Rocking The Billionaire (A Rich List Romantic Comedy Book 1) Read online

“Could be faking.”

  Jackson couldn’t help but laugh, his anger dissolving. “So the cut on her head is a clever disguise? Stop worrying and call a tow truck. I’ll deal with Mata Hari.”

  “Mata who?” Derrick had obviously never heard of the notorious female spy.

  Jackson went back to Meghan, who was leaning against her car, staring at her phone as though she were making her mind up who to call.

  “You can leave anytime—” she started, but he held up both hands to stop her.

  “I’m not taking no for an answer. You want an apology? You might get one after you move your stuff into my car.”

  “I might get one?”

  “There’s only one way you’ll find out.”

  Her mouth opened, then closed again. He took advantage of her moment of indecision to pull open the back door of her car and grab her battered old guitar case.

  “I’ll carry that.” She tried to take it from him. “Listen, I’m not staying at your place. I don’t want your help, and—” She blinked as a drop of blood hit her eyelash. Her hand went to her face to wipe it, and when her fingers came away red, she paled.

  “I’m not taking no for an answer.” He popped the trunk and put the guitar in, then tugged his previously-rejected handkerchief back out of his pocket and handed it to her. “Get in the passenger seat. I’ll move the rest of your stuff over.”

  “It’s just a cut.” But when she dabbed at it with the handkerchief, he saw her bite back an exclamation of pain. She still argued as he transferred the rest of her stuff to his car, but her voice had lost its fight.

  Whenever he’d thought of Meghan over the years, Jackson had always pictured a successful singer. But judging from her rusty Toyota and meager possessions, things might not have gone so smoothly. Now that he’d made up his mind to take her home, he intended to find out what had gone wrong.

  He managed to get her in the car without more than a token protest. But in the rearview mirror, he caught sight of Derrick’s face as he and Meghan pulled away. His operations manager looked like he was chewing on a wasp.

  Three

  “You owe me an apology and an explanation,” said Meghan as they drove. “You can start anytime.”

  He glanced sideways at her. What answer could he give that would satisfy her? “I decided to leave,” he said eventually.

  She snorted. “No kidding. Your brother told me you went to Brisbane. But why did you have to go that night, and screw up the opportunity we’d been hoping for all those years? The band could have been signed and gone on to do great things. I thought you were as hyped as I was about finally getting our big break.”

  “I had a fight with my father.”

  Her expression changed, and it was exactly what he hadn’t wanted to see. The hint of pity in her face made him squeeze the steering wheel tighter.

  “I don’t know why you’re complaining.” He made his voice rough. “The agent signed you, didn’t he? So what’s the big deal?”

  She flushed, her blue eyes narrowing. Good. Anger was better than pity. “Yeah, and then he got me a job. Backing singer. Not exactly the record deal I wanted, but he made it sound like a huge opportunity.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “What happened was that I was a naïve eighteen-year-old who was way too trusting. That lousy agent knew I’d sign whatever he gave me, even if it wasn’t a fair deal. After four long years, I finally realized his promises were hollow and that job wouldn’t lead anywhere. Then it took another two years to get out of the contract.” Her hands were clasped together, and she jerked her head away to stare out of the passenger side window. “I suppose I can’t blame you for that part of it.”

  He let his breath out. All this time, he’d consoled himself with the thought that at least she’d been on her way to achieving her dream. “I’m sorry.” The words came out harsh-sounding. Not like an apology at all.

  “Sorry for ditching me? Sorry for leaving without an explanation? Without saying goodbye?”

  “I’m sorry it wasn’t the job you wanted. But it was a long time ago. We’re both different people now, and whatever happened back then doesn’t matter anymore. We’ve moved on.”

  He focused his attention on the road ahead, but could feel her turning to look at him. She stared for a long time in silence, before heaving a loud sigh.

  “Okay,” she said. “It was a long time ago. And you’re right, it’s water under the bridge.”

