The Billionaire and the Runaway Bride by Nadia Lee

Chapter Fourteen

Yuna

Since it’s my first day, I decide to take extra care with my appearance. The interview was the first first impression, and this is going to be kind of like a second first impression. It’s all about setting the proper tone for my employment with Declan Winters.

My hair’s down around my lightly made-up face. The key is to look effortlessly flawless, and I think I managed that. The large diamond solitaires sparkling on my ears are elegant and sophisticated, and a platinum key pendant hanging between my breasts shines just so. I put on my most conservative Dior dress. It’s a dark navy with an ivy pattern along the hem in muted silver, and almost reaches my knees. Then a pair of nude Gucci pumps…and I reach for the purse from yesterday and stop. It’s black. And the purse next to it is deep brown. I can’t do a dark dress and dark purse. Way too dull and depressing.

I opt for a pastel-pink Hermès bag, then give my reflection a congratulatory wink in the mirror. Damn, I look fabulous!

Declan wants me at his place between eight and nine, so I grab an Uber to his address in Malibu. Tony offered to drive me last night, but I turned him down. There’s no point in that, plus Ivy might need him. The emergency craving grocery runs are more important.

When my ride stops at the gates to the Malibu mansion, I pair my phone to the Bluetooth remote for the security system, hit the six-digit code and enter my name in all caps. The gates slide apart, and the driver whistles.

He pulls into the huge driveway and whistles again. “Wow. This is nice.”

“Yeah, it’s not bad. Thanks for the ride.”

I get out with my purse and walk to the main entrance. The architecture is contemporary and chic, with lots of white walls and glass. I approve.

Another security pad. I put in a code—this one different from the gate combination. The red light turns green. A metallic click sounds from the door.

I take a step inside. “Hello? Yuna here, reporting for duty…” I call out. I don’t want to catch Declan by surprise. What if he shoots me, thinking I’m an intruder?

Silence.

“Hello…?”

I walk further into the house. A spectacular view of the ocean stretches out in front of me, the glittering Pacific seemingly going on forever. I pause, taking in the beauty of the sight.

“Enjoying the view?” comes a voice from behind me.

I turn around with a professional assistant’s smile that even Ms. Kim would be proud of. “Yes.” The answer covers what I’m seeing right now, too.

Declan’s in a gray V-neck T-shirt and jeans, his clothes casual but lying perfectly over his wide shoulders and lean physique. His body has gotten even better since he took the photo for the underwear billboard. His face, too. It looks more chiseled somehow, with sharper lines and features.

My gaze drops lower. I know I have it bad when even his bare feet look sexy.

Feet are not my thing. I’ve never, ever looked at somebody’s feet and thought they looked hot. Or had my heart beat oddly like this. But now…

Suddenly feeling warm and ridiculous, I make a big deal out of looking around. The interior of the mansion is sleek, with tons of glass and chrome. High ceiling fans and recessed lights. A chandelier in the dining room. A Steinway grand piano in gleaming white. The furniture is mainly leather and glass and chrome. The interior colors are mostly pale gray and some navy blue. Almost too cool, but it shows wealth and taste in an understated way.

And I approve of the way my body returns to equilibrium. My temperature’s back to normal, and I’m not feeling that weird heart acceleration anymore. Must be first-day job nerves. And not having Ms. Kim and Mr. Choi as backup.

Declan’s phone buzzes. “Excuse me. I gotta take this.”

I nod and sit on a couch. I try not to listen to what he’s saying. If it’s important for me to know, he’ll fill me in.

But I’m fully open to his baritone voice. Smooth with just a hint of rasp, it’s very masculine. I wonder what it would be like to have that tone warm up a little. Like when he likes you on a personal level. Or when he’s attracted to you.

Maybe even turned on.

What kind of bedroom voice does he have? Some men have amazing ones—the male equivalent of a come-hither look. But most don’t…and sound ridiculous if they try. Maybe there’s a way to get Declan to read a hot sex scene from a romance novel. Just to satisfy my curiosity.

I’ll need a scene with lots of dirty talk for the experiment. And it’d be best if it was somehow tied in with work… Hmm…

Maybe he could produce audio books or something…even though that face would be wasted. His appearance is ninety percent of the appeal. It’s the first thing I noticed and probably the first thing everyone notices.

My mouth starts to tingle. Which is weird, because I’m not doing anything to it. I lift my gaze and see Declan staring at my lips, while talking about someone’s weird obsession with Russian art. He’s definitely not looking at them like they’re exquisite murals inside St. Basil’s Cathedral in Moscow. He’s gazing at them the way a man might focus on a juicy peach. Or a ripe cherry.

