A Billionaire Between the Sheets (4 page)

Climbing the steps, she checked to see if her clothes were drying. She had just lifted her panties from the railing when he spoke.

“I'm assuming those are from French Kiss's latest collection?” When she turned he was looking at the panties she held in her hand with a hot-eyed intensity that made her feel all flushed and needy. Since flushed and needy wouldn't get her what she wanted, she set the panties back on the railing.

“Actually they're last year's. Since Michael's stroke we haven't produced a new collection.”

He picked up her glass of sweet tea and took a long drink from the same spot her lips had been only moments before. When he was finished, he set it back on the railing. “That doesn't seem very smart.”

It wasn't, and she hated his pointing it out. Her eyes zeroed in on the droplet of sweet tea that clung to his beard just below his full bottom lip. “So are you going to sign the contract or not?”

He studied her with his intense eyes, allowing the seconds to tick by while sweat beaded at her temples. Finally, he got up from the chair and answered. “Only an idiot wouldn't.”

Olivia's shoulders relaxed. “You won't be sorry. It's a good deal for everyone involved.” Without thought she reached out and brushed the droplet of tea from his beard, her finger grazing his lip.

As quick as a snake's strike, he grabbed her wrist, his fingers curling around her thumping pulse. His gaze locked with hers, and all the oxygen seemed to evaporate from the humid air as he tugged her closer. So close she could feel the heat of his words against her lips when he spoke.

“Don't screw with me, Olivia.” He released her and walked into the house.

As the screen door slammed behind him, one thought paraded through Olivia's mind.

His beard had been soft.

As soft as Deacon was hard.

S
ometimes you are such an ass, Deke,” Nash said. “Grayson and I would've taken Olivia back to her rental car so she wouldn't have had to call a car service. It's the least we could do for fifty million.”

Deacon stood at the window watching the SUV bounce down the dirt road. He waited until the last of the dust had settled before he released the curtain and turned to his brothers. Nash was sprawled out on the couch, tossing darts at the dart board above the fireplace, while Grayson sketched on his sketchpad. “The Beaumont brothers aren't chauffeurs. Besides, the deal isn't final yet.”

“You're so skeptical, Deke,” Grayson said. “It will go through. I trust Olivia.”

“You don't even know Olivia.”

“I don't have to know her. Honesty is etched in the lines of her face.” Grayson continued to draw. “Damn, I wish I could've painted her.”

“Once you have millions, you can hire any woman you want to be your model.” Nash threw a dart, and it hit the bull's-eye dead center.

Grayson stopped sketching and smiled. “I can, can't I?”

“And while you're at it, you might want to buy some whiskers to fill in that sparse beard of yours.” Nash changed his aim. The sharp point of the next dart stuck in the back of Grayson's sketchpad with a soft
thunk
.

Grayson hopped to his feet. “What the fuck, Nash? You could've put my eye out.”

Nash laughed. “Not likely. I always hit what I aim at.” To prove it, he tossed another dart. This one whizzed past Deacon's cheek and embedded in the window frame.

Deacon lifted an eyebrow. “It seems that you've been away from home a little too long, Nash. You've forgotten the order of the food chain.”

“Maybe I'm just challenging it.” Nash got to his feet.

“You think you're ready for that?”

“Only one way to find out.” He grinned. “Beaumont test?”

While most brothers' test of strength consists of a little playful wrestling, the Beaumont brothers tested their prowess in the boxing ring. For some reason their father thought boxing a gentleman's sport. Where he had gotten the idea, Deacon didn't know. Probably from the same place he'd gotten the idea that it was a man's duty to pleasure the women of the world. And while Deacon had refused to follow in his father's womanizing footsteps, he had always enjoyed fighting—either in the ring or in a barroom brawl. There was something cathartic about the feel of a fist hitting flesh and bone. Not that he and his brothers ever punched each other with the intent to permanently damage. Although there had been a few accidental broken noses and knockouts.

Being the oldest, Deacon probably should've put an end to the idea. But since Olivia arrived, he'd been filled with a restless energy that needed an outlet. And punching his brothers in the face seemed like as good an outlet as any. Of course, with no gloves or protective sparring helmets, they needed rules.

“One round only,” he said.

Nash unbuttoned his shirt. “One round is all I'll need.”

“You mean all I'll need.” Grayson jerked off his shirt. The youngest Beaumont would've started swinging if Deacon hadn't stopped him.

“Outside. I'm not going to have Grandpa's house busted up.”

Nash smiled. “You sound just like Mom when we started roughhousing. You're as persnickety as a girl.”

