The Billionaire’s Ride (Falling For A London Billionaire #1)

1. Kate

Chapter One

KATE

Erect nipples are so 2002. Who knew that London in June is as chilly as December in Santa Monica?

“Kate!” my publicist, Garret, calls up ahead as stylish partygoers strut the sidewalk like a runway toward the entrance. Despite the eleven-hour flight from Los Angeles, his skin and hair appear flawless. But as I get closer, it’s clear that his face has been freshly airbrushed and his hair recently highlighted. Though he technically works behind the scenes, Garret’s as good-looking and fit as any Hollywood celebrity. It’s like he always says— your face is your business card .

His gaze drops down to his phone, and the tiny screen hypnotizes him. “Nice nipples.”

“Is it that obvious?” I adjust my angelic pink strapless dress once again.

“Let’s just say I saw them before I saw you.”

I quickly shield my chest with my pearl-studded clutch, almost envying his seriously loud but much warmer, black-and-gold designer silk shirt buttoned up to his neck.

“But don’t worry. I’m sure some straight guy here will love your accessories,” he continues, tucking the distracting device in his tailored pants pocket.

I let out a small laugh. “I’m here for business, not pleasure.”

“Honey, you design lingerie. You’re in the business of pleasure.” That may be true. But I can’t remember the last time I experienced real pleasure. Garret continues, “And after the year you’ve had, you could use a little F-U-N.”

After the year I’ve had, I’m not even sure I’m capable of having fun. I got so consumed in my work, building Kate Golden Lingerie into one of the top luxury negligee brands in the world. Until one day, I crashed. Literally. Fell over in my studio sewing a new piece after pulling an all-nighter. I was in the hospital for two days due to exhaustion. Frankly, it scared me.

I don’t know if it was the fear, the burnout, or both, but I had a terrible time creating after that. It was like I lost my mojo. Everyone who cared about me urged me to take time off. So I did. While I recuperated, my business suffered. A famous brand can only go so many seasons without new designs, and now my London boutique could close if I don’t make a comeback. Now.

That’s why I’m here. To show Kate Golden is back.

If only I can believe it myself.

Garret ushers me forward, and I lead the way inside the iron gates. “Oh, wait.” He steps aside, pulling me with him. “Your zipper’s falling.”

“It is?” I crane my neck. “Crap. I couldn’t get the damn clasp to close.” When I laid eyes on this one-of-a-kind designer dress two weeks ago, I fell in love. Usually, I’d never spend so much on a piece that doesn’t fit perfectly. But something came over me. I absolutely had to have it.

“I got it.” Garret pulls the fabric tighter, then zips me in. “There. We don’t need the little Katies making an appearance at the party. Then again, it could be good publicity for Kate Golden Lingerie.” He winks.

“I don’t think so,” I mutter through gritted teeth. “It’s bad enough you’ve got me posing in my panties for Lux Magazine . Now you want me showing off my goodies too?” I hate to admit it but the way sales have been going, maybe I should take him up on his offer.

He gives an innocent shrug. “It was just an idea. And speaking of Lux Magazine, what are the chances we’ll encounter The Nina Savoy?”

The famous editor-in-chief, known for her perfectly angled platinum bobbed hair, is usually a no-show among the glitterati crowd. “Slim. I heard she never comes out at her parties. It’s very Jay Gatsby.”

Garret’s gray-blue eyes widen. “Really? How have I never heard this?” He taps his finger on his chin. “What do you think she does while the rest of us drink all her booze?”

I purse my lips, which match my dress to a tee. “I don’t know. Probably hangs out in her chandelier-lit, temperature-controlled, three-hundred-square-foot closet deciding which of us designers live and which of us die.” Yes, that woman has the power to make or break a career.

We turn the corner, finding ourselves on a picturesque stone terrace overlooking a magnificent courtyard, skirted by a palace-like double grand staircase. Waiters in black ties balance champagne flutes on trays. Also very Gatsby.

I do a quick once-over of the crowd milling around. By the looks of it, Lux’s June issue models and designers are all here, chitchatting throughout the grounds and down into the courtyard with their pinkies raised high.

“This place is killer, right?” Garret asks as we proceed inside through the French doors. The temperature seems to rise as we walk through the crowd of voguish rock stars. London fashionites are a bit different from their Los Angeles counterparts. More fabulous hats in the U.K.

“Gorgeous.” The property is stunning, but I’m more interested in the killer couture. That is until I spot a familiar abstract drip painting. “Do you think that’s a real Jackson Pollock?” I ask, pointing in its direction.

Garret squints. “Looks real to me. What do you think it’s worth?”

I shoot him a cynical glance. “Enough to save my store.”

He frowns, knitting his perfectly shaped eyebrows. “Is the investor still coming to the runway show?”

“Potential investor,” I correct. “Yes, and if all goes well, I’ll close the deal before I fly back home. If not, bye-bye boutique.”

“Don’t worry, Kate. As soon as he sees those models in your lacy thongs, he’ll be begging to invest.”

“I hope you’re right.” I sigh, wondering if this season’s designs are good enough to impress London’s biggest venture capitalist firm. I can’t shake the feeling that my new pieces are missing something. A knot stitches in my stomach at the thought of utter failure.

A waiter carrying a few full champagne flutes comes our way. I could use a cocktail. Doing my best to make eye contact and get his attention, he still doesn’t see me. Maybe I’ve become as invisible as I’ve been feeling. I reach out and manage to grab a glass as he passes by.

Snap!

The sound of ripped seams is closer than desired. “Oh, my God.” My body stiffens, and I press my arms firmly against my sides, waiting for my dress to unravel and fall on the floor.

“What happened?” Garret asks.

I shift my eyes, nodding behind me. “I think the clasp just broke.”

