Waking Up with a Billionaire (The Overnight Billionaires Book 3) (11 page)

“And I’m afraid I have something else you need to deal with,” Kelly said. “It seems that a tenant in the apartment building that Nash owns has disappeared. A Mr. Garcia called and is all up in arms about it and wanted Nash to come and check on her.” She handed him a key. “I told him that Nash was out of town, but that you’d stop by.”

“I don’t have time to stop by and check on some—” He paused. “These are the apartments where Eden lived?”

“The same. In fact, the tenant that disappeared lived in her same apartment.”

Finally, here was something Grayson could handle without screwing it up. “Call Mr. Garcia back and tell him that he has nothing to worry about. The young lady who lived there has moved out.”

Kelly held out her hand for the key. “Great, after I call Mr. Garcia, I’ll let the building manager know that he can start looking for another tenant.”

Grayson probably should’ve handed her back the key and let her make the call. He sincerely doubted that Eden could talk Chloe into staying. Especially when she was obviously running from someone. The question of whom had his hand closing around the key. “I think you should wait on making that call until I’ve checked out the apartment and made sure she’s gone.”

Since he had a full schedule, he wasn’t able to use the key until later that day. He opened the door to the apartment to find it as neat and clean as his room after Chloe straightened it. Or more like neat and sterile. There were no knickknacks, pictures, or girlie trinkets that might give him a clue about her past or why she was running. The closet was empty, and the drawers held only lingerie. He thought of the nightshirt she’d packed in her duffel. He still hadn’t seen her wear it. But it was there, while she’d left this much prettier lingerie. Why?

Finding no answers, he locked up the apartment and pocketed the key. On the way out, he ran into a man with a dog.

“Pardon me,” Grayson said as he held the door open for the man.

The man eyed him warily on the way in. “You new to the building?”

“No, sir. My brother owns it.” He held out his hand. “Grayson Beaumont.”

The man shook hands as his little dog sniffed around Grayson’s shoes. “So you’re Nash’s brother. I’m Rudy Garcia.” He squinted at him. “So what are you going to do about Chloe? Your secretary called me and told me that she’d moved out, but I still think there is something fishy going on. Especially when men keep showing up asking about her.”

Grayson allowed the door to close. “What men?”

“The cop that came by the other day.” Mr. Garcia nodded at the door. “And now that blond guy in the red sporty car was asking about her.”

Grayson remembered seeing the red Porsche when he pulled up, although he hadn’t paid any attention to who was inside. He would now. “You’re right. That does sound fishy. I think I’ll just go have a chat with him and find out what’s going on.”

Mr. Garcia nodded. “You want me to come with you?”

“No. I think I can handle it.” He pulled open the door and stepped out. The car was still there, except now the blond guy was leaning against it, watching the front of the building. When he saw Grayson, he lifted a hand in greeting.

“Excuse me. Do you live here?”

Grayson came down the steps. “Nope. Just visiting a friend.” He nodded at the car. “Nice. Three point eight six-cylinder engine?”

“Yeah.” The man impatiently pulled out his cell phone. “Look, I was wondering if you’ve seen this girl.” He handed Grayson the phone. If not for the eyes, Grayson wouldn’t have recognized the laughing teenager with the long blond hair. But those big brown emotion-filled eyes gave her away. It was hard not to react.

“She does look familiar,” he said. “What’s her name?”

“Selena. Selena Cameron.”

S
omething had happened. Something that had turned Grayson from an angry roommate to a pensive one. He sat across from her at the breakfast bar answering her attempts at conversation with feeble replies as he picked at the roasted chicken he’d brought home from the grocery store.

“Something wrong with the chicken?” she asked. “Mine was good.”

“It’s fine.”

“Thanks for getting everything on my list, including Fritos and chocolate milk.”

“No problem.”

“So when are Nash and Eden coming back?”

“Soon.”

