The Magnate's Manifesto

Jared gave her an amused look as she chatted with the pilot, extending her twenty-question strategy to him. It was presently a balmy twenty-one degrees Celsius, the pilot told them as he set the chopper down on the Gagnon property’s private landing pad, expected to get much hotter over the weekend, just in time for film festival season in the South of France.

They were met outside the low, cream-colored sprawling villa that sat directly on the bay by Davide Gagnon’s head housekeeper, who informed them their host was en route home from a business meeting and would greet them that night at the party. Until then, they were free to explore the grounds and beach and enjoy some lunch. Bailey forced some salad into her jet-lagged body, took one look at her oceanfront suite—situated directly beside Jared’s at one end of a wing—and elected for a face-plant into the three-hundred-count Egyptian cotton sheets and an afternoon nap.

When she woke, the brilliant afternoon sun had faded into early evening, and a sensual pink-orange sunset was streaking its way across the sky. She yawned, padded to her terrace and watched as it deepened into a hot-pink fire laced with smoky gray-blue. She would have done just about anything to be able to sit there and enjoy the magnificent view with a glass of the wine on ice in her suite, but it was already close to six. She needed to shower, dress and face the jeweled, exquisitely coutured guests of Davide Gagnon in a half hour. And hope she had learned enough over the years to fake it so her lowbrow, uncouth roots didn’t show through like an ugly weed in a sea of mimosa and lavender.

Put her in a boardroom matched against the world’s nastiest deal-maker, and she was rock solid. Put her in a social situation like tonight, and she needed all her acting skills to survive. Etiquette training had only taught her which fork to use. Which wine to drink with what. It didn’t make her one of them. And it never would.

She gazed out at the explosion of color in the sky and reminded herself parties like this were about working a room. If there was anything she’d learned as a dancer, it was that. How to get what she wanted out of the men who’d come to watch her so she could make a different life for herself. And tonight was no different. She needed to focus on the prize, Davide Gagnon. Use what she’d learned about him, what she knew of men like him, to convince him a Stone Industries partnership was his ticket to European sales domination.

Show Jared he’d been overlooking a valuable asset for a very long time.

Once she got over her nerves…

She reluctantly abandoned the gorgeous view and stepped inside. She might not be able to enjoy the sunset, but she could indulge in a glass of wine to ease the tension. Pouring herself a glass, she took it into the stunning marble bathroom, stepped under a hot shower, and systematically washed away the old Bailey and installed the new one in her place.

Wrapping herself in the thick, soft robe that hung on the door, she padded into the dressing area and ran her fingers over the whisper-soft silks and taffetas she’d hung in the wardrobe. But there was never any question as to which she’d pick. She pulled the just-above-the knee beaded champagne-colored cocktail dress from the hanger and slipped it on. The dress was the softest silk, hugging every curve with just the right amount of propriety. Sexy but conservative at the same time.

She surveyed herself in the floor-length mirror. There was nothing cheap about the woman who looked back at her. This was not the twenty-dollar designer knockoff dress that had once been the only thing she could afford. And it showed.

Working her hair into a smooth, shimmering mass of curls with a round brush and a dryer, she topped it with minimal eye makeup and gloss. Enough to highlight her features. She had just added a dash of perfume to her pulse points when a knock sounded at the connecting door. Jared.

She moved across the room, undid the bolt and opened the door. The sight of her boss in an exquisitely tailored black tux might have been more intimidating than the prospect of the evening ahead. From the tip of his slicked-back dark hair to his freshly shaven jaw and long-limbed masculinity, he was devastating.

* * *

Jared followed Bailey into her suite, her barefoot, wine-in-her-hand invitation to come in doing something strange to his insides. Her dress—what would you call it, champagne-colored?—hugged every curve as if it had been sewn onto her. Curves that could burn themselves into your memory if you let them. Her hair fell in smooth gold waves to her shoulders, one side pushed back with a diamond butterfly clasp. Her exquisite face held only the faintest trace of war paint. But she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever stepped foot into a room with. That he knew.

He attempted to divert his wayward thoughts with a thoughtful look down at the floor tapestry, and instead treated himself to a perfect view of her long golden legs, ruby-tipped toes sinking into the carpet. And felt himself lose the plot completely. If she’d been a woman he was dating, he would have skipped the cocktails entirely. Insisted she share her wine while they watched the sunset together, taken the dress off her with his teeth and made her come at least twice before they joined the others.

