The mysterious American billionaire I’ve been emailing for weeks but never spoken to directly.
The man who’s building the largest hotel and casino Ireland has ever seen.
The man who has the power to launch Beckett Deluxe Design into the stratosphere…and possibly get me disowned.
The SUV is outside in the carpark. Tate opens the back door for me and then slips into the driver’s seat. Nico slips in behind me, and Felstead hops in the passenger seat.
As we drive into the city, towards the river, the new Hartmann Hotel dominates the skyline—a tower of steel and glass that climbs into the clouds. It’s obscene. It’s stunning. And it’s not even finished yet. I tilt my head, studying the monstrous, gleaming façade. ‘Freud would have a field day with that,’ I mutter.
Nico snorts. ‘He’s definitely compensating for something. Probably three inches short of a… personality.’
I laugh, and the nerves in my stomach loosen.
Hartmann can’t be as intimidating as he appears in his emails. But if he is, I’m more than capable of dealing with him.
We glide into the private underground car park. Tate steps out first, sweeping the area. Felstead follows. Nico and I walk together toward the private lift.
We step inside, and my pulse climbs with every floor we ascend.
Here we go.
A multi-million-euro contract.
Career explosion.
A brand-new future—mine for the taking. Beckett Deluxe Design Agency will be the most successful Beckett subsidiary, even if it’s the last thing I do.
The lift doors slide open into a minimalist lobby—black marble, ultra-modern lighting, a wall of floor-to-ceiling glass looking over the Liffey. Everything screams power, precision, masculinity. Who designed this? Hartmann himself? I’d put money on it.
A blonde receptionist greets us with a bow of her head.
‘Ms Beckett? Mr Hartmann is expecting you. Please—go straight through.’
My heels echo against the marble as we cross the space. Nico squeezes my arm, firing me a ‘you’ve got this’ wink. I smile back and inhale deeply as I steady myself.
Then I push open the office door.
My heels click across the threshold, and my eyes land on one of America’s most powerful billionaires.
And the smile on my face freezes.
My stomach bottoms out.
The breath rushes from my lungs in one powerful whoosh.
Because the man standing behind the desk—the tall, broad-shouldered, devastatingly handsome man wearing a navy suit that sculpts his beautiful body to perfection—is California.
My California.
My baby’s father.
My brothers’ biggest rival.
Those stunning, soulful silver-blue eyes lock onto mine.
Confusion creases his forehead.
He stills as shock registers on his face.
