Chapter One
From Natalie’s rules for Foster Boyd, v2
Rule #2: Don’t try to be sneaky. Bad things happen when you try to be sneaky. To be blunt, you suck at it. You’re better off just going into a situation and pretending confidence than trying to pretend you’re a ninja. You’re over six feet tall, a bazillionaire, and everyone has watched you grow up via television and magazine spreads. We even know where that one birthmark is on your left ass cheek. It’s kinda cute, looks like a heart, but you see my point here. This does not a ninja make, understood?
Natalie Stolen checked the battery life on her cell phone for probably the hundredth time. Some sick little part of her still hoped it wasn’t ringing because it was dead or…something. Any reason would work, at least for her denial. She didn’t want to admit to herself that the silence screamed a death knell for her career.
Upon seeing it was at 78 percent, she lay it on the charger atop her beautiful glass desk. When she first bought the desk, she’d been so full of confidence. She’d made it in the big city, proving her skills were useful and real and that she’d never worry about bills again. At the time, she paid to have it set up facing the door to her office, so she could swivel away from her floor-to-ceiling windows and look at whichever client entered.
The desk was symbolic of the life she thought she’d secured. She was going to be the biggest spin doctor in the history of spin. But now the office, with its glorious view of her future, was gone, as was her sense of security, leaving her with a big desk that hardly fit into the space she’d managed to rent. She still had the desk, with or without the symbolism, so could it possibly be that her dreams were that easily squashed? Annihilated? Destroyed?
She’d guess that the biggest mistake she made was that she’d believed her own hype. Her job, as an image consultant, was to ensure the public thought the very best of her clients.
If the client was, for instance, America’s sweetheart, they had to maintain the bubbly, perfect façade that an all-American girl-next-door stereotype required.
Which, to be honest, was where everything went swirly and she went wrong. Margo Welles—the red-haired beauty who went from model, to actress, to movie star in countless rom-coms—had a private life she kept private. This in and of itself wasn’t particularly unique. A lot of stars and important people liked to keep their public persona separate from their private life. Natalie wasn’t one to pry, especially not with a huge client like Welles. Hell, she’d recognized very early on in their working relationship that she was lucky to have Margo choose her out of the countless options available to a woman like her. She’d even bragged about scoring the new client—a notch in her professional belt, and proof that her methodology worked.
Lucky. Ha.
But when the world learned America’s sweetheart kept a kid secret—for a decade—then it became a problem. Especially when said child was the daughter of a press darling, the notable and notorious Irish Prince, as the media dubbed him. Oh, and Welles hadn’t told the billionaire daddy about his secret baby…supposedly. Natalie still wasn’t sure if she bought that particular story, although it fed headlines like crack. Tabloid news. People couldn’t get enough of it.
But, well, not darling or fitting for America’s sweetheart. Not like the one time when Natalie leaked to the press about Margo loving sloths. That was adorable. They’d “caught” footage of Margo in tears as she gently touched a single, delicate fingertip to the back of the slow-moving creature. The public loved that kind of thing. Gorgeous woman plus animal for the win. But there wasn’t a sloth in the world cute enough or genuine tears sweet enough to cleanse the salt of the public response to a woman who’d hidden a man’s baby away for ten whole years.
Speaking of the press, Natalie thought in irritation as she stood to pace her much smaller office, they dropped the ball on this one. Was it Natalie’s fault they didn’t notice a kid for ten freakin’ years? No, not even a little. But it was her job, as a spin doctor, to find a positive way to turn the situation around for her client. She’d failed, because Margo took a hit. Which resulted in all of her clients losing faith in her ability.
She’d gone from the tippy top of her game to rock bottom faster than she’d even guessed possible.
Dropping her khaki-colored linen blazer onto her chair, she faced the slate-gray wall behind her desk. Not nearly as impressive a view as those floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city that she’d loved, but it was her view now.
Because not a client in the universe wanted to hire an image consultant who couldn’t even protect America’s sweetheart.
