Beauty and the Billionaire (BILLIONAIRE BOYS CLUB NOVEL) Read online

  The Brotherhood had met like this once a week since their college days, vowing to help one another. At the time, it had seemed like an idealistic pledge—that those born with money would help the others succeed and, as a result, they would all rise to the top of the ladder of success.

  It had been an easy vow to make for Hunter. When Logan had befriended him in an economics class, he’d been oddly relieved to have a friend. After being home schooled for the majority of his education, Dartmouth seemed like a nightmare landscape to him. People were everywhere, and they stared at his hideous face and scarred arm like he was a freak. He had no roommate or companions to introduce him to others on campus, and so he’d lurked in the background of the bustling campus society, avoiding eye contact and being silent.

  Logan had been popular, wealthy, handsome, and outgoing, and he knew what he wanted and pursued it. Women flocked to him and other guys liked him. It had surprised Hunter when Logan had struck up a conversation with him one day. No one talked to the scarred outcast. But Logan had stared at Hunter’s scars for a long moment, and then gone right back to their economics homework, discussing the syllabus and how he felt the class was missing some of the vital concepts they would need to succeed. Hunter had privately agreed, having learned quite a bit of his father’s business on his own, and they’d shared ideas. After a week or two of casual conversation, Logan had taken him aside and suggested that Hunter attend a meeting he was putting together.

  It was a secret meeting, the kind legendary on Ivy League campuses and spoke about in hushed whispers. Hunter was immediately suspicious. As a Buchanan, his father was one of the wealthiest men in the nation, a legend among business owners for the sheer amount of property he owned. Their family name was instantly recognizable, and several of their houses were landmarks. His father’s real estate investments had made him a billionaire, and Hunter was his only heir. He’d learned long ago to suspect others of ulterior motives.

  But Logan was incredibly wealthy in his own right. He had no need for Hunter’s money. And Hunter was lonely, though he would never admit such things to anyone who asked. So he’d gone to the meeting, expecting it to be a scam or a joke—or worse, a shakedown.

  Instead, he’d been surprised. The six men attending had come from all walks of life and had a variety of majors. Reese Durham was attending college on a scholarship, and his clothes were ill-fitting hand-me-downs. He’d been ribbed about being a charity case by the other wealthy students, and he had gotten into a few fistfights. Ditto Cade Archer, though he was a favorite on campus with his easy, open demeanor and friendly attitude. His family did not come from money, and were up to their necks in debt to send Cade to college. He did recognize Griffin Verdi, the only foreigner. European and titled, the Verdi family was well connected with the throne of some obscure tiny country and still owned ancestral lands. And there was Jonathan Lyons, whose family had some wealth, but had lost it all in a business scandal.

  It was an eclectic group to say the least, and Hunter had been immediately wary. But once Logan had begun to speak, the reality of their gathering came to light: Logan Hawkings wanted to start a secret society. A brotherhood of business-oriented men who would help one another rise to the top of their selective fields. He believed that the ones that had power could use that leverage to elevate their friends, and in doing so, could expand upon their empire. And he’d selected like-minded individuals that he hoped would have the same goals as him.

  Hunter had been reluctant at first, since his family had the most money of all of the attendees. The others had been equally skeptical, of course. But once they began to talk, ideas were shared and concepts and strategies born. And Hunter realized that these men might not be after his family’s wealth after all, but to make some of their own.

  He’d joined Logan’s secret society. The Brotherhood was formed, and over time, he’d gone from no friends to having five men who were closer to him than brothers.

  And even though years had passed, they still met weekly (unless business travel prevented it) and still caught up with one another and shared leads.

  Until tonight, a woman had never been invited. The others had been unhappy at Logan’s invitation to Brontë, but Hunter didn’t mind. He was actually inwardly pleased, though he’d shown no outward reaction.

  Brontë’s inclusion into their secret meant that she would be around a lot more. And Brontë was good friends with his mysterious redhead—Gretchen.

