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CHAPTER 1

The façade of the coffee shop matched the other businesses in the strip mall — drab, dated and disappointing. Brandon Knight shook his head, knowing that the Pasadena planning commission's request to review the design plans for the new office park must be a mere formality. No one could possibly choose this over what his development company offered to erect.

After this final meeting with the owner, all the obstacles would be cleared away. He was prepared to spend far more than the businesses were worth to make it happen. He made things happen.

They just weren't always the things he'd planned.

He pulled opened the glass door and held it for a gaggle of teens hopped up on espresso. It gave him the chance to look inside at the dull hardwood floors, exposed pipes along the ceiling painted every neon color imaginable. Magazines, newspapers and board games littered the available tabletops. This place didn't just need a new location, it needed a complete makeover.

People seeking their mid-morning caffeine rush filled the tiny space. He slipped into line and a nervous sensation snaked up his spine. No one seemed menacing or out of place, and yet he couldn't shake the unease. His gaze bounced from the mismatched chairs to the solid wood tables to the shelves of even more board games. His attention settled on the back of the barista. His gut twisted as his mind leapt with recognition.

Every time he saw natural blonde hair with more than a hint of curl, his heart vaulted. Even though this woman was too thin to be Megan, and dressed too plainly in dark jeans and a black T-shirt, his pulse raced in hopeful anticipation.

The line moved fast, the blonde barista making drinks and a goth brunette taking the orders. It was a well-oiled machine, and yet he couldn't help wishing he could catch the blonde's face so this misguided expectation would die already.

He ordered a grande Americano and stepped to the side to wait as she made his drink. Her hands were a flurry of motion as she made drinks two at a time. She was too busy to turn around, so he walked around the edge of the counter. She moved to the side to set two drinks down and nearly dropped them both.

Air sliced through his lungs as he caught her pale blue gaze. Her can-Ihelp-you smile curdled. Her name fell off his lips as he watched her expression amplify from shocked to furious in less than a second. He wanted to reach for her, to pull her into his arms and kiss her until they needed to come up for air.

She looked out into the café and called out the order, then turned back to the espresso machine and worked it with stunning ferocity.

"Megan," he called out again, trying to think over the pulse pounding in his brain. Megan was a socialite with a trust fund deep enough to buy and sell this place a hundred times over. Megan was supposed to be on a beach, sunning herself while her father avoided extradition for embezzlement. Megan couldn't be standing in front of him.

Yet here she was. A smaller, angrier version of the beautiful hotel heiress he loved.

He cleared his throat and tried to steady his swirling mind. "Megan, talk to me."

She flourished whipped cream atop two more drinks and then moved them to the counter without looking his way. It was almost as if she didn't recognize him.

"Meg, what are you doing here? Did you have some kind of accident?" His gut twisted at the idea that she had amnesia, that she might have been hurt and he hadn't been there to help her.

She said nothing, just pasted on a smile as she finished two more drinks and announced them to the people waiting.

"Megan," Brandon said again, trying to decide if he should leap over the counter.

"He ordered an Americano," the goth woman working the register said to Megan. "You skipped it."

"I'm not giving him a damned thing ever again." Megan worked the machine as she spoke, her expression hardening.

"He's a customer. Make his order, princess, or I get Lenny."

Brandon's eyes narrowed at the negative tone. Even with as angry as Megan was at him, he didn't have to watch someone talk down to her. "Megan, what are you doing here making coffee? What's going on?"

She said nothing, spared no extra movements as she worked the coffee grinder and espresso machine with an efficiency that impressed him. The clicks of the grinder, the whir of the steam, the slosh as she pumped syrup into the cups, all of it mixed together as he watched.

"Megan," he started, but didn't know what to say. He always knew what to say. "You owe me some kind of explanation."

"I owe you nothing." Megan spoke without looking at him. "You are a liar and a cheat and if I never see you again, it will be too soon."

"If this is about your father —"

"This is about you leaving me the hell alone. I don't know why you're here, and I don't care, as long as you leave." Her words were strong, but her hands were shaking, nearly spilling a macchiato.

"I'm not leaving."

"I'm getting Lenny." The brunette turned on her heel and marched through an archway into a back room.

Megan didn't miss a beat, finishing making orders and then taking the next one at the register. If he didn't know her so well he'd think she'd forgotten he was standing there, catching her in whatever game she was playing. He couldn't fathom what it could be.

He looked around the café for video cameras. Her sister had done a season of a celebutante reality show. Maybe Megan had gone that route, too. He shook his head. Megan was intensely private.

After all, no one knew they'd been together for the last seven years.