  “How are your parents?” he asked, both to change the subject and because he used to like them. They’d seemed slightly befuddled to him, like a pair of absentminded scientists on a TV sitcom. There was never any shouting or violence at her place. One of the best parts about being in the band had been the long practice sessions in her parents’ garage.

  “Fine,” she said. “Exactly the same, only living in Melbourne.” And then after a pause, “Do you still play guitar?”

  “No.”

  “Not at all?” She sounded so shocked, he had to laugh.

  “It’s not that strange.”

  “If you say so.”

  “You’ve been in Melbourne all this time?” he asked. “What brings you back to Sydney?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I had two bad breakups. One with the jerk I was dating, and one with my second agent, who turned out to be even worse than the first. It was all too much, and I needed a fresh start.”

  “You’ve had some bad luck.”

  “I don’t call it that.”

  He was going to ask what she called it, but was distracted by the sharp turn into his driveway, and his customary wave to the security guard who monitored his large metal gates. His house was in the exclusive suburb of Point Piper, on a hill overlooking the sparkling blue water of Sydney’s famous harbor. When the gates opened, he eased the Aston up his long driveway, past the meticulously groomed borders. Even with the windows up, the scent of flowers permeated the air.

  Beside him, Meghan was wide-eyed. “This isn’t your house?” Then, when he pulled into his garage. “These cars can’t all belong to you?”

  “I like cars.” He got out of the Aston, but before he could get to her side to open her door, she was already stepping out. Her body was lithe and she had an easy way of moving that triggered memories of watching her on stage when they were at school together.

  “And I like animals,” she muttered. “Doesn’t mean I own a zoo.”

  Jackson barely glanced down the line of cars in their specially built garage. He went straight to the keypad on the wall, typed in a code to disable the alarm, and waited for the sensor to complete its secondary verification with a retina scan. His security system was state of the art.

  “This way.” Opening the door that led into the house, he motioned her through.

  She stopped in the middle of his entrance hall, staring up at the giant glass skylight. “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “Kidding you?”

  “Is this really your house? What do you do for a living? Rob banks?”

  “Come into the living room. That cut on your forehead’s bleeding again.”

  Her fingers flew up. With her nose wrinkled, she pulled away a stray dreadlock that was sticking to it. Then she tugged his bloody handkerchief out of her pocket to dab it with. “It probably looks worse than it feels. Dammit, now I have blood in my hair.”

  He put one hand on the small of her back to lead her into the living room, and caught her scent.

  Instantly he flashed back to a moment all those years ago. They’d been about to play a gig and had been pacing backstage, trying to take their minds off their nerves with lame jokes they hadn’t been able to laugh at. She’d hugged him for luck, right before they were supposed to go on stage. Bad move. As soon as he’d inhaled her scent of chewing gum and old leather, he’d gone hard. Then again, at seventeen, everything about her had given him a boner. Shuffling on stage, he’d never been as grateful for anything as he was for his low-slung guitar.

  She st
ill smelled like chewing gum and old leather. And the smell made him stiffen like he was seventeen all over again.

  “Sit down here,” he told her, dropping his hand and stepping away.

  With a dazed expression, she took in the sea view before sinking into a couch. As much as she’d insisted she was fine, being in a car crash was enough to rattle anyone.

  “Stay there,” he said. “I’ll get something to clean your cut.”

  On his way to the kitchen, he thought of Derrick and made a detour to his office. The door was safely closed and locked, of course. Inside, on his white board, were the working drawings and equations detailing exactly how the components of his new technology fit together, and on his desk was a working prototype of his projector. Derrick might be paranoid, but he was right about one thing. Lex Baine would pay a fortune for a glimpse into that room.

  Jackson twisted the door handle, double-checking the titanium locks were engaged. Then he used the intercom in the kitchen to connect to Freya. His assistant had an office in the attached cottage where she took care of everything he needed with relentless efficiency. Thanks to her, both his business and personal lives ran smoothly.

