Designer For The Billionaire

By: Ashlee Price


Book 1



PROPOSITIONED

By Ashlee Price





Description

When Grazia Fabiola comes to the attention of billionaire Marshall Levitt, she doesn’t realize her life is about to change.

Marshall is used to getting what he wants, and if he has to fight for it, then all the better. A self-made man, he appreciates that not everything in this life comes easily—and Grazia is the epitome of unapproachable.

But the fight makes it so much sweeter, and when Marshall wants something, or someone, failure isn’t an option.

Grazia’s life is complicated, and where there are complications, Marshall knows there’s an in.

He’ll do whatever he has to do get Grazia into his bed; and with billions of dollars at his fingertips, he can do anything to get what he wants.

Being at the center of a silken web, Grazia has to come to terms with this whole new world, because when a billionaire wants you and will do anything to have you, suddenly nothing makes sense, and a trip down the rabbit hole seems like a vacation…





Chapter One – Grazia

“He’s watching you again.”

I can’t help but roll my eyes at my assistant. I can’t tell whether she’s jealous, encouraging, or out-and-out disgusted by the attention I’m getting from one of the charity ball’s most lauded and wealthiest attendees.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate the attention, because I do. I am a woman, after all. But after a while, running around in these circles, you start to realize the attention isn’t all that flattering. The guys roaming around these events think the staff are good for one thing and one thing only… The day I become a man’s toy is the day pigs fly over a frozen hell—simply put, it ain’t gonna happen.

My voice is dismissive. “Well, there’s not much for him to see. It’s nearly pitch black around here.”

She snorts. “Then he has great night vision, because I swear to God, his head moves when you bend down.”

Hard pressed not to snicker, I have to bite my bottom lip to contain my amusement. Jessie needs no encouragement as it is. She’s five years younger than me, granted, but her immaturity still astounds me. If her skills at organizing weren’t as impressive as they are, I doubt I’d have kept her on. Sometimes that immaturity has consequences, and with her, that manifests itself in an inability to hold her tongue. I usually keep her on a leash when we’re at events, have her trailing behind me where I can keep an eye on her, but there always seems to be that one time when my back is turned and I somehow hear her managing to insult someone. It’s inadvertent, but tell that to the many pissed off New York denizens left in Jessie’s wake.

To be fair, if she insults them, they usually deserve it. And I figure if those insults make me laugh, then hell, how can I fire her?

“Whether he’s studying my ass or wondering where I bought my shoes from, there’s nothing either of us can do about it, so let’s just get on with it. We have too much shit to do and not enough time to do it in,” I tell her, peering down at my clipboard and trying to see where we are in the schedule. I would love to switch on the flashlight on my cell phone instead of straining my eyes, but that would only draw attention to myself, and apparently I’m already on Marshall Levitt’s radar.

My team and I are supposed to be ghosts at events like these. If the main benefactor knows where we’re at, then we’re not doing our jobs properly. Although if his eyes are on my butt, like I told Jessie, my hands are tied. Not like I can do much to hide it. “Goddammit, what’s the next lot?” I snap under my breath when squinting gets me nowhere.

“The helicopter ride over the city.” Apparently Jessie has outstanding night vision too, because how she can see the list in the dark is beyond me. When I stare up at her in astonishment, she grunts and waves her tablet in front of me. In the dim back light, I can see the list of lots for the charity auction. “I swear to God, Grazia, you need to start using technology.” She draws out the syllables in the last word, obviously trying to make a point.

Though the point hits home, I just sniff. “We’re incompatible.” And it’s the truth.

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