Stirring Up Trouble (Inspiring the Greek Billionaire) (2 page)

CHAPTER 2

Oh, it came o’er my ear like the sweet sound, that breathes upon a bank of violets,

stealing and giving odor. Enough, no more. ’Tis not so sweet now as it was before.

William Shakespeare
, Twelfth Night,
act 1, scene 1

With one arm linked through George’s, Lola followed Braden through the swinging doors of the kitchen, past Christopher and his
sous
chef of the day, and down a short narrow hall to Braden’s office. Her heart thumped as though it was jamming to an Eminem song.

As usual, her thoughts skipped from one place to the next. What had George meant about attending
their
engagement party?
She’d read those romance books where a man and woman were forced into marriage in order to gain access to a trust fund, but Braden was already richer than Rockefeller.

Maybe her father had left her a trust fund and she had to marry to get it? No, that didn’t make sense. She didn’t even know her father. He’d never been a part of her life. Took off as soon as Reina had told him she was pregnant. Some supposed Muse she was. She inspired men to run away as fast as they could.

Not that Lola was any different. The first chance she had gotten to leave, she’d flown the heck out of Dodge. Or in her case, Newark.

Braden ushered them into his inner sanctum. Holy guacamole, he was a neat freak. His desk sparkled. Seriously, she could see her reflection in the dark brown wood. It wasn’t a large space, but he’d painted the walls a pale yellow to brighten up the room and make it appear larger. On his desk, he had a phone and a laptop computer. Behind it was a credenza where he’d placed a copy machine, and to the left of that sat a tall filing cabinet. Naturally, it all matched.

“Why don’t we all sit down?” Braden sat in his cushy black leather swivel chair and motioned for George and her to have a seat across from him.

Not much fun sitting in a plain, non-swivel chair. Once again, she’d have to provide the entertainment. She dropped down next to George and kicked her feet up on Braden’s perfectly clean desk with a loud
thud
. Oops. She’d forgotten her shoes on the stage.

Braden eyed her naked feet. She thought she had awesome feet, so she didn’t understand why he looked disgusted. Five years ago, she’d tattooed a band of white and yellow daisies around each toe. In total she had fifteen tattoos all over her body. Fifteen different tattoos for the fifteen places she’d lived since she’d turned eighteen.

Now that Portia had gotten engaged, she didn’t have any reason to stay in Michigan, so that would make it sixteen soon.

She gazed at Braden. Nope, no reason to stay at all.

George pushed his chair closer to the desk. Short like a leprechaun, his feet didn’t touch the floor. “As you know, Alexander left Portia and Ryan the mansion in his Will. I’m happy to inform you he also left you two an inheritance as well.”

Lola’s tummy did a cartwheel. As gorgeous as Braden was, no way would she marry him. Besides, she was kind of dating Jon, owner of
Acropolis
’s competitor.

“Lola? Are you even listening?” Braden asked.

She quickly looked at George then Braden. “I’m not sure. What did you say?”

“Like your sister, Alexander has left you real estate,” George explained.

“Another mansion?” she asked.

“No. Alexander’s corporation owns hundreds of business properties throughout Southeastern Michigan, but his Trust also owned one. He left that to you, my dear.

Hands on his desk, Braden’s fingers curled into fists and he blew out a breath so strong, she felt a warm breeze hit her face.

She dropped her feet to the floor then threw them over the side of her chair to face George. Good thing she’d worn a long skirt. She didn’t want to give the man a heart attack. She hadn’t worn panties. “A business property? I’m a musician. What do I know about business?”

Braden groaned softly. Turning her head toward him, she raised a brow, the one with the hoop piercing—she’d practiced that move for a month before she’d perfected it. He answered by tightening his jaw. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear he was angry with her.

“By the end of the month, you’ll know everything there is to know about
this
business,” George said as if that explained it all.

She was so lost she was practically stranded on a deserted island——which, since the Michigan weather had turned cold, sounded heavenly. She could totally survive on a deserted island. Her messed-up childhood had assured it. She’d probably do really well on the game show “Survivor,” or the one where you got clues and traveled the world. Maybe she should apply.

Focus, Lola. Business. Alexander. Braden.

