The Scandal (Billionaire's Beach Book 4) Read online

  THE SCANDAL

  Billionaire’s Beach Book 4

  Christie Ridgway

  Also Available

  Take Me Tender (Billionaire’s Beach Book 1)

  Take Me Forever (Billionaire’s Beach Book 2)

  Take Me Home (Billionaire’s Beach Book 3)

  The Scandal (Billionaire’s Beach Book 4)

  The Seduction (Billionaire’s Beach Book 5), Coming Soon!

  The Secret (Billionaire’s Beach Book 6), Coming Soon!

  Light My Fire (Rock Royalty Book 1)

  Love Her Madly (Rock Royalty Book 2)

  Break on Through (Rock Royalty Book 3)

  Touch Me (Rock Royalty Book 4)

  Wishful Sinful (Rock Royalty Book 5)

  Wild Child (Rock Royalty Book 6)

  Who Do You Love (Rock Royalty Book 7)

  Love Me Two Times (Rock Royalty Book 8), Coming soon!

  THE SCANDAL

  Billionaire’s Beach Book 4

  USA Today bestselling author Christie Ridgway takes you back to Billionaire’s Beach! Three graduates of the first all-female class of the prestigious Continental Butler Academy go surfside to find work, play…and love. Read their stories in The Scandal, The Seduction, and The Secret.

  Sara Smythe sought refuge from unwanted notoriety at the Nueva Vida estate in Malibu, California. As the butler, it’s up to her to turn the empty house into a welcoming showplace, though the owner isn’t in residence…until he arrives one fateful day.

  Wealthy businessman Joaquin Weatherford seeks peace and quiet too—only to discover he has a housemate in the guise of a sexy and beautiful blonde butler. He’s been immersed in work, but now he has time to smell the roses—and the perfume of the oh-so-tempting Sara. Neither is looking for romance, let alone love, but under a California sun two wary hearts will open to a brighter future together.

  THE SCANDAL

  Billionaire’s Beach Book 4

  © Copyright 2016 Christie Ridgway

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  ISBN: 9781939286277

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  Chapter 1

  Four months and a continent away from where the scandal initially erupted, Sara Smythe still felt as if prying, judgmental eyes were upon her.

  She yanked her ball cap lower on her forehead and glanced around the Malibu, California restaurant’s courtyard, scrutinizing the other patrons while making an effort not to catch their gazes. Then she checked her watch, fiddled with her glass of iced tea, and sighed, trying to find the inner and outer calm she’d cultivated as a graduate of the first all-female class of the prestigious Continental Butler Academy.

  When all she wanted to do was motor home as quickly as possible.

  Well, not home—she had none—but to the magnificent oceanfront estate that employed her.

  Technically, of course, she had a human employer. But she’d never communicated with anyone besides an efficient and friendly administrative assistant at TemperCorp—a business analytics software and services company. Sara didn’t know exactly what that was, but its head man held ownership of the Malibu property even though he’d never stepped foot on it.

  So, since she’d taken up residence three-and-a-half months before, Sara considered she belonged to the grounds and buildings of Nueva Vida. She was in their service.

  A hand landed on her shoulder. Sara jumped, then jumped up, as she noted the new arrival was her lunch date and old classmate, Charlotte Emerson, who had convinced her to come to Southern California after the debacle in London.

  “Charlie!” she said now, hugging her friend. Then she took another swift glance around, to make certain her enthusiasm hadn’t drawn unwelcome attention.

  “Relax,” Charlie said. “No one would recognize you.”

  Sara looked down at her cropped khaki cotton pants and plain white knit shirt. Her hair, the honey-blonde locks now cut short and dyed platinum—caused by an unfortunate intersection of panic and drugstore hair dye inexperience—was covered by the cap, also khaki. No, no one would guess she was the woman the tabloids had termed Homewrecking Hottie and who had inspired the headline “Staff Handled His Staff” as well as “Girl Butler Tore the Tie that Binds.”

  The reporters’ tattle was one-sided lies, of course. As if Sara would do something so reckless and rash. And love and passion weren’t something she was convinced worth the risk anyway. Her parents had proved it was much too easy to make an impetuous— disastrous—mistake and fall for the entirely wrong person.

  “You look wonderful,” she said to Charlie as the two took their seats. In a flowered wrap dress and tan leather kitten heels, the other woman appeared sophisticated and efficient, yet still very feminine. “Is everything well?”

  “Very well,” Charlie said, tucking a stray strand of her glossy brown hair into her sleek bun. “I can’t wait to see Emmaline.”

  “And I’m here!” a breathless voice cried. “Running late.”

  Hugs were delivered all around before Sara noted the third of their triumvirate was dressed in the uniform they’d been given at the academy: white shirt, black tie, gray vest, gray striped trousers, and black morning coat.

  Emmaline struggled out of this last now. “I didn’t even take the time to leave my coat in the car,” she said, carefully folding the garment—lining side out, as they’d been taught—over the empty seat. “I was that excited to see you.”

  “How did your interview go?” Charlie asked.

  Emmaline’s frown couldn’t mar the incredible beauty of her face. With shining dark hair, perfect olive skin, and warm, golden-brown eyes, she lived up to the Italian promise of her last name—Rossi.

  “I won’t get the job,” Emmaline said flatly.

  “Oh?” Sara’s heart dipped. There were few people in the world dear to her, and she’d hoped another might come to live nearby.

  “Not a chance,” Emmaline said, then straightened her already straight spine and pursed her lips in a