  This was information that Hunter could use. And so he didn’t protest when Logan had brought her in. She’d given him plenty of information, too. His Gretchen was a writer. A ghostwriter. There had to be a way to get in contact with her. Spend time with her without arousing her suspicions. He simply wanted to be around her. To have a conversation with her. To enjoy her presence.

  Of course he wanted more, but a man like him knew his limits. He knew his face was unpleasant. He’d seen women clutch their mouths at the sight of him. He’d never have someone like Gretchen—smart, beautiful, funny—unless she was interested in his money. And the thought of that repulsed him.

  He’d take friendship with a beautiful woman, if friendship was all he could have.

  Chapter 2

  Gretchen Petty picked the lemon off her water glass. “Do you suppose if I take enough of these home, it’ll make me a decent dinner?”

  Across from her, Kat Garvey reached over the table and snatched the lemon wedge from Gretchen’s hands. “Stop it. You’re not that broke.”

  “I’m almost there,” Gretchen said glumly, shoving a straw into her glass and sipping her water. “The cupboard’s bare, and I’m weeks away from an acceptance payment.”

  “So I take it lunch is on me this time?” Kat asked dryly.

  Gretchen set down her glass and fluttered her eyelashes. “Why, Kat. It is so generous of you to offer.”

  “Don’t thank me. I’m taking it directly off the top of your next royalty check.”

  “In that case, I’m ordering dessert.”

  Kat just shook her head, grinning, and Gretchen blew a kiss at her. They’d started out as agent and client and over the last five years, had ended up as something more like friends and less like coworkers. It suited Gretchen just fine. Considering that she spent most of her days in front of the computer trying to keep ahead of deadlines, the only friends she got out to see were usually due to business lunches.

  “So how’s the book coming, Gretchen? As your agent, I’m obligated to ask you.” Kat took a bite of her pasta. “I know it’s not your favorite project.”

  “Favorite would be a grand overstatement,” Gretchen said, morosely jabbing her fork into her salad. “Something more like ‘greatest torture known to mankind’ would probably be closer to the mark.”

  Kat grimaced. “That well?”

  Gretchen shook her head, internally debating how much to share with her agent. She and Kat were good friends, but once she knew how much Gretchen had struggled with this project, it could be tricky. Kat would take the publisher’s side, not Gretchen’s. Kat was fun and a good friend, but when it came to work, Kat would follow the money.

  “Are we on track to turn in at the end of the month, at least?”

  “Mmmmmsure.” Gretchen gave a tiny shrug of her shoulders and didn’t make eye contact. “Or a week or so after. Maybe two.”

  “Gretchen,” Kat said, exasperated. “Are you serious? This is the fourth project you’ve been late on this year.”

  She grimaced, expecting this reaction. She didn’t have excuses to give, either. She stayed home and worked all day, but the projects she was getting were less than . . . exciting. And it made it damn hard to sit down and work on them every day. “I had to do a lot of science research,” Gretchen mumbled.

  “For Astronaut Bill and the Space Vixens of Dark Planet? Are you kidding me? It’s pulp, Gretchen! Granted, it’s pulp with a huge following, but it’s still
freaking pulp. Just write.”

  “Yeah, but have you read those books?”

  Kat snorted. “Not my type.”

  “Yeah, well that makes two of us. I had to read a few of them, too. And you know what happens in Astronaut Bill Conquers the Moon Maidens? He razes the planet of all greenery. All greenery, Kat! How the hell are they supposed to breathe if there’s nothing to produce oxygen?”

  “It’s space fantasy.” Kat waved a hand in the air. “Write in some robot oxygen makers or something.”

  “But it has to make sense,” Gretchen insisted. “I can’t just phone it in. I can’t write loopholes like that in the story.”

  She didn’t know why it mattered so darn much, but the thought of those stupid, big-breasted moon maidens asphyxiating under her watch made her annoyed as hell. Details mattered. And if she got the details wrong, she’d be blasted by legions of fans for doing a bad job. If she did a bad job, the sales would suffer. And if sales suffered? Astronaut Bill would be assigned to a different ghostwriter.

