Page 33 of How to Blow It with a Billionaire

“Though it’s possible he might be less circumspect if he thought you were upset. Something I will not be communicating to him.” His eyes were steady on mine, and diamond sharp. “Will you?

Wow, he really did not think good things about me. “Of course not. And I’m not actually upset. Just worried Caspian might…see it and not like it.”

“Arden, are you laboring under the misapprehension that he spends his afternoons googling you?”

I could have pointed out that Caspian had stalked both my Facebook and my Instagram feed looking for me. But I didn’t. Because I had dignity.

And then Finesilver slipped back into the conversation with the grace of a fencer. “There’s only one potential cause for concern here. And that is if details about Mr. St. Ives came to light that would perhaps be better left unilluminated.”

I wasn’t sure I liked the sound of that. “What kind of details?”

“Oh, anything that could be perceived in particular ways.”

“What he means,” explained Bellerose, “is have you done anything illegal, embarrassing, or scandalous?”

Embarrassing and/or scandalous covered about eighty percent of my life, and probably the remaining twenty percent was me being asleep. But it also didn’t seem like the sort of embarrassing or scandalous that sold copy. I mean, I fell over in front of billionaires a lot. Did that count? “Not really.”

“Are there secrets you shouldn’t be keeping. Any skeletons in your closet?”

Well. There was my dad. But he wasn’t so much a skeleton in my closet as a boogey man. And not remotely relevant. I sighed heavily. “I guess it was going to come out eventually. When I was at university, I fell in with this elitist crowd of loners, and we were all completely enthralled by our classics professor. He filled us with wild passion for the ways of the ancient Greeks and we started holding these, like, legit bacchanals. Unfortunately, we accidentally murdered this random farmer. And then one of our other friends to cover it up. And then our classics professor ran away and someone else committed suicide. And now everything is ruined and we are very sad and I have bad dreams.”

“I’ll take that as a no, then.” Finesilver looked faintly amused.

Bellerose didn’t. “Arden, we’re trying to help you.”

“Actually”—I tucked my hands into the pockets of my jeans—“you’re trying to protect Caspian and his family. Which is cool. But not necessarily the same thing as helping me.”

Finesilver closed the laptop with a gentle click. “You make my job more difficult. But, as far as your own interests are concerned, that is no bad thing.”

It was the weirdest praise I’d ever received. But, hey, I’d take it.

Bellerose seemed less impressed. But, then, I had no idea what could impress Bellerose. I think it involved being Caspian Hart.

“By the way,” he said as he herded us into the hall, “Caspian asked me to make sure you received a parcel, so I brought it with me, rather than having it couriered. It’s by the door.”

“Oh, right. Thanks.”

I waved them off politely, not entirely sure whether I was reassured by their visit or not and turned my attention to the, well…parcel didn’t really do it justice. It was a work of art: this heavy, dark cream box, discreetly embossed with a golden logo and tied up with the most austerely masculine bow I’d ever seen in my life. I carried it through into the dining area and put it on the table. What on earth had Caspian sent me?

Well, it wasn’t going to open itself. I undid the manribbons and took off the lid. Inside, carefully folded and wrapped in tissue paper, was a coat.

The sort of coat you saw on runways and in white-floored boutiques that only stocked about three garments.

The sort of coat that probably cost more than any car I’d ever own.

The sort of coat that had absolutely no business belonging to someone like me.

There was a square of buttercream-colored card lying on top of it. If nothing else, meeting Caspian had been a comprehensive education in shades of posh. “Thinking of you…” was scrawled across the front. I traced my fingers over the harsh slash of the T, the curve of the o, the generous loops of g and f. Caspian’s hand? I hoped so. Then, turning it over, I burst out laughing as the message continued:

“…getting cold because you never have a coat.”

Oh, it had to be him. And whoever had described lovey-dovey feeling as butterflies was way off base. Because I had swooning eels in my stomach. And I just about managed not to press his card against my heart, like a Jane Austen character receiving a letter. Or dance around with it Disney heroine–style, while bluebirds flew round my head.

Then I remembered the actual present.

I drew the coat carefully from its tissue cocoon, shook it out, and put it on. Of course, it was perfect: a simple black trench coat with a high collar and a belt, clinging to my body so well it could have been tailored to my measurements.

It made me feel beautiful and sexy and invincible. And also terrible for being materialistic enough to love it. But I did.

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