Chloe rolled her eyes. “Geez, Grayson, I realize that last night turned out kind of weird, but get over it. It was only a kiss.” Okay, so that was an understatement. If it had been only a kiss, she wouldn’t have spent the entire day thinking about it and fantasizing about what would’ve transpired if his phone hadn’t rung.

His eyes darkened. “That kiss shouldn’t have happened.”

“I agree,” she said. “But if I had a dime for every time I did something that I shouldn’t have done, I’d be as rich as you are.” She got up and pulled his sketchpad and pencil out of the drawer. “Now tonight I think we should move on to sketching. Especially since the photo session went so well.” She paused. “You erased those pictures, right?”

Instead of answering he stared at the sketchpad and pencil she held out as if they were going to bite him. So she set them on the counter and slid them over to him. “Quit being such a wuss. Now where do you want me?” She grabbed the hem of the T-shirt. She got it only halfway up before he stopped her.

“Keep your clothes on.”

She pulled the shirt back down. “I don’t think that Deirdre Beaumont wants a painting of a woman in a T-shirt and yoga pants, but you’re the boss. So you want to go to your bedroom?”

“No!” When she startled at his abrupt answer, he blushed and nodded at the breakfast counter. “Here is fine.”

She studied his red face for a moment. She found his blush endearing. It reminded her of the Grayson she’d first met, the soft-spoken artist who blushed often when she was around. Again she wondered what had changed him. Paris? His inability to paint? Or maybe just life?

Life had certainly changed her. Before her mother passed away, she had been a happy child who laughed often. Now she was a grumpy woman who rarely smiled. Although lately she had found more to smile about.

“Okay,” she said. “But let me clean up first.” She picked up their dinner plates and utensils and carried them to the sink. While she was rinsing them and placing them in the dishwasher, she noticed the Tupperware container on the counter. Mrs. Huckabee had dropped it off with her house key that morning as a thank-you for taking care of Mr. Huckabee’s flowers. As soon as Chloe finished with the dishes, she opened the container to find thick, chocolaty brownies.

“Do you want some dessert?” she called over her shoulder.

“What I want is to get this over with.”

“Suit yourself.” Chloe took out a brownie and bit into it. It was as chocolaty and delicious as it looked. On the way back to the breakfast counter, she took a few more bites. “You’re missing out. These brownies Mrs. Huckabee brought over are—”

Grayson whirled around on his barstool. “Don’t eat that!”

She froze for a second before she popped the last of the brownie into her mouth. “Geez, Grayson. It’s not like I ate the last one.” She turned back to get him one, and herself another, but before she could open the container, he grabbed it from her. While she watched in horror, he opened the bottom cupboard door and dumped the brownies into the trash.

“Have you lost your mind?” she asked. “Those were amazing.”

“Of course they were. They’re magic.”

It took her a moment to comprehend what he was saying. Then she burst out laughing. “Magic? You think that Eden’s grandma puts pot in her brownies?” When he didn’t join in, she sobered. “Okay, I get that you’re nervous about drawing, and it’s making you a little crazy. But I don’t think you have anything to worry about. All you need to do is relax and let your natural instincts take over. In fact…” She walked to the wine fridge and opened it. She pulled out the racks and checked the labels, bypassing any Napa wines and settling on a merlot from Oregon. After taking a corkscrew from the drawer, she uncorked the bottle and poured him a glass.

“You shouldn’t drink with Mrs. Huckabee’s brownies,” he said.

Even after all these years, she couldn’t help swirling and sniffing before she handed it to him. “It’s not for me. I hate wine. It’s to relax you.”

“I guess Zac was a connoisseur of wine,” he said as he accepted the glass.

“No. Tequila.” She carried the bottle over and set it on the coffee table before she walked back to Grayson. She handed him the sketchpad and pencil, then pulled him over to the swivel chair across from the couch. “Sit,” she ordered.

He sent her a hard look before he complied. “It’s not going to work. I can’t draw.”

