Billionaire's Full Disclosure (Billionaires #1)

Chapter 1

THE PUZZLE

Summer Knoll

Iwalk straight into him.

Not metaphorically. A full shoulder-to-chest collision, champagne sloshing, my clutch hitting the marble floor.

I've hit a wall of muscle that doesn't move on impact. But this wall smells of starched linen and something warmer underneath.

Neither observation matters right now. I'm too busy being mortified that I've just assaulted a stranger in the Grand Ballroom of the Plaza.

"Careful, Miss Knoll."

My stomach drops before my eyes do. I know that voice.

I've listened to it for hours over the past three months. Podcast interviews, keynote clips, three separate CNBC appearances.

I transcribed them by hand because my recorder keeps cutting out. Ezra Kittredge. My target.

The man I used my press badge and a thrifted Valentino knockoff to get within twenty feet of. He's standing in front of me now, the subject of my assault.

"I'm sorry," I say, still mortified. "Wait. How do you know my name?"

I look now. Sandy hair, artfully disheveled in the way that absolutely requires effort.

His bright blue eyes carry a private joke that I must not be in on. They are laughing.

The charcoal Brioni suit costs more than three months of my rent.

On his wrist sits a Patek Philippe in rose gold. The kind of watch that doesn't announce itself because it doesn't need to.

He's more attractive than he has a right to be. Forbes calls him "Silicon Valley's favorite gambler."

None of which explains how he knows I exist.

"I've read your piece on Meridian Holdings," he says.

He bends, picks up my clutch, and hands it back with the casual grace of a man who has never worried about dropping anything in his life.

"Have you?" My voice comes out calm. It hides the shock entirely.

"It lacks substance,” he replies.

The words land like a slap.

Around us, conversations stutter.

A donor in a sequined gown stops mid-sentence, snagged by the sudden charge in the air.

"Then perhaps you're not looking deep enough," I hear myself reply.

What the fuck, mouth… We did not authorize that.

But I refuse to back down.

Maybe it's the champagne.

Maybe it's three months of dead ends and anonymous tips and the creeping fear that this story is slipping through my fingers.

Maybe it's the way he looks at me like something mildly interesting he found on the bottom of his shoe.

His expression doesn't change. But something flickers behind his eyes.

Interest, maybe. Or the look a cat gives a mouse before deciding whether it's worth the effort.

"That's your defense?" He doesn't step back. "Challenging my reading comprehension?"

"If the shoe fits." I lift my chin. "Maybe the problem isn't my substance. Maybe it's your attention span."

Silence. The sequined donor has fully stopped pretending not to watch.

Then Ezra smiles. It transforms his face.

Not softer, exactly. More dangerous, like a storm deciding whether to break.

That crooked front tooth he's famously never fixed catches the chandelier light.

"You've got a mouth on you, Miss Knoll."

"So I've been told."

"Usually people wait until they know me before insulting me."

"Consider me efficient."

His laugh is unexpected. Short, sharp, genuine. It makes him even more attractive, and I suspect he doesn't do it often enough.

A PR handler materializes at his elbow, her smile rigid with professional panic. "Mr. Kittredge, perhaps we should?—"

"Not now, Diana."

The words are absolute. He doesn't take his eyes off me.

Diana retreats without another word. In that single exchange I understand exactly how much power this man holds.

Not with threats or volume. With the quiet certainty that his words are the only ones that matter.

The connection between us should terrify me. Truthfully, it does.

Underneath the fear sits something else I refuse to name and will not let show.

My phone buzzes in my clutch. I ignore it.

"You're here for a story," Ezra says.

"I'm here as press for the event."

"Liar." He says it almost fondly. "You've got the look journalists get when they smell blood."

"And what look do billionaires get when they're being investigated?"

"Usually bored." He tilts his head and studies me the way I imagine he studies balance sheets, looking for the number that doesn't fit. "You're not boring me, Miss Knoll. That's either very good or very bad for you."

My phone buzzes again. I glance down. My editor's name, with a text preview: No protection if you get tossed.

Right. Getting thrown out of the Kittredge Gala would make the story much harder to land.

When I look back up, something has shifted in his face. The public performance has cracked, just for a moment, and underneath it is something I wasn't expecting.

Then it's gone. Years of interviews have taught me to catch those flickers, the truth that surfaces in the space between masks.

"You should visit me at the Incubator," he says. "If you can keep up."

"The Tech Incubator?" I blink. "That's not exactly relevant to a gala piece."

"But it's relevant to whatever you're actually writing. I'd prefer you have an accurate picture before you publish one."

He's right. And this is an offer. A gift, even.

The kind of access that could blow my story wide open. Unless it's just a way to get me alone, which would make it a trick.

But do I really care? Either I get my story or I get to be alone with him.

The thought surprises even me. Of course the story is the most important thing.