  “I don’t know why you get so hung up on that misogynistic crap, Gretchen. Just finish the book and have the copyeditor fill in the holes. That’s what they’re there for.”

  Gretchen chewed, saying nothing.

  “You know if you turn in late again, they won’t re-up your contract. You need this contract.”

  “I know. I’m just . . . struggling.” Every page of Astronaut Bill was painful. They were only fifty thousand words long and the plots were simplistic. Bill gets a mission from headquarters. Bill goes to explore a new planet. Buxom babes are encountered and they need rescuing. Bill ends up saving the day after some spectacular laser gun battles and sexual tension. Piece of cake.

  Except she kept getting hung up on the details. And she didn’t much like Bill, which made it really hard to spend time with him every day. But Bill was a paycheck, and a good one, so she struggled on.

  “Just tell them I’m sick. Maybe someone died and I had to leave town for the funeral.”

  Kat glared at Gretchen. “I’m not going to lie about your family. I’ll just tell them you need another week, max.”

  “Two?”

  “One week,” Kat said firmly. “But you know they run on tight deadlines and they won’t be happy.”

  “I know,” Gretchen said glumly. The rent was due and now was not exactly the time to have a crisis of faith. “I’ll get it finished, I promise.”

  “Gretchen, you know I adore you, girl. You’re my favorite client. But I say this with love—you need to get your act together.”

  “Consider it together. I promise.”

  Kat gave her a wary nod. “Well, did you want to hear about another ghostwriting contract? They asked for you specifically.”

  “Me?” Gretchen sat up straighter, surprised. “You serious?”

  “Yeah, I don’t know. Do you have connections at any publishers I don’t know about?” Her mouth quirked in amusement. “Especially brand-new ones?”

  “Brand-new ones?”

  “Yeah, someone’s launching a small publishing line. I don’t know anything about it other than they headhunted one of the best editors I know to head it up, and for their launch title they want you on board.”

  This sounded . . . odd. Appealing but odd. “I don’t understand.”

  “Me either, kiddo. But they were very clear that they wanted you on this project. Said you had a reputation for ghostwriting and they wanted you on board.”

  Gretchen stabbed another forkful of salad into her mouth, thinking. She had a reputation all right, but she wasn’t so sure it was a good one. She took on a lot of projects to pay the bills, but she was also late a lot. She hadn’t been feeling very inspired, and writing could be a damn hard job when you didn’t want to do it.

  And lately she hadn’t wanted to do it. But money was money, and rent didn’t pay itself. Her sister Audrey would shake her head and suggest that Gretchen see if she could borrow money from their famous sister, Daphne, but Gretchen hated the thought of it. Being indebted to Daphne ended up being more trouble than it was worth. Gretchen speared another piece of lettuce idly. “So what kind of job is it and what does it pay?”

  “It pays three hundred grand.”

  Gretchen stopped, fork poised in midair. “Three . . . hundred grand? Seriously?”

  “So I’m told. Lead title, you know.”

  “And this is a legit publisher? Really? They’re putting out that kind of money?”

  “Yeah. Weird terms, though. Ten percent up front, ninety percent upon turn in of an acceptable manuscript. And that’s not the weirdest.”

  Most publishers paid half upon signing. Still, thirty grand up front was more than she’d gotten for her last book, so even if the contract went south early, it was still a good investment of her time, all things considering. “What else is weird?”

  Kat suddenly looked uncomfortable. She reached for her wineglass. “Well, there are unusual working terms.”

  “Uh-oh. Am I going to like the sound of this?”

  “Probably not, which is why I didn’t mention it when we first sat down. It’s strange, Gretch. Really strange. Apparently the project they want you to do is an epistolary novel of sorts. There’s some old letters someone found in an attic of a very old, very famous mansion. The publisher said the letters were really romantic, so they’re seeing this as some sort of quasi Anne Frank meets The Notebook sort of project. They think it’ll be huge. But there’s a catch. You can’t take the letters off the property.”

