Once Upon a Billionaire: Blue Collar Billionaires, Book 1 Read online

  Heads turn as I approach. Their conversations and laughter ebb. All I hear is the crunch of gravel under my high-heeled shoes. I look left and then right, noting more hardhats and tool belts, before my eyes land on a man in a suit.

  Owen.

  It has to be him. I’d bet my tiny, budget-busting apartment on it.

  His charcoal-gray suit is well-made and expensive and too hot for the day, hinting that he spent most of his day in A/C. His suit jacket is tossed over one arm and a pressed white shirt stretches over his broad back. Sweat darkens the material between his shoulder blades.

  One hand is raised to shield his eyes as he studies the uppermost floor of one of the buildings. I approach, curious and disgusted in equal measure.

  Rich people. Yuck.

  I stand next to him and crane my head as well. I’m not sure what I’m looking at, so I study the pitch of the roof while waiting to be acknowledged. He doesn’t flinch.

  “Mr. Owen, I presume?” I finally say.

  I feel the turn of his head, the weight of his gaze like a hawk that’s spied his dinner.

  “Who wants to know?” His voice is low and rough. Despite the day’s heat, the tiny hairs at the back of my neck stand on end.

  It’s the kind of reply I would expect from a guy who doesn’t do things by the book. The kind of reply that might’ve come from my father.

  “Do you have drywall in these units, Mr. Owen?” I turn to meet him face to face. The second we lock eyes, heat flames my cheeks and my heart rate soars.

  As much as I want to blame summer or anxiety on my physical reaction, I can’t dismiss the man’s attractiveness. Of their own volition, my eyes drink in the sight of him. The men I’ve encountered since I started working for the city are never this good-looking. Rarely are they average looking.

  Whenever Daniel or Gary mentioned Nathaniel Owen, I pictured a cantankerous old codger, not a guy in his thirties. A fan of lines surrounds Owen’s eyes. Late thirties, I mentally correct. He’s probably a few years older than me.

  His brawn doesn’t belong in a tailored suit but he wears it well. Like it’s bending to his will, not the other way around. Let’s blame my reaction on surprise. Owen is fifteen years younger and fifty times more attractive than I imagined. That would throw anyone for a loop.

  “Now, why would you ask me something like that?” He offers the barest tip of his lips.

  I size him up, taking inventory. His blue eyes sparkle from behind long eyelashes. His nose has a crooked bend like it’s been broken more than once. That’s not surprising. He has a knack for pissing people off.

  A breeze kicks his dark-blond hair. It’s thick, wavy on top. Every inch of him, from his wide shoulders to his confident stance, the stubble on his cheeks and jaw in need of a shave, is disturbingly male. The most disturbing part is that I haven’t stopped staring at his stupidly handsome face.

  “Miss…” He trails off and waits for me to fill in the blank.

  “Vandemark.” I offer a hand. “Vivian Vandemark.”

  “Nathaniel Owen.” He takes my hand and pumps twice, long enough for me to notice the calluses on his palm. A little shiver runs through me.

  Interesting.

  This is one billionaire that is full of contradictions. He stinks of wealth, with that suit and his stature, but there is a hefty dose of rough and tumble beneath his smooth exterior.

  “Why do you ask about the drywall?” The bemused tick of his mouth is distracting. The way he takes a step closer to me, insulting. Is he trying to intimidate me? I straighten my spine and stand at every inch of my five-six frame.

  “It’s a waste of resources to install drywall without an electrical inspection, Mr. Owen. You’re also breaking the law. If you proceed, you’ll have to tear it out for us to reassess. That could cause a huge delay.”

  His smile disappears, a hard glint shadowing his ocean-blue eyes. There he is: the cold-hearted billionaire. So much for the brief glimpse of charm.

  “You’re looking for Gary Williams, Ms. Vandemark. He completed the inspection three days ago. Thanks for stopping by.” He turns and dismisses me.

  I don’t think so.

  “If you can’t provide proof of a passed electrical inspection today,” I gleefully inform my opponent, “I’ll be shutting you down.” I smile, but his expression grows more intense. His lip isn’t quite curling, but damn close.

  Oh, yes. I was right. This does feel good. Wealth can buy a lot of things—prestige, a good reputation, and sometimes, friends. But not everyone is bribable.

