Beauty and her Billionaire Beast Read online

  “Yeah? How?”

  “Just drop it. That was more of an experiential thing.”

  “So you say, but you two almost ended up getting hitched, if I remember correctly. This guy tonight would probably have just as much to say about your fucked up romantic shenanigans.”

  “It may have been a little fucked up, but it doesn’t compare to actually going through with a wedding.”

  Clearly Foster isn’t about to have his mind changed.

  “Whatever.” I step back and give him an intense look. “But don’t deny you almost went down that road…or up the aisle. However you want to remember it.”

  Foster doesn’t reply. Probably because he has no business judging anyone at the moment. Before he and Lilac hooked up, he was busy fucking his father’s sixth wife. Right under the man’s nose. That may seem insane to most, and way too risky, but in Foster’s crazy world it’s probably a fucking normal father-son rebellion kind of thing to do. I’d like to believe I probably would’ve lashed out at my own parents during my teens if they’d been around, but I’ll never fucking know.

  That’s probably why Foster and I ended up being such close friends. I thought my life was a living hell until about fifteen years ago when I started hanging out with him all the time. I’d just lost both my parents when their private plane crashed somewhere over the Atlantic. I was twelve years old. Nothing prepares you for that kind of loss. The bottom drops out from your pre-teen existence. It’s like the end of the world. Or worse. For me, I was left wondering if there’s a God, and why he’d give me a life and a loving home just to rip it out from under me. In any case, my grandfather became my guardian, and Foster’s family were his neighbors. Foster and I became closer as friends that very day I moved in with Pops. Not long after that, Isabelle, the neighbor’s daughter across the street, came around to lay out the welcome mat, and the three of us went from acquaintances to best buddies.

  It’s a shame that we lost touch with Isabelle.

  Well, I’m the one who did.

  I went off to college and didn’t bat an eyelash to leave her in my rearview mirror and not look back. It was a dick move on my part. She hadn’t done a thing to me, except for being the only female friend I had. But doing fucked up shit was and still is right up my alley, so I guess it was par for the course.

  Physically giving my head a shake to get her out of my mind, I look over at Foster again. “I need to take a piss. Try not to verbally offend anyone while I’m gone.” I raise my eyebrows at him, but I’m not totally convinced that the message gets through. The man seems to overcompensate for the fact that I barely ever string together two full sentences with people who aren’t close to me. Right now, his eyes are fixated on something in the distance. Or someone.

  “You know I can’t promise anything, but I’ll be over there…at the bar. I think I just saw Lilac pass by with some guy.”

  I follow his eyes to the corner of the massive room. He’s right. That redhead looks just like his virgin auction purchased, almost-bride. “Well, good luck with that,” I tell him. “I’ll do my rounds for a few minutes to show my face, then we can blow this crap heap.”

  “Cool. Just don’t ask me to bail you out when your dazzling baby blues lock onto some chick you ain’t interested in.”

  “I can hold my own when it comes to letting a woman down easy.”

  He nods and turns to leave. “Yeah whatever. Come look for me when you’re ready to head out.”

  I can almost feel the sweat trickling down the back of my neck as I push my way through the thick crowd of bodies. There must’ve been some snag in the wedding planner’s vision for the evening. Maybe the happy couple’s guest list took on a life of its own after the fact. It’d explain the large numbers. I look around and figure there’s got to be four to five hundred people in here. Like the weather, people can be unpredictable, so maybe they’re doing her best to work with whatever went down. Like a trooper. It’s a shame they hadn’t planned for the sweat fest that the party’s becoming. Tents would’ve definitely worked out better.

  I manage to find enough of a break in the throngs of bodies to get to a bathroom, and once inside I splash some water on my face to cool down. All this drinking over such a short period of time isn’t the best combination with this heat. I need to slow down if I don’t want to end up completely shit-faced. Not that I’m against that level of excess drinking. But Pops is around here somewhere, and he’s one person I won’t dare lose control around. He’ll probably take advantage of my inebriation to try to hook me up with someone he considers to be a good fit for our family’s social status. I can almost picture the old man’s face as I recall the way he told me something almost to that effect just days ago.

  Handing over the reins like that isn’t something I’d do willing. Ever. I lost so much fucking control over my life when I lost my parents that I can’t allow myself to let go of another inch. Won’t. Control is power, and I hold onto every shred of it now. Even if my grandfather means well.

  I glance at my reflection in the mirror while running my hand through my dark brown hair. This neutral, blank expression on my face is a mask. It took me years to master. It saves me the headache of having to explain myself to people. It covers the rage, grief, and overall emotion-packed shit storm of turmoil that can bubble up to the surface at any given time. But even now, even with these empty eyes, and with a face as disfigured as mine is now, I manage to attract way more attention from women around me than I want, need, or should for that matter. I figured out it’s this scar across my jaw that’s a fucking chick magnet, fuck if I know why. I call it rugged good looks, which is more rugged than good, because I’m no pretty boy. Still, whatever it is that draws the ladies my way provides enough distraction to take my pick of whoever I want when I feel like having a piece of ass. And that’s perfect, since I’m nowhere near ready to settle down. I’m upfront about it with the women I fuck, so as long as they understand where my head’s at, what’s the harm?