  “Mr. Brent,” she said. In seven years, she’d never once called him Jackson.

  “I have a friend here who hit her head. She needs a doctor.”

  Freya’s voice didn’t betray a hint of surprise. “Right away.”

  If he told her he’d killed someone and needed the body disposed of, Freya would probably have the same response. She was the only person allowed anywhere near his office. Even Derrick didn’t try to suggest Freya could be a security risk.

  Jackson moistened a washcloth and took it back to the living room. “Here. Doctor’s on his way.”

  Meghan swapped his bloody handkerchief for the washcloth. “It’s a scratch. I don’t need a doctor.”

  “No arguing.” He sat in the armchair opposite her.

  “Bossy, aren’t you?” But for the first time, her expression held a touch of amusement. “You always liked to have things your way. In charge of all the technical stuff and constantly fine-tuning the equipment. Remember?”

  He couldn’t help but smile. “I remember you being just as particular about the songs. Every note had to be exactly the way you wanted it.”

  “We worked together well.” She cocked her head. “Do you ever think back and wonder what might have happened if we’d kept playing together?”

  “Sometimes.” It was only natural to imagine what his life would have been like if it hadn’t imploded. Would he have stuck with music, or would his mathematical brain still have taken him into the development of new technologies?

  “You still haven’t told me what you do.” Her lips twitched. “Actually, I’m pretty sure I know.”

  No surprise if she did. His company was publicly listed, and with its success had come a level of fame he wasn’t entirely comfortable with.

  “You’re a secret agent, aren’t you?” Her husky voice was filled with conviction. “The cars, the house, the fancy suit. It’s the only thing that adds up. I should have checked your car for machine gun attachments and exploding pens.”

  He laughed. “I’m more like the inventor in the lab who comes up with the gadgets.”

  “Really? What have you invented?”

  “Nothing that explodes. I started with a line of recording equipment. Since then, I’ve developed new processors, lenses, and projectors.”

  “Are you inventing something now?” The hand not holding the washcloth dropped to her thigh, and immediately her fingers started tapping, like she was drumming the beat to a song that was playing in her head. The gesture was so familiar it bought a rush of nostalgia with it.

  “What song are you hearing?” He nodded to her tapping hand.

  She glanced down at her hand with a surprised look, then flushed. “Skyfall, of course. The best Bond theme since Shirley Bassey sang Goldfinger.” With a laugh, she shook her head. “I forgot how well you know me.”

  “What about Live And Let Die?”

  “Paul McCartney?” Her expression grew serious as she considered the question. “You’re right, it’s a worthy contender for best Bond song. But Shirley Bassey owned Bond. And Adele’s voice is just as powerful.”

  He nodded, conceding the point. “What about—?”

  “Are you avoiding my question?” She interrupted. “You can’t tell me what you’re working on, because then you’d have to kill me, right?”

  Jackson frowned. The Meghan he remembered would happily discuss nothing but music all day. Once they’d spent three whole weeks arguing whether the cover version of The Man Who Sold the World was better than the original. They’d argued every day for the better part of a month. Every damn note of that song dissected. Every nuance examined.

  But now she was more interested in his work than in music? Derek couldn’t have been right about her, could he? No, that was too far fetched.

  “I’m about to release a new communications product that uses holograms,” he said slowly. That much was public knowledge.

  “How does it use them?” Her expression was open and her black-rimmed eyes didn’t seem duplicitous. Or maybe that was wishful thinking. Nostalgia, or the remnants of the feelings he once had for her.

  He gave her his standard answer. “You remember that scene in Star Wars with a hologram of Princess Leia asking for help? My projector has a tiny adaptor that plugs into your computer or phone, and when you video chat, people will see your hologram rather than a 2-D image. Not only that, but the hologram looks so real, you’d swear it was the actual person. And you can make the image as big or small as you like.”

  “Sounds cool. Will you show it to me?”

