The Billionaire's Gamble (6 page)

“Step aside,” he said, jumping up from where he sat and running over to her. “Now, watch and be amazed.”

She felt like a circus barker was trying to lure her into a tent of curiosities.

Evan laid his contraption against the wall. She watched as the yellow liquid in the center of the level grew even, and then all of the sudden, the adding machine tape started to crank out tape. Evan ran it along the baseboards, readjusting as needed to make it level, but sure enough, he’d soon lined the whole baseboard with painter’s tape. And it
was
straight—a veritable miracle.

“Did I say it would cut prep time in half?” he asked when he stood, puffing his chest out. “I’d say three-quarters more like. This machine could revolutionize the painting industry. Not just for professional painters, but for your home-improvement types.”

Had she said big ideas? “Yes, I can see the modified adding machine at Lowe’s now. I’m glad it worked, and I’m sorry I doubted you. How about you use that thing to get us prepped?”

She cast a glance toward the front windows. The sun was setting, which meant it was nearing nine o’clock. They might get lucky and paint a couple walls before they had to throw in the towel.

“This thing has a name—or rather I just gave her one. I’m calling her the Paint Prep Mistress.”

She scratched her head. Why were men always referring to objects as females? “Mistress, huh? Sounds like someone has a wild imagination.”

When he didn’t respond, she looked over at him. He was staring at her with an electric intensity she found deeply arousing.

“Imagination is the spice of life, and it’s something I’ve had to do without for a while.” He held his machine against his chest, almost the way a woman would hold a bouquet of flowers from a lover. “Don’t steal this moment from me.”

Her chest grew tight. “I’m sorry.”

He nodded. “Go on home. I’ll make up for the time I spent today on the Paint Prep Mistress. You look tuckered out.”

Did she? Well, no wonder. Closing down her position at Don’t Soy With Me while preparing to launch Hot Cross Buns meant she was burning the candle at both ends. “I can stay.”

“I’m a night owl,” he said, turning back to the wall and resuming his prep. “If I know anything about bakers, you’re one of those early riser types.”

Baking would require her to be up early—well before dawn. “Yes, I am, but this is my place.”

He swiveled on his haunches. “Do you not trust me after today?”

She glared at him. “No, I just think you’re more of a perfectionist than I am, and I’m going to stay.”

“You don’t have to. I have this.”

They were arguing like an old married couple, and they’d only known each other for less than forty-eight hours. “I’m staying.”

“Fine. Don’t touch my paint tray.”

She eyed the one he’d covered with plastic wrap. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

They worked in silence after that. Sure enough, Evan had the whole restaurant prepped in no time. Margie took care of stirring the paint—a luscious periwinkle blue for the walls that would contrast beautifully with the teal she’d chosen for the baseboards. She poured it into
her
paint tray. He could keep his.

Why
was she always attracted to temperamental artistic types?

***

Evan was trying to preserve the euphoria he’d been feeling most of the day after the Paint Prep Mistress’ prototype had formed in his mind. Sure, he’d had to make do with less-than-high-tech equipment, but he’d made it work. When he’d told Margie not to steal this moment from him, he’d meant it.

The signs that had led him to Dare Valley had delivered. A spark of his creative fire had returned.

The part of him that had always been innately curious about life, about how things ticked, about how things
could
tick if he invented something, was back. Before he’d lost himself through his hubris, it had been his whole purpose for living. He’d craved the euphoria—the highs and lows of the invention process. Today had been an abbreviated version of the excitement, the frustration, and finally the victory. He now understood that this ability to create and discover was worth more than his billions.

He couldn’t wait to tell Chase about his progress.

Margie was using a roller on the walls to cover them in a sharp periwinkle. The color was at once bold and welcoming—a perfect representation of Margie.

“I meant to tell you that I like the color,” he commented, setting his prize invention down on the counter so no one would accidentally step on it.

“I’m glad,” she responded, looking cute in the white paint smock she’d donned.

Since Evan wasn’t planning on keeping his off-the-rack clothes once he returned to Paris, he didn’t care if he got paint on them.

He carefully unwrapped the paint tray he’d prepared earlier. After giving the paint a stir, he moved his roller through it until it was evenly covered. Then he followed her lead and started to paint. “You know. The experts say we’re missing a few steps.”

He caught her eye roll when she looked over at him. “Really?”

“Really. First we’re supposed to use primer on the walls. Then paint with the color. Both times, we’re supposed to paint about a two to four inch barrier above the baseboard and below the ceiling before moving on to the rest.” Of course, some modern paint brands already contained primer, but he expected she couldn’t afford the higher-end product.

“That sounds excessive to me. First, we only need to do an extra coat of the paint to cover the wall. And second, the paint tape is supposed to keep us from getting anything on the baseboards or ceiling.” She rolled toward the ceiling as if to prove him wrong.

He could see it coming a mile away, but he forced himself to bite back a warning. She was going too fast. Sure enough, the roller nudged the ceiling and made a stain.

She turned and glared at him. “Don’t. Say. A. Word.”

He made a motion of zipping his lips. The perfectionist part of him wanted to paint the place the expert way, but he figured she’d only growl at him if he tried. So, she was a woman who liked to cut corners—totally the opposite of him. Then he noticed how pale her face was from fatigue. He well remembered how exhausted he’d been when he was starting out. Maybe she was cutting corners because she was tired. He opened his mouth to say something again and then closed it. She’d been very clear on her plans to stay, and he wouldn’t challenge her twice.

They painted until midnight, and he finally made a show of yawning like a sleepy lion sunning himself on the Serengeti. He darn well knew she’d stay as long as he did. The woman had pride, and he admired her for it.

