Her Bad Boy Billionaire Lover (Billionai)

chapter One

Miami

Someone was watching her.

Megan McLean glanced over her shoulder at the laughing crowd milling about on deck. Women in jaunty nautical outfits, men in blazers complete with gold crests on the breast pockets--everyone seemed engrossed in conversation. Not a single pair of eyes was turned toward her.

The odd feeling receded but didn't quite disappear. She turned toward the woman standing next to her at the railing.

"Sorry," she said. "You were saying?"

"You look green," said Sandy, a travel agent from Orlando. "Do you need Dramamine?"

Megan shook her head. Seasickness was the least of her problems. From the first moment she saw the Sea Goddess, resplendent in the Florida sunshine, she'd been awash in bittersweet memories. How many times had she stood on the deck of a yacht, equally as majestic, and considered the event as commonplace as brushing her teeth?

Another lifetime, she thought. Another world.

"It's the strangest thing," she said, casting a second glance over her shoulder as she brushed away the hand of memory. "Ever since we boarded, I've had the feeling someone is watching me."

"Of course someone's watching you," Sandy said with a laugh. She gestured subtly toward a woman in a white jumpsuit who stood, talking seriously, with a man in his dotage. "Celia Briscoe."

"From Celia's Cuisine?"

"The competition is everywhere, Megan. You won't be able to peel a potato without having an audience."

"Maybe that's it," she said after a moment, although she didn't entirely believe her own words. Professional scrutiny was three parts competition and one part curiosity, more cerebral than visceral. This, however, was something else. Something more personal, more sexual, a sensation that made her acutely aware of the way the sultry breezes caressed her cheek and conjured up fantasies of remote tropical islands made for romance.

"I don't envy you having to cater meals for this crowd," Sandy went on, adjusting her straw hat to a more rakish angle. "The competition is pretty intense, although I can't figure out why the owners of the Sea Goddess don't just hire themselves some fancy French chef and be done with it."

"They have," said Megan, "but you can't expect a demi-god to work a sixteen hour shift. The artistes only handle the dinner crowd." Management--whoever they might be--intended to hire an independent firm to prepare breakfast, lunch, and high tea with both flair and attention to detail, American style. This knack for avoiding the obvious had the owners of Tropicale Cruises sitting on the biggest potential goldmine since the heyday of the Queen Mary.

Sandy gestured toward a silver-haired man near the door to Promenade Deck. "Do you think he's one of the owners?"

"Could be," said Megan. "He certainly looks like he could afford it."

Word had it that a group of enterprising businessmen had bought the Sea Goddess, a two hundred and eighty-two foot yacht, from a once-powerful tycoon who was down on his luck and the businessmen had transformed the private yacht into a commercial enterprise. No one knew exactly who the businessmen were, but their brilliant marketing was fast becoming the stuff of legend.

The Sea Goddess was positioned to provide the ultimate in affordable luxury for travelers who wanted the best but didn't want to go to the Riviera to find it. Yankee grandeur, the Miami newspapers had called it and it seemed to Megan they were right on target with that assessment.

"Over there," said Sandy, nudging Megan again. "The man in the dark blue polo shirt. Isn't that a Rolex watch he's wearing?"

"A knock-off," Megan said. "A good one, but not the real thing."

Sandy eyed her with curiosity. "You sound pretty sure of yourself."

"I am," said Megan. Once upon a time this had been her world. Gold watches, diamond tennis bracelets, dinner at the Club--they had all been as commonplace to her as Timex watches, costume jewelry, and lunch beneath the Golden Arches were to her now.

This time, however, she was there to work, not assess the scenery.

The Moveable Feast, the catering firm Megan and her partner Ingrid owned, had been summoned on this cruise, singled out of a hundred other catering firms in the area. Firms, Megan suspected, that were equally as good as theirs. Not that she was asking any questions. She wanted this contract badly, and she was determined to bring all of her culinary skills to the table in order to make the deal.

Megan's free-wheeling imagination coupled with her partner's keen business sense had made them a duo to be reckoned with. Five years ago she'd shown up on Ingrid's doorstep, with Jenny in her arms and hope in her heart, to apply for the job of Stace's nanny. Who would have imagined that she would end up with not only a best friend but a business partner?

