchanged looks with Jason as they walked into Michael's office.

Once inside, Deacon removed his hand from her back and closed the door. The paintings of Paris were back up on the walls, and everywhere she looked she was reminded of the time they'd spent together. She realized he had taken her to the exact spot in every single painting. The Eiffel Tower. The Seine. The small café.

And the quaint shop that had started it all.

An uneasy feeling crept up her spine as she tried to place all the pieces into a coherent picture. But what she'd thought was the truth was starting to get muddled. Even the images of her in this room as a child weren't the same. At one time she'd pictured herself doing her homework or drawing in her design book at Michael's desk. But now she realized that he had never allowed her to sit at the desk with him. She had sat on the couch while he worked. And the morning-coffee-and-pastry image turned into her taking hurried notes as he rattled off orders.

Suddenly her legs felt like they were made of the sheerest of nylons. She slumped down in a chair and tried to remember how to breathe.

“Are you okay?” Deacon stood over her. He wore another gray suit—this one as tailored as the one he'd worn for the photo shoot. She looked away and stared out the windows.

“Answer Grayson's question, Deacon,” she said in a voice that didn't sound like her own. “Are you just using me to get back at your father?”

Her mind knew the truth already, but her heart still held out hope for a quick denial. Instead she got silence, followed by a question. “How did you find out?”

With shaky hands she unzipped her purse and pulled out the letters and sketchpad. “I found these when I went to the house to pack up Michael's things.”

Deacon took them cautiously, almost as if he was afraid to touch them. He glanced at the letter on top—and, hoping that she was somehow mistaken, that it was some kind of prank, she couldn't help asking, “Did you send that to Michael?”

He nodded slowly. “Since he never replied, I thought he hadn't received it.”

The acknowledgment had Olivia's breath seeping out of her as if she were a punctured tire, and it took a moment for her to reel it back in. “And the other one, did your mother write that one?”

It took him a while to look at the other one. He seemed to be preoccupied with the first. She watched myriad emotions cross his face before it settled into the stern scowl he had worn when she'd first met him. At the time she had thought his anger was directed at her. Now she realized that it was directed at Michael. She was just the scapegoat.

He moved around the desk and sat down in the chair. She now understood why he looked so comfortable in Michael's office. Like father, like son. She watched as he opened the letter and read through it. Usually his face was hard to read. This time it was easy. Pain. Hurt. Betrayal. Anger. They all played across his features, and when he lifted his gaze, they shimmered in the bluish-purple depths of his eyes. Eyes that matched the French Kiss emblem on the plaque behind the desk. Suddenly, Olivia realized that purple wasn't just a random color that Michael had chosen. The color had reminded him of Althea's eyes…and his son's.

“Why, Deacon?” Olivia said. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“Because until this moment, I didn't know for sure.” All emotion seemed to drain from his face. “And what difference does it make? Michael didn't want a son. And I sure as hell didn't want him as a father.”

“Then why are you contesting the will?”

“Me?” He stared at her in shock. “You think that I'm the one contesting the will? Why would I do that?”

“Because you're Michael's son!” Regardless of her wobbly legs, she got up and moved to the windows. When she turned, he was studying the designs in the notepad with his steepled fingers pressed to his chin as if in prayer. But Deacon wasn't the type to pray. He was a man of action. A man who created his own destiny. A man who took care of his own revenge.

“So what's your plan, Deacon?” she asked. “Why are you contesting the will when French Kiss is yours? Or do you want it all? The mansion? The cars? The entire lifestyle? All so you can then have revenge on a father who never acknowledged you?” She hated the tears that sprang to her eyes, but couldn't seem to stop them. “And did you just want to make me look like a fool because it pissed you off that I had Michael's love and his money?”

In one fluid movement he got up from the chair and slammed his fist on the desk. “You're damned right I'm pissed off! But not because of Michael's love or his money. I'm pissed off my mother's dead and he didn't once try to save her. Not fuckin' once! And I'm pissed that he couldn't even reply to his own son.” He jerked up the letter and ripped it in two with one twist. “But what pisses me off the most is that you still think he's some kind of a god. He wasn't a god, Olivia. He was a selfish bastard who didn't love anything but power and money.”