  “We’re releasing it in a few weeks. Until then, it’s under wraps.”

  “You’ve done well for yourself. No surprise, seeing as you were the smartest kid in school.”

  “Mr. Brent?” Freya was at the living room door. “The doctor’s on his way.”

  Meghan dumped her washcloth on the table and scrambled to her feet. “Hi. I’m Meghan.”

  A slight hesitation was all that was betrayed Freya’s surprise before she stepped forward and shook the hand Meghan offered. Jackson’s business associates didn’t usually bother to introduce themselves.

  “I’m Freya. Nice to meet you.”

  “Freya, please ask Selina to take Meghan’s belongings out of the car and put them in one of the spare bedrooms,” said Jackson.

  “Of course.”

  When Freya left, Meghan sat back down, leaning forward with her voice lowered. “I assumed she was your girlfriend, but obviously not.”

  “Freya’s an employee. My assistant. And Selina’s my housekeeper, in case you were wondering.”

  “I don’t know anyone with an assistant or a housekeeper. Exactly how rich are you?”

  She didn’t know his net worth had been published by Forbes? Then he wasn’t about to tell her he was the nine hundredth richest person in the world. There were eighteen hundred billionaires, and he was roughly in the middle of the pack. But even if she didn’t know the details, now that she’d discovered he was rich, she’d try to get whatever money she could from him. Everyone did.

  Before he could come up with an answer, his housekeeper came in with a tray. “I thought you might like refreshments,” Selina said with a smile. She put some juice and a plate of club sandwiches down, and Meghan introduced herself and shook Selina’s hand before digging enthusiastically into the food. She was on her third sandwich when the doctor arrived.

  While the doctor examined Meghan, Jackson excused himself, going into his office so he could check his schedule for the rest of the day. He had nothing urgent. But a big conference was about to start, and tomorrow he had to make an appearance at the opening night party.

  There’d be social events each evening for the next few nights, and during Saturday’s party was the only time he’d been able to book with the head of a U.S. telco he wan
ted to strike a deal with. The telco would be at the party with his pregnant wife, and before the crash, Jackson and Derrick had been discussing whether Jackson should take a date. Someone to keep the man’s wife entertained while he and the telco talked business.

  What if he took Meghan along to the events with him?

  Nice idea. But in a room full of the owners and upper management of some of the biggest technology companies in the world, she wouldn’t exactly fit in.

  Instead, he called Freya on the intercom. “Check with the women in my book to see who’s free for the next few nights,” he said, referring to the black book he used when he needed a date. “Tomorrow’s the costume party, and Saturday and Sunday’s events are formal dress. Arrange the usual kind of gift for whomever can make it.”

  When he left his office, he was careful to lock his door again.

  The doctor had just finished his examination of Meghan. “Just a cut,” the man assured them. “No concussion. Nothing to worry about.”

  “Told you I was fine,” said Meghan. As the doctor showed himself out, she helped herself to another sandwich, and Jackson leaned against the doorframe, watching her eat.

  What was it about her that was so appealing?

  Was it the way she ate, totally unselfconscious, leaning back on the couch with crumbs dropping unnoticed onto her jacket? Or the way she glanced at him with just the hint of a smile, as though she was thinking about something funny?

  She looked nothing like the women in his black book. No, she was sexy in a totally different way. Her leather jacket hung open so he could see her black T-shirt. The drape of the fabric hinted that the perfect breasts he remembered so clearly hadn’t changed. And her legs looked long and elegant in faded jeans. Looking at her, he felt like a teenager again.

  He’d always wanted her.

  The feeling had been strongest when they were on stage together, but that was like saying Antarctica was coldest in the winter. He’d also wanted her when they were practicing, when they were setting up or packing up after a gig, and when they were joking around over a cold drink and snacks. Hell, he’d even wanted her on day twenty-one of their Bowie versus Nirvana argument, when she was still refusing to admit Nirvana’s version of The Man Who Sold the World was better than Bowie’s.