A Billionaire Between the Sheets (7 page)

He wiped his feet on the mat before he pushed open the door.

The lower level of the house had a bedroom and en suite bath, no doubt a guest room since there were no signs of inhabitance. On the second level, he found two more bedrooms. One was as neat as the one downstairs, and the other held an unmade bed and enough high heels spread across the thick carpet to start a shoe store—if the buyers liked purple. Four half-empty coffee mugs were on the nightstand, along with a stack of fashion magazines, some colored pencils, and a sketchpad. He lifted the sketchpad and flipped through the pages. They were all lingerie designs. And damned sexy ones. Obviously Olivia was in the right business.

After replacing the sketchpad, he climbed the stairs to the third level. The living space was decorated in a contemporary style. A white leather sofa and aqua chairs were positioned around a modern gas fireplace. A breakfast bar divided the space from a kitchen with gray granite counters and high-end stainless steel appliances. It was a unique floor plan. One he found himself envisioning for his condos. Unlike the two-story design he had now, increasing to three levels would give more square footage and the higher balcony a better view of the lake.

Once the will went through, he could start work on the condos. Of course, first he had to sign the contract. Something he'd forgotten to do in his haste to discover Olivia's secret weapon. But there was time. And since the only thing he'd eaten that day was the bagel he'd grabbed at the airport, he walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator.

Besides the jars of condiments and bottles of water, there was a withered-looking apple, an expired carton of orange juice, and some bad-smelling, yellow broccoli. He tossed the broccoli in the trash, then went to the cupboards, where he found a jar of all-natural almond butter and a bag of flaxseed tortilla chips. After grabbing a bottle of water, he opened up the accordion glass door that led to the balcony.

A seagull greeted him. The good-size bird was snacking on the remnants of a burrito. Rather than shoo it away, Deacon took a seat on the lounge sofa and dipped the chips in the almond butter while he had a stare-down with the bird. After a few minutes, he started tossing it chips. The audacious bird came within inches of Deacon's boots before it took a crap on the rug and, in a loud flap of wings, flew away. After he was gone, Deacon stretched out on the couch and closed his eyes. Since his flight had left at the crack of dawn, it wasn't surprising that he nodded off.

He awoke to a door slamming. Sitting up, he blinked the sleep from his eyes and listened to the sound of high heels clicking up the flights of stairs.

“You weren't supposed to leave my mother's house, Babette,” Olivia said. “That was part of the deal. Until I get control of the company, you were to stay out of sight.”

“Creativity cannot be held prisoner,” a woman said in a thick French accent. “Especially with a tyrant who refused to meet my creative needs.”

“She took the television remote away, Babette.” Olivia's heels clicked to a stop just feet away from the balcony door. “And only when you refused to work on the new line. The new line that I'd planned to present to the board in just a few days.”

“Zee new line is almost ready and exquisite. Now make me an omelet.”

“I'm not making you an omelet,” Olivia said. “I'm going back to work so we have a company to sell your exquisite line.”

A string of French followed. Having grown up with a French-speaking Cajun father, Deacon understood most of it. He got up and stepped through the balcony doorway. Olivia stood at the refrigerator. When she saw him, she dropped the carton of orange juice she'd been taking out of the refrigerator, and it splattered all over the floor.

He shrugged. “Sorry, but it's probably for the best. It was expired.” Then he turned to the petite, dark-haired woman and spoke to her in her native language.

“I agree that, at times, Olivia can be a little bitchy,” he said. “But fat?”

T
he discovery that Deacon spoke French affected Babette much differently than it did Olivia. Babette released a sob and fell into Deacon's arms as if he were there to save her from the barbarian Americans, while Olivia wanted to pick up the ten-pound glass vase her mother had given her and bludgeon him with it. Instead she stepped away from the vase and reached for the roll of paper towels.

“What are you doing here?” she asked as she started cleaning up the spilled orange juice. “And how did you get in my house?”

