Billionaire's Bombshell Read online

  Billionaire’s Bombshell

  Sienna Valentine

  Billionaire’s Bombshell

  Sienna Valentine

  Copyright © 2016 Sienna Valentine

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, dialogue, and everything else are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to people or events, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A Note From Sienna

  Hi everyone - thanks for buying or borrowing this copy of Billionaire’s Bombshell. I know it’s been a while since I’ve put out a new book, but I’ve been working on a number of projects lately so I’ve just been sitting around on my hands!

  Hopefully this is worth the wait.

  As a special limited time bonus, I’ve included a few bonus novels at the end of this copy. So although Billionaire’s Bombshell is close to 70,000 words, that story will end before 100% on your device because there is plenty more steamy content to go. Enjoy!

  1

  Elizabeth

  My feet pounded against the ground, sending pebbles skittering across the blacktop. I channeled the focus of an Olympic sprinter, though I doubted any of them had ever had to book it up the world’s longest driveway, clutching a portfolio and hoping to hell their hair still looked fine when they stopped.

  I am so late.

  The mansion loomed ahead of me. Close, but not close enough. I pushed on.

  My phone vibrated in my pocket. I tore it out and answered it, trying to sound casual. “H-hello?”

  “Ms. Paulson,” the cool voice answered. “This is Todd Franklin.”

  “Mr. Franklin! I’m so sorry! I haven’t forgotten, I just forgot the code for the gates so I parked at the bot—“

  “That’s fine,” he said, cutting me off. “I see you now. I just wanted to make sure you were well.”

  The front door of the manor, a creaking oak behemoth, swung open. I was close enough to make out the features of the man standing in the doorway. Average height, salt and pepper hair, and a kind of condescending smile.

  “There’s a call button on the keypad,” he noted, still talking into the phone I could see he was holding.

  “I didn’t see it and I kind of panicked.”

  The distance between us closed enough for me to make out a stern brow and a prominent, hooked nose. I finally started to slow my pace.

  “So you scaled the gate?”

  My lungs were heaving, making it an effort to continue talking. “I would have called, but your number just showed up as private when you originally called me, so—“

  Instead of cutting me off this time, he just hung up his handset. We were only a few yards apart now, and I could have continued with my hurried explanation, but it didn’t seem wise.

  “Follow me,” he instructed. “We’ll conduct our interview in the library.”

  Todd turned and disappeared into the house. I rushed after him, hurriedly tugging my hair through my fingers in an attempt to look at least moderately presentable.

  I could see why the mansion needed renovating. It reminded me of what the Addams Family manor might have looked like if Gomez and Morticia had favored crushed red velvet instead of cobwebs. It even smelled as I imagined the Addams mansion would have. Musty. Old.

  We reached the library and Todd turned, gesturing toward a desk and two chairs. “Sit.”

  “Again, Mr. Franklin,” I said. “I’m so sorry for being late. I feel like an idiot.”

  His thin lips curved into a smile. “It happens. You’re not the first person to miss the call button.”

  “I brought this for you to look through,” I remembered the thin portfolio clutched in my death grip, and slid it across the table.

  Todd began to flip through it, his face betraying nothing about what he thought. Was he pleased? Irritated? Constipated?

  “Your portfolio is impressive,” he said, closing the ringed binder with a light snap and sliding it back to me. “I am, however, concerned by your lack of experience.”

  My mouth was dry. My hands were sweaty. But I did expect this objection.

  “I understand your concern,” I replied. “That’s why my bid is less than your budget. This project would be beneficial for my career and I’d like to incentivize hiring me as much as possible.” I sat forward in my chair, capturing his chocolatey gaze. “I’m the least experienced, yes, but you won’t find anyone cheaper, more motivated, or more eager to please.”

  Todd nodded with what I hoped was an approving smile. “I can tell. I’d like to help you, Ms. Paulson, but this is a high-profile renovation.” He gestured around him. “This place needs a lot of work. I want to make sure you can handle it.”

  “I can handle it.”

  I sound too eager. There’s no way I’m going to get this job. It’s out of my league.

  My self-respect was telling me to shut up, but desperation was urging me on. I made one last attempt.

  “Listen, Mr. Franklin,” I said. “I’ve worked my ass off to get where I am. I wouldn’t even be applying for this job if I didn’t think I could make this mansion breathe again.”

  Amusement glinted in his eye. “I wasn’t aware a house could breathe.”

  I glanced at the dust motes swirling in the thin strip of light from the mid-afternoon sun, then back to Todd. “Of course they can. But right now, this one’s wheezing.”

  “Tell me, then,” he said. “What changes would you make to this library?”

  I didn’t even need a minute to think about it. “Right now, the focal point is the fireplace over there,” I pointed to the south wall. “Is it even functional?”

  Todd nodded. “As long as one doesn’t mind billowing smoke. The chimney hasn’t been cleaned in years.”

  “Okay, well that should be sorted out first.” I shifted my attention to the colossal east-facing windows. They were covered in thick, velvet drapes. Barely a crack of sunlight made it through. “The library should be centered around those windows. We’re lucky to live somewhere with all four seasons, people should be able to see them.”