  Leaving the rest room, I head to the nearest open bar. My body can handle another drink or two, but then it’s time to leave. I also need to get Foster out of here before he does something stupid. It’s his M.O. The concept of keeping it together for appearances is foreign to him. But that’s why we get along. Somewhere between his knack for being a loose cannon and my need for control, we balance each other out. Although he’s probably already driving some unlucky son of a bitch past the edge of their patience or mouthing off somewhere around here. It’s the last thing anyone needs at an engagement celebration. When we hang out, we’re far better off at some nondescript nightclub where no one knows us personally.

  I make my way back out into the party, scanning every face as I look for him. Even the women’s faces. He went looking for Lilac at the bar near the front entrance so that’s probably the best place to start. There’s a chance I’ll hear him before I see him, though I’d prefer to catch sight of his board shorts if possible.

  Then I see her.

  I stop in my tracks as a familiar cascade of silky light brown hair catches my eye. I’m not sure why I assume this might be the girl I’m suddenly reminded of, since it’s been years since I last saw her. My heart stops dead in my chest. All the air empties from my lungs. A warm glow of light shines down on her figure, highlighting her every curve underneath that shimmery red cocktail dress she’s wearing.

  It’s definitely her.

  Isabelle Harrison.

  My Belle.

  Though I’m the only person she ever allowed to call her by that nickname.

  I move closer without really intending to. It’s as if an invisible force is pulling me toward her without either of us trying. And although her back is turned and I haven’t seen her face, something deep in my gut tells me it has to be her, and I can’t resist the urge to find out.

  Isabelle and her family lived across the street from my grandfather’s place. I got to know her better after my parents died, but like Foster, we more or less knew e
ach other in passing whenever my parents took me on their short visits to see Pops, long before they passed. She’s about three years younger than me, but her mildly curious, highly intelligent, yet mostly quiet nature back then made it so the age difference didn’t matter. She quickly became my only female friend, and was one of the only people I let get close to me after my parents died. Isabelle knew me. She could look at me and know exactly when I wanted to talk about shit, and when I didn’t want to say a word. Not once did she force a conversation or ask me how I was holding up, or the usual fucked up questions adults and kids would ask after the death of a loved one.

  Loved ones.

  That alone made her the perfect female friend.

  Everyone thought we’d end up together while we were growing up. During my late teens, most people figured we actually were together, but neither of us ever crossed that line. She was just as gorgeous back then as I imagine she is now, and sure, staying on my side of that line took effort on my part. But our friendship meant something to us, way more than a piece of ass to call fuck of the month, way more than a few hours in the back seat of my car, which was the full range of what every other girl got from me. My high school buddies were always dropping hints that Isabelle and I had a thing going, but we didn’t. She was just my Belle.

  Then I left for college.

  That was when I pulled away from her. I still have no fucking idea why. It just happened, with the distance, and my choosing not to go home to see Pops on school breaks didn’t help. My focus turned to filling my days and nights with the college party scene. In no time at all, in between showing up for the odd college lecture and doing as little as possible to hand in substandard course papers, my life revolved around getting drunk, getting high, fucking everything in a skirt, and fighting in the underground kickboxing circuit.

  Isabelle got packed away in a quiet corner of my mind. And now, looking at this woman who I think must be her, I see now that I was dead fucking wrong for leaving her behind. I should never have ditched the one girl who was there for me when no one else was. I shouldn’t have neglected our friendship.

  Almost as if she can sense my eyes on her back, she begins to turn around to face me. She can just as soon hug me as punch me in the jaw, all things considered. And maybe not knowing which one is what pushes me to close in on her. I want to see her reaction. To find out what emotion has dominated her thoughts when it comes to the memory of me. Which one? Or is it more than one? Will her eyes light up with excitement or the fire of wrath for me? I’m not one to make a scene at someone’s party but I need to know.

  When she finally recognizes that it’s me, her eyes widen in shock. It’s Isabelle all right. I’d recognize those deep hazel eyes anywhere. And she’s a woman now. She’s grown into her slim-hipped teenage body and now has the most incredible curves I’ve ever seen. Maybe I’m a little stunned too, I can’t take my eyes off of her. And fuck, all I can think about now is how stunning and sexy this woman is. It’s beyond me how I managed to be just friends with her back then. To me, she was always stunningly pretty. I just never saw her as anything but my friend. The girl I used to know has become a true beauty from head to toe, and I don’t know what the hell I should do about that, but my dick has a damn good idea what it wants as I maneuver around the party guest and make my way to her.

  “Isabelle?” I say her name in a question when I’m close enough.

  A range of expressions flits across her face. She’s struggling with this just as much as I am. Neither of us expected to see each other after all this time, it appears. It’s almost comical to see her in such a state of surprise, or maybe it would be if I weren’t so fucking mad at myself for letting go of our friendship.

  “Knox?” She whispers out my name breathlessly. “I can’t believe it. This is...”

  “Fucking unreal, Belle,” I say, finishing her sentence.