He patted Babette's back and whispered a few French words that sounded soothing…and annoyingly sexy. Babette whimpered like a homeless puppy and cuddled closer as Deacon lifted his gaze to Olivia. “You left the garage door open. Something Hammond and Doris say you do a lot?”

“Hammond and Doris?”

“The naked couple next door.” He shook his head sadly. “What is it with you Californians? Don't you know your neighbors' names?”

She started to jump into an argument, then reminded herself to stay focused on a much more important issue. “So did you sign it? Did you sign the contract?”

“So this is your secret weapon that is going to save French Kiss?” As Babette continued to sob, he thumped her back a little harder. “What is she developing? A new Wonderbra that grows breasts? Panties that give you a J. Lo butt? A nightie that will give men orgasms just by looking at it?”

Olivia's eyes widened. “Who told you?” When he didn't say anything, she answered the question herself. “Kelly.”

“So what's the secret weapon?”

“That's none of your business.”

One of his eyebrows arched. “Considering the fact that I own the company, I think it is.” But instead of asking her again, he spoke to Babette in French. Between loud sniffs and dramatic hand gestures, she answered him. And there was little doubt that she'd spilled the beans when Deacon's eyes widened and he spoke in English. “Men's lingerie?” When Babette nodded triumphantly, he looked at Olivia. “That's it? That's your big secret weapon to save the company from bankruptcy?” He disengaged himself from Babette. “Lacy panties for men?”

Olivia tipped up her chin. “Don't be ridiculous. Of course we're not going to use lace on men's underwear.”

“Perhaps,” Babette cut in, “just a wee bit.” She demonstrated a wee bit with her thumb and forefinger. “Not on zee waistband of course, but right around zee genitalia area would be very, very sexy—no?”

“No!” Olivia said. “It would not be sexy. We've talked about this before, Babette. I'll go along with the vibrant colors, but you can't put lace on men's—”

“Just on zee thongs.” Babette picked up her tote bag and pulled out a stack of designs. She spread them out on the breakfast counter, then waved a hand in the air. “
Voilà
! These are my masterpieces.”

Olivia looked at the drawings and felt her stomach drop to her feet. These weren't the designs she'd gone over with Babette. These were drawings of costumes for Cirque du Soleil performers. The thick Egyptian cotton robes they'd discussed had become long satin dressing gowns with feathered lapels that looked like they belonged on a Mardi Gras float. The satin pajamas were right, but the pink and purple colors were all wrong, as was the sagging M.C. Hammer crotch that draped to the knees. The spandex-blend, tummy-tucking T-shirts had been replaced with racerback tanks made of flimsy silk that wouldn't hold in a cube of Jell-O, let alone a beer belly. Instead of boxer briefs made in the new soft laser-sculpted fabric their engineers had developed, the briefs were made with see-through mesh that showed all the manly bits and pieces—and from the drawings, it looked like Babette knew her manly bits and pieces extremely well. The final straw was the drawings of thong underwear in hot pink, lime green, and bright purple. Each page was divided in half, showing both bulging frontal view and bare-butted rear.

Olivia was struck speechless. Obviously, while she'd been in Louisiana, Babette had gone completely off track. Or completely off her rocker. Even now the French designer looked a little wild-eyed as she pulled rhinestone-studded thongs from her tote.

“Magnificent, no?” She stretched them around Deacon's manly bits and pieces. “I can only imagine how…how you say in English…awesome these will look on you.” She sent him a seductive look from beneath her eyelashes. “Shall we go see?”

Deacon looked as if she'd just asked him to murder one of his brothers. “Have you lost your mind, woman?” He jerked the thongs away from her and held them up, the rhinestones flashing in the sunlight that spilled in through the balcony doors. “I wouldn't be caught dead in these. Nor would any man I know.” He glanced at Olivia. “I would expect some confusion from a foreigner about what American men want, but not from a woman who has been in the business for as long as you have. What were you thinking?”