Shivers start at the base of my spine. The fine hair on the back of my neck bristles, and I have the most absurd wish that he would stroke the spot with his warm fingers until it’s no longer standing up.

Crap.I lick my lips and fidget a little. I’ve dealt with lots and lots of people—and half of them were men. But none of them made me feel this squirmy inside. It isn’t really uncomfortable, but it’s slightly unsettling.

To be a true artist, you mustlive! Experience life! Fall in love. Fall out of love. Have your heart broken. Have your heart mended. Despair. Triumph! Cry, dance and laugh.

The passionate words of my piano teacher from Curtis, Tatiana Segar, ring in my head. When she said that, I cheekily responded that I’d done all that. But now I realize I haven’t. Not really.

If I had, I wouldn’t be flustered by the way I’m feeling right now.

When Declan puts away his phone and walks toward me, I bite my lip. I need a way to regroup. I flick my eyes around, avoiding the towering, gorgeous man getting closer.

The Steinway!

“Nice piano,” I say, moving toward it to put a little distance between me and Declan.

“It isn’t bad,” he says, taking the couch I just left. He stretches his legs out, his arms resting on the back.

He looks indolent but in control. I could snap a photo with my phone right now and I’d get something fabulous to post on Instagram, no touching up or cropping required. Not that I do social media. Hae Min’s legal and PR teams have strictly forbidden the family from being active on social media. Anything we post could be twisted and misquoted, and the family or the company doesn’t need the baseless scandals that would result.

I open the lid. “Hey, it’s a SPIRIO. I didn’t know they came in white.”

“The color’s custom. Special order. I’m surprised you recognize it. The sales guy said they’re fairly new.”

“I was looking for a new piano a couple of years ago, that’s why. My salesman pushed the auto-play feature hard, although why he thought I’d want that when I can play it myself…” I shrug. “But I liked how it can capture any concert pianist’s performance and duplicate it exactly if you have an iPad with the right app.”

I look and see an iPad resting against the music rack on the Steinway. I laughed when the salesman proudly claimed the piano came with a complimentary iPad. People who can drop over two hundred thousand bucks on a piano aren’t worried about a free iPad.

“It also records and edits,” Declan says.

“I like the recording part, but not the editing part. You should practice until you can play a piece perfectly, not cheat. It’s like Photoshopping to crop twenty pounds off your belly or add twenty pounds to the bulge.”

“The bulge?”

“For underwear models.” As soon as the words slip out of my mouth, I want to smack myself. I didn’t mean to say it, but maybe subconsciously it’s been on my mind because of the billboard outside Eugene’s office. Might as well go shameless—it’s too late for modesty now.

He scoffs. “Nobody adds twenty pounds.”

“I’ve seen some ridiculous shots.” Wonder if Declan’s underwear shots were Photoshopped. Since I have no decency to cling to at the moment, I kind of want to check, but decide that’d be too blatant. I make a mental note to size him up later, so to speak, when he’s distracted.

“I’ve never had to have anything Photoshopped.”

Wow. It’s like he read my mind. Except would any man really admit to adding twenty pounds to his crotch? I think not.

And since I don’t want to spend time contemplating how large he is, I ask, “Do you play?”

“I did, a little, when I was a kid. I wanted to play the Schubert Impromptu.”

“The one I played at the airport?”

“Yeah. But it was going to take too long to master. And I didn’t have the time to spend to be able to play just one piece. Or the patience to practice all the drills for the different techniques.”

“Most people don’t, but if you master all the techniques, you can learn any piece in hours. I mean, except for a concerto because it’s so long.”

He looks at me skeptically. “Anything? Even Chopin or Liszt?”

“I learned Liszt’s Consolation Number Three in an hour. So yeah.” I run my hands along the cool, smooth keys. Calm and peace settle over me.

“Play something for me,” he says.

“Don’t you have to work?” I ask. I don’t know what working entails for a model/actor, but it seems like he must have some schedule.

“I have an hour before my first appointment. Besides, your job is to do whatever I ask you to.”

Within reason. “Well, if you want to pay me to play for you, I won’t complain.” And it’s going to be a super-easy and fun job, too, if he wants me to play the piano for an hour like this every day.

I sit down and play a couple of rapid scales to warm up my fingers. The Steinway responds beautifully, the notes clear and vibrant.

My fingers move across the keys, then I launch into some Chopin. The cheery melody fills the Malibu mansion.

“What’s that called?” he asks.

“The ‘Minute Waltz,’ supposedly because you’re supposed to play it in a minute, although most play it under two.”