They had earned this opportunity through talent and hard work and Megan knew in her bones that securing a place on the staff of the Sea Goddess would move them into the big time. Ingrid said they were doing fine without the Tropicale franchise, but Megan was determined to see it through to even greater success.

Strange how much she'd taken for granted when she was growing up. Ballet lessons. Horseback riding. Wednesday afternoon lunches at the Club where she'd learned the difference between eating and dining. Her closet had bulged with lacy party dresses and cashmere sweaters and tennis shoes coordinated to match her play suits. Once upon a time she'd believed that was the way life was for everybody...the way life always would be for her.

Well, she'd learned otherwise and, to her amazement, she'd survived. The very things she'd longed for during her brief marriage, things her sexy but struggling husband couldn't provide, had proved to be unimportant. She could do without lunches at the Club and fancy dresses and all the other luxuries she'd once taken for granted. If only she'd learned that before her marriage broke up, she and Jake might have had a chance.

Not that it mattered. The only thing that mattered now was nailing the contract with Tropicale and taking another step toward securing the future for her daughter.



#



Jake watched her from the uppermost deck.

Six years since he had held her in his arms.

Six years since he'd tasted her lips.

Six years since he'd known the sweet secrets of her body.

All the places he'd seen, the things he'd done, the women he'd known--vanished, all of them, in the blink of an eye. Every cell and fiber of his body ached for her. Her power over him was stronger and even more demanding than his need to show her that he had succeeded.

She leaned against the railing, her fiery auburn hair a sleek line against her cheek, as she gazed out at the sun-splashed wake that trailed behind the ship and it was all he could do to keep from pulling her into his arms and having her right there on the deck.

He wanted to hate her. Everything about her screamed privilege, from her glossy hair to the expensive shoes on her feet. She stood there, head held high, as if she owned the Sea Goddess and everyone on it. Every casual movement was imbued with an arrogant grace, an elegant disdain that told a man he could look but he couldn't touch.

This wasn't about reunions, he warned himself. This was about putting the past to rest once and for all and getting on with his life.

He'd come so far since she'd seen him last. No longer struggling to find success, he had accomplished more than even he had dared to dream. He had come to America in search of success and he had found it a thousandfold. Big dreams and a little luck can take even a down-on-his-luck bloke from the Outback straight to the top. He had the respect and admiration of his colleagues. He owned homes in three countries and more cars than he knew what to do with. Everything he touched turned to gold and he was lucky enough to have the time and the inclination to enjoy every bit of it.

The sailboat of his dreams, built by the best in the business, waited at the marina in Maui. He could do it now, sail off into the endless sunset while his fortune grew bigger and his future more secure. It's what he'd wanted to do since he was old enough to spin a dream and there was nothing to stop him.

Except Megan.

Spoiled, selfish, impossibly beautiful Megan. The woman he'd loved and hated and never been able to forget.

And, damn it, the woman he still wanted more than any woman he'd ever known.



#



Dinner was superb as Megan had known it would be. Medallions of veal so tender they melted in her mouth. The use of coriander in the sauce had been subtle and effective, and she made a mental note to try adapting that technique to her own repertoire. Someone had wisely seen to it that the caterers vying for position on the Sea Goddess were seated at separate tables and so she'd found herself actually enjoying herself. Sandy and her sister Val, partners in a travel agency, had a comically adversarial relationship that kept Megan amused from appetizers through dessert.

"...so if it hadn't been for Val, I would never have taken time to go on vacation." Sandy's husky laugh rang out as they strolled into the lounge for after-dinner drinks.

"She's married to her work," Val said ruefully.

Sandy shot her sister a glance sharp as a razor's edge. "Beats being married to Harry."

Megan said nothing, just smiled absently at the women's good-natured banter. She was glad for their company. The last thing she'd expected was to feel uncomfortable amidst the splendor of the Sea Goddess but there it was. She'd thought it would be easy to fall into the old ways, downing Veuve Clicquot as if it were water, eating caviar and laughing the carefree laugh of a woman who'd never known anything but the best. But the old ways no longer fit and she doubted they ever would again.

After dinner they strolled the deck for a while then stopped in the lounge for a drink.

"Over there," said Megan, pointing to a trio of swivel chairs against the starboard wall of windows.

