Stirring Up Trouble (Inspiring the Greek Billionaire) (3 page)

She reactively licked her own lips. “Ah, you think I have a sweet ass? Yours is pretty bitable, too.” She growled and made a motion with her mouth like she’d bit him.

He didn’t speak, but stared at her mouth.

George coughed. “The conditions are set. Braden will write the lyrics and help you find acceptable music. If you don’t get offered a record deal, you will lose ownership of the property. Braden will lose his lease. And his restaurant. Not one governmental department will accept Braden’s applications for renewals. He’ll lose his business license.”

She gave Braden lots of grief, but it was all in good fun. He didn’t deserve to lose his business because of her. She’d make it right for him.

She plopped back in her chair. “I don’t get it. No offense, but what’s so special about Braden that Alexander believes I can inspire him to write lyrics?”

“It doesn’t matter if I’m the most ordinary man in the world,” Braden said. “We’ll do it because you can’t fail. I need my restaurant and I will not lose the one thing that I’ve worked so hard to build. In thirty days, you’ll sing the best damned songs that record producer has ever heard. You’ll get a record deal. You’ll pass the tests. And I’ll get my restaurant.”

His cocky attitude grated on her. Yeah, she’d pass, but because she wanted to, not because he made her. No one made her do anything she didn’t want to do. Time to ruffle a few of his finely pressed feathers. “Aren’t you a billionaire? What do you care if you lose a restaurant? You don’t have to lift a finger and you can have everything you’ve ever dreamed of.”

Keeping his dark gaze trained on her, Braden leaned back and crossed his ankle over his muscular thigh. “What I dream of is this restaurant. Nothing else matters.” His arms spread wide. “This is mine. I built it.” He paused then dropped his arms. His voice lowered until he almost whispered, “And I’m not going to watch it crumble because of your failure. It. Will. Not. Happen.” He stood and his mask fell back into place. He straightened his coat jacket and smoothed the wrinkles on the arms. His voice returned to normal volume as he said, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, we have an engagement party to wrap up. And, Lola?”

She swallowed the lump which had grown larger as Braden’s voice had grown quieter. “Yes?”

“I’ll see you here at eight in the morning.” He walked past her and George to open the door, but he paused in the doorframe. “Or you’ll discover a part of me best laid buried. Have a good night.” He turned around and strode out before she could argue.

CHAPTER 3

There is no woman’s sides

can bide the beating of so strong a passion

as love doth give my heart. No woman’s heart

so big, to hold so much.

William Shakespeare
, Twelfth Night,
act 2, scene 4

The next morning, Braden awoke with Lola’s name on his lips and an aching hard-on. It was bad enough he had to spend almost every night with her at work, but now she’d invaded his dreams as a siren who lured him to his death.

He jumped out of bed and headed to the bathroom, thinking about the conditions of the inheritance.

Could Alexander have planned to give the property to Lola all along? That could explain why he’d had to hire her sight unseen as his nightly entertainment.

Her spirit and beauty definitely entertained
him
.

As he brushed his teeth, he had a moment of clarity. Lola had been dating Jon since she’d started singing at the restaurant. Jon also owned a Greek restaurant in the Detroit metro-area. He’d been trying to run Braden out of business for years.

What if Jon had known Lola would inherit the property and manipulated her into selling it to him?

There was only one thing Braden could do.

He’d have to make Lola fall in love with
him
. It certainly wouldn’t be a hardship to spend time with the sexy siren. He’d often thought about how she’d taste underneath his tongue as he traced the myriad of tattoos on her body. Her lavender scent lingered in the room hours after she departed. He couldn’t walk by a floral display without becoming erect and imagining her naked in his bed.

This would be the perfect opportunity to get her out of his system once and for all.

He dressed for work, ate a quick bowl of oatmeal, and strolled out the door whistling as he decided which of his cars he’d drive today. This would require something to impress her. Something fast. Something shiny. Something red.

His Lamborghini.

He hopped in and drove straight to work without his morning Starbucks. After all, it was half-past nine and he’d told Lola to get to the restaurant by eight. He couldn’t wait to see her eyes flash with anger at his tardiness. She probably didn’t wake up earlier than noon most days.

But when he walked through the front door of
Acropolis
, she didn’t even bother to look up at him. She sat on a stool on the stage, a pencil in her mouth and her guitar on her lap with a yellow Post-it notepad stuck to it. Her pink hair was pulled back in a ponytail, she hadn’t bothered with makeup, and she wore tortoise-shell glasses. The ache in his groin returned despite having taken care of it before he’d gotten out of bed.

“How’s it going?” he asked, mesmerized by how different she looked.

Her head shot up and her gaze lasered in on him. She spit the pencil into her hand. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“I noticed. You seemed lost in thought. Anything good?”

“I’m working on a new song for Rand Baker. I know George seemed strangely confident in your ability to write lyrics, but since you’re not a musician, I thought I’d make it easier on you. He’ll never know who wrote the words to the songs anyway, right? So, you’re off the pole.”

“Off the pole?”

“Pole. Hook. You know. When you go fishing.”

And she thought she should write the lyrics?

He moved further into the room, pulled a chair out from a table and sat. “Let’s hear what you’ve got so far and maybe I can help.”

Her throat worked as she swallowed and the sides of her mouth twitched. “Sure. It starts out with this guitar intro.”

The tune was beautiful, reminding him of some of the Greek folk music his grandparents used to play. Her fingers worked their magic on the strings, plucking and sliding, creating a song he felt deep in his soul. Then she opened her mouth.

