Lily and the Billionaire Read online

  Lily and the Billionaire

  Copyright @ 2019 by Beth Michele

  Interior Design by Stacey Blake, Champagne Book Design

  Cover Design by Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations

  Editing: Editing by C. Marie, Dawn McIntyre Decker

  EBOOK ISBN: 978-0-578-50154-3

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing by Beth Michele. Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support is appreciated.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owner.

  All rights reserved.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Also by Beth Michele

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Synopsis

  Jace—Day One

  Jace—Day Five

  Lily—Day Six

  Lily—Day Six

  Jace—Day Six

  Lily—Day Nine

  Lily—Day Nine

  Jace—Day Ten

  Lily—Day Ten

  Jace—Day Ten

  Lily—Day Eleven

  Jace—Day Sixteen

  Lily—Day Sixteen

  Jace—Day Sixteen

  Lily—Day Seventeen

  Jace—Day Seventeen

  Lily—Day Seventeen

  Jace—Day Seventeen

  Lily—Day Seventeen

  Jace—Day Seventeen

  Lily—Day Seventeen

  Lily—Day Nineteen

  Lily—Day Nineteen

  Jace—Day Twenty-One

  Lily—Day Twenty-Two

  Jace—Day Twenty-Two

  Lily—Epilogue

  Coming Soon Excerpt

  Lily and the Billionaire Playlist

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  M/F Contemporary Romance

  Love Love, FREE on Amazon

  Lovely

  Scarred Beautiful

  Finding Autumn

  REX

  For the Love of Raindrops

  Life in Reverse

  Lily and the Billionaire

  M/M Contemporary Romance

  Chasing the High

  Behind His Lens

  Going Down

  Dedication:

  For Meg, thank you for always bringing the light. I love you soul sister.

  Isn’t that how falling in love so often works? Some stranger appears out of nowhere and becomes a fixed star in your universe.

  —Kate Bolick

  What do you get when you cross one feisty secretary with one determined billionaire?

  My name—Jace Harlow. My business—making billions.

  I’ve got it all.

  Money.

  Confidence.

  Sexual prowess.

  I know—I’m quite a catch. At least to most women. But Lily Conrad isn’t like any woman I’ve met before.

  Damn her and that red dress.

  Now all I think about is her. All I fantasize about is her—her smile, her laugh, her long legs wrapped around my waist.

  My dilemma, you ask? She doesn’t care that I’m a billionaire. And why should she? It means nothing, it tells her nothing about who I am.

  Lily Conrad doesn’t know what I’m made of, but you can be sure of one thing…

  She’s going to find out.

  Being a billionaire isn’t as glamorous as you might think.

  I should know.

  I’m not complaining, believe me, but after the week I’ve had buying and selling companies and negotiating deals, this is the last place I want to be. Where would I like to be? The answer comes with ease: either sleeping or buried deep inside a warm, wet pussy, and definitely not in that order. I suppose, though, if we need to have a party, perusing art during a charity fundraiser and drinking champagne is the way to do it. However, at this point, I’m not sure if I’m staring at the fine lines of the painting or daydreaming of sleep. Color washes together, forming abstract shapes, one of the many things I love about impressionist art—the subjectivity of it all. One person’s trash is another person’s treasure. And this one…I’m just not feeling it.

  Swells of people fill the gallery, but I’m able to block out the static, focusing on the piece in front of me. It’s always been a strength of mine: ignoring the noise and homing in on what’s important. As I tilt my head this way and that, I try my hardest to find something of value but come up short. Not to mention, I’m restless, bored, and unable to get comfortable in both my surroundings and this damn tuxedo.

  Flutes of champagne are passed around to every corner of the finely lit room. Pockets of laughter float up into the air, and smiles are now a little more relaxed—except my own. I bring the expensive crystal to my lips, taking another sip of the bubbly before loosening my bow tie with my free hand. It’s warm in here, or perhaps I’ve had too much to drink. But there’s no real chance of that, though. Loose lips sink ships, as the old saying goes, and there’s no way in hell I’m willing to relinquish the control I’ve worked so hard for over the years.

  When you grow up the way I did, the youngest of nine siblings, nothing is within your control. In fact, most things are chaos. Decisions, car rides—even something as simple as a trip to the grocery store becomes a monumental task.

  Not anymore.

  My mind drifts to next week, to the plethora of meetings and presentations I have out in Canada. Everything is locked down tight, my schedule ironclad, no room for air to get in. A relaxed breath moves through my chest knowing everything will run smoothly. I’m also aware that by the time I leave, everyone will know Jace Harlow, my signature style wrapped around every move I make.

  But no one really knows me.

  Part of me takes immense satisfaction in that, but the other part is desperate for someone to look inside. To see past the thousand-dollar suits and the Berluti shoes, to dive deep below the surface and find the substance. I have it; I’m just reluctant to share it. Maybe reluctant isn’t the right word. Perhaps it’s afraid.