And that didn’t take into account what he would have done to her after the night was over.

He would have had her until sunrise.

“Jared?”

He coughed and lifted his gaze to hers. “Sorry?”

A pink stain stole over her cheeks. “The gold or champagne shoes?”

He looked at the two pairs of sky-high heels dangling by her fingertips and decided either of them would make every man in the room tonight want to bed her.

“Gold,” he muttered. “It’ll contrast with the dress.”

“Right.” She tossed the other pair on the carpet, braced her hand against the wall and slipped the stilettos on. As his hormone-clouded brain cleared, he noticed the tight set of her face. The way her ramrod straight posture seemed to have pulled up another centimeter. How she picked up the glass of wine and downed the remainder with a jerky movement reminiscent of his father on the nights he’d had to attend the bank functions he’d never been comfortable with, except his drink had been scotch.

The chink in her armor confounded him. “Are you nervous? You know the plan. We find out Maison’s strategy when it comes to the environment and we’re all set. It’s the last missing piece.”

A stillness slipped across her fine-boned face. Indecipherable. “I’ve got the plan down, Jared. I’m fine.”

He didn’t buy it for a second. Her revelations on the plane had illuminated one thing about Bailey. She hadn’t been born into this lifestyle. She did a good job making it look as though she had, but she hadn’t.

He stepped closer, something about her vulnerability touching him deep down inside. “Don’t you know?” he said softly, looking down at her. “You’re always the most beautiful woman in the room, Bailey. And the smartest.”

A small smile twisted her lips before she wrinkled her nose at him. “I’ll bet that line works wonders for you.”

“You have no idea.” His answering grin was self-effacing. “But I’ve never meant it more than I do now. So be yourself tonight, and you’ll knock them dead.”

She studied him for a moment. Nodded. “We should go.”

For what reason he didn’t know, he braved her prickly exterior and wrapped his fingers around her delicate hand instead of offering his arm.

“Ready?” he asked roughly.

“Ready.”

* * *

They emerged on the buzzing wraparound terrace of the villa, ablaze with light and laughter on the warm Mediterranean night, where perhaps close to fifty people had already gathered, cocktails in hand. As Jared cased the crowd, he noticed an Academy Award-winning producer to his left, a high-profile A-list Hollywood couple to his right, and wasn’t that Roberto Something-or-other, the Italian film director known for his sprawling epics, straight ahead? The big personalities had, apparently, all made it into town.

He grabbed a couple of glasses of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray and handed one to Bailey. Gagnon had spared no expense: a quartet playing in a corner of the large, floodlit deck, black-jacketed staff circulating like an efficient swarm of bees, and from what he’d heard, a well-known French singer slated to play later in the evening, purportedly a mistress to one of the French cabinet ministers. But Jared had only one goal in mind. To corner Davide Gagnon and get the information he needed to develop that final, crucial piece of strategy.

He did not miss the attention every man at the party paid to the woman by his side as he picked out Gagnon, placed a palm to Bailey’s back and led her through the crowd. There were a lot of beautiful, stunning even, women at the party. Bailey outshone them all, glittering like a glamorous Hollywood icon brought forward to the present, outclassing even the real Hollywood A-listers in attendance if you were to ask his opinion. But in true Bailey style, she ignored them all and focused on their target.

Davide Gagnon detached himself from the group he was standing with and came toward them, his sun-lined, handsome, younger-looking-than-he-was face breaking into a wide smile as he took Bailey’s hand and brought it to his mouth. “My pilot told me you were lovely,” he murmured gallantly. “I think he erred on the conservative side.”

Bailey gave their host a warm smile and returned his greeting. In French. In perfectly accented, lilting Parisian French that sounded so sexy Jared’s jaw dropped open.

“I think I’m in love,” Davide murmured, hanging on to her hand. “What are you doing with the most controversial man in the room, ma ch?re?”

“And the most brilliant,” Bailey returned smoothly as she drew back, an amused sparkle lighting her blue eyes. “I’m with him for his brain.”

Jared’s gaze tangled with hers. She appreciated a lot more than his brain, he was sure of it. And he suddenly had the burning urge to make her admit it. Maybe it was the look of pure male appreciation on Davide’s face. Maybe it had been the scene with the shoes. Regardless, it was out of the question. He had to be a good boy. He was on a very short leash with no room for error.