Page 1 of Beauty and the Billionaire

CHAPTER 1

The Beast Arrives

Zain

I wasn’t entirelysure which one it was—the cold, blue glare from his icy eyes or the expression on his long, narrow, classically attractive face that made me think of a wolf. And he was a smug, self-satisfied wolf if he was anything.

The wolf-man entered the shop and sounded the bell above the door on Wednesday morning. He seemed to be dragging in the entire doom and gloom of the cloudy November day. Chilly wind poured into the shop as the door slammed shut.

“Good morning,” I said in a thin, surprised voice. He did not look like the kind of man who shopped for Middle Eastern spices or fresh produce. He wore a short, dark gray coat, a fine-knitted scarf that looked gray and green, a crisp white shirt, black suit pants, and a pair of black dress shoes. I could hardly picture him walking out of here with a bag of cilantro and a stack of incense.

His hair was light brown, veering close to blond, cut to medium length on top and faded on the sides, while his long, slender face sported a cropped beard that seemed longer on his chin. He ran the back of his index finger over his mustache. “Is your father here, boy?”

I gritted my teeth as I closed Whitman’s poetry collection over my forefinger and glared at the rude man. “My father is busy. How may I help you?”

He released a short scoff of impatience. “The only way you can help me is by bringing your father. We have some business that cannot be delayed.”

“Perhaps you can return in the afternoon, then,” I suggested coldly. Father would have grumbled if he heard me talk so impolitely to someone, customer or not.

The man’s eyes were devoid of warmth, of any emotion whatsoever. “I don’t have time to play games with little boys.”

Heat rose to my face. “I’m not a little boy.” Yet the petulance in my voice named me a liar. “The morning shift is mine, sir. If you need my father, visit in the afternoon.”

The man’s lips pressed together tightly, and the muscles in his face throbbed twice. “What’s your name?”

“Zain,” I said somewhat reluctantly, as if I had to give my name up to him. Later, I would think about this moment while lying awake in my bed, and I would understand that the man’s entire demeanor made me feel this way. He acted like he was owed the world. He acted like he owned it, and we were lucky to have a scrap of it. He acted like he gave it grudgingly and expected to be thanked.

“Zain,” he said slowly, committing my name to his memory for whatever purpose he might have for it. “I believe I have argued with you long enough. Few people make me wait, Zain. Those who do it once don’t make the same mistake again.”

I set the poetry collection on the counter and wiped my palms against my apron. This man made my skin prickle. His presence made the room cold, even with the door closed. The longer we stared at each other, the more I knew I didn’t want to allow this meeting with my father. It was none of my business, but I knew in my heart that he meant no good.

We were in this strange standoff for what felt like a dragging eternity. In truth, we stood for only a few short heartbeats before my father walked into the shop from the back room, where he had been preparing orders.

Father halted when he appeared in the shop, hunched a little, and was surprised at the sight of the man. “Mr. Blackthorne,” Father said. “I didn’t expect to see you. Welcome. Welcome. Please, would you come with me inside?” Father gestured at the hallway in the back.

“I’m glad to see you can spare a minute, Amar,” Mr. Blackthorne said.

“A minute, an hour. However long you need me for, Mr. Blackthorne,” Father said amiably, leaving me speechless, my mouth dry and tongue pressed against the roof.

As Father gestured again at the hallway that led to his tiny office in the back, Blackthorne shot me a look that nearly left a frostbite on me. He walked with his back straight and shoulders squared.

Kid…

I couldn’t believe the man had called me a kid. He couldn’t have been that much older than me. Eight years? Ten? Something like hate uncoiled in my stomach, but it wasn’t as simple as that. I realized that his presence made worry zing through me, and my father’s odd behavior only worsened my anxiety.

I tiptoed after them before I could consciously decide what to do and what not to do.

The sharp, strong scent of pines on a snowy mountain lingered where Blackthorne had passed. It crawled into my nostrils and soon merged with worry and crawling fear, the sense of alertness, the spiking pulse. It wasn’t a sweet, welcoming scent. Nothing about the man was sweet, open, or warm.

“…haven’t forgotten, even if you have.” His voice was clear, sharp, and to the point.

“How could I forget, Mr. Blackthorne? You insult me. I wouldn’t forget.” Father spoke in a hurry. “Please, let us talk.”

“Time for talking is over, Amar,” Blackthorne replied coolly“What I need is for the debt to be settled. You wouldn’t want to owe me. Not after I had requested the repayment several times, only to hear nothing back. I am not fond of leaving my home, you see, yet I had to do that for you, Amar.”

“I will not do business with street thugs, Mr. Blackthorne,” Father said firmly. “Please, do not send your men here. I will not give them a dime.”

“Is that so?” Blackthorne sounded almost amused if such a thing was possible.

---