Since the phone still wasn’t ringing, and her finger was getting tired from refreshing her email, Natalie decided to unpack. Who knew how long she’d be able to afford even this small space at the rate things were going? Part of her didn’t want to bother with the unpacking, but really, even this was all her own fault. If she’d saved and hoarded her money while she was making the big bucks, she wouldn’t have found herself in such dire straits after the Welles situation. But she liked shoes. She liked traveling, seeing things that were new to her. Her mama used to say that she was a daddy’s girl—and no moss ever grew on the rolling stone that was her father.
She liked taking risks, having adventures, and living a life outside the box.
Slicing open a cardboard box, she was faced with useless files. All clients that dumped her before the stink of her failure rubbed off on them. Sighing, she stuck a hand in, looking for anything that might give her a clue of how to proceed from rock bottom.
From behind her, someone cleared his throat. Probably the creep from two offices down. He’d come up with three reasons so far that day to pop in and check on her, and it was beginning to get on her nerves. The very last thing she needed while trying to rebuild her career was a romantic entanglement, but if she were looking, Marc Dickson, CPA, would hardly be the guy of her dreams. It wasn’t that his balding head or slightly musty smell were turn-offs unto themselves, but his staring at her boobs while practically spitting in her face when he talked would have knocked him out of the running pretty quickly.
He cleared his throat again, so she said, “Sorry, Marc, I’m busy. I already told you I didn’t have time to take lunch.”
She technically did have time for lunch. Money for lunch? That was going to be a whole other matter soon if she didn’t figure out how to get at least one solid client.
She was bent over the box, legs slightly spread for balance as she hefted files, so the dog’s head shoving between her legs was enough to make her squeal, drop the files, and begin to fall over. She’d tried to jump-step away from the animal, but instead got her foot tangled under a box and the world tilted as she stumbled.
She hoped she didn’t hit the dog on her way down, since she clearly wasn’t going to be able to recapture her balance. But then strong arms caught her at the elbows, steadying her with ease.
“Back off, Buffy,” the man said.
Natalie looked up slowly and instantly fell madly in love. Or at least lust. One or the other.
…
Foster Boyd was out of options. If he hadn’t been, there was no way he’d be standing in this small office, considering the denim-clad behind of Natalie Stolen. Not that the view was a bad one. Unexpectedly, the little spin doctor had a gorgeously rounded, heart-shaped ass that made a man want to reach out and grab. Of course, he wasn’t the kind of man to rely on base instincts to make decisions—that kind of stupidity was all his brother’s specialty—but he still looked.
How could he not? She was wiggling that ass in front of him like a flag to a bull. He cleared his throat, hoping to get her attention, but the ass just wiggled a bit more as she rummaged through boxes.
The woman lost her place as publicist and image consultant to the stars because of a situation beyond her control, based on his research. Once he’d read up on the Margo Welles situation, he couldn’t see how it would have been Stolen’s fault. Even if she had known about the kid Welles was hiding, it was outside her job expectations to force her client to admit to anything. The way the situation played out suggested Stolen would be good at keeping secrets, if she knew about the kid…something that made her uniquely qualified for the position he needed to fill.
But maybe he’d overestimated the skills of Natalie Stolen, and her failure in business was caused by the fact that she was disorganized. After all, based on the small, cluttered space of her office, she sure didn’t give off the first impression he’d hoped for. He glanced at the handwritten slip of paper from his pocket again, verifying he’d gone to the right location, but it was kind of futile. Her name was proudly written in permanent ink on a yellow Post-It on the door. Clearly, she had to be the Natalie Stolen.
Rumor had it that the woman was discreet. Even if no one else realized it, her willingness to keep secrets for her clients to the point of sacrificing her own career at the feet of the Welles debacle proved she was skilled rather than a failure, as she’d been marked publicly. The gossip kept her from getting clients, but he considered himself a good judge of character. Based on everything he’d researched, the woman had skills. She was also in a desperate situation and likely to accept unusual offers in the hopes of regaining her former position. There were other image consultants out there, but he picked her in the hopes that they could help each other.
If not each other, at least him.
He cleared his throat again, because perhaps she hadn’t heard him. The woman responded, her sweet voice sounding downright annoyed. “Sorry, Marc, I’m busy. I already told you I didn’t have time to take lunch.”