  “I’ve often thought the same,” Todd agreed. “There’s a garden on the other side of that window.”

  “And this carpet makes the place look dated.” My toe rubbed against the burgundy flooring. “I’m picturing cherry hardwood instead, to match the bookcases, with shag rugs in the seating areas.”

  Todd smiled. “I think Mr. Bentley would approve of those changes.”

  Right. I’d forgotten the client was actually the mysterious Mr. Bentley. I couldn’t remember whether Todd was Bentley’s personal assistant or his butler. Probably a bit of both.

  “I’ve got tons of ideas and drive,” I said. “I’m the right person for this job.”

  I hoped I sounded more confident than I felt.

  “There are other aspects of the job that don’t involve designing,” Todd reminded. “What kinds of challenges have you faced with clients in the past?”

  “All the usual ones,” I deflected diplomatically. What challenges hadn’t I faced? I may not have a lot of experience, but every client brought their own difficulties. The problem was, it never sounded professional to complain about past clients to future ones, and until he gave me a firm no, this man was still a potential client. He didn’t need to hear me complain about clients who changed their minds about colors partway through painting, or customers who couldn’t make up their minds in the first place.

  There was something odd about the way he smiled. “My employer, has been known to be... difficult.”

  The elusive tone he used gave me the feeling Mr. Bentley was a little bit more than just difficult.

  “The designer I hire will need to have a strong b
ackbone,” he finished.

  I chuckled. “If there’s one thing I’m known for, Mr. Franklin, it’s my backbone… and my sensational interior design skills, of course.”

  That earned me a pleased smile. “What do you do in your free time, Ms. Paulson?”

  What the hell difference does that make?

  The question caught me off guard, but I tried not to let it throw me off my game. Was it a test? Was he looking to play armchair psychologist and try to judge my personality based on how I spent my off hours?

  A million different answers spun through my head as I tried to second guess how they'd be interpreted, but in the end, I just decided to go with the truth.

  I'd never been a good liar anyway.

  “I watch a lot of cooking shows and true crime documentaries.”

  There. I said it. Judge as you will.

  To his credit, he didn’t look completely put off. “So you like to cook?”

  "No," I replied, hoping I successfully stopped myself from wincing noticeably. After all, that was everyone's usual assumption. "I just find it soothing to watch other people cook."

  He chuckled, and I couldn’t tell whether it was a with-me or an at-me situation. Had I just completely blown the interview by not having a life? I knew I should have taken up Cressida on her suggestion to try hot yoga.

  “What’s your favorite cooking show?” He threaded his fingers together on the desk, looking as if he had all the time in the world.

  “Anything Jamie Oliver does, probably. He’s got a really easygoing way of looking at life and cooking.”

  “Jamie Oliver’s an idiot.”

  “And to think, he speaks so highly of you,” I retorted. Then I realized what I’d said and my mouth dropped open. “I’m so sorry! I shouldn’t—”

  Todd put up a hand, halting me mid-apology. “That will do, Ms. Paulson.” This time when he chuckled, it was definitely at me. “That was just a little test to see how you handled your opinions being questioned or mocked.”

  I knew there’d be a test!

  “And I passed with flying colors?” His smile was neither an affirmation nor a denial. This guy was impossible to read.

  “I have a few more candidates to interview,” he said, “but I should be able to let you know within a few days if your application has been successful.”

  I gulped. I was being dismissed and we’d barely even spoken about the job.

  Crap.

  “Thank you, Mr. Franklin. I appreciate your consideration,” I said, accepting my defeat.

  He rose from the desk, sending his chair scraping across the hardwood. “Follow me please. I’ll show you out.”

  He walked me back the way we’d come in, and the thoughts I’d had upon entering the space resurfaced.

  “This antechamber is a waste of space,” I mused, more to myself than anyone else.

  “Why do you say that?”

  I flinched, not having expected Todd to be listening, and pointed to the small desk in the corner—the space’s only occupant. “All this space for a little desk? I know these kinds of rooms had purpose back in the day, but they’re outdated now.” I pressed a hand against the wood-paneled wall. “These will hold if you take the dividing wall out. I’d suggest adding more space to the library.”

  “Interesting,” he noted, continuing on to the foyer. “Anything else?”

  I snorted, pointing to the resplendent crystal chandelier that crowned the grand space. “Unless Andrew Lloyd Webber lives here, the chandelier has got to go. If the person you hire tells you different, they’re a fool.”

  He waited politely by the front door. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Amusement glinted in his eye.

  “Final word of advice,” I said, pointing to the curving staircase up to the landing on the second floor. “Gut the whole foyer. Put in a double L staircase with a pendant chandelier.”

  “I think Mr. Bentley is quite fond of the foyer as it is,” Todd replied.

  I laughed and shook my head. “He might be, but I guarantee you his guests aren’t. It’s pretentious.”

  Hell, if I was going out, I was going out in style. Even if he didn’t hire me, Todd would remember me.

