Page 1 of Interview with the Billionaire

Chapter 1: A change of plans

Damien stood on the bedroom balcony, the late afternoon sunlight dancing like fire on the waves of the Pacific. A stunning sight, but not the one he was focusing on.

No, his attention was on the woman and the three children on the pool deck below him. His wife. His kids.

He drew in a breath, his chest tightening merely from the sight of them. From the stunning reality that they were his. That somehow, despite all the trauma and bullshit and wrong-turns in his life, he’d found Nikki, the one person in all the world who matched him. Challenged him. Loved him.

He’d wanted her from the first moment he’d seen her. And the real miracle was that she’d wanted him just as much.

He remembered that day at the pageant in Texas. The way she’d looked. The sound of her voice. And the absolute certainty that in that moment he’d wanted nothing more than to take her hand and run as far and as fast as they could from a world that would conspire to keep them apart.

The world had beaten them that day. The world and reality. It wasn’t time. Not then.

But one day…

He’d left Dallas knowing for certain that one day Nikki Fairchild would be his.

It wasn’t hubris. It wasn’t magic. He’d simply looked into his future, and he’d known.

He grinned. Maybe it really had been magic all along.

Below him, Nikki dropped to one knee, the Leica he’d given her so many years before aimed at the kids who were splashing in the shallow end of the pool.

“Mommy! Take me! Take me!” On the steps, three-year-old Bradley waved like a maniac.

“Bradleeeeeey!” That from Lara, who stood in the shallow water, her hands on her hips, her nine-year-old face full of exasperation. “You’re not supposed to look. Mommy’s taking candids.” It was a word she’d become fascinated with the previous week, and Damien had to give her credit; so far, she’d managed to work it into seventy-five percent of every conversation she’d had since then.

“It’s okay, Lara,” Nikki said as she stood up again. “We photographers have to learn how to work with all our subjects, right?”

“Right.” Lara’s birthday present had been a camera of her own, and she’d spent much of the last few weeks taking those candids of everyone in the household, including Gregory the house manager, Sunshine the cat, and even the staff at the gatehouse. “Okay, Bradley. You can bounce.”

“I wanna bounce, too! Can I? Please?” That from Anne, now seven. And the question was directed not at Nikki, but at Lara, the big sister she adored.

“I suppose so,” Lara said, her voice so like Nikki’s when she was reluctantly giving in to a child’s demands that Damien couldn’t help but chuckle.

As he did, Nikki turned, her smile widening when she saw him. She said nothing. Instead, she lifted the camera and snapped a picture of him.

“Don’t you have enough of me?”

“Never,” she said, her voice full of both heat and laughter.

“Daddy!” Anne called. “Daddy, come swim!”

“In a minute, baby girl. I need to talk to Mommy.” He shifted his gaze back to Nikki. “Can you come up?”

He saw her brow furrow, presumably wondering why he wasn’t coming down. But she didn’t ask, and he didn’t offer. This wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have in front of the kids, and he saw the realization in her eyes—no surprise considering how well they understood each other.

“Bree’s getting more sunscreen,” she said, referring to their part-time nanny. “I’ll be up as soon as she’s back.”

He nodded, then blew her a kiss, which succeeded in erasing the worry he’d put in her eyes. Then he turned and headed out of their bedroom and into the third-floor living area that was the heart of their Malibu home.

He poured two glasses of bourbon, neat, then stood at the top of the stairs simply for the pleasure of watching his wife walk toward him, her blond hair brushing her shoulders, her nose slightly pink from the sun.

She wore a two-piece bathing suit with a gauzy wrap tied around her waist. It was sheer, and her leg emerged from the slit as she climbed the stairs. As it did, he could see one of the scars that marred the inside of her thigh. A battle scar. A mark of honor, not shame. Because those scars were how she’d coped with growing up in a household that rivaled the fucked-up-ed-ness of his own. A mother who could give even Jeremiah Stark a run for his money.

Unlike Jeremiah, Elizabeth Fairchild was still alive. Thankfully, though, they hadn’t heard from her in well over a year.

A small miracle, as far as Damien was concerned.