Her Billionaire Beast (Her Billionaire CEO, #7) Read online

  Her Billionaire Beast

  Copyright © 2019 Jewel Allen

  Cover design: JB Graphics

  Editing: Daniel Coleman

  Interior formatting: Jewel Allen

  First publication: March 2019

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  No part of this book may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any manner without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations for critical articles and reviews. All rights reserved.

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  Her Billionaire CEO Series

  Her Billionaire Bodyguard

  Her Billionaire Prince

  Her Billionaire Cowboy

  Her Billionaire Santa

  Her Billionaire Spy

  Her Billionaire Valentine

  Her Billionaire Beast

  Her Billionaire Single Dad

  Her Billionaire Sheikh

  ***

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  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  Isa squeezed into the elevator on the first floor and let the others crowd around, filling the gaps. She didn’t want to be buried in the back, having to push through the crowd when she got off the nineteenth floor of the Drake Publishing high-rise.

  As the elevator numbers lit up, 5...6...7... she inhaled deeply, imagining Elvira’s fake smile while trying to undermine, yet again, her authority at this staff meeting.

  Isa was grateful for Elvira. Her assistant editor kept her on her toes.

  Not.

  Elvira... what a name. Not as dark as her movie namesake, but she did have a somewhat vampiric look, with her pale makeup and black bob. She was hungry and ambitious, and Isa knew what that was like, to want so desperately to prove herself.

  Everyone was just watching and waiting for Isa to slip-up as the new editor for Drake’s art imprint. Especially Elvira.

  Exiting the elevator with the rest of the crowd, Isa’s sensible pumps clicked on the marble floor and her A-line dress swished as she briskly approached the open board room door. There Elvira was, seated beside Mr. Drake and obviously trying for a power seat statement.

  Which one was more powerful? The right or the left seat from the power holder?

  Isa took a seat a few chairs down instead.

  Mentally, she shrugged. Why be a copycat?

  She cast a glance at Mr. Drake, who sat at the head of the table, surrounded by a dozen of Drake Publishing’s senior executives sat. He glowered at her, his eyebrows bushy like fuzzy caterpillars. She wondered if they ate milkweed for breakfast.

  “Isabella,” his voice boomed, calling her by her full first name.

  She sat up straighter. “Yes, Mr. Drake?”

  “Did you not get my voicemail?”

  Isa blinked. “I didn’t. Let me check it right now.” She began to scan her phone.

  “Don’t bother. I can tell you just as well.” He leaned back, those caterpillar brows coming together. “I have heard rumors something’s amiss at the Artworks imprint.”

  Isa kept her expression impassive even though she wanted to claw at Elvira’s face. Elvira, the disloyal one. Despite Isa’s admonitions to tell her everything first, she kept ambushing her with surprises like this.

  “Oh?” Isa said casually. “This is news to me.”

  “Let’s talk about Alejandro Diaz.”

  Alejandro Diaz. Billionaire artist hailed as the modern Goya. Also one of Spain’s most eligible bachelors by tabloid accounts.

  Isa’s cheeks warmed as Alejandro’s dark, good looks from his publicity photo flashed in her mind. In truth, she was fascinated by the artist, first, and the man in the photo, second.

  She was suddenly conscious of several pairs of eyes watching her. She smoothed her skirt with a damp palm.

  “What about Alejandro Diaz?” she said, keeping her voice level.

  “This obsession of yours—”

  “Pardon me, Mr. Drake. Did you say obsession?”

  “Yes.” The caterpillar eyebrows butted heads. “What else do you call your dogged determination to award him a two million dollar publishing contract over other, more established, authors?”

  “Sir.” She tried to keep her voice level. “For one, there is a lot of interest right now in his work. Second, he is extremely talented, perhaps the most brilliant artist who has ever—”

  He held up a hand. “You’ve given me this spiel before. I got your multi-page document. So yes, I am aware of his breathtaking talent. You don’t need to convince me. What I need convincing is why it’s already almost April and we still don’t have any progress on the project.”

  “We have made contact.” Isa darted a glance at her assistant editor. “Haven’t we, Elvira?”

  Elvira pressed her smoky-red lips together. “I haven’t had any luck, as I have reported to you, Isa.”

  Isa frowned. “You said you’d talked to his agent.”

  “He hasn’t promised specifics. And this was early on, in late February.”

  Isa stiffened. “That’s not how you characterized it. You said you’d talked as recent as—”

  Mr. Drake cut her off. “That’s enough Isabella.”

  Isa shot Elvira one last glare and sat back, trembling with anger.

  “Bottom line,” Mr. Drake said, “it sounds like this project has been derailed.”

  Isa clenched her fists on her lap. “That’s simply not true. We haven’t ironed out details, yes, but it is very much on track.”