  “There’s another keypad on this side of the gate,” Todd said, opening the door for me. “If you press the call button on it, I’ll open it so you don’t need to exert yourself physically again.”

  “Uh, thanks.” I stepped out onto the front porch and waved at him. “I hope to hear from you.”

  I turned away, keeping my face bright until he couldn’t see it. My hope could not compete with the doubt that hung heavy in my stomach.

  2

  Elizabeth

  I was barely in my front door before Cressida thrust a glass of white wine in one hand and a mozzarella stick, still warm from the oven, into the other.

  And who said living with a roommate was a bad thing.

  “Wine while you whine?” she inquired in a dignified tone.

  I laughed and took a bite of the cheese stick, passing the wine back to her momentarily while I slipped out of my coat and boots. I often wondered if she had some sort of sixth sense when it came to cheering people up. All I’d texted her was that I was on my way home.

  “I’m so happy to see you,” I cooed.

  “Thought you might be,” she replied.

  I giggled and snatched the wine glass back out of her hand. “I was talking to the wine.”

  “I know,” she winked.

  Cressida always knew the right thing to say when I was down. We met in university, back when I’d thought I wanted to be a teacher, and had been inseparable ever since. She was the only person who’d enthusiastically supported me when I changed my major to art and design in junior year, and had continued this support when I pursued a diploma in interior design after graduation.

  “I think I just screwed up the highest profile job I’ll ever get the opportunity to interview for.”

  Cressida waved a dismissive hand at me. “Oh shush,” she said. “It’s a wonder you ever get anything done with that dark cloud hanging over your head. Now come sit down and enjoy your vino with me. I made classy hors d'oeuvres.”

  I smiled and followed her into the kitchen, where she’d set up a platter of mozzarella sticks and spring rolls in the middle of the table. Raising my eyebrow, I asked, “What happened to the classy ones? Did you eat them already?”

  She plunked down into her seat and gave me a flat look. “I didn’t have time to run to the grocery store, okay? I had to make do.” She gestured to the seat across from her with a flourish of her hand. “Besides, you love this shit.”

  She had me there. I sat down and shoved the rest of my mozza stick in my mouth, washing it down with a hearty sip of wine. “This is delicious,” I said. “What vintage is it?”

  She leaned back and opened the fridge door, craning her neck to peer inside. “Uh, that would be the 2016 Yellowtail Pinot Grigio,” she said. “In a box, to preserve its coveted plastic-y taste.”

  I swirled my glass, sniffing appreciatively. All wine usually smelled the same to me. “I’m getting notes of onion and garlic. Has it been in the fridge long?”

  She sat forward and closed the door, picking up her own glass and giving it a shrewd look. “Yes, about two weeks I believe.” She took a dainty sip. “I believe it is now at its peak in terms of flavor and depth.”

  We both descended into fits of giggles.

  “I’m sorry that the interview didn’t go well,” she said once she’d calmed back down. “I’m sure it went better than you thought though.”

  I sighed and took another sip of the tart liquid. Then I pointed to the fridge.

  Cressida glanced back. “Are you pointing to the paper you stuck on there?” she asked.

  I nodded. The tiny square was blank, save for five numbers—88764. “That’s the code for the front gate. The guy I interviewed with told me it over the phone and I figured I’d just bring the paper with me when I went.”

&nbs
p; “And you forgot?” she filled in.

  I nodded grimly. “Big time. And then I panicked and did the only rational thing I could think of.”

  “You pressed the buzzer and got him to let you in?”

  “Apparently everyone knows about buzzers on gates except me. So no, I climbed over the gate. Like a total weirdo.” I popped the last bite of a cheese stick into my mouth to keep from sighing as Cressida buckled over with laughter.

  “You did not.”

  “I did,” I confirmed. “And of course, that meant I couldn’t drive up their insanely long driveway so I had to walk, but then I was going to be late so that turned into a run. I swear to god that thing could double as a runway for the private plane I’m sure they have stashed somewhere on the property.”

  Cressida’s coarse laughter continued. I waited it out with another mouthful of wine and a hefty dose of glare. Her long blonde hair rolled over and covered her face. She didn’t even bother to push it away.

  Just as quickly as she’d dissolved, Cressida sobered up. “But then I’m sure you wowed him, right?”

  “Well, it started well…” I shrugged.

  Her fierce blue eyes narrowed on me. Because of her lean frame, she often reminded me of an elf when she looked at me like that.

  “Until I got snarky with him because he said Jamie Oliver’s an idiot.”

  She snorted. “Well you were right to do so,” she replied. “Nobody talks about our Jamie like that.”

  I leaned back into the chair, sliding my socked feet along the cool linoleum. “And I’m sure it will come as a great comfort to me, when I’m forced to subsist on ramen noodles for the next six months, that I defended the honor of a multimillionaire celebrity chef that lives thousands of miles away.”

  “I wouldn’t worry too much about it, hon,” she said. “Did he actually say it was a no?”

  I shook my head. “He said he had other people to interview and that he’d call me when he knew.”