“What do you mean?” she asked George.

“Alexander left you
this
property. He owned the land as well as the building.”

Shocked, she pivoted her body to sit tall in her chair with her feet planted firmly on the floor. “You mean I
own
. . . this restaurant?”

Alexander shook his head. “No. You own the building the restaurant is in. Braden still owns the business.”

Thank goodness. Her owning the property wouldn’t change a thing. “What if I want to sell the property? Let’s say to . . . Braden?”

Surprise registered on Braden’s face. Did he really think so little of her?

“Unfortunately, like in Portia and Ryan’s case, there are conditions to the inheritance.”

“What are they?” Braden asked calmly.

“First, Lola may not enter into any contract for sale of the property for thirty days.”

“Not a problem,” Braden remarked.

Maybe not for him, but she’d planned on leaving. She guessed she could still move and come back to sign paperwork in a month. He was right. No problem.

“Second, Braden’s current lease for the restaurant will be assigned to Lola, and is valid as long as she owns the property.”

Not good. “So if I sell the property to someone other than Braden, he’ll lose the lease? What if the new owner wants to enter into a lease with him?” she asked.

George shifted in his seat. “According to the conditions set forth, that can’t happen. I’m sure there could be a legal loophole, but litigation is expensive and time-consuming. Although Braden has billions at his disposal, there are requirements one needs to run a restaurant in Michigan and he will find himself unable to meet those requirements.”

“That sounds a lot like blackmail, Mr. Pappas,” Braden stated without inflection in his voice. He sounded cold and ruthless. Kind of a turn-on for her.

George visibly flinched at the word ‘blackmail.’ Poor little man. It wasn’t his fault he was the bearer of bad news.

“Call it whatever you want, Mr. Angelopoulos. The fact is the conditions stand.”

“Conditions? There’s more?” she asked, grabbing her skirt and squeezing it in both hands. Her hands preferred to stay busy, but there wasn’t a darn thing in this office to play with. She looked at Braden. He noticed her hands and opened his drawer, pulled out a pen, and handed it to her. She mouthed a ‘thank you’ and twirled the pen in her fingers like a baton.

“During the next month, Lola must learn everything there is to know about
Acropolis
. Braden, you must teach her how to manage a restaurant, from the rules and regulations, permitting, food storage and preparation, ordering, bookkeeping, recipes, and how to cook. I’ll give you a complete list of everything for her to know. Thirty days from tomorrow, you’ll get a visit from the health inspector, a food critic from the newspaper, and of course, the Internal Revenue Service. The three of them will test Lola on anything they want relevant to their expertise and this restaurant.”

“That’s impossible,” Braden stated once again without inflection as he sat back in his chair and folded his arms.

“No, it’s not.” With an exaggerated motion, Lola crossed her arms to mirror him and garner some emotion from him. The pen wasn’t enough. She’d rather play with Braden.

His lips tugged up in a slight smile. So he liked the game, did he? She mirrored him with a crooked grin of her own.

“It doesn’t matter if it is impossible. Those are the conditions,” George said, oblivious to their childish game.

“And if I pass? I get the property and I can sell it to whomever I choose?” she asked with the emphasis on ‘
whomever
.’ Braden’s little smile melted and turned into a full-blown frown. Oh yeah, this was going to be fun.

George blinked. “Yes.”

Cool. She’d pass the tests and own the property so Braden could keep his lease. Then she would hit the road.

“What aren’t you saying?” Braden asked, his eyes narrowing.

She didn’t understand why he believed there was more. Wasn’t a month of homework followed by three tests enough?

“In addition to those conditions, Braden will help write three new songs for Lola to sing.”

She couldn’t help it. She laughed. “Excuse me? Mr. Fancy Pants is going to write music? I don’t think so.”

Braden glared at her. She glared back until he turned away. The tension was so high, you could cut it with a——

Actually, that expression didn’t make sense. If the tension is high, it should be difficult to cut, so you’d need more than a knife. Something like a jackhammer.

“Not music, but lyrics,” George clarified, turning to her. “Set to your music.”