  “Okay, that’s a little picky, but do-able.” She was starting to get excited about this project. Anne Frank meets The Notebook? Launch title of a new publisher? With that kind of money for an advance, it sounded promising. “Who’s name am I writing under?”

  “Don’t know yet. They didn’t want to release it until the project was agreed upon.”

  “So where’s this house?”

  “Mansion,” Kat corrected. “And it’s in Hyde Park.”

  Her mouth went dry. “Like . . . the Vanderbilt one?”

  “Close. You know the one with the white columns and the crazy rose gardens?”

  “Holy shit. Yes, I know that one. Buchanan Manor.”

  “That’s the one. And that’s the location of our letters.”

  “That’s so cool,” Gretchen said, fascinated. “I’m totally in on this project.”

  “I think you need to think about it.”

  “Why? The money’s awesome, the house is fascinating, and it’s a lead title. What is it you’re not telling me?”

  “It’s the house. You heard the part about the letters not being able to leave the premises?”

  “Yeah, but what’s the big deal? I’ll just drop in on some weekdays and take photos. I don’t mind going on location if the pay is right—which it is.”

  “You’re going to be very on location. As in, if you take the job, they want you to live on site for the duration of the project. They don’t want you coming back and forth. The owner’s a bit of a recluse and doesn’t seem to like traffic much, so he’s insisting that the ghostwriter live on the premises with him.”

  “Do what?”

  “Live. On site. With the owner. He’s the one who doesn’t want them leaving the premises.”

  “That’s a little . . .”

  “Creepy? I know. That’s what I said and that’s why I think you should turn it down.”

  She thought for a long minute. The money was nice and the house was intriguing, but the thought of living there with a stranger? That tipped things over from eccentric to downright bizarre. “Exactly how many letters are there, again?”

  “Several hundred.” Kat gave her a curious look. “You’re not considering it, are you?”

  “Not seriously,” she admitted. “Though it would be cool to visit the house and see what it’
s like on the inside. And the money would be nice. But . . . ”

  “Yeah, it’s that ‘but’ that makes me keep pausing. You want me to turn them down?”

  Gretchen toyed with her fork, thinking of the expensive salad on her plate that she couldn’t pay for, at least not until a payment came in. “Not yet.”

  Kat shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  She shoved a crouton around her plate. Three hundred grand could be several years of financial security, even in pricey New York City. “And they asked for me, huh?”

  “Who knows. Maybe the recluse is a big fan of Astronaut Bill.”

  Yeah, right. Or maybe she was the only idiot available who would actually consider the job. Gretchen sighed to herself and then nudged Kat’s fluffy wheat roll. “You going to eat that?”

  ***

  “Never worry, Uranea. I’ll stop them with my trusty laser sword.” Astronaut Bill put his hand on the sheath at his waist.

  Uranea gasped, her small hands flying to her mouth. Her bosoms quivered with distress. “Oh, please be safe, Astronaut Bill!”

  “They won’t know what hit them,” Bill said grimly, dragging his immense blade from its sheath. Uranea gasped again, clearly impressed by the size of it. “Now I’ll send them on a one-way ticket back to the stars . . .”

  Gretchen rolled her eyes at her own page and took a sip from a water bottle. Garbage. Pure and utter garbage. If Uranea walked into Cooper’s Cuppa and ordered a drink, Gretchen probably would have hauled across the counter to punch her in the face.

  Hmm. She made a note to herself: have Uranea punched in face in next chapter.

  Stupid Astronaut Bill. Stupid Uranea. She kept hoping for a black hole to suck them into another dimension and then she’d never have to write about them again, but nope. No such luck.

  Gretchen checked the timer on the oven again. Ten minutes until the next batch of her cookies were done. She could get in a bit more writing. Bracing herself for a few more paragraphs of the hated duo, she began to type once more. The bell at the counter chimed, and she looked up from her tablet, where she’d been drafting the next scene between handling the store’s customers.