The Firstborn Prince (The Billionaire Dynasties)(10)

By: Virginia Nelson


“How long?” he asked, getting to the point.

“One year, Mr. Boyd. For one year, you play the part of actual prince to the public, and I’ll distract your brother.”

“One month,” he countered.

“Nine months,” she responded without hesitation.

“Three,” he replied.

“Six,” she snapped.

He would have agreed to the year, so he smiled. He reached across the desk and took her hand into his again. The contact sizzled through his system, feeling a bit like conquest.

“Deal,” he agreed.





Chapter Three

From Natalie’s rules for Foster Boyd, v2

Rule #4: You think private rooms in public places are private, which is hilarious. Is there waitstaff? Other help present? This is not privacy, it is the very expensive illusion of privacy. Stop holding private meetings in insecure public locations.

Natalie wasn’t sure why Foster Boyd picked one of the most expensive restaurants in the city for their lunch meeting, but she was willing to humor him. Especially since he was buying. Her shoes were last season, her navy pleated chiffon trapeze dress and lightweight jacket from the season before that, but she mostly fit in with the glitzy lunch crowd at the posh setting. The ones who were actually wealthy recognized her as the help; the ones who were tourists to the glam life wouldn’t know the difference. All in all, it was a comfortable situation so far as she was concerned.

She’d had a lot of practice at being just a little out of fashion, after all.

The concierge recognized her, and his brow raised a fraction of an inch. Likely, he was aware of the gossip surrounding her name and was prepared to show her to the door if she acted out of the expected boundaries—no throwing fits because you were kicked out of rich kid club was, like, rule number 4,876 in the wealthy people rules handbook.

But she was there for a work lunch. With two of the sexiest men in America. Shit, what had she signed herself up for? Her voice didn’t warble, which was a good sign, as she said, “I’m here to meet Foster Boyd.”

The concierge didn’t look like he entirely believed her, and she saw why over his shoulder. Margo Welles was having lunch, daughter in tow, because although the press was carving her like a Thanksgiving turkey, she was still one of them.

The elite. The special ones. Even when they colored outside the lines, they still got to color. But the help? Yeah, they got blamed for the failings of the rich and paid a price.

In this case, the price had been Natalie’s entire client list, but she wasn’t there to face off with the model turned actress who stomped out her career like a cigarette butt under the heel of her Louis Vuittons.

She was here to tell Connor that Foster hired her and somehow, magically, distract him.

Ha.

Like that was going to work.

But the concierge took her at her word and showed her to the back of the establishment. Apparently, the Boyd brothers had a private room, and both men rose to greet her as she entered.

“Good afternoon,” she said.

“Ms. Stolen, thanks so much for agreeing to meet with us,” Foster began.

“Pleasure to meet you. If you’ll excuse me, I have business elsewhere. Foster.” The younger Boyd twin gave Foster a quick nod before escaping out the door Natalie just entered.

Once the door closed behind him, she turned to face Foster. “Well, that didn’t work very well,” she said.

“No, actually, it worked perfectly. It also proved my point, about how distracted my brother has been lately. He’s just not focused on anything to do with work… Please, be seated,” Foster said. He’d moved to the vacant chair across from his and held the back expectantly.

She decided to go with the flow and sat, surprised when he pushed her in with a gentlemanly flourish. “How is it perfect when our prey just escaped the minute he saw me?”

“He doesn’t like that I hired an image consultant, and he hardly looked at you.” Foster smiled, his gray eyes sucking Natalie in like a vortex. When he smiled like that, a little hint of a dimple teased out of the manly scruff on his chin. He was too sexy for his own good.

“Okay, that sounds like failure, Mr. Boyd. Please explain.”

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