No matter how much she might agree with him, his condescending tone had Olivia's shoulders stiffening and her defending something that had no defense.

“This coming from a backwoods hillbilly who wouldn't know style if it smacked him in the face.”

He held out the underwear. “You don't have to know style to know shit when you see it. Who would buy these?”

Olivia sniffed. “Cosmopolitan men who are much more open-minded than you.”

“And just what percentage of the men in the world do you think are cosmopolitan, Olivia? Fifty percent? Forty? Thirty? How about under ten percent? And of those ten percent of cosmopolitan men, how many do you think are going to like walking around with a strip of diamonds stuck up their ass?”

They were good questions—questions someone with a knowledge of marketing would ask. Which made Olivia wonder if Deacon was more educated than she thought.

“Women wear thongs all the time,” she pointed out.

“They also wear painful high heels, tight uncomfortable clothes, and carry purses that weigh a good thirty pounds,” he said. “All because they want to look good. Men aren't interested in looking good as much as they are in feeling good. And I don't have to try these on to know that these aren't going to feel good.”

“He's r-r-right.” Babette's French tongue rolled over the
r
's. “He's absolutely correct. I completely forgot that, for men, zee ultimate thing isn't fashion as much as comfort.” Without any warning she grabbed the designs off the counter and started ripping them to shreds. “Gar-bage. Trash. Poo-poo.” Olivia tried to stop her, but when Babette got on a roll, there was no chance of that happening. She tore up every design, then grabbed the mock-up thongs from Deacon, raced to the balcony, and sent them sailing over the railing.

When the last twinkle of rhinestones had vanished, she turned with a dramatic wail and flounced from the room. Once she was gone, Olivia looked down at the ripped designs and couldn't keep the tears from her eyes.

Not because she had liked them, but because Babette had wasted weeks on something that would never sell. Weeks that Olivia didn't have. In less than two days, she had a board meeting at which she'd promised to present a new line that would pull French Kiss out of bankruptcy. And now she had nothing but a pile of ripped-up drawings. She flopped down at the breakfast bar and cradled her head in her hands.

A handkerchief appeared in front of her.

“If you're going to start crying, use this,” Deacon said as he pulled out the chair next to hers. “My shirt can't take any more tears.”

Olivia wanted to do more than cry. She wanted to put her head down on the breakfast bar and sob her eyes out. She just refused to do it in front of this man. She stared at the handkerchief and willed her tears into submission. “You carry around a flower-embroidered hankie?”

“It was my mother's.”

Feeling guilty for being so rude, she lifted her head and looked into eyes that were the same color as the flowers. “It's very pretty.”

He studied the handkerchief. “She loved purple flowers. She put them on handkerchiefs, pillowcases, our mailbox.” He carefully folded the hankie, then shifted closer as he placed it in the back pocket of his jeans. So close that his face was only inches away.

Olivia had spent the better part of the drive to get Babette out of jail trying to forget the kiss they'd shared in the office. Now suddenly it came flooding back. The possessive slide of his lips against hers. The heated pull of his mouth. The teasing swirl of his tongue.

“Olivia?”

Her gaze lifted from his mouth to his questioning eyes.

“Where do you go?” he asked.

“Go?” She blinked his face into focus.

“You mean you don't realize that you drift off when people are talking with you?”

She slipped off the stool and walked over to the cupboard to see if she could locate anything that would help her focus…and not on Deacon. “I realize it.”

“Attention deficit?”

“Probably. I was never tested for it. My father just thought I had a creative mind. I just think it's screwed up. Which would explain why I put my faith in Babette.”

“So where did you find her, anyway? Never mind, stupid question. Obviously you found her in France. The better question would be…why did you hire her? Especially when her specialty seems to be burlesque costumes.”