"God," Val breathed. "That view...."

The beauty of the moon's crystallized reflection on the calm black sea was so achingly romantic that Megan quickly turned away. Some things were meant to be shared.

Small candles burned at each table, providing a soft and sensual glow. The dark richness of the brandy, the lush music from the quartet in the far corner of the room--it all conspired to remind her of another time and place when life had seemed so simple.

Even now, on a yacht headed toward the open sea, light years away from the life she and Jake had once shared, she found her thoughts drawn back to a time that no longer existed. Lazy Sundays in bed and nights of ecstasy beyond a woman's wildest dreams. But there was more than that, much more. There were days when she wondered if maybe, just maybe, they could have made their marriage work. He didn't want to hear about white picket fences and a bouquet of beautiful babies. His background hadn't taught him how to dream those particular dreams.

"A beautiful boat, Meggie," he'd said to her so many times. "With only the two of us for company...."

"Or three of us," she'd said, thinking of a baby with his golden eyes.

No babies. No children to tie them down to real life. He wasn't father material and never would be.

She smoothed her hair off her forehead with an impatient gesture. For all she knew Jake was back in Australia or exploring Timbuktu, chasing crocodiles or beautiful blondes--whatever his current pleasure might be. Certainly the last place he'd be was on a cushy cruise with a bunch of overfed, over-eager businessmen.

No, that had never been Jake's style.

He'd been her poet, her dark knight in shining armor, the renegade lover of her girlish dreams. "One day we'll sail around the world," he'd promised her. Just the two of them, naked beneath a blanket of stars. His dreams had been as wild and unbridled as his lovemaking, and every bit as seductive.

With all her heart and soul she'd wanted to believe he could make the facts of their daily life vanish. But she'd been too young, too spoiled, so accustomed to being indulged that she simply didn't know how to believe in him.



#



She was nineteen when they met, Darrin McLean's headstrong daughter. Born and raised in the rarified atmosphere of Palm Beach, rubbing shoulders with Whitneys and Posts, she had never seen the other side of life.

The wild side.

She'd wanted to kick free the traces of privilege and a long weekend seemed the answer to her prayers. Innocent, petulant, thoroughly spoiled, she'd been more girl than woman, oddly shielded from reality by the cushion of her father's wealth.

Key West was everything she'd hoped it would be: slightly tacky, somewhat decadent, filled with possibilities.

Volleyball, however, wasn't one of the possibilities she was interested in pursuing. Instead she'd stretched out on a yellow beach towel, eyes closed, listening to the sounds of the ocean slapping against the shore and the excited laughter of her friends as they played volleyball down the beach.

She'd been drifting into a light doze when he approached.

"Are you asleep?" His voice was rough honey pouring over her. The accent was both foreign and familiar, that blend of British inflection and American energy that was pure Australian.

Her eyes fluttered open. "Not now, thanks to you."

"Good. Sleeping's a waste of time."

She propped herself up on her elbow and took a good look at the man who stood in front of her. Nothing about him was familiar or comforting. He had danger written all over him, from his broad shoulders to the rippling muscles of his chest and belly. Certainly she'd never seen his type on the air-brushed beaches of Palm. Backlit by the fierce sun, he glowed with an aura of raw strength and sexuality.

Ah yes. This was danger. A walk on the wild side of love. A delicious ripple of excitement began in the pit of her stomach.

Smiling with the confidence peculiar to a girl who had never known rejection, she tossed her hair back from her face. This was a game she knew and understood. The parry and thrust of flirtation. The delicate art of promises no one expected you to keep.

He dropped to his knees next to her and she caught the sun-warmed scent of his skin. His eyes were an odd shade of deep amber, framed by spiky dark lashes that made the color all the more striking. A slow heat radiated out from her core.

"Do my back, would you?" he asked. His wicked grin said something else entirely.

"I'll do your back," she said lightly, "if you promise to do mine."

"Anything you want." His dark gaze lingered on her breasts which strained against the two triangles of fabric covering them.

No, she'd never seen a man like him before, not anywhere. Everything about him, from his chestnut hair streaked from the sun to his bronzed frame screamed danger. He wore cut-offs and a wicked grin and she knew that if she lived to be a thousand years old she would never find a man more perfect for her.