Foster opened his mouth, prepared to correct her, when Buffy jerked against her leash and lunged at the woman.
For a second—an overly long second, while he stood with his mouth open like an idiot—Foster didn’t respond. Buffy never yanked away from him, nor did she ever jam her giant head between the legs of a lady.
Until today.
The woman shrieked, waving her arms comically as she twisted and tried to keep her balance. To her credit, she tried to avoid stepping on his dog, awkwardly managing to get both her legs on one side of the animal without kicking Buffy in her big, daft head. But beyond that, she was going to fall. He lurched forward and captured her elbows in an attempt to steady her before she cracked her head on the thick glass of the oversized desk.
She blinked up at him from the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. She must wear those contacts, the ones that enhanced eye color, because he’d never seen a person with eyes that shade of violet blue. Silver rimmed the pupils, a widening rim as she focused on his face. Then she blinked, dark lashes slowly hiding the vibrant hue and freeing him from his temporary state of shock.
“Hi,” he said with a little smirk of amusement.
“You’re not Marc,” she said.
“Nope,” he answered, waiting for her to regain her composure.
Foster found himself considering her face, the oval shape of it nearly model perfect. Her nose was a bit too long, and it swung a little too far to the right. Maybe she’d broken it at some point? Lush lips, currently puckered in confusion, made a lovely counterpoint to the peaches-and-cream tone of her skin. Vibrant hair cascaded in mermaid waves over his arm, and all in all, he had to admit that Natalie Stolen was a breathtaking beauty. Somehow, although he’d seen her picture in his research, he’d not noticed that about her.
It made her more perfect for the job, honestly. Yeah, she was gorgeous. His brother wouldn’t be able to resist her.
How dumb was it that the idea of his brother holding her in his arms made him a little jealous?
Mentally shaking off the thought, he realized he was still holding her past the point of being useful, so he shifted his weight, ensuring she’d found her balance before he stepped back and away from her.
“Sorry about that,” he began, gesturing to Buffy. “She never does that.”
“Oh, she’s beautiful,” Natalie said as if she’d just noticed, bending at the knee to face the dog. “Hello, there.”
The dog glanced at him, apparently remembering she wasn’t supposed to hurl herself at strangers. “Yes, she is. Buffy is her name. Again, sorry.”
Much to his surprise, she cooed at the animal, despite the fact that the dog knocked her over and could’ve caused major head injury moments before. The fact that she was paying more attention to the dog than she was him grated on Foster’s nerves. He wasn’t used to people not paying full attention to him when he was in the room. Before he could comment on the oddity, Natalie stood back up and faced him.
“Natalie Stolen,” she said, offering her hand.
“Foster Boyd,” he said in response, taking her delicate hand into his own.
Usually, he didn’t notice how much smaller a woman was compared to himself, but Natalie Stolen was exceptionally feminine in a way that made the contrast with his masculinity all the more noticeable. Even her fingers were girly, elegant and graceful, as they lay across his palm.
“I know who you are,” she replied, stepping over a box and moving behind her desk. She tugged on a lightweight tan jacket, which instantly made her look a bit more businesslike. If he wasn’t mistaken, she was armoring herself in professionalism to regain some control over the situation, suggesting she felt off-kilter.
His lips curled in a small smile. Somehow, he liked the idea that his presence made her unsettled. Something about this woman affected him, and the visual proof that she was equally affected pleased him on some primal level. Now dressed in a white V-neck T-shirt, jeans, and the businesslike blazer, she sat in her chair and faced him.
“It saves us time, that you recognize me. We can get right to business.”
“Your reputation precedes you,” she admitted. “Bad boy billionaire who makes headlines… You’re not exactly flying very far under the radar.”
Since Foster sensed no judgment in her words, he gestured to the chair opposite hers.
“May I?” he asked.
She nodded, flushing a pretty pink as she glanced at the box sitting on the chair. “Sorry about that. Just getting moved in.”
“I noticed,” he answered, smiling again.
She might know what the headlines said about him, but he wasn’t coming into this particular battle unarmed. He prized control over everything, and maintaining that meant he was used to doing his homework. Forewarned was forearmed, after all, and he knew quite a lot about the beautiful woman behind the desk.