  Mr. Drake’s eyes bore into hers. “Do you deny that you haven’t been able to make contact with his agent nor Mr. Diaz himself the past several weeks?”

  “That much is true.” Isa spoke firmly, belying the anxiety that pooled in her stomach.

  Elvira had volunteered to contact him, but reported he hadn’t answered her calls. Now as Isa looked at Elvira, she wondered if her assistant had tried hard enough. The chilling thought occurred to her that perhaps Elvira had been actively sabotaging this project. Especially since her assistant knew that a lot rode on it.

  Isa’s future with the Publishing house, for one.

  “I will personally make sure that the project happens in a timely manner,” Isa said. It was an audacious declaration, but she knew she had to say it. Not only to save face, but to
make a vow that she knew she’d keep.

  Mr. Drake formed a steeple with his fingers and studied her. “And if it doesn’t?”

  “That won’t happen.” She hadn’t meant to, but her words came out clipped.

  “He’s not the first celebrity to change his mind. Usually, we can shore up failed projects, but this one will sink your imprint as fast as you can say Titanic.”

  Failed.

  The word taunted Isa. She knew what Mr. Drake was saying. It had been her fear from day one, that an imprint project would sink the entire Artworks ship. It wouldn’t only mean a sunk business, but she’d be saying goodbye to her career. Forget a good reference. The publishing industry was not one to easily forgive and forget.

  Fortunately, Mr. Drake chose to move on to other matters. Isa had to force herself to listen to the details, even as the public drubbing left her demoralized. Squaring her shoulders, she refused to let it defeat her. She didn’t come this far only to watch the whole thing crash in front of her eyes.

  She wouldn’t fail. Not if she could help it.

  Other imprints seemed to be doing well. The nonfiction imprint that sprung up in the last year was raking in the money. She smiled and nodded her congratulations at Rosie, the nonfiction imprint director. She was a petite Asian-American dynamo whose touch turned everything to gold.

  Whereas she, Isa, still hadn’t found her groove.

  “Thank you all,” Mr. Drake said. “Let’s go after them this week.”

  He looked straight at Isa. Instead of hope, that feeling of fear overwhelmed her once again. She got to her feet to make her escape but Mr. Drake detained her with a gesture of his hand.

  “One minute, Isabella.”

  “Yes, sir?” Sweat pooled in her armpits.

  “When I put you in as imprint editor, we had this discussion, didn’t we?”

  She swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

  “That I wouldn’t treat you any differently than other employee.”

  She nodded, trying to not let the tears surface.

  “I have been fair, haven’t I?” he said.

  Isa didn’t really agree. He had been a tough taskmaster the last little while. Almost tougher on Isa than the others. But she wasn’t going to complain.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Well, good luck with Alejandro Diaz. I hope he comes through.”

  “I hope so too...”

  He stood up, gave her an almost sympathetic glance, and walked out of the room.

  “...Dad.” She finished her sentence softly.

  That had been the deal. She couldn’t run with her tail tucked between her legs back to her father, who no doubt could fix anything and everything under the sun. She had tried calling him Dad in front of the others, at first, but it sounded abhorrently nepotistic, so she dropped that in favor of “Mr. Drake.”

  Since working for him, she’d clawed her way from mail room to secretary, all the way up the ranks to associate editor. When he finally picked her over Elvira for the editor position, he warned her she would still be under probation until she proved herself. Whatever that meant.

  He had entrusted her, Isabella Drake, with the job of making Artworks imprint successful. And boy, by hook or by crook, she was going to do it.

  Would Alejandro Diaz be a help or a hindrance?

  She imagined meeting her idol for the first time. Those enigmatic eyes, watching her over paint-covered, steepled fingers.

  Would he greet her with a smile or a scowl?

  Chapter Two

  Isa had been to Spain before, when she was a teenager and her parents still had the freedom of traveling around the world with the kids during their summer breaks.

  She remembered that one time to be in June—hot and a little tedious. Not so much her thing of going to forts and palaces. My, she was a cranky teen then. She had declared that she liked Italy and Austria so much better, as though it was a fair comparison.

  Dad didn’t say anything, just gave her a glance that put her immediately in her place, as though to say, “Don’t be bratty.” Her mom reminded her to be grateful for her blessings, with a little flutter of her slender hands.

  Thankfully Isa had outgrown her brattiness since. She was grateful for the opportunities life had thrown her way. She had a fun, challenging career where she could grow and learn with considerable freedom.

  Which was how Isa found herself taking a red-eye flight from New York to Sevilla, Spain in late April. To take care of this project she’d green-lighted.

  After Alejandro Diaz’s acclaimed success in the art world, his agent and Drake Publishing had entered negotiations. Isa was the least senior of the senior editors, but somehow she was able to convince the acquisitions team to offer for his memoir. When it was all said and done, and Dad had asked who was interested in tackling the project, she raised her hand so fast she was sure she got an elbow sprain.