  I shake that last thought, not wanting to show my hand. The only clue hinting at my state of mind is that I’m standing alone. But alone is nothing new for me. It’s how I spend most of my nights, not that any of these people here would be the wiser. Don’t get me wrong, I love sex—more than love it, if I’m honest—and I satisfy my needs when the urge strikes. I fuck when my body demands it. But even then, I always feel alone.

  I am alone.

  Blinking, I clear these thoughts and wonder when I can get the hell out of here. I glance at the Rolex on my wrist. Perhaps I could make a covert departure, dart out of here like one of those superheroes in the comic books I loved as a child. My driver is outside at the back entrance, so it would be a perfect escape. It’s not a possibility, but just the idea of it brin
gs a small smile to the corner of my mouth.

  A light sound takes me out of my own head. I look to my left, and what I see robs me of my breath. I stand taller, suddenly unable to remember my own thoughts. A profile of porcelain skin, a sharp nose, and—Jesus—a full red lip claim my attention. Hair the color of amber piled high on her head, soft tendrils frame her face. I want to let it down, comb my fingers through it, see if it’s as soft as it looks…and I keep looking, because it’s impossible not to.

  The smooth lines of her nape are set in grace, my tongue already mapping the perfect path down her skin. My eyes keep going because there’s no stopping them now. Moving lower to the dress, the color is a deep red, the neckline plunging. Being six foot one has its advantages. Even from the side, I can see the dip of cleavage. I lick my lips, already begging for a taste, wanting to know if she’s as sweet as she looks. Then I continue on, because wild horses couldn’t drag me away. I need to see more.

  Unfortunately, as far as skin goes, the rest is covered by the floor-length gown. Whoever she is, she’s stunning, and I can’t stop staring. She has pleasure and sin written all over her. I’m hard now. My body ready to do what is instinctual to me.

  For the first time in…well, forever, I want to be reckless. I want to throw her over my shoulder and drag her to the nearest closet. Sift through all that red, lush fabric and find her pussy. Put my mouth there, sweep my tongue across her clit. Drag an orgasm out of her that makes her see stars, makes her see no one but me. I laugh under my breath because that would be a first.

  As if she knows what I’m thinking, she turns my way, and I’m knocked on my ass. My first thought: I want to get down on my hands and knees and thank God for this gift from heaven. Jesus. If I thought she was gorgeous from the side, head-on, she’s exquisite. Her eyes are a moss green. No, no—that description will not do. Because that doesn’t begin to describe soft sage peppered with golden yellow flecks. They’re clear and…wait, vulnerable? Or…I don’t know, apprehensive? How can a creature so beautiful be so scared? The million-dollar question—or in my case, the billionaire-dollar question.

  When I realize I’ve been staring too long, I force a word from my lips. Any word will do at this point. “Hello.”

  Just brilliant, Jace.

  “Hello,” she says back, almost reluctantly. “Can I help you with something?”

  “Pardon me?”

  She gestures with one hand, long fingernails painted red to match her dress. Red: it’s a bold color, feisty—daring, even. I wonder if she’s adventurous behind closed doors, if she likes to fuck on desks, up against walls. I wonder if she enjoys taking it in what I’m sure is a perfectly curved ass. I sure as hell want to find out. I’d relish the opportunity to have her mile-long legs wrapped around my waist, grinding on my cock.

  “You were staring at me.”

  And thinking salacious thoughts, but I won’t mention that.

  “I was?” It comes out like a question when there is absolutely no doubt it’s the truth.

  The corner of her mouth turns up, but it doesn’t match her eyes. What is that I see? I want to figure it out, and then I want to take it away for her.

  “Did you have a question?”

  “A question?” Did I even ask a question? Why is my brain not computing? I never waver, but this woman is throwing me off my game.

  Maybe she can read my thoughts. Perhaps she knows the question inquiring minds want to know: How does she like to fuck?

  I’ve been silent too long, imagining all the different ways I could bring her to orgasm, and now it looks like she’s holding back a laugh. I want to hear what her laugh sounds like. Is it high and melodic or low and raspy?

  “Yes. Did you have one?”

  I can feel the crease slash my forehead. “I’m…”

  An idiot. Confused. Tongue-tied by your beauty.

  Yeah, that’ll do.

  Her eyebrows lift. “You’re…”

  I clear my throat and step into my confidence once again. Then I edge closer, the scent of something floral floating under my nose. “Tongue-tied by your beauty.”

  She actually laughs, and here I thought I was smoother than that. But hey, I made her laugh, so point for me. And the sound is nice. It’s light and sexy.

  “Ooookay.” Her eyes drop to my mouth as if searching for my tongue. I take the opportunity to let it come out and trail across my lower lip. She stares for a moment then blinks and comes back to my eyes. “That’s a first.”

  My gaze does a slow perusal of her body. “The first time you’ve heard that? Or the first time you’ve made someone tongue-tied? Because I find the latter very hard to believe.”

