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CHAPTER ONE
FURY FIGHTING WITH the pain of betrayal, Romi Grayson set her phone down on the table beside her with careful movements. The temptation to throw the mobile device across the room was staggering.
That lying, manipulative, opportunistic tycoon!
Maxwell Black had made it very clear to Romi that he wasn’t in the market for a long-term relationship, but that hadn’t meant he wasn’t interested in something else. His generosity in and out of bed with his lovers had been the fodder for gossip for years. As were the unexpectedly amicable breakups.
Max had promised Romi sexual pleasure beyond the scope of her imagination.
He’d said she would be the sole focus of his interest.
Until he was done with her.
The über-wealthy tycoon-playboy had offered Romi absolute fidelity with a time limit.
She’d walked away.
From the promise. From the possibilities. From the certainty of a broken heart.
They’d only dated a few times, but he’d sparked a depth of emotion in her that was both immediate and frightening. Terrifying for its intensity, Romi had had no doubts that she wouldn’t survive a breakup down the road with her heart intact.
Walking away after their short, almost platonic association had been painful enough. Almost being the operative word. Max had given Romi her first taste of sexual pleasure with a partner.
Awed by the sensations he evoked, she’d been close to giving in to Max’s offer.
Ultimately, she’d had no choice, though. Not with his attitude.
For all her “free-spirited” ways, Romi was a traditionalist at heart. She wanted a home, a family and the man she loved to be looking at the future, not the expiry date on their relationship.
That same man had been prepared to marry Romi’s sister-by-choice, Madison Archer.
For a payoff!
Shares in Archer International Holdings and the prospect of taking over when Jeremy Archer retired had tempted Maxwell Black to break his “no commitments” rule.
The mercenary cad.
It was an old-fashioned word, but man, it fit.
“Ramona!” Her dad’s wavering call came from the den he spent most of his time in these days.
He only made it into the office about two days a week, his longtime director of operations running Grayson Enterprises in everything but name.
Some might have expected Romi to take over the family business, but not her dad. Harry Grayson had always made it clear he expected his daughter to follow her own dreams.
Filtered sunlight from the single window on the north side cast the den in gray light. Her father sat on the sofa facing the dark screen of a wall-mounted big-screen television. The highball glass in his hand was empty but for a couple of ice cubes. Bloodshot, red-rimmed hazel eyes testified to the fact it hadn’t been empty for long, or often in the past hours.
She walked forward and took the glass from his unresisting fingers. “It’s only afternoon, Daddy. You don’t need this.”
There was a time when he hadn’t picked up a drink with alcohol in it before the cocktail hour. He’d drunk steadily from that point so that he went to bed every night so inebriated, walking up the stairs was a danger.
But the drinking hadn’t gone on during the day.
Over the past few years, the drinking had gotten worse while she was away at school. Her father now started at lunchtime with a glass of wine that often became a bottle.
But drinking hard liquor this early in the day was still something new.
Recognition took seconds to register in his rheumy gaze. “Ramona.”
“Yes, Daddy. You called me.” Something he never would have done sober.
Graysons did not do common things like shout through the house for one another. They used the intercom system.
But Harry Grayson didn’t look in any shape to cross the room to the intercom. His brows drew together in an exaggerated effort at concentrating. “I did?”
“Yes, Daddy, you did.”
He looked with confusion around the room, like the answer might leap out at him. “I think I lost the remote.”
Romi bent down and picked up the small electronic device from the floor at his feet. “Here it is.”
“Oh, thank you.” He frowned. “It’s not working.”
She swiped her hand on the screen and spoke the command to turn the TV on. The sound of afternoon news commentary filled the room from the surround-sound speakers.
“It’s working just fine.”
“Wouldn’t turn on for me,” her father slurred.
She wasn’t surprised. The remote was programmed to take voice instruction with recognizable commands, not speech blurred by alcohol.
“You look upset, kitten.”
That was the thing about her dad. Even with his brain pickled by too much drink, he cared about her. He paid attention. She had no trouble remembering that even drunk, her dad was twice the father than a man like Maddie’s dad could ever hope to be.
“I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not.” He was careful to enunciate every word.
And for some reason that made Romi feel like crying. “It’s nothing, really.”
“No, I know it’s something.” For just a moment, her dad wasn’t a drunk bent on destroying his liver.
He was the man who had loved her mother so much, he’d married her against his own family’s wishes. He was the guy who raised Romi from the time she was three, refusing the easy road of allowing other family members to take on her care.
“It’s an old story.” And she’d fallen for it.
“Tell me.”
“I fell for a man.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
Romi ignored that, incapable of coming up with a response that wouldn’t hurt one of them. “He told me he didn’t do commitment.”
“And you found out he’s married?” her dad asked, looking as angry as emotions dulled by overimbibing would allow.
“No, but I did find out he’s willing to get married. For the right price.”
“The cad!”
She couldn’t help smiling at how her father’s word echoed her own thoughts just a few minutes before. “Exactly.”