“Oh, a waltz?” He seems pleased for a moment, but then frowns. “You can’t really dance to that, can you? It’s awfully fast.”

“Chopin’s waltzes aren’t for dancing. But this one is.”

I play my own arrangement of Shostakovich’s waltz. The composition is very famous, and everyone’s heard of it even if they don’t know the composer or where it came from.

“Hey, I know that one,” Declan says when I’m finished. He comes over and puts a hand on the piano. “It’s from Jazz Suite.”

He’s close enough that I can smell his soap. And that special man scent—full of testosterone and sexy as hell. He seems to have a very potent version, because it’s making me want to bury my nose in the crook of his neck and inhale until I burst.

Then I remember what he just said. “Actually, it’s from Suite for Variety Orchestra. The work was initially lost and attributed improperly a few times.”

“But you can perform it on the piano, even though it’s for an orchestra?”

“If you can find the arrangement or do the work of arrangement yourself, sure. Lots of pieces are arranged for solo piano. Like ‘Ellens Gesang III,’ which was Schubert’s but arranged for solo piano by Liszt.” I play the popular main melody so he can hear it.

“I know that one, too. How about the Schubert from the airport? It’s my favorite.”

I nod and perform it for him. It’s also one of my favorites. I first learned it when I was six or seven. You can never go wrong with Schubert.

He claps when I hit the last chord. “You’re amazing.”

I smile, pleased he looks so happy. I can’t remember the time somebody who wasn’t from a conservatory appreciated my performance the way he does. Most people just applaud politely, nod politely and say polite things, not because they’re particularly interested in the music, but because I’m a Hae and they know sucking up might result in a better business relationship with my family.

Declan’s eyes are bright like the full moon, like every note I produced touched him on a deeply emotional level.

And the fact that my music is putting a gorgeous smile on his face makes me want to keep playing. “If you like that one, you might like some of the other impromptus, too. He wrote eight of them.”

I play the fourth impromptu. The notes flow like raindrops rolling down leaves, then forming a puddle. It’s also quite lovely.

I lift my head to see how Declan likes it. Our gazes meet. His eyes are brilliant, breathtaking. The slight movement of his head lets me know he’s following the beat of the music, and his mouth curves into a smile as pleasure unfurls over his stunning face.

Playing before an audience is no big deal. I’ve done it since I was six. Music alone used to be enough to make me feel alive and happy. But having Declan as my audience is a whole new experience.

His joy is mine, as though our emotions are connected and communicated through some unseen bond between us. I feel like I’m getting drunk just on the air in the room, and my skin prickles with hot shivers.

When I’m done, I get up and close the piano slowly and deliberately to give myself time to pull myself together. “It’s probably time I checked your messages.”

Something that looks like disappointment fleets through Declan’s gray eyes. “Benedict left you his phone. Over there.” He gestures at the kitchen counter.

“He didn’t take it with him?”

“It’s the one I got him for the job, not his personal one. That way when I have a new assistant, people don’t have to update their contact info.”

Makes sense.

“What’s the passcode?” I ask as I walk toward it.

“He got rid of it. You can put whatever you want there, but make sure you pick something, because I don’t want to leave it unsecured.”

“Got it.”

I pick up the iPhone, which is hooked to a charger. I hit the home button and get an avalanche of texts. The top one reads:

–Witch1: Are you seriously kidding me? You aren’t going to give me more for the wedding?

Huh.I scroll down, skimming. Witch1 has sent over a hundred texts since six p.m. yesterday, all of them begging for more money for some wedding. It can’t be Declan’s fiancée, because then she wouldn’t be begging. Or at least she would be begging on his personal phone.

“You have something like a hundred messages from someone called ‘Witch1.’ Do you know who that is?”

“That’s my half-sister. Ignore her.” His tone is matter-of-fact.

Guess she’s been a pain in his butt for a while. Makes sense. If I sent a hundred messages to Eugene demanding money for a wedding he’d be annoyed, too, even if he has been trying to marry me off.

Regardless, Declan’s family problem isn’t my concern.

“And you have something from a ‘Witch2,’” I say. “Is that another sister?”

“Probably one of my exes. What does she want?”

I look down and actually read the text. “She wants you back. She says you owe her that much.”

“I owe her taking her back? Whatever. Ignore her, too.”

I scroll down. Witch3, Witch4, Witch20, Witch8… “You have lots of Witches on this phone.”

“Yeah, but don’t worry about them. They aren’t important.”

“Okay. Did you name them?”