“You’re probably still jet-lagged,” she said, setting her roller into the paint tray and stretching her back.

Her breasts thrust out with the motion, and even though he felt like a total pig, he couldn’t take his eyes off the beautiful line of her body. His mouth went dry, his palms grew damp, and all he wanted to do was throw aside his paint roller, cross the room to her, and kiss her. Wildly. Passionately. Ardently.

“Okay,” she said, straightening. “Let’s clean up and head back to the house.”

He cleared his thick throat, and she looked over. Her whole body stilled, and he made himself look away. He had twenty-nine more days of celibacy since he’d based it on a thirty-one day month like an idiot. Lusting after her now would do neither one of them any good, especially if he let her know how he felt.

“I’ll clean the rollers if you want to pour the paint back into the cans,” he said, picking them up and heading to the industrial kitchen.

When he returned, she was turning his invention from side to side like she was trying to decipher how her artist tenant had turned into MacGyver. The comparison was more apt than she knew, which made Evan pretty proud given that it was one of his favorite shows of all time.

“You’re pretty handy,” she commented, staring at him now. “Why do I have a feeling you’re more than an artist?”

He forced a poker face. It hadn’t dawned on him that he might give himself away by inventing something so simple. All she had to do was Google “Evan the inventor,” and he’d show up in the results.

“Even da Vinci had to create inventions to make his artistic work come alive,” he told her. “I like to create things.”

“Da Vinci, huh?” she said, setting his new pride and joy aside. “That’s a pretty big comparison.”

For Evan Murray, it was. For Evan Michaels, well…he didn’t like to brag, but he thought Maestro would be impressed with some of his inventions if they ever met in a parallel universe.

Evan made himself shrug casually. “You know what they say. ‘That which you admire in another is already inside of you.’”

It was exactly what Chase had said to him after he’d finally confessed how much he admired the other man’s ease of being…well, a man’s man.

“I’ve never heard that saying,” Margie said, picking up her purse and walking to the door. “I’ll have to remember it.”

He turned off his laptop and stuffed it into the backpack he’d bought. Then, he delicately tucked his new mistress into the bag. It was going to sleep beside him tonight. He didn’t care if that made him weird.

“You’re taking that with you?” she asked, her gaze flicking from the backpack to him.

“Ah…” He felt his ears flush. “I want to see if there are any other improvements I can make. When I was in your kitchen cleaning the rollers, I realized that space could use a good coat of paint too. You should add it to the list.”

“Already done. It’s going to be painted a sunny yellow since I’ll have start baking at three a.m., well before the sun rises.”

“The mere thought of that schedule makes me want to throw up,” he answered honestly. When he was in Paris, he was usually still partying at three a.m. or strolling on the streets in the quiet. Paris was beautiful at night, and when he was lonely, he liked to walk amongst the statues and imagine that they were alive and keeping him company.

“Don’t judge my new routine. If I don’t get up then, I’ll be depriving Dare Valley of their morning pastries. I’m sure you’ve enjoyed Paris’ baked goods. And their bakers begin at two a.m., not the wimpy three a.m. I can get away with in Dare Valley. Did you think the fairies left the bread in a nice straw basket by the baker’s doorstep at sunrise?”

Paris was so magical, he could halfway believe such a story. He lifted the backpack over his shoulder after zipping it closed. “I do like a croissant with my café crème. And don’t even get me started talking about my love affair with la baguette.”

“I can’t wait to learn how to make both of those from the experts,” she said, letting him out and then locking the door.

“Who are you apprenticing with?” he asked, not that he would likely know.

“Andre Moutard of Boulangerie Ma Belle. His place is in St. Germain.”

“I live in St. Germain,” he said. Or Evan Michaels did. In a fancy penthouse. “It’s one of the best parts of the city. I love how the window displays are always changing. It’s like they’re inventing something new each time.” Which is why he lived there. It had fed his imagination at first. And then nothing had. Until now.

He paused, wanting to say he would show her around when she came to Paris, but it was too soon for that.

“I’ve never thought about a shop window as an invention. I might have to look at my own storefront in a new way once I open.”

He almost wished he’d be there to see it. “Just put cinnamon roll after cinnamon roll in the shop window. That will speak for itself.”

She laughed. “When I’m not so tired, you’ll have to tell me where I need to go when I’m not working.”

“That I can do.” Of course, the places he went would be out of her price range. He would have to do some research.

“Where are you parked?” she asked as they walked down Main Street.

“I walked here,” he said, tipping his head up to take in the starry sky.

In Paris, he rarely saw a sky so filled with stars. The city’s famous lights obscured the galaxies beyond Earth almost as if Paris were a woman who could not stand the competition to her beauty.

“Come on,” she said. “I’ll take you home.”

It was odd for a woman to say that to him without intending it as an invitation into her bed, but everything in Dare Valley was different from his usual.

She bid him goodnight almost immediately when they entered the quiet Victorian, which was likely for the best. Neither of them needed any awkwardness. He grabbed himself a glass of water in the kitchen before heading upstairs to his room.

Inside, he dug out his cell phone and called Chase. His friend lived outside Washington D.C., only two hours ahead of his current time in Dare Valley—not that he couldn’t call Chase at any time of the day. He had carte blanche.

“How’s normal life so far?” Chase asked the minute he picked up.

“I invented something!” he immediately said, not bothering to keep the old nerdy glee out of his voice.

“You did? That’s terrific. I knew you could get back in the game.” He laughed that loud, gusty laugh of his. “Evan, I’m going to freeze all of your accounts from now on so you’ll be poor for the rest of your life. Tell me what you cooked up.”