Screw the man, the establishment sucks

We don’t have the right amount of bucks

Too bad as underdogs we’re out of luck

Good thing we don’t give a f—

“I think you can stop.” Braden held up his hand. “I get the general idea.”

She smirked and her leg bounced. “Good, right? The contrast between the melody and the lyrics is different, isn’t it?”

He nodded while thinking of how to break it to her gently. He wanted her to fall in love with him, not hate him. “Yes. It’s definitely different.”

“It’s got a whole punk rock, indie thing going on.”

Is that what they were calling bad music these days? She looked so hopeful he didn’t want to hurt her feelings. Then he thought about the woman in front of him and how she lived her life with reckless abandon. What would she do?

“Honestly?”

“Of course.”

He blurted it out before he could feel guilty. “It sucked.”

“What do you know?” The hope dissolved from her face and disdain replaced it. She got up and leaned her guitar against the wall, her back to him.

“I have a degree in English.” He stood and moved to the stage. Pulling himself up, he walked to stand behind her.

She spun and her normally gray eyes shined silver. “So? You don’t need college to be a musician. In fact, education can hamper creativity because teachers expect their students to do everything their way. You think Stephen King gave a shit if he got an ‘A’ in creative writing? He wrote what he wanted to write. He still does.”

Her knowledge of Stephen King surprised him. He didn’t take her as a reader. “True. But I also have a degree in music. Double major from the University of Michigan.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, plumping up her breasts nicely. “You think you could do better?”

“Lyrics for you off the top of my head? Let’s see . . .” He thought about his dream. A lonely siren sitting on a rock waiting for her lover, while always knowing she’d kill him in the end. Effortlessly, the words came to him and flowed from his lips.

Music drifts on the wind taunting with its pleasures

Tantalizing notes of happy-ever-after

But I’ve known the truth since long ago

When all my dreams died with his laughter

The tales he spun like a spider weaves his web

Lies and broken promises, he was the master

I carry it inside, I cannot let it go

I am a hypocritical disaster

No one sees the real me

They believe what they want to believe

If I showed you what’s deep inside

Could I trust you not to deceive?

And accept the girl alone at sea?

They locked gazes and neither spoke.

Then she threw her arms up in the air and stormed off the stage. “That song made no sense.”

He followed her down the steps, caught her by the arm, and spun her around. “It’s poetry. Lyrics don’t have to make sense to anyone but their author. Haven’t you ever heard a song that spoke to you even though you didn’t know exactly what it meant?”

“Yes.” Her fingers fidgeted, moving as if she was still playing guitar. “Some of Bob Dylan’s songs.”

He dropped his hand from her arm and immediately missed the softness of her skin. “I enjoy his music, too. There’s more to his songs than the words themselves. They mean something to him. He’s painting a picture and telling a story. When I spoke my lyrics, did you picture anything?”

She hesitated and looked away. When her gaze returned, the silver in her eyes gleamed like the perfect diamond. “I pictured myself alone in the middle of the ocean, sitting on a large rock, almost as though I were a mermaid, but . . . not. I couldn’t swim. I couldn’t leave my rock. When I spotted yo—someone—swimming toward me, I thought I was rescued. Then he disappeared and I was alone again.”

He shivered as though he stood naked in the walk-in freezer. She’d described his dream, albeit from her point-of-view. He couldn’t tell her the truth. Besides, she’d never believe it. “You see how a poem can inspire an image to form in your mind? An image so real you could practically touch it?”

She gave away nothing as she nodded.

He clapped his hands together. “Enough poetry for today. It’s time for your first cooking lesson.”

“I should warn you. I’m not a cook. I can boil water for mac and cheese and make scrambled eggs if you don’t mind a couple of pieces of shell in your omelet, but other than that, I spent most of my time in the communes cleaning rather than cooking.”

He tried not to show on his face how much the thought of her disadvantaged childhood churned in his gut. He hadn’t spoken more than a couple of words to her mother, but Ryan had filled him in on some of the things the Dubrovsky sisters had gone through. While their mother had kept them safe, never abusing or neglecting them, she wouldn’t accept money from her rich sister, Alexander’s wife, and insisted on raising her children on her own. They’d moved from one shelter to the next, often living in communes, and for a brief time, even joined the Renaissance Faire as it traveled from state to state. He could imagine Lola didn’t get the chance to spend much time in the kitchen.

He entwined his fingers with hers, surprised at how good her hand felt in his. “We’ll start with something easy.
Baklava
.” He led her to the kitchen, bumping the doors open with the side of his arm, so he didn’t have to release her hand.

“To me,
baklava
is simple because I’d buy it from a bakery.” She peeked up at him through her lush lashes when he laughed. “I didn’t know you baked the desserts for the restaurant.”

“I make them at home and bring them in. Christopher is a fine chef, but it takes a special talent for pastries. My grandmother taught all of us to not only cook authentic Greek cuisine, but to bake as well. It’s an art, not unlike music.” He reluctantly let go of her hand and went into the freezer to pull out a tray of phyllo. “While most recipes call for ready-made phyllo dough, a real artist will bake his own. We use it in several recipes, including the spinach pie. I will admit, this was made by Christopher. I gave him my family’s recipes only after he signed a confidentiality agreement, which if breached, will ensure he never works again in this business.”

Her fingers drummed on the counter. “Do you want me to sign one?”

Any good businessman knew how dangerous it was to give away trade secrets. Yet, as he towered over her by a foot and looked down at her rainbow and guitar tattoos on the soft side of her bicep, all he saw was her innocence staring up at him. Could she really be conspiring with his competition? Guess this was one way to find out.

He shrugged. “I trust you.”

Her brows wrinkled. “Maybe you shouldn’t. Because I definitely don’t trust you.”