  Owen turns on the heel of one shiny leather shoe and stalks away from me. I blow out a disbelieving laugh. He’s running away? Really?

  That’s a sure sign of guilt.

  I follow, my mind rewinding to the day my father was arrested. He came home and began frantically packing suitcases. He’d slipped out of his office building when the FBI entered. They found him at home, half his closet emptied into too many bags for him to carry.

  My mother was helping him pack.

  “Mr. Owen!” I pump my arms to catch up to his long strides. I’m a little winded as I can’t afford a gym membership. I have to settle for walks around the block rather than hire a trainer to come to my home gym three times a week like I used to.

  I know, I know. Don’t say it.

  “Running away won’t solve your problems,” I tell his back as a trickle of sweat rolls down mine.

  “You can peddle your threats and your prissy skirt off my property, Ms. Vandemark.” He turns in a plume of sexism and rage. “Talk to Gary.”

  “This isn’t Gary’s property,” I snap. “It’s yours.” He starts walking again so I march after him over the uneven dirt-and-rock terrain, my heels not exactly cooperating. “The burden of proof lies with you, not a former employee of the city.”

  “Former.” He stops so suddenly I nearly smack into him. I’m still teetering when he whirls around. “Did he quit?”

  “Did you bribe him?” I lift my chin not only to take in his height, but also to let him know I’m not backing down.

  There. Now that’s a curled lip.

  “I’m the one in charge around here, Ms. Vandemark.” He pokes a blunt finger against his own chest. “I say when we proceed with this job, not you. You think prancing in here to slap my wrist is going to scare me? It won’t. You are succeeding at pissing me off, though.”

  The firm, full set of his mouth is bizarrely attractive, even as he attempts to intimidate me. He doesn’t merely stand over me, he surrounds me.

  Poor Gary and his five-foot-three-ness.

  “You can’t intimidate me, Mr. Owen.” I keep my voice even, a feat since chasing him left me gulping for breath. His legs are a lot longer than mine. For every step he took, I had to take two and a half.

  “Afternoon, Mr. Owen,” one of his guys greets as he walks by.

  “Nate,” Owen corrects, clapping the man’s dirty shoulder with one big palm. He then explains to me, “New guy,” before an amiable expression makes a brief appearance.

  “Nate—”

  “You can call me Mr. Owen. You don’t work for me.”

  Like I said, a brief appearance.

  I’ve had it. Had it with Owen and his rich-guy no-one-can-touch-me attitude. My father thought that way too. And he was wrong. Just as “Nate” is wrong. I don’t have to chase after him. I hold the cards in this situation.

  “I’m shutting your site down until further notice,” I call out. “Until you can provide proof. Nate.”

  Well, well. Look who’s giving me his full attention.

  “Proof.” He sweeps back to me so quickly I’m engulfed by the fragrance of his cologne. Either he smells of crisp ocean air, or those blue, blue eyes are triggering my senses. “You want proof?”

  “No.” I make a show of hugging my clipboard to my chest. “I demand proof. I have the support of the city, Mr. Owen. No matter what deal you struck with the mayor, I have the authority to shut you down.”

 
; I’m not sure my threat holds water. Daniel barely has any power, and I’m Daniel’s lackey. Owen’s fists ball at his sides all the same. Either he believes I have that power, or he simply hates being inconvenienced. His expression is Angry’s older, meaner brother—meant as a warning for me to back off. He wants me to regret crossing him. I feel the opposite. I’m quite enjoying myself.

  He thrusts his suit jacket against my arms. Instinctually, my hand wraps around the expensive material. I carry it rather than let it hit the dirt. He’s on the move again and this time calling over his shoulder, “I have your proof, Ms. Vandemark.”

  I exhale impatiently, the sun’s heat mocking me. What is he up to?

  Owen snaps his fingers at a bearded guy leaning on the handle of a sledgehammer. “I need to borrow that, Nick. Glasses too.”

  Owen unbuttons his cuffs and shoves the shirtsleeves over thick forearms dusted with golden brown hair. I spot an expensive watch and black beaded bracelet on one wrist.