“Then you should be able to win easily.” He led his brothers out the door and around to the side of the house, where he traced a ring in the dirt with the heel of his boot. Blue had awoken from his nap and sniffed along behind Deacon's boot, no doubt wondering if the new game involved tracking. His bloodshot eyes looked thoroughly disappointed when Deacon made him sit in a spot out of the way. “First person to connect wins,” Deacon said as he pulled off his shirt.

Grayson and Nash squared off first. Nash was a technical boxer, dodging and hedging until an opening appeared for his wicked right hook. Grayson, on the other hand, was more of a rapid-fire boxer. He threw jab after jab while Nash danced around him. And Deacon had to wonder if, despite his smack talk, Nash hadn't gotten a little soft during his time away from home. When he had the openings to connect with Grayson's chin, he didn't take them. Instead he ducked and wove until Grayson finally slipped a fist through his guard and sent him stumbling back.

“And the winner is the great Grayson Beaumont!” Grayson jogged around the line dug in the dirt with his hands in the air. He dropped them and pointed at Deacon. “You're up, big brother.”

Having always been protective of his littlest brother, Deacon shook his head. “I think it's only fair to let Nash get a chance to redeem himself.”

It turned out to be a bad idea. While Nash had held back with Grayson, he didn't waste any time swinging at Deacon's jaw. Deacon ducked and came around with a one-two body jab, but Nash was too quick. They continued to dance around the ring for what felt like hours before Nash got in a hook that grazed Deacon's cheek and hurt like hell.

“Now this is a sight that warms a father's heart.”

With a hand cradling his face, Deacon turned to see their father coming around the corner of the house. As always, Don Juan Beaumont was dressed like a pirate version of Don Johnson in
Miami Vice
. He wore a white button-down shirt, linen pants, and loafers without socks, while his long gray hair was pulled back in a ponytail and a gold hoop hung from one ear.

Don Juan, or Donny John as most folks called him, lived up to his name in every way. He loved women with the same passion with which he loved life. It was unfortunate that neither passion involved earning money.

As he watched his father saunter toward them, Deacon tested his cheek with two fingers. “Please don't tell me that you already spent the money I gave you.”

Donny John held up his hands. “What good is money unless you enjoy it, Valentino?”

The use of his middle name never failed to piss Deacon off. “It's Deacon.”

Donny John released an exasperated sigh. “I don't know why you boys insist on being referred to by the ordinary names your mother gave you. Being named for legendary lovers is part of the Beaumont heritage. And Valentino, Lothario, and Romeo are names that get people's attention.”

“And get your ass kicked on the playground,” Nash said dryly.

“Which is why I taught you to box,” Donny John said. “Although it looks like Val…Deacon could use a refresher course.” He pointed a finger at Deacon. “You forget defense always comes before offense and timing is everything.” He demonstrated by lifting his fists in front of his face. “That's why Nash always gets the upper hand. You've never learned how to close the hole after a jab.”

No, Deacon had never learned how to close the hole. Whenever life had thrown him a jab, he had always been open to the pain that followed. His father's inability to provide for his family. His mother's death from cancer. His true paternity. The wounds were still there and unhealed. Which might've explained his sharpness.

“If you want money, I'm tapped. If you want to fish, the poles are on the porch. And if you want something to eat, there's hot dogs in the fridge.”

His father looked wounded. “Why, I just wanted to spend a little time with my sons.” He tipped his head. “Of course, now I am a little curious about Olivia Harrington. When she passed me in that big ol' Suburban, she looked in quite a hurry.”

Damn. It figured that his father would run into Olivia and recognize her immediately. Of course Deacon had known her as soon as he'd looked into those big innocent-looking eyes that seemed to take up half her face.

“So I'm going to assume that she was here to tell you about her father dying?” Donny John said.

“How did you find out?”

“I ran into Francesca.”

Deacon didn't have to ask how Francesca knew. Wealthy people kept track of wealthy people, and Francesca had always been overly curious about Michael Beaumont.

Donny John shook his head. “Poor Michael Casanova. I never thought he would go first.” His father's eyes were sad. Donny John might have his faults, but he loved his family.

“I'm sorry, Dad,” Deacon said.

After only a few moments, Donny John shrugged. “I had hoped that we could reconcile before he died, but I guess that's what this is about.” He pulled one of the contracts Olivia had left from his back pocket. “I found this on the kitchen table. Now I'm not good at deciphering legal jargon, but it seems to me that Michael decided to do his forgiving through my sons.”