“No. Benedict did. He said it made his workday more interesting. I didn’t object, since it didn’t take up much of his time. And ‘Witch’ is pretty benign.”

“They should probably kiss his feet for not naming them Bitch,” I murmur.

The way Western celebrities behave never fails to surprise me because it’s so different from the way Korean models and actors behave. Many of them delay dating or getting married as long as possible. Scandals are career killers, especially if it involves cheating or an affair—or worse, drunk driving, assault or some other matter. One of my favorite dramas had a fairly significant secondary character eliminated because the actor playing that role got caught driving drunk.

“He would never name them Bitch. That’s too easy,” Declan says, then checks the time. “She’s late.”

She?Oh… He must be talking about his next appointment.

The phone I’m holding buzzes and a new text pops up.

–Private Me: Not that I have a phone or working Internet—because I definitely do NOT and Declan shouldn’t call and bother me no matter what—but I feel like I should let you know Nancy’s not coming today. Apparently she was arrested for driving under the influence.

Oh, wow. I was just thinking about drunk driving, and voilà…

–Me: Who is this? And who’s Nancy?

Benedict should’ve left me a cheat sheet for all these weird names on this phone!

–Private Me: This is Benedict. Is this Yuna?

–Me: Yeah. Who’s Nancy?

–Privative Me: Declan’s dance instructor, who’s supposed to be there right now. You’ll have to figure out someone who can take her place.

Dance instructor? Is Declan trying to be in a boy band, too? Isn’t he too old for that?

I look up from the phone. “Your dance instructor isn’t coming.”

“What?” Declan’s face hardens immediately. “Why not?”

“She’s in jail for drunk driving.”

He looks like he wants to strangle somebody. Probably Nancy. I hope she doesn’t come by later to do a makeup lesson, because he doesn’t look like he’ll be in the mood for it.

“I paid her in advance!” he grates out.

“That probably was the problem.”

“Obviously! She used my money to drink like an idiot before getting in her car!”

Or gamble. Or do drugs.But I keep that to myself. Declan already looks upset enough. “Benedict says I should get you a new instructor.”

“Can you find one right now?” He runs a hand roughly through his hair, mussing it. “I need to be comfortable with the moves before Friday.”

“I don’t know. I might not be able to find someone who can fit you in right now.” I really miss Ms. Kim. If she were here, she’d have a new dance instructor for Declan in the next two seconds.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” He looks around, clearly at a loss.

His reaction is making me feel like a failure, even though I’m not the one in jail for being an idiot. I purse my lips. Almost anything can be learned by watching YouTube videos. But he’s acting like he has to have in-person instruction.

I inhale. Come on, Yuna. You can do this!

“What kind of dance is this? Ballet?” That’s the only thing I can think of that would require some serious time with a teacher, although it’s unrealistic to learn ballet in five days.

“No. Waltzing.”

“Waltzing?” He’s worried over a waltz?

“I’m supposed to dance one in a scene in a movie. Well, when I’m cast, I’m supposed to dance it.” He says it with confidence, like he’s pretty certain he’ll be cast.

Guess he’s just worried about not being able to dance. But then, a leading man has to be good at everything. Otherwise he wouldn’t be the leading man, but a secondary dude who’s there to make the leading man look good.

“Don’t they teach you how to do things like that after you’re cast?” I ask.

“This director’s peculiar. He likes to work with actors who require the least effort. Says it creates better movies.”

“Ah. Like Michelangelo. Do you know he supposedly looked for the perfect hunk of marble first, then cut out the unnecessary bits until he was left with only what he wanted? Like the David. Or the Pietà. Although I wonder about the Pietà because that’s a big, complicated chunk of marble, if you ask me.”

Declan looks at me like he isn’t sure what to make of my explanation. “Yeah, um…okay. So, the waltz instructor?”

“If you want, I can teach you,” I say.

“You?” Both his eyebrows jump up.

“Don’t look so shocked. I know how to do some simple dances, like waltzes, the cha-cha-cha, foxtrot and tango. I had lots and lots of lessons.” Mom made sure so I don’t stand around like an idiot at parties. “Did the director say anything about the kind of waltz? Do you need to do the Viennese or the slow version?”

Declan looks a bit lost. “I don’t know. My agent didn’t say.”

Of course not. That would’ve been too easy. “Do you know where the movie takes place?”

“In the States and Europe.”

I sigh. That doesn’t help much, does it? “Let’s do both, just to be safe.”

“Do we have enough time?”

“Sure. You can master both by Friday. They aren’t hard. Once we do the slow one, we can tackle the Viennese. And I’ll have you know I’m an excellent teacher.”