She could admit she sucked at writing lyrics. All the words jumbled into a big mess inside her head and she had a difficult time getting her thoughts on paper. Her bandmates weren’t much better. They didn’t have the same processing problems as her, but they lacked the talent to write anything monumental. And she’d had lots of bandmates throughout the years. But Braden? His favorite word was ‘no.’

“Why would he help me write three songs?”

George smiled at her. “Because Alexander set the condition that you obtain a record contract as a condition for the lease. At the end of the month, you’ll perform the songs you write together for Rand Baker.”

She nearly choked on her excitement. “Rand Baker? Are you serious?” Forgetting she still held a pen between her fingers, it flew across the desk and hit Braden on the cheek. Oops.

Braden rubbed his cheek. The pen hadn’t hit him hard enough to leave a mark on his gorgeous olive-colored skin. She’d bet even a hard slap of her hand on that cheek wouldn’t turn his skin red. But it certainly would be fun to try.

“Who’s Rand Baker?” Braden asked.

How could anyone not know Rand Baker? Braden deserved getting hit by that pen. “Only the King of Music himself,” she said. “He’s the producer for all the biggest musical artists in the country. Think Simon Cowell mixed with Clive Davis and Berry Gordy.”

He shrugged as if those names meant nothing.

She’d try explaining on his level. “You know that floppy-haired sixteen-year-old boy with a dozen number one hits and ten Grammys?”

He nodded, clearly more impressed.

“Rand Baker discovered him from YouTube,” she explained. “It’s almost impossible to capture his attention.”

“Alexander has ensured that you will indeed, ‘capture his attention.’” Sweating something fierce, George took off his jacket, showing off the huge pit stains on his white dress shirt. Poor guy. He really needed someone to take care of him before he melted or got his messy hair caught in a paper shredder. “He knew you had great musical talent but lacked a certain empathy which allowed your creativity to transfer to the written word. But as a Muse, you’ll inspire Braden to write the lyrics.”

Braden sat forward, linked his fingers, and placed his hands on the desk. “Mr. Pappas——George——surely you’re not saying you buy the ridiculous nonsense about the Dubrovsky women being Muses.”

Something about the cynicism in his voice got a physical reaction out of her. It almost felt like he’d squeezed her heart. She didn’t know why, but she didn’t like it one bit. Even if
she
didn’t believe she was a Muse, it didn’t give him the right to doubt it.

“It’s irrelevant what I believe, Braden. Alexander believed it, and that is one of the reasons he wanted you to hire Viola,” George replied.

Wait. What? When she’d moved to Michigan, Reina reminded her to look up her dead Aunt Tina’s husband, Alexander Stavros. She’d found him in a nursing home. The doctors told her he wasn’t lucid, but he’d known exactly who she was. He’d said his friend was looking for a singer, and she just had to find a band. That hadn’t been hard. She just picked one randomly in the local entertainment magazine, auditioned for them, and joined them that same day. Then she’d called Braden, Alexander’s friend. He’d offered them a gig right away without even hearing them play. Come to think of it, that was rather strange.

“First of all, George, I go by Lola, if you don’t mind.” She was named after the heroine from Shakespeare’s
Twelfth Night
. Kind of a lame name. Only Reina and Portia called her Viola. “And second, what do you mean Alexander wanted Braden to hire me? He told me Braden was looking for a band. That’s not true? He forced you to hire me?” she asked Braden.

The room grew so uncomfortably silent she thought she heard crickets chirping. “He didn’t force me, but he strongly suggested it,” Braden finally admitted.

Her ego deflated just a little bit. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. So, you don’t even like my music?”

“I didn’t say that. You have a beautiful voice. But the songs you choose and the crazy things you do to them? Not so much. You turned the National Anthem into a rap song.”

“Hey, everyone loved it!”

“It was entertaining, but it didn’t showcase your talent. You need to sing songs that connect with the listeners.”

What did he know about writing lyrics? She wanted that pen back so she could toss it at him again. Instead, she leaned across the desk until she was close enough to Braden that their faces were within kissing distance. Not that she was thinking about kissing him. Nope. “And I suppose you’re the one who can help me do that?”

“You bet your sweet ass I can.” His lips curved up in a half-snarl, half-cocky grin. She’d never noticed how plump his lips were, or how red. They appeared as though he’d rubbed strawberries on them.