  Dad hadn’t said yes right away. He thanked Isa for her interest, noted a few other hands that shot up, and said he would get back with everyone.

  The day he picked her, she tried to act cool, but it was the greatest moment of her career so far.

  As she got out of the Sevilla airport to claim her rental car, she couldn’t help but smile. She would finally meet the artist she’d admired for so long.

  Dad was exaggerating when he called her interest in him an obsession.

  Or was it?

  Again, her cheeks warmed. Could one develop an obsession for someone only through their creative work? She owned a few of his pieces in her apartment.

  Landscapes full of raw and earthy passion. He depicted both the beauty of nature and its brute force. Portraits of children with their grandparents. Youth and wisdom. Frailty and strength.

  Yin and yang. Light and dark.

  Like Goya from the 18thcentury, who painted a royal portrait one day and the masses revolting the next, Alejandro was not scared of using art to depict life’s extreme opposites—

  Honk!

  She’d been so pre-occupied with thoughts of Alejandro Diaz’s art, she’d nearly stepped out in front of a car. The vehicle curved around her and zoomed on.

  Excitement at meeting him mingled with dread.

  That momentous time when Alejandro’s agent and Dad shook hands seemed so long ago. It had been full of promise and hope. Now, three months later, she did wonder why Alejandro Diaz hadn’t returned their communications. Why the agent seemed so evasive.

  The two million dollar advance could be held over the head of most authors. No doubt Alejandro could hire a team of lawyers to get him out of the contract and even get to keep the money. Demanding the money back wouldn’t encourage him to deliver the book. He wouldn’t need a measly two million.

  But Drake Publishing’s little art imprint certainly did.

  If it folded, she might as well find a job waiting tables like she did when she was in high school.

  She turned her attention back from her musings onto the present-time. She was in Spain. She could only see the airport surroundings from here, but she could already tell, with how dry the air was, that this was less humid than New York.

  Unlike her ungrateful, bratty teen self, she was excited to be here once again. She loved Spanish cuisine—their paellas, tapas and late-night restaurant hours. She looked forward to walking through the plazas along old architecture.

  Top of her list was, “get Alejandro Diaz back on the same page,” even if it meant she had to write that book herself.

  Dad had looked skeptical but gave his blessing, along with the blessing of the CFO. If Isa couldn’t get the deal back on track, even if the company successfully recovered some of the advance, the credibility of the imprint would be shot.

  Not to mention Isa’s.

  At the rental counter, she was assigned a Lancia, a medium sedan, nothing fancy. Isa had grown up in Denver, Colorado, practically in the lap of luxury but her mother grounded her in simple things. She and her siblings still did chores around the penthouse even
with maids and nannies around. She was expected to do homework and pull good grades. In the summers, when she was old enough, her parents didn’t have to encourage her to get a job. She spent summers working a couple of hours away in Sunnyridge, where her grandparents lived.

  Entrepreneurship was ingrained in her, just as the love of language and of the visual arts. She was an advanced amateur photographer, if there was such a person. In fact, as she emerged into the pleasantly cool April Sevilla air, she itched to take out her camera and sling it around her neck. Like a detective ferreting out the mysteries of this elegant Spanish city.

  But first, she needed to solve the mystery of Alejandro Diaz.

  He lived in a castle, that much she knew. It had been featured in the Billionaire for a Day channel, with its host, Ash Winters. Alejandro’s castle had eighty rooms, forty bathrooms, and not just one but three pools.

  Would she see all that wealth today?

  Speaking of wealth, a limo pulled up at the curb.

  Behind it, a rental car employee parked Isa’s Lancia hatchback. The contrast between the tiny Lancia and the limo made her chuckle. Isa loaded her luggage in the economy vehicle and got behind the wheel.

  She didn’t mind driving in Spain. She knew enough Spanish to get around and they drove on the right side of the road. Today, the sun bore down cheerily, casting everything in a washed out daylight. Past the walls along the interchanges, she could see villas and rolling hills, farmland and aged structures still wonderfully preserved. There was the ever-present church, with a belfry that still rang on the hour, like an elegy to an older time.

  For all her snootiness as a teen over Spain’s less flashy ambience than, say, Italy, she recognized even then that the Spaniard’s slower pace was a balm to the harried soul.

  Here, on the roads, drivers were polite and yielded to her.

  Honk!

  What the—

  A van tail-gated her while another tried to pass, dangerously fast, on her right side. Isa groaned. Had she mistakenly made it onto the Spanish version of the Autobahn? Of course it had been nearly ten years since she’d been on Spanish roads, and Dad had been driving then.

  It was her cue to switch to the slower lane. After Mr. Speedy passed her, she glanced at her side mirror and started moving over.