He peeks around, returning with a cringe. “Yes, it did.”

My jaw clenches. “Shit.” Just my luck. Now, this too-tight dress at this too-snooty fashion party is becoming a serious liability.

“It’s fine. The zipper is fully intact.” He waves a dismissive hand. “No one will even notice.”

I drop my shoulders along with my eager smile. “Ugh. I should probably go.”

“What? Why? We just got here,” Garret whines.

“I’m jet-lagged. My dress is literally falling apart. And I’m just not in a party mood.” I lift my glass. “Cheers,” I say in a tone as bleak as the London sky, then down the whole drink.

His jaw drops. “Are you serious? This is exactly what I’m talking about. You need to have a little fun. At least stay for another drink. Besides, how many times in your life will you get to attend a party at Nina Savoy’s house?” The guy makes a good point. It’s a rare event, even in my crazy, Hollywood-centric world. You never know when you might make the perfect connection with someone in the biz.

“Fine. One more drink. And you’re on zipper watch until I leave here.” I jab my finger into his chest, and it nearly slips against the silky fabric.

He reaches for his phone. “Ooh, can I post that? Hashtag zipper watch.”

I narrow my eyes. “Very funny. Grab me a cosmopolitan, and I’ll think about letting you share my potential wardrobe malfunction .”

“You got a deal, Ms. Golden-if-you’re-nasty.” He swivels his neck, then glances around the room.

“The bar’s that way.” I point in the opposite direction.

Garret tilts his head. “I wasn’t looking for the bar.”

“You scopin’ out the London boys?” I give him a devilish smirk. Being a wingwoman is much easier than picking up men myself. Maybe it’s because I’m intrigued by so few. For me, it’s all about the guy’s shoes. I’m sick of suede hipster boots, rare high-top sneakers, and designer dress shoes. I want something unexpected. But not eccentric.

“I am, and you should too. Have some fun !” he sings and turns his attention back to the crowd.

“No, thanks. This is work. I cannot get distracted. Plus, I can’t bring myself to date ever since I went out with that guy who turned out to have a lingerie fetish.”

“Lingerie fetish . . . ? Like he was into you wearing lingerie, or he was into wearing your lingerie?”

I shift my stare, wishing I didn’t have to say, “Yeah, that one.”

He makes a face, then says, “Take it as a compliment. Stay here. I’ll get more drinks.”

Garret waltzes toward the bar while I survey the room’s black-and-white backdrop. The crowd and the Jackson Pollock are the only decorative pops of color, and the contrast is fabulous. It’s too bad Nina Savoy skipped out on the party. I want to thank her for the invitation and the upcoming spotlight spread for my lingerie line in the magazine. While I’m incredibly grateful for the opportunity, given my circumstances, I’m also hoping to talk her out of the proposed arrangement.

When we spoke on the phone last month, she insisted that I model the lingerie. Me. The designer who is so not a model. And I should know. My best friend in the world, Beau, used to be a model. But when Nina Savoy asks for something, she gets it.

Still, the thought of being half-naked in a room full of judgy editorial staff makes me want to barf up my airplane almonds. I constantly have to remind myself that it’s Lux Magazine . They’ll make me look ten years younger and ten pounds lighter. Besides, desperate times call for desperate measures.

Garret returns carrying a pair of classic martinis and hands me one.

“What? No cranberry juice?” I ask, frowning at the glass.

“Sorry, Carrie Bradshaw. They’re only serving clear liquid.”

“Seriously?” I glance around the room, peering right through every stemmed and short glass.

“We wouldn’t want to stain the white sofa or the white rug or the white armchair or anything else, now would we?” He leans his head side to side, mocking the rule.

Garret’s not much for rules, but I am. I totally get why she would want to protect her upholstered, white antique bench from an appalling red wine stain. I shrug and sip my dirty martini. Mmm, it may not be a cosmo, but it’s a damn good cocktail. I let out a long exhale, feeling my body relax and loosen. Perhaps I should grab a little snack before the alcohol completely goes to my head.

Garret and I stand quietly watching waify models strut in backless dresses and stylish men swagger in tightly tailored suits. One guy even sports a glistening diamond tarantula brooch on his lapel. They all seem to be glancing in the same general direction. When I turn toward whatever’s so captivating, I spy something less couture but just as appealing. Or should I say, someone . . .

The guy looks less like he stepped off the catwalk and more like he walked off the set of Rebel Without A Cause , the twenty-first-century remake. Definitely has that James Dean, bad boy thing going, with his black leather moto jacket, a hint of a beard, and dark hair just long enough to curl around the back of his ears.

He leans against the bar, sipping from a short glass of some clear liquor. And just as my nipples are settling, his whiskey-colored eyes glance my way, and they’re hard again. I want to turn away, pretend that I’m not totally eye-fondling him from afar like everyone else in the room. But it’s as if he’s caught me in a trance. I’m breathless and can’t escape until he lets me go.

For the first time in months, I no longer feel invisible.

The mystery man lifts his glass, sending me a nod. I return the gesture. His mouth draws up in a suggestive smile while those brown eyes penetrate me more deeply. And for a moment, I imagine what it might feel like if he . . .

Garret gasps, pointing across the room. “Oh, my God, is that Gigi Hadid?”

I snap out of it and force myself to follow Garret’s gaze. I lift up on my toes, peering through the crowd. With my heels, I’m barely five-seven. Then I spot the woman he’s eye-stalking. “No, that’s not her.”

“Damn!” He snaps his fingers.

I turn back toward the bar, but my modern James Dean has disappeared. Where did he go? Or am I so tired that I made him up?

Then, a strong hand slips right above my hip as my dress tightens around my bust.

Zip!

“Better?” A deep British bass vibrates next to my ear.