  My heart hits my throat as he takes the tool. He’s not only wearing half an Armani suit, but his bulky arms are flexing while wielding a huge hammer in his grip.

  He’s Wall Street Thor, an image as out of place as the scent of his cologne. Meanwhile, my feminist tendencies are letting me down. My lizard brain begs for a taste of unapologetically masculine Nathaniel Owen.

  No, Vivian.

  “Thanks, Nick,” Owen says and then slips the safety glasses onto his crooked-with-plenty-of-character nose.

  I stare dumbly, his jacket is draped over the clipboard in the crook of my arm. A smile makes Owen appear downright approachable. Without it, he reminds me more of a UFC fighter in a cage.

  “Right this way, Ms. Vandemark.” He beckons.

  A few snickers echo behind me. The battle of feminism will be fought at construction sites. Mark my words.

  “Beck, door,” Owen tells a craggy-faced man. Beck obeys and opens the door to one of the buildings. I follow Nate inside and find a partially completed unit. The drywall is up, and an unpainted door stands between the entry and a makeshift office equipped with a desk and laptop. There’s a ladder in one corner.

  Shiny spackle hides the seams on the wall. An industrial-strength fan is aimed at it and blowing on high. This wall is brand-spanking new.

  “This is one of one hundred and forty units,” Owen tells me, his voice raised to be heard over the fan. “The drywall is complete in all of them. I’m not breaking the law, Ms. Vandemark. We passed our electrical inspection. Gary gave me every assurance.”

  I narrow my eyes, trying to decide if he is lying or not. I can’t put my finger on it, but I’m becoming suspicious of the “innocent” inspector who was just shit-canned. “Daniel doesn’t sign falsified paperwork.”

  “Falsified?” A smirk crosses his lips. “I’m not tearing down one hundred and forty units’ worth of drywall because your boss won’t do his job.”

  I’ll die before I admit it, but I agree that tearing perfectly good walls out is a waste of resources and energy.

  But. I work for Daniel. My job isn’t to reason.

  “Rules are rules, Mr. Owen.” I toss his suit coat over a rung on the ladder. “The good people who move their homes and businesses into this unit, and the one hundred forty like it, deserve peace of mind. Faulty wiring could cause a fire and your precious live-work would be reduced to ash. Rules save lives. And money,” I add, assuming him losing millions would take precedence.

  His jaw ticks, his eyes never leaving mine.

  “A great way to pull a back muscle and land yourself on worker’s comp is swinging this baby wrong.” He grips the sledgehammer with both hands. I don’t have much (any) experience with sledgehammers, but I’m guessing it weighs more than he’s making it look. He’s handling it as if it’s a bamboo fishing pole. His voice dips into an almost seductive husk. “The trick, Ms. Vandemark, is to let her do all the work.”

  The seduction leaves his voice in a snap when he gruffly adds, “Here’s your fucking proof, lady.”

  He swings, aiming for the center of a panel of fresh drywall. A chunk of it hits the floor, dust exploding overhead like a magician’s trick. He swings again as I back away from the destruction. His form is fluid, the next blow as smooth as warm butter. Each hard hit widens the jagged hole. He doesn’t stop until he’s exposed every stud and the bundles of neatly affixed wires attached to some of them.

  I’m impressed and horrified. Delighted and flummoxed. I’m not sure how to react to his display. Is he throwing a tantrum? Does he have a mean streak a mile wide? Or is he caught in a lie and trying to cover for it?

  The commotion draws attention. Faces appear in the windows and the open door. A few low laughs and swearwords of praise trickle into the office as the dust literally settles. Settles into Nate’s hair, making it appear a lighter shade of blond. Settles onto my shirt and the metal clipboard I’m cradling. It’s blown into a pattern like desert sand by the fan whirring away in the corner.

  Owen swipes his brow with one forearm, watching me closely. A blip of concern puckers his brow, like he’s worried he might’ve frightened me.

  Sorry, buddy. I’m schooled in keeping my expression neutral.

  “I’m not certified,” I inform him calmly.

  His face pinches. “What?”

  I gesture to the gaping hole in the formerly pristine wall. “I’m not certified to approve the wiring. I don’t know what any of those are for. That could be a gleaming example of the finest electrical wiring on the planet, or a fire hazard of the worst degree. Again, I reiterate, you went forward without a permit. I’ll have to shut you down.”