  It may be a good thing that we’re not friends anymore.

  Friends don’t fuck.

  And tonight, that’s what I want to do to her.

  3

  Isabelle

  I’m not sure why I agreed to come to this engagement party. It feels like a bad call now, and painfully obvious that I’m probably the only person who attended such an elegant event without a plus one. The bride-to-be is a new friend, someone I only met a few months ago through my mother’s nonprofit foundation, but my parents know her family through their respective circles. We hit it off so well that when she invited me to her engagement party, I had to say yes. Something also told me it would be a nice change from the everyday, getting out of the house, spending time rubbing shoulders with New York City’s wealthiest families in a decadently formal ballroom that’s decorated in ornate finishes and accents.

  Not that those things have ever mattered to me. They haven’t. But it’s a welcome change from the everyday, especially considering that my day to day routine involves keeping myself cooped up indoors for months and months at a time, other than going to work five days a week.

  At least I thought it was a welcome change. Getting out of the house and meeting new people outside of work sounded good at the time, but since I walked in through these impressive ballroom doors, I haven’t found anyone I know personally. But maybe I’m wrong. I’m still hoping that if I could just find one friendly face, this night out won’t be a complete waste.

  Although, with every passing minute, I feel less and less interested in being here.

  What I should’ve done was find an excuse to turn her down nicely. Other than the bride-to be, I don’t personally know a soul here. I checked and double checked. Sure, there are one or two familiar faces around. Most of them are contributors to Mom’s nonprofit. A couple are backers of my father, the Senator of this fine state. None of them are what I’d call wingperson-worthy. Except for the bride-to-be, and of course she’s surrounded by hundreds of guests all wanting to wish her well for her engagement to her fiancé. And rightly so. This party is for her.

  Aware that the next hour or so will be incredibly awkward, I busy myself with ordering a drink. Then another. And a third and a fourth. The least I can do is get a buzz going with all this free top shelf booze before I head out for a cab home. That fourth drink does me in, though. I’m right at the point where my haziness can quickly turn to nausea, lowered inhibitions and bad, bad decisions.

  Thankfully, I have just enough of my faculties to decide I’ll put a timeframe on my exit before I do anything I might regret. Having a politician as a parent has always meant that I have to mind my manners and keep a tight rein on what I do and say when people are around. Which is why I’ve become such a homebody. There’s no point tempting fate by allowing myself to be in the public eye, with my actions placed under a microscope the second I step outside my home.

  As I wander through the thick crowd, counting down the time I’ll hang around before making my getaway, I’m acutely aware of myself. Shyness is my default setting, so being here alone only makes it worse. It took years of working on myself to break through my comfort zone when I agreed to take such a client-oriented job with my mother. Personally, I’d prefer to be hiding out in a back room reading. If I could do that for a living, I would. I like being alone.

  But right now, all the effort to step outside my shell seems wasted. The shy little girl I used to be starts to push through to the forefront all of a sudden. I awkwardly drop my arms to my sides, unsure what to do with my hands, how to stand, and find myself looking away whenever anyone makes eye contact. The more I think about how weird this all feels, the harder it becomes to act natural.

  When I’m halfway through my allotted time to stick around, I throw in the towel. It’s pointless being here. I decide to have one last drink, say a few words to the happy bride-to-be so she knows I honored my promise to show up, then I can leave. Maybe it isn’t the best attitude to have at a party, but then again, I’ve never been one for socializing at the best of times, so no amount of time, pasted-on smiles, or alcohol will help me get
any closer to enjoying this event.

  Know thyself.

  That should have been my mantra before I stepped into these basic four-inch pumps, threw on this red, sparkly knee-length cocktail dress that Mom bought me, and applied a bit of barely there makeup before coming out. Even at college, letting loose wasn’t something I did. I kept my head down and worked hard because it was easier than facing the discomfort of getting to know new people. Of course, it paid off when I graduated with honors, so it’s not all bad. Mind you, I’m still figuring out what I want to do with said education. Somewhere between burying myself in text books and avoiding people, I forgot to firm up my life plan along the way. But working at my mother’s nonprofit is enough of a challenge, and reasonably rewarding. It’s okay for now.

  All of a sudden, a weird prickle starts to crawl up my back to the base of my neck as I head to the bar near the front entrance of the massive ballroom. The hairs there stand on end. Goosebumps run up and down my arms. I have the sudden overwhelming sensation that someone in the crowd is watching me. It could be my imagination but the feeling is so intense I start to look around, needing to know who it is if I’m right.

  As I make a half turn, a strange excitement comes over me. It’s as if my body is already expecting something epic and monumental to happen. And my weird one-time premonition is immediately confirmed the moment I find myself tumbling into the brilliant blue gaze that can only come from one face. A face I haven’t seen in a long time, and quite frankly one I never expected to lay eyes on ever again.

  Especially not up close like this.

  Knox Steele.

  My heart pounds with a bit of fear, a smidgen of elation, and more anticipation than I thought possible. Knox is a blast from the past. He was my childhood best friend, someone I trusted with all my secrets, and the guy I always thought would be in my life so we could be there for each other.