“You’re better off without him.”
“Of course.” If only she could convince her heart as easily as her head.
* * *
Maxwell Black was bored. Attending these functions rarely provided anything but a few mind-numbing hours interspersed with brief moments of useful networking.
Oh, he believed in the cause. Tonight’s gala was dedicated to raising funds for and awareness of the plight of hunger among school-age children.
Considering the focus of the evening, he might have an opportunity to indulge in one of his favorite pastimes. Watching Romi Grayson.
Touching her was more satisfying, but she’d turned down his offer of a liaison in no uncertain terms.
In a rare show of restraint, he hadn’t continued the pursuit.
There was something different…almost special…about the old-money San Francisco heiress, a vulnerability he was unwilling to exploit.
A first for him—he’d stayed away from her as much out of self-preservation as anything else.
He felt protective toward her in ways he did not understand, ways that could be manipulated if she knew about them. So, she would never find out.
Even so, plans and intentions changed and he was coming to the conclusion that he and Romi might have a future after all. So long as Maxwell dictated the terms.
The soft scent of jasmine and vanilla he always associated with the heiress activist reached him before she did.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Maxwell Black, master tycoon.”
Squelching the urge to turn quickly, he slowly faced her.
Black, silky chin-length hair framed Romi’s pixie-like features, her bow-shaped lips set in an uncustomary flat line. Her makeup was dramatic tonight, bringing out the gentian blue of her eyes. Eyes that snapped with accusation he did not understand.
Or perhaps he did.
“Good evening, Romi. You look lovely tonight.”
The elegant peacock-blue evening gown accented her modest curves, highlighting Romi’s particular brand of delicate femininity. Fragility at odds with her gung-ho approach to life. Romi didn’t consider any cause too great, or any opponent too intimidating to take on.
Borderline petite at five foot five, with a personality that more than made up for her smaller stature, Maxwell had found Ramona Grayson intriguing from their first meeting.
“Thank you.” She frowned at him, but offered grudgingly, “You’re very handsome yourself tonight. Not a designer I recognize. A tuxedo from one of the tailors on Savile Row?”
He smiled, impressed by her powers of observation. Having his clothing made to fit could be considered a luxury by some, but for Maxwell it was more than that. Tailored designer brands impressed, but having a bespoke suit, patterned and constructed entirely to his specifications, made another kind of impression, one in line with Maxwell’s reputation for utter control in and out of the boardroom.
“My suit-maker is local, but he apprenticed with a Savile Row tailor.”
“Of course. I notice you don’t give his name.”
“Why? Are you looking for a new tailor for your father?” Not that Maxwell thought his would take on Grayson.
The tailor was both expensive and extremely discerning about his clientele. An alcoholic on the verge of taking his company down to the bottom of a whiskey bottle had no chance.
Romi’s barely there grimace was quickly masked. “No.”
“The waiting list for his services is a year out.” Maxwell found himself offering the truth as an excuse, an unaccustomed effort to spare her feelings.
“No doubt you subverted it somehow.”
Maxwell smiled. “Not a chance. The man’s a martinet about his schedule and his client standards.”
“Still, I’m surprised,” Romi said, her intent to bait him obvious.
Something was definitely bothering her. “Are you?”
“You’re a very opportunistic man.” The edge to her voice was sharper than a chef’s cleaver.
He couldn’t deny it, didn’t want to. His ability to identify and take advantage of opportunities was something that had helped Maxwell to build his business and his fortune to what they were today. A multimillionaire personally, his company, Black Information Technologies, or BIT, was valued at ten times his personal assets.
Not bad for a thirty-two-year-old bastard having no acknowledged ties to wealth, like Romi had been born with.
However, it was clear something about that character trait had upset Romi. Recently, if he wasn’t mistaken. Since there was no way she could know about the plans he’d been considering for her father’s company, it had to be something else.
Mentally going back through the events of the past week that others were aware of, Maxwell thought he might know. “You’ve spoken to Madison Archer.”
“I talk to Maddie every day, several times a day.” The increased annoyance in Romi’s voice left no doubt he was on the right track.
Though he still was not sure why Romi would be upset with Maxwell for being offered the marriage-based business contract by Jeremy Archer.
“I can hardly be held accountable for her father’s actions.” Though he wouldn’t hesitate to take advantage of the auspicious conditions Archer had provided, even if not for the opportunities the president of AIH had intended.
Romi crossed her arms, leaning back in a classic pose of annoyance. “Only your willingness to participate in them.”
He took a moment to appreciate the way her stance pressed her small breasts together to create a shadow of tempting cleavage. Everything about her body turned him on. Thin, with modest curves, she was nevertheless one-hundred-percent enticing woman.
“I went to a meeting where Jeremy Archer offered a very lucrative contract and your so-called sister-by-choice held her own very well.” Though he wasn’t prepared to tell Romi how Madison had kept her father in line.
Maxwell had plans for that information. Because he was an opportunistic bastard. Literally and figuratively.