  His face droops in suspended disbelief.

  “Excuse me.” I push my way through the onlookers and leave the building. My shaking arms betray my calm, cool exterior. I felt a rush when he took out that wall… Not fear. I’m not afraid.

  What I feel is more potent, and far more dangerous. Unadulterated excitement with more than a rush of attraction.

  Damn. That’s inconvenient.

  Chapter Three

  Nate

  Once I knocked a guy unconscious with a single blow. I can bench press 360 pounds on a light day. And before I was adopted by the Owens, I thought all women were liars.

  My birth mother was often in tears thanks to her husband. Dear old Dad was an addict. Tears were as commonplace as air in my childhood home. They were cheap, and, I later learned, devices of manipulation. My mom loved my dad’s habit more than she loved me.

  Vivian Vandemark isn’t anything like my mother. I wasn’t trying to enact some sort of twisted revenge scenario by taking out fresh drywall. Now that I’m standing here with dust on my new suit, my arms tingling from the effort it took to swing this hammer repeatedly, I feel sort of stupid about it.

  She’s not an inspector? Is she shitting me?

  She’s also not crying, which I respect. Not that I was trying to make her cry, but I wouldn’t have been surprised if she had. I can’t be manipulated by tears, but I suspect Ms. Vandemark isn’t one to use them for sympathy. She’s made of tougher stuff than my mother, that’s for sure.

  A different breed, this woman.

  I push past my brethren, aka employees, and tell them to get to work. Vivian is coolly and calmly crossing my construction site. No, she’s nothing like my mother. She is class from the top of her sleek blown-out, dark-just-shy-of-black hair to the tips of her cheap shoes.

  I frown. Cheap shoes?

  I’m good at reading people. Call it survival instinct. At first glance, I pegged Vivian Vandemark as a wealthy woman. She carries herself like she’s used to having her way—and having things done for her. Like she’s used to being served. My adoptive mother, Lainey, has that same air about her.

  When I first looked into Vivian’s warm, brown eyes, I didn’t assume she was a government employee. She was far more beautiful than I expected, which stalled my brain for a hot second. When she threatened to shut me down, my brain stopped functioning e
ntirely.

  I have one unbreakable rule: Finish the job early.

  The adage about “on time” being late and “late” being unacceptable is one I take to heart. No one slows me down, especially a city inspector. There are ways around, over, or under every strip of red tape. Anyone who says differently is lazy or inept.

  So, now that I’ve calmed down and thought it through, her cheap shoes make sense. The government isn’t exactly known for its extravagant wages.

  When she blew in here and spoke in a whiskey-smooth voice, I assumed she had both power and money. I thought for a split second Vivian was a woman who’d come to strike a bargain.

  If you know what I mean.

  That happened to me before, though it’s been a while. Deborah was older than my current guest, but no less curt. She demanded I halt construction on her ex-husband’s project. I told her there was no way in hell. She didn’t cry, either. She laughed. And then she made me an offer I fell for, right before I fell for her.

  I ended up in bed with her and losing the job after falling woefully behind on the project. Her ex-husband fired me, but Deborah and I stayed together for a few months after that. She became one of my biggest supporters, even after the affair met its imminent demise.

  I follow Vivian and consider I wouldn’t mind indulging a similar offer to Deborah’s in exchange for a clean bill of health on my site.

  Off the record, I don’t know if all 140 units have drywall installed. Probably more like half. But I’m not going to kneel at the throne of the fucking Clear Ridge Bureau of Inspection. Since when has bureaucratic bullshit made the world a better place?

  Never, that’s when.

  I should let her walk her tight ass out of here. I can have Beck redo his drywall job I destroyed and take this up with Daniel—the putz. I would, except Vivian cracked open my curiosity like the Fabergé egg I knocked off Lainey Owen’s shelf when I first went to live with my new foster parents.

  Lainey, my new and improved mother, smiled and cleaned up the mess. Her comment of “it’s just stuff” froze me into a solid block of shock. After living with parents who sold off everything not nailed down so my father could have “one more hit,” I couldn’t understand how Lainey and Will Owen could let me live in their house for another second.