Natalie Stolen had come out of college and managed to score a no-name rocker client right out of the gate. What set her apart from a lot of other budding people in the industry was the fact that she actually managed to deliver—taking her client from nobody to hitting the Billboard Top 100 within a year.
A lot of her original clients were part of the music business, but she quickly picked up a few models and helped them make the transition to acting pretty flawlessly. Before long, she’d scored a few big names upon the fall of Howard’s Image Consulting—a company that went belly up when rumors of sexual harassment on the part of Jerry Howard, the owner and chief exec, hit the internet. Margo Welles was among that original batch Natalie picked up.
And likely the one Natalie Stolen regretted snagging most in the long run.
After moving the box, he sat across from her, and Buffy set her head on his knee. Absently stroking the dog’s ears, he waited for Stolen to make the first move. Since he would ultimately control the situation, the first move was no loss to him, so he could afford the generosity.
Natalie shifted in her seat, shoving a bit of that luxurious hair behind her shoulder before resting her elbows on the thick glass desk. “How can I help you, Mr. Boyd?”
One of her brows arched above those stunning eyes, a visual question mark. He refused to be rushed, breathing in slowly before he began. “I have reason to believe that you’re taking on new clients.”
There, that was a particularly delicate way of wording it. Surely, he’d get points for diplomacy, considering. He didn’t mention he knew for a fact she had zero clients at the moment, and zero prospects based on the fact the media hadn’t tired of the Margo Welles debacle.
The brow dropped, and her eyes narrowed slightly. “Currently, I am taking on new clients,” she agreed. “But I usually like to find out how I can help you before I commit to anything. Let’s put all of our cards on the table.”
“I’m okay with that,” he agreed.
“Since you seem to have come in here with some previous information about me, I won’t bother you with the details about myself and my company. Instead, let’s focus on what I know about you. You’re Foster Boyd,” she began, ticking the point off on one elegant fingertip. “I know of you, but only because you’re known more for your ability to misbehave than anything to do with the tons of money you’ve accumulated over the duration of your working life.” The second point was ticked off on her middle finger. She tapped her ring finger twice before continuing. “But, your reputation is only half that of your brother’s, who is—if it’s possible—even more well-known for reckless and wild behavior in questionable company.” She made it to her pinky and tilted her head at him. “Somewhat further down the list is the fact that your net worth has a lot of zeroes in really appealing places because you both own a very successful company that deals in cosmetics and skincare products.”
He nodded slightly before offering a shrug. “Those are all facts, yes.”
Waving one hand, she said, “You sound quite blasé about it, but those are all important facts; insofar as I’m an image consultant. There are things that are within my ability to change, and I have to be able to recognize the ones I can’t. In your case, Mr. Boyd, I have to admit I’m at a loss. You have a horrible—sorry for saying so, but it’s true—reputation and it doesn’t affect your business in the slightest. In summation, I’m not sure how I can help you. I can’t undo years of reprobate behavior, but I’m not sure you’d want me to, as it doesn’t affect your bottom line.”
Relaxing into his seat, he was happy she’d managed to work through all of it so quickly. It would save him time. “I appreciate the fact that you can see so clearly and quickly so much of the situation,” he admitted. “But, luckily for both of us, I don’t need my image changed so much as my situation.”
“Then you should speak with a situation consultant,” she suggested. “Not that I’m even sure that’s a thing, but still… My specialty is image, Mr. Boyd.”
“And you have no clients paying for that specialty right now, Ms. Stolen.”
His words dropped into the room, leaving waves of silence in their wake. Her face flushed again, this time clearly in embarrassment.
She looked rather good, rosy like that. It made a man wonder what she’d look like in the throes of passion, all breathless and pinkened as her lips went lax with desire.
He blinked twice, fascinated by how quickly this woman enchanted his imagination, before snapping down on his own cravings with an iron fist. He forced his mind away from the bedroom with the self-control he’d worked so many years to hone. He couldn’t help but think the raw sexuality of this woman would be a perk, as it served his plan beautifully.
One pale hand came up to cover her throat in a vulnerable move he was pretty sure wasn’t faked. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Boyd. Please allow me to show you to the door.”