“You can’t if you don’t try.” She picked up his phone from the breakfast bar and tapped his radio app, then searched until she found the artists she wanted. When the perfectly harmonized voices came through the speakers, she glanced up to find Grayson watching her with a quizzical expression. “The Ten Tenors,” she said. “They’re very relaxing.” She set the phone on the counter. “So how do you want me to pose, O Gifted One?”

“It doesn’t matter.” After only one sip, he set the glass of wine on the coffee table and flipped open his sketchpad. He held his pencil with so much tension that it was almost painful to watch.

Wanting to ease that tension, she sat down on the couch and spoke softly. “Just draw anything. It doesn’t have to be me.”

His gaze lifted. He studied her for a long moment before his hand moved. Once he’d drawn one line, he drew another…then another, until the pencil was sweeping over the paper as if it had a will of its own. His strokes weren’t smooth or fluid, but at least he was drawing, his eyes flickering from her to the sketchpad and then back again.

With nothing else to do, Chloe just sat there and stared at the glass of wine. When she had swirled it earlier, the legs of the wine had slid slowly down the sides of the glass. It would be a sweet, high-alcohol wine. She would bet that a late-harvest grape had been used. But without tasting, she couldn’t be sure.

Oh, what the hell
.
She picked up the glass and took a sip. She thought it would taste as bitter as her memories. Instead the richness burst upon her tongue and brought tears to her eyes. She swallowed the sip and took another, this one going down smooth and perfect. Definitely late harvest. And subtly different from Napa wines. Which was probably why she was enjoying it so much. Or maybe she had just outgrown her fear of the past and mellowed.

She felt mellow. Like if the balcony doors were open, she could float right out into the star-filled night. Suddenly hungry, she wondered what stars would taste like. Probably like the sugar cookies she used to make with her father—fragile, light, and sweet as they melted on your tongue. Her father had loved baking as much as he had loved wine. Every holiday she had helped him make the sugar cookies. He’d let her unwrap the butter sticks and crack each egg, never once getting mad if she got some shell in the batter. Of course that was when he’d still been her father. It should’ve been a sad thought, but instead it made her giggle. Once she started giggling, she couldn’t seem to stop.

She expected Grayson to comment, but he seemed to be too enthralled with his drawing. Something had happened while she was wine tasting because he seemed more relaxed. Now his entire attention was focused on his sketchpad. His pencil flew, his hand like a conductor’s during the most technical of symphonies. It was mesmerizing. But not as mesmerizing as Grayson himself. He had changed out of his suit when he got home and now wore a soft, well-washed T-shirt and ripped jeans. His hair was mussed, and the scruff on his jaw dark and sexy. But what was even sexier was the intensity in his eyes as he drew. She now knew why women were drawn to artists—it was the desire to have that intensity focused on them.

“You’re hot.” She didn’t realize she’d said the words until he glanced up in surprise. She should’ve felt embarrassed, but she didn’t. She just felt happy. Like she wanted to give the entire world a great big hug. Which made her wonder if he wasn’t right. Maybe Mrs. Huckabee did put some magic in her brownies. She giggled and poured herself some more wine, fascinated by the way the burgundy liquid looked as it spilled into the glass. When she glanced up, Grayson was watching her.

“So don’t get a big head over it,” she said. “You’re hot, but you have a bad attitude and could use a haircut.” She curled up on the couch with her legs pretzeled and took a sip of wine. “I could give you one if you want.”

He went back to sketching. “No, thanks. Especially if your bangs are an example. Why did you change the color from blond?”

She giggled and took a sip of wine. Oregon made some kick-ass wine. The flavor seemed to burst in a kaleidoscope of flavors. She could almost imagine each little taste bud absorbing it and doing a happy dance. Which had a very weird effect on her tongue. It loosened it.

“Because that blond, frivolous little princess who liked frilly pink dresses and pretty purple rooms died. She died when the queen got sick and the truth came out.”

Grayson stopped drawing and looked at her. “And what truth is that?”

“The truth is that I’m not a little princess at all. I’m just an orphaned bastard who hates pink and purple.”

“Which is why you wear black?”