  She looks away, impeding my ability to see her eyes, to read her. Is it shyness? She doesn’t seem shy. There’s a boldness to her, a force field of energy that draws me closer. I want to soak it up, want to bask in the sun when so many days have brought darkness.

  Just as I’m about to say something, anything to get her to pin her gaze to mine, she speaks. “Thank you for the compliment.” Her eyes do a quick scan of me from head to toe, perhaps as if she’s imagining me without my Armani tux. My skin feels it, too, small pinpricks working their way across my flesh with each touch of her eyes.

  “You’re welcome,” I reply, daring to take another step closer. God, her eyes are positively hypnotic.

  A curt nod before she glances back to the painting. I follow suit, and we both stare at the blurred colors in silence until I break it. “This one isn’t my favorite. Looks very much like finger painting if you ask me.”

  She barks a surprised laugh, and now I’m two for two. “You think so?”

  “Absolutely.” I gesture toward it with my glass. “I’m usually a big fan of abstract art, but this one, not so much. Let’s face it”—I wave a hand at the frame—“it pales in comparison to all the others. Globs of color on a canvas. It’s rather juvenile…” I let my strong opinions trail off, not sure how I want to finish my thought, only knowing I want to keep her talking, engaged, here.

  She crosses her arms over her ample chest, and my mind wanders, thinking about finding a way to get my mouth on her. Her ruby lips, her neck, her nipples—I’m not picky. A noise of contemplation leaves her mouth. “I don’t know…I rather like it.”

  “Tell me more.” I use this as an excuse to move nearer until our shoulders are practically touching. Then I lean in close to her ear, feathering my breath across her skin. “What do you like?” I ask, the double meaning in my words undeniable. A shiver ripples through her body and satisfaction courses through mine. I’m affecting her as much as she’s affecting me. Her essence fills my nose and I fist a hand at my side, itching to touch her in all her most intimate places.

  Unfortunately, she keeps going, ignoring the desire laced through my words. I know I’m getting to her, though. The body doesn’t lie. “I see a little girl,” she says, pointing a finger toward the bottom right of the canvas. “She’s playing with a ball…by herself.”

  “In that green blob in the corner?” I taunt, enjoying those gorgeous eyes and the mock glare she throws my way.

  “That’s the great thing about abstract art—each one of us sees something different.” She glances back at the painting. “I especially like the way the artist uses color in pockets.”

  “Yes, like finger painting.”

  Another sideways glance. “You’re incorrigible.”

  “I can be.” I let the words and my attraction linger in the air between us, thickening it with restrained lust.

  She shakes her head with a soft laugh. “I’ve enjoyed our talk,” she finally says, and panic slices through me, my mind grasping for ways to keep this going but coming up short.

  As she starts to walk away, I realize I never got her name. How will I find her again? “Wait,” I call out, “I didn’t catch your name.”

  Her chin brushes her shoulder as she glances back, mischief on her lips. “That’s because I didn’t give it.”

  We
ll, fuck.

  She darts off through the crowd and I stare at her back open-mouthed, wanting to follow after her like a dog desperate for a bone.

  “You like this one, too, huh?” a voice says from behind me.

  I am in no mood to talk to anyone else but her.

  Ron Lewis, one of my VPs, steps up beside me. “I noticed you’ve been staring at it for a while. Pretty cool, right?”

  “I suppose you could say that,” I answer, distracted, my eyes still glued to the path my mystery woman took as she departed.

  “And the artist—boy, she’s not only talented, but what a looker. Talk about red hot—no pun intended.”

  My gaze snaps to his. “What did you just say?”

  “The artist—she’s gorgeous, isn’t she?” He waggles his brows. “I saw you talking with her.”

  Fuuuuuck.

  I wince, remembering my unkind words about the painting. A dull ache works its way across my jaw. “The woman in red?” I nod to the framed canvas, hoping he’s mistaken. “This is her work?”

  He grins. “It is. The one and only Lily Conrad.”

  Lily. Like the flower, delicate and beautiful—and I insulted her. Still, at least I have her name now, and I’m sure there’s a way I can make it up to her.

  Many ways, in fact.

  Yes, for the first time in as long as I can remember, I’m intrigued—in the woman behind the name, in the body behind the woman. I think she could give me a run for my money in more ways than one.

  Speaking of money, it appears I have some unfinished business.

  And her name is Lily Conrad.

  I bought her painting.

  What other choice did I have? Desperate times call for desperate measures. Besides, I’m a sucker for a pretty face and an even prettier mouth. And a sharp mind, my brain adds without permission.

  With my feet kicked up on the desk, I lean back in my chair, eyeing said painting. It’s not exactly what I had in mind for my office, but it’s tolerable. Lily Conrad, however—she’s a lot more than tolerable. Actually, she’s so tolerable I’ve jacked off to the thought of her in that damn dress every night for the past four days. My hand is getting more action than I am.