Nothing else mattered. Not reason or propriety or the fact that they hadn't a chance in the world to make it work.

One month later they were married.

One year later they divorced. Clean, neat, and painless.

Except for the fact that Megan was pregnant with his child.



#



Val's voice brought Megan back to the present.

"Look at that," said Val as Sandy accepted an invitation to dance from a balding man with a wide smile. "I would've figured he was on his way to ask you to dance. I saw the way he was checking out that strapless gown of yours."

"We had a run-in on the stairs earlier," Megan said with a rueful smile. "I'm afraid he can't control those hands of his. The sea air must do something to their hormones."

As if on cue, a young man in an Armani jacket sidled up to her and held out his hand.

Be nice, she warned herself. His daddy might own the company.

"Yes?" she asked, as politely and sweetly as she could manage.

"Dance," he said, obviously a man of few syllables. "How 'bout it?"

She upped the wattage on her smile. "Sorry," she said lightly. "Not tonight."

He hesitated, debating the wisdom of pursuing the issue, but she swiveled her chair around once again, cutting short the encounter.

Val looked at her with open curiosity. "A bit brusque, weren't you?"

"Why lead him on?" Megan said.

"That wasn't a marriage proposal," said Val. "Just your run-of-the-mill rhumba."

She shrugged, feeling the uncomfortable pinch of the truth. Just yesterday Ingrid had lectured her on her non-existent social life. You have a wall around you, Megan. There's a big wide world out there beyond work. It's time you took a bite out of it.

She'd convinced herself that being Jenny's mother was enough, that The Moveable Feast could fill whatever empty spaces remained inside her heart at night when she was alone in bed with the sultry breeze whispering through the curtains at her window, reminding her that before she knew it she'd be thirty, then forty, then grandmother to Jenny's children and sensual love would be a distant memory as faded as flowers in a forgotten scrapbook.

She laughed softly at the lie. Every caress, every hot wet kiss, every second of exhilarating passion that she and Jake had shared seemed as if they had happened last night.

Memory was a treacherous thing. Arguments and unpaid bills were long forgotten, but the freckle on his left shoulder blade or the way he looked at the moment when he . . . oh, those memories were still there, waiting.

If only she could see him again, talk to him, be with him, burn him from her memory once and for all so she could get on with her life. Was that so much to ask?

"Save me from travel agents with dancing feet." Sandy reclaimed her seat next to Megan.

Megan spun around in her seat, grateful to be pulled away from her thoughts. "That bad?"

"The worst. Someone repossessed his sense of rhythm and forgot to tell him." She sipped her creme de menthe. "Of course, there was one good thing about the experience: I got a close-up of that gorgeous piano player." She sighed dramatically. "Now that was one fine specimen."

"I hadn't noticed."

Sandy lowered her voice conspiratorially. "My dear, this one is hard to miss. Tall, dark, golden brown eyes to die for. And that voice! I tell you it just doesn't get much better than that boy."

An odd sensation grabbed Megan by the throat. "What about his voice?"

"Oh, you know," said Sandy, waving a hand in the air as she searched for the right words. "One of those gritty voices that manage to sound smart and sexy and savage at the same time. An Aussie, I think."

Megan glanced across the room toward the man at the piano. He sat in shadow, head down, long and tapering fingers moving across the ivory keys. There was something about the curve of his neck, the pure masculine grace of his movements that made her heart swell with emotion.

"What about those shoulders?" mused Sandy. "I wonder if he ever played football."

He wasn't a brilliant piano player. His hands were too large for finesse, his movements too strong for delicacy. The softer notes of the song were trampled over by his extremely male approach. She wondered how a man like that had managed to snare a position on the Sea Goddess. Unless, of course, the powers-that-be had decided every seagoing vessel needed a resident Adonis to stride among the mortals.

She knew all about Adonises. She'd married one. Adonises didn't fare well when it came to real life. When push came to shove, they abandoned the mortal women who loved them and retreated back to Mount Olympus where they could frolic with goddesses.

Turn around, Megan whispered silently. Let me see you....

The lights went up and he turned around and what she'd been dreaming of and dreading and praying for the last six years finally happened.

Jake Lockwood was back in her life.