“Black goes with my personality. Didn’t you know that I’m very dark and crabby?” She would’ve poured herself some more wine if Grayson hadn’t gotten up and taken the bottle from her. He set it and the sketchpad down on the breakfast bar before joining her on the couch. He was close. Much too close. She could see all the different shades of his eyes—from the deepest indigo to the lightest lavender.

“I don’t think you have a dark personality,” he said. “I think your personality goes with the wall you painted in my room—bright, bold, colorful.” He paused for only a second before he continued. “I think you choose to wear black because you’re still mourning your mother.”

She looked away from his intense eyes, no longer wanting his gaze directed at her. No longer feeling like she wanted to hug the whole world. “Who told you?”

“Deirdre mentioned that your mother had died of cancer, which is why she’s so insistent about having a painting of you for the charity event. So when did your mom die?”

Chloe leaned back on the couch and stared up at the ceiling. “I was fifteen.”

“Then you remember her.”

She nodded. “Almost every second I had with her. She was witty and beautiful and the best hostess. People loved to attend her parties. She always knew exactly what to wear, what to serve, what to say to make people feel right at home.” She paused. “When she was gone, there was no home.”

“Is that why you ran away, Chloe? Because your mother died?”

“No. I ran away because I discovered that my castle was made of nothing but a little girl’s fantasies. Fantasies that evaporated when she was forced to grow up.” She stared at the bottle of wine. “And you? What was your mother like?”

He hesitated before he replied. “I wish I knew.” He leaned his head back on the cushion next to hers and stared at the ceiling. “While my brothers have all these memories, I don’t have any. Not a damned one. I look at pictures, or the drawings I did of her, and hope that they’ll trigger some memory. But it’s like looking at a stranger.” He ran a hand through his hair and gripped it tightly, as if trying to pull all the memories from his brain.

Ironically she wished for the reverse. She wished she could shove all the memories back inside and never think of them again.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

He released his hair and nodded. “Me too. The only things I know about my mother are what I’ve heard from my brothers and father. She loved to draw, to sew, and to sing Bruce Springsteen.”

“My mom loved eighties movies,” Chloe said. “I don’t know how many times I had to watch
Sixteen Candles
—a hundred, at least. For my birthday, my dad would always bake two cakes. One for my party, and one for my mom and me. When everyone else had gone to sleep, we’d climb up on the dining room table and sit cross-legged with nothing but the glowing candles on the cake between us. ‘Happy Birthday, Lena,’ she’d say, ‘Make a wish.’ I’d always wish for something stupid. A new horse. A trip to Disneyland.” She squeezed her eyes tighter. “I never once wished that she would always be there. Not once.” She swallowed hard. “My bad.”

Chloe didn’t expect him to say anything. There was nothing to say. And that was the good thing about Grayson. He wasn’t an empty talker who filled space with nonsense. So they just sat there, listening to the tenors sing like a choir of angels. After a time Grayson reached out and took her hand, interlocking their fingers so their palms touched. And that was all he did. He just held her hand tightly in his, as if he needed the human touch as much as she did. She didn’t know how long they sat like that. Long enough for the memories to not feel as painful as they once had.

Finally she opened her eyes and turned her head to find his face only inches away. His eyes were open, the violet depths beckoning like a garden on a bright summer day. Emotions swelled inside her. But not lust. These emotions were deeper, more intense. So intense that they took her breath away. And intense emotions had always been her downfall. She quickly sat up and searched for anything to break the spell Grayson had woven. She was relieved when she spotted the seagull sitting in the planter on the balcony.

“Jonathan Livingston roosts here at night?” she asked.

Grayson sat up. “Not usually. Usually he only shows up in the mornings for his sardines.”

She quickly got to her feet. “Well, he looks like he’s tucked in for the night. And speaking of being tucked in”—she picked up her wineglass—“I think I’ll head to bed.” She had started to take the glass to the kitchen when she noticed Grayson’s sketchpad sitting on the counter. Unable to stop herself, she picked it up.