Deacon released his breath. Now that Donny John knew about the money there would be no getting rid of him until he got his share. A share he would no doubt blow at the crap tables.

“Nothing is final yet,” Nash said.

“Nor will it be.” Donny John unfolded the contract and flipped to the back page. “Especially when Deacon has yet to sign.”

His brothers turned on him.

“You didn't sign?” Grayson said. “But I saw you.”

Nash grabbed the contract from his father and studied the signatures at the bottom before his gaze narrowed on Deacon. “Are you fuckin' crazy?”

It was a good question. One he'd been asking himself since Olivia had driven away. A sane person would've signed the papers and celebrated all the way to the bank. Instead Deacon had not just kept himself from realizing his dream of being a millionaire, he'd kept his brothers from realizing theirs. And he wasn't sure why. One minute he was bent over the contract with pen in hand, and the next he was air-writing. Since only a fool would screw up a deal for one hundred and fifty million, Olivia hadn't even glanced at the signatures before putting two of the contracts back in the folder and heading out the door to wait for her ride.

He had little doubt that his stupidity had to do with the fantasy he'd clung to for all these years. When he met Olivia again, he'd wanted to be a self-made man with all the power. Instead Olivia was still the powerful one, handing out charity to the hillbilly Beaumonts. And it just hadn't sat well. Not well at all.

Unfortunately, his damned pride wasn't worth losing millions over.

“Look, I'm sorry,” he said. “I'll sign this copy and send it to her. I'm sure it won't change the deal.”

Donny John slapped him on the back. “Now, that's my boy.” He rubbed his hands together. “So what say we head into town for a steak dinner?” He smiled. “My millionaire sons' treat, of course.”

“No one is celebrating yet,” Deacon said. “Not until I see the will for myself and we have the money in the bank.”

He should've taken the contract from Nash and signed it right then. Instead he turned and headed for the front porch. He needed some time to think. And since he did his best thinking alone, he grabbed his fishing pole and headed to the same fishing spot he'd been in when Olivia had taken the plunge into the water.

An evening mist had settled around the swamp and the moss-draped cedars, giving them an almost surreal look. Some folks found the bayou beautiful. Deacon just found it sad. After his mother died, Donny John had moved them here to live with their grandfather, and Deacon had spent many an afternoon in the secluded spot, grieving for the woman who had been the center of his universe.

Althea Beaumont had been a beautiful, vivacious woman who saw the best in everyone and everything. While Donny John had been taught that boys didn't need hugs, Althea handed them out freely to her sons. Along with kisses on each cheek. An amazing seamstress, she had been the main breadwinner in the family. She made choir robes for churches, ballet recital costumes for dance studios, and cheerleading uniforms for high schools. But regardless of how much sewing she had to do, she would always make time for her boys. She played catch with them, read to them, tickled them, and tucked them in each night.

They had all adored her, but none more than Deacon. She was everything to him. And when she died, it was like all the joy in the world died with her. Gone were the hugs, the two-cheek kisses, and the love. All that was left was a father who seemed as lost as his sons. Donny John lost his job, lost their house, and lost his desire to be a father to three boys with eyes just like their mother's. So, at thirteen, Deacon took charge. He worked at odd jobs to help his grandfather with the bills and budgeted the money so there was enough for food and school supplies.

When Donny John had finally come out of his grieving, he hadn't gotten a job. Instead he'd dragged his sons to California to get a handout from his big brother. Donny John had been convinced that Michael would help them and had been oblivious to how pathetic they had looked standing in Michael's huge entryway like the poor hillbillies they were. But, at sixteen, Deacon had been very aware. He'd been aware of the look of disgust on the face of the butler who answered the door. The look of shock on Olivia's mother's face when she learned they were relatives. And the look of resignation on his uncle's face when he offered them the guest rooms.

But even from their first meeting, Olivia's face had given nothing away. Not when his uncle had asked her to show them around the large house. And not when Grayson and Nash had raced down the hallways whooping with delight.

Deacon hadn't raced around or whooped with delight. Not wanting to show his embarrassment over his brothers' reaction, he'd stood with his arms crossed over his chest and glared with pure teenage belligerence. In fact he'd held on to the belligerence the entire next day, refusing to enjoy the huge game and media rooms. Instead he borrowed a bestselling thriller from the shelf in the library and headed for the garden. That was where Olivia found him.

“Michael doesn't want you here.”

Startled, Deacon dropped the book. He turned to see her standing there in a prim and proper sundress. She had a pimple on her chin, and braces puffed out her full lips.