"Why?" I ask. "If you think I'm here to dig up dirt, why invite me deeper?"

"Maybe I like watching people try and fail. I like it when they find something they didn't expect about me."

"That's not an answer. I'm looking for facts about your business. I don't have any preconceived opinions." I lie.

"Refreshing to hear. All the more reason to invite you to the Incubator, so you can tell the world about the good I'm doing."

The words hang there, a challenge wrapped in a taunt.

Every lesson I've learned since Derek says walk away. My ex, the one who disappeared with my credit score and two years of my life.

Every one of those lessons has also kept me safe, small, and invisible. I'm tired of being invisible. I want to be relevant.

"Not without terms," I hear myself say.

His eyebrow lifts. "Terms?"

"I'm not agreeing to a PR project. If I visit your Incubator, I'm going as a journalist doing her job. No pre-approval. No censorship. I print whatever I find."

"And if what you find isn't flattering?"

"Then you probably shouldn't invite me."

He holds my gaze with a grin that feels like a tease. Then he reaches into his jacket and produces a card.

Heavy paper, embossed lettering. A deliberate bit of the old-world in a digital everything world.

"Noon tomorrow. My office. We'll discuss the terms." He presses it into my palm.

His fingers brush mine. His skin is warm, his hands callused in places that don't belong to a man who lives in boardrooms.

The contact lasts less than a second. It does something to my pulse that I don't expect.

I pull my hand back. "Noon works."

"My world on the line," he adds. Then he turns and walks away.

He disappears into the crowd like he never upended my entire evening, and possibly my entire circulatory system too.

I look down at the card. Just an address and a time.

No explanation. No safety net.

"Jesus Christ," I mutter.

"You're staring."

I nearly choke on air. The voice comes from beside me.

A woman in her fifties, silver hair swept back, a knowing smile, her champagne glass held like a prop.

"Sorry?"

"At Ezra. Everyone does, the first time." Her smile sharpens. "Cordelia Vance. Foundation board. And you're the Knoll girl. I've read your Meridian work too."

"You know my work?"

"Darling, I know everyone's work." She studies me over her glass. "Word of advice. Ezra eats journalists for breakfast. Whatever you're hunting, hunt carefully."

She melts back into the crowd before I can respond. Like a ghost, leaving a warning and the uncomfortable sense of having been simultaneously helped and threatened.

Fantastic.

I grab another champagne from a passing server and let myself look around for the first time all evening.

The crystal chandeliers are the size of small cars. Diamonds drip casually from wrists, throats, and ears.

The air smells of expensive cologne and fresh flowers, and underneath both is the particular scent of old money. It smells, I've decided, exactly like certainty.

They know they belong here. I do not.

I work the room anyway, because it's the job. I gather quotes for the gala piece.

I pass a cluster of tech founders discussing "synergistic disruption" with the fervor of converts, and catch one fragment as I go.

"Heard he's looking at Baythorne Tech next. If Ezra invests, we're all getting rich."

I file the name and keep moving.

By the time I make it back to my walk-up two hours later, my feet are screaming and my head is full of noise.

I kick off my heels on the landing. The old radiator clanks its usual greeting.

The view from my kitchen window is the same brick wall it was this morning.

I pull the card from my clutch and look at it again. Heavy, expensive paper. It feels dangerous.

Noon, tomorrow. My world is on the line.

I want a neutral location, not his office. I want to be the one who picks it.

I drop onto my couch and tip my head back against the cushion. The water stain I've been meaning to report for eight months stares down at me.

The smart move is to ignore the invitation. Write the approved gala piece, collect my modest paycheck, pretend Ezra Kittredge never looked at me with any kind of interest.

But the smart move has never been my strong suit.

My phone buzzes. How's the gala? Any scandals? Send pics of rich people being ridiculous. Kenzie.

She’s my best friend since high school and has stuck with me through college. We have too much history for me to ever leave me. She could do some real damage.

I type back: Define ridiculous.

Three dots. Summer Knoll. Don't you dare.

I may have insulted Ezra Kittredge in front of approximately forty donors.

The dots appear and disappear twice. Excuse me?

He called my Meridian piece substance-free. I may have suggested the problem was his attention span.

I AM CALLING YOU.

Don't. I need to think.

Think about WHAT.

I look at the card. He's giving me access to the Incubator. We're meeting tomorrow to discuss terms.

The longest pause yet. Summer. That's your story.

I know.

That's THE story.

I know.

You're going.

I don't answer. I get up instead and walk to my bedroom, still in the knockoff Valentino.

I pull my good blazer from the closet and hang it on the back of the door where I'll see it first thing. I set my recorder on the dresser next to my keys, plug my phone in, set the alarm for seven.

Finally I lay the card on my nightstand, face up.

My phone buzzes one last time. You're going, aren't you?

I pick it up. Type a single word. Hit send before I can talk myself out of it.

Yes.