He moved closer and held up the sketchpad. “Do you realize what these are?” She did realize, which was why she'd brought them along. But she didn't say a word as he continued. “They're my mother's dreams.” He waved a hand around the office. “This is my mother's dream. None of it was Michael's. Not one damned bit of it.” He threw the sketchpad across the room, and it hit the wall and pages scattered all over the floor. She cringed as Deacon laughed.

“I often wondered how a redneck from Louisiana could come up with an idea for a lingerie company. And now I know. He couldn't, so he had to steal them from a sweet little seamstress who fell in love with a lingerie shop in Paris and with his baby brother.”

With her last question answered, like a sleepwalker, Olivia moved over to the designs and started to collect them. Lifting first one and then another, she carefully placed them in a neat stack as if they were made of the most fragile glass. As each design went back in the book, everything became crystal-clear. Almost too clear. Michael's hatred for his brother and his brother's sons. His refusal to talk about the past. His almost rabid desire to see French Kiss succeed. It had nothing to do with his love of the company. It had to do with revenge on Deacon's mom.

Emotions welled up, and tears dripped from her eyes, landing on the drawing of the French Kiss logo and smudging the purple pencil etchings like raindrops on sidewalk chalk.

“Don't cry, Livy,” Deacon said as he pulled her into his arms. “I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner.” He hugged her close. But she was too numb to feel his arms or the heat of his body. “I'm not contesting the will, Olivia,” he spoke against the top of her head. “Francesca Devereux is the one contesting it—she claims she had Michael's son. But I think she just wants to keep Michael's assets tied up so that her company can buy French Kiss.”

Olivia recognized the name, but couldn't bring herself to care. It was just one more piece of bad news heaped on the pile that had formed around her. She felt weighted down. As if she were drowning under yards upon yards of brocade and there was no way out.

After a moment Deacon pulled back to study her with his intense eyes. “I know you're scared, Olivia,” he said. “But you don't need to worry. I'm not going to let French Kiss fail. I'm going to fight for the company. And I'm going to make it bigger and better than Michael ever could—for you and my mother.” He smiled and traced a tear track with his finger. “Marry me, Livy.”

His words snapped her out of her trance, and she felt as she had when she'd fallen out of the pirogue and into the bayou. A wave of emotion closed around her, and she couldn't find her way to the surface.

Her inability to talk made him smile even wider. “I know it's crazy. Especially since we've only really known each other for a couple of weeks—and when for most of that time, you didn't like me. But I love you, Olivia Harrington.”

It was ironic. Olivia had spent her entire life looking for a man's love. Her father's. Michael's. And here Deacon was offering it to her. It was too bad that, like her father's and Michael's, it wasn't real.

“I can never marry you, Deacon,” she said in barely a whisper.

His smile faded. “What do you mean? I thought…in Paris…”

It was hard to speak when looking into his eyes, so she turned away and walked back to the windows. “It wouldn't work,” she said. “Not when Nash is right. You are using me. Using me to get back at Michael.” She paused. “And maybe I was using you too. Maybe I was using you to keep French Kiss.” She turned and glanced around the opulent office. “But now I realize that I don't want it. I don't want any of it.”

Deacon looked confused for a second before he walked over and took her hands. “You're upset, Olivia,” he said. “The jet lag and going through Michael's things were too much for you. You don't know what you're saying.”

“No. For once in my life, I know exactly what I'm saying. I don't want this.” She waved her hand to encompass the room. “I've never wanted this. This was Michael's dream, and I wanted it because I thought it would make him love me. But now I realize that you can't make people love you. They either do or they don't.” She looked at him and lied. “And I don't love you, Deacon.”

The hurt in his eyes looked real. But she was learning that sometimes what you thought was reality turned out to be only a dream. The truth of that came when the look of hurt faded to be replaced with nothing.

Nothing at all.

After a moment he laughed. It was a harsh sound that echoed off the high ceiling and tightened the knot in Olivia's stomach.

“I guess what they say about Paris is true. It does make you look at life through rose-colored glasses.”