She searched through the teas her mother had given her.
Herbal
obviously meant no caffeine. “Babette has talent. Some of her lingerie designs are amazing.” She closed the cupboard and turned around to find Deacon studying a ripped piece of one of Babette's pages.

“I wouldn't go that far.” He crumpled the piece in his hand and tossed it at the trash can. It hit dead center, of course. “So what did she do to get arrested?”

“She walked to the high school by my mother's house and started talking underwear with a group of young boys. Thankfully, once I got there and confirmed her story about working for French Kiss, they released her with a warning to stay away from underage kids.”

“That sucks,” he said. “Almost as much as her idea for men's lingerie.”

She bristled. “It isn't such a bad idea. And the statistics support that men are spending more and more money on clothes these days. Why wouldn't they want their own lingerie line?” She glanced down at the sketches. “No, not thongs or see-through boxers, but I think men would buy nice robes, tummy-tucking T-shirts, and sexy—but comfortable—briefs. And why can't men look as sexy in their underwear as women?”

Deacon smiled, a sensuous smile that made Olivia's tummy do a cartwheel. “Because men's bodies aren't as beautiful as women's. Although I'll admit that the premise isn't such a bad idea. I have trouble finding underwear that fits, doesn't shrink up, and is comfortable. And I wouldn't mind a nice, thick bathrobe. But, regardless of how good the idea is, men are creatures of habit. It's going to take a while for men's…‘lingerie' to catch on. Too long to save the company if it's that close to bankruptcy. So what happened? I thought French Kiss pulled in seven point one billion a year.”

She stared at him. “How do you know our sales figures?”

He shrugged. “It's not like they're a secret.”

The sales figures weren't a secret, but they weren't exactly common knowledge either. A person would have to do some research to find out the exact amounts. And she was surprised that Deacon had been interested enough to look them up. Especially when he acted like he couldn't care less about his uncle's business.

“What does it matter to you?” she asked. “All you have to do is sign the contract to get your money. Then you never have to worry about French Kiss again. Speaking of which, do you have the signed contract with you?”

“I'm afraid not. I left it at the office.”

“Signed?”

Before he could answer, Mr. Huckabee's voice came through the open balcony doors. “Doris, get out here! Britney's houseguest just jumped off the roof!”

While Olivia tried to process the words, Deacon headed for the balcony doors. His “Holy shit” had her hurrying after him. When she got outside, she saw what had caused his disbelief. Babette dangled from the roof by a rope of daisy-chained thong underwear. It looked like she had tried to fashion a noose, but instead of putting the lime-green thong around her neck, she'd put it around her waist. Which was par for the course with the dramatic woman.

“My life is over,” she wailed. “I don't deserve to live. Not when no man will ever wear my creations.”

Deacon looked at Olivia. “You want me to get her or let her swing for a while?”

After all the trouble Babette had put her through, Olivia really wanted to let her swing. But the sound of ripping stitches changed her mind.

“Go get her, please.”

While Deacon headed for the stairs that led to the roof, Olivia leaned over the railing. “Hang on, Babette. Help is on the way.”

“I don't want help. I don't want to live.” A loud tearing sound finally got Babette's attention. “What was that?” She looked up. “Zee material is tearing? Help! Help me! Please, someone help me!” Deacon appeared, and within seconds Babette was in his arms, sobbing a mixture of French and English.

“So is your houseguest trippin', Britney?”

Olivia glanced at the house next door and saw Mr. Huckabee standing on the balcony wearing nothing but gardening gloves. Mrs. Huckabee stood next to him, sporting a wide-brimmed visor. She jabbed her husband with her elbow, causing her unfettered breasts to swing.

“It's Olivia, Hammond.” She looked at Olivia. “So what's she on, dear? LSD? Quaaludes? Magic brownies?”

Olivia tried to keep her eyes off the Huckabees' dangling parts. “Actually she's just a little overdramatic. But thank you so much for alerting us.” She paused. “And for the pot of beautiful geraniums by the front door.”