"What seems to be the problem?" A dark-haired man emerged from the archway with the tattletale in tow. Brandon had come here to meet with Len Kulik, and the picture in the dossier was spot on for the young Russian immigrant looking to turn one coffee shop into a chain. Offering to invest in Kulik's dream would make the development deal smooth out considerably.

"Brandon Knight." He held out his hand and shook Len's, smiling as recognition bloomed on the other man's face.

"I'm surprised you came yourself. Since your call I've been doing some research on your company."

"When something is important to me, I handle it personally." His gaze swept back to Megan as she shoved a handle on the espresso machine. She rolled her eyes at his words.

"Great, I'll be with you in just one minute." He turned to the goth chick. "I don't see any problem."

"The princess is refusing to serve him." She tilted her dark bob at Brandon.

"Megan," Len said. "Make his drink."

"No." Her voice was strong, but she clenched her jaw, which Brandon knew meant it was trembling. Megan was great at putting on a show and making the world think she had it all together even when things were falling apart.

The goth chick snorted and shook her head. "Told ya."

"Megan, your job is to make the drinks. Make his order." Lenny leaned closer to Megan than Brandon was comfortable with, but before he could object she spoke.

"Fine, I'll make it." She took her obvious hostility out on the machine as it perked and whooshed.

She was so angry that he wanted to tell her to forget the damned drink, forget the coffee shop, forget everything and just let him take her someplace where they could iron all this out.

He caught the wildness in her gaze as she turned to face him, the steaming drink in her hand. "I made your drink, but I won't let your lips near anything I've touched ever again." She let loose a string of expletives like he hadn't heard since military school, and none of them were the fun ones. He held up a hand to try and stop her from embarrassing herself further, but she ended the tirade.

Her last foul words still hung in the air when he saw the cup arc towards him. He jumped back, the cup connecting with his chest and spilling the scalding liquid down the front of his white dress shirt. If he hadn't arched his back, it would have really hurt.

"Megan!" Lenny cried out.

"Not to worry," Megan said as she marched towards the archway. "I quit."

*
Brandon Knight's sculpted physique blocked the stairs to her apartment as effectively as he'd barricaded her from the rest of her life.

And to think that she'd slept with him.

The southern California sun hadn't been out long enough to warm the early November day and the chill crept through her thin coat. Her apartment within the walls of the aging cement and stucco building might not be much, but it was hers. She wanted to shove him aside, climb the stairs and lock him out as successfully as he'd locked her out of the only life she'd ever known. But she knew his body too well to think she might be able to move over six feet of muscle before he was good and ready. She leveled her gaze at him and cleared her throat, speaking over the whir of the traffic behind her.

"If you're thinking I'll invite you in for a cup of coffee, you've already had yours. Without my employee discount, I can't afford to douse you with another." Megan shifted her weight in her ankle boots, wishing she'd thought of a way to tell him off and still keep her job.

Brandon glanced down at the brown stain marring the front of his perfect white shirt. Not so perfect anymore. She could only hope she'd ruined the suit as well.

"You could have burned me, Meg." His espresso-brown eyes were very serious, but his lips twitched, mocking her with a half smile.

"Considering how you've burned me, it would have been appropriate. Get out of my way, Brandon. Thanks to you I need to spend my day looking for a new job." Her weary body betrayed her at the words, her shoulders drooping in defeat. After working a closing shift at the bar last night and an early morning shift at the coffee house, she was running about two quarts low on sleep.

Unfortunately, she also needed to be able to make rent at the end of the month. As long as she could find something else quickly, the look on his face when she'd finally been able to tell him where to stick it would be worth the effort. Though for some ungodly reason, simply having him within slapping distance made her feel better, which was so counterproductive. She couldn't afford for him to make her stomach tumble, her knees weaken or any parts of her body warm. Not anymore.

She hitched her tangerine Prada satchel higher on her shoulder and shot him a look she hoped would kill him. Unfortunately, her efforts were as weak as her bank account. He didn't even move.

"We need to talk." He didn't move and her empty stomach began to knot. He really was cruel and heartless. Nothing but total desecration of her life would ever be enough for him.

"I can't think what about." She looked longingly up the cement stairs towards the dented metal door of her apartment. She'd thought it was safer to be on the second floor in this part of Pasadena, but she'd never considered Beverly Hills would decide to block her way.

"Let's start with earlier today."

"I'm sure it was a treat for you to watch me lose my job." Tension knotted between her shoulder blades.

"I seem to remember you quitting," he said, humor glinting in his eyes. "I know you're upset about what happened —"

"You don't know the first thing about me."

Somehow he closed the few steps between them in an instant, his fingers pressing into the flesh of her upper arm, his presence filling up her personal space. "I know everything about you, Megan. And if you don't want the world to know, I suggest we take this upstairs." He tilted his head towards one of the apartments beside the stairway. She didn't notice anything besides the planter box of dead plants and dingy welcome mat that had been there since she moved in last month.

She shrugged, more to get his hand off her than to give in to his demands. But with the movement, he stepped aside and she took the opportunity to climb the stairs, the heels of her boots clicking on every bare step.

"There isn't even a deadbolt?" he asked as she unlocked the door.

Megan didn't answer, just pushed the door open and was accosted by the stale smell and bare, yellow-tinged walls of the place she slept most afternoons, between being an early morning barista and late-night bartender. The inflatable mattress in the corner was covered with a faded quilt she'd smuggled out of her parents' house before the auctioneers had come to catalog everything. The hard-sided Louis Vuitton luggage did well enough as chairs, but she didn't want to invite him to sit.

"This is ridiculous, Megan." He punctuated the statement by slamming the door. "I don't know what you're trying to prove —"

"You're the one with something to prove. Was your daddy proud when you stole my family's company? Did he pat you on the head and tell you what a good corporate raider you'd become?" She laced her voice with saccharine, hoping the bitter undertone didn't shine through too brightly.

"I didn't steal a thing. That was your dad. I'm sorry if it hurts you, but —"

"Are you sorry?" She crossed her hands over her chest and wondered if it would matter.

"I'm sorry you're angry. But running away is a little adolescent."

"You can go now." She pulled the newspaper from her bag and set it on the chipped Formica countertop. For a fleeting moment she rued the loss of the dollar she'd had to pay for it, along with the jar of tips she'd forfeited by quitting. A few months ago she'd never thought about where her money went, and now the loss of less than fifty dollars had her near panic. She dropped her bag to the peeling linoleum floor and leaned against the bar as she batted open the pages until she found the employment section.

His hand came down on the paper with a slap. "If you don't want to explain what you're playing at, you can still listen to what I have to say."

Her shoulders tensed, but she refused to look up at him. Let him talk, let him leave. She needed him to go as much as she needed to find another job. Probably more. Because with him here, making the small room seem impossibly tiny with his larger-than-life presence, she had to think of just how far she'd fallen. She'd do anything not to have to analyze that. It was one of the reasons she needed to work so much. That, and she had an affinity for eating.

It was hard to imagine she used to think the perfect way to end a night of clubbing with her so-called friends was to find her way to his penthouse. Harder still to imagine her life free of worry and fear.

Until she'd seen the look of shock and pity on Brandon's face, she'd been proud of all she'd accomplished. There was a satisfaction that came from independence and hard work that she'd never imagined. She'd come so far, and yet seeing Brandon reminded her of how far she'd fallen, how she might never get back to the safety and security she'd known.

The life of leisure and privilege was over, the last chapter a tragic ending written by Brandon when he'd taken Carlton Hotels from her family. Everything was auctioned and it still wasn't enough for the creditors. What more could Brandon want from her? Her very soul?

Megan wouldn't let him see her afraid. He'd caught her off-guard at the coffee shop, that was all. He'd stared at her across the counter with his bitter-chocolate eyes, derision in his voice when he asked what she was doing serving people coffee, and she'd snapped. She'd been reacting to him ever since.

Megan squared her shoulders and pulled in a deep breath. She was a Carlton, and though her father may have betrayed the responsibility of the name, she still believed in it. It was all she had left. Being a Carlton might not be worth much on the open market, but it meant she knew the best defense was a good offence. And she knew exactly how to play Brandon Knight.

After all, she'd been doing it for the better part of a decade.

She tossed her blonde hair over her shoulder and looked up at him, hoping her ice-blue eyes would work their magic. However, he seemed to be studying her like she'd grown an extra head. She started unbuttoning her coat, keeping her gaze on his face.

"You don't really want to talk, do you Brandon?" He blinked as she slid the coat off her shoulders and set it on the counter. "I don't know where to begin."

"You, speechless? Never." She straightened her posture, grinning when the movement caused him to drop his gaze to the deep vee of her tight T-shirt. She'd learned quickly the more cleavage she showed, the more tips she'd find in the jar at the end of her shift.

"I want to know what you think you're doing. It's one thing to have a quarter-life crisis, but this is a bit extreme. I know what your father did was a shock —"

(Continues…)

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Excerpted from "The Billionaire's Private Scandal"
by .
Copyright © 2017 Jenna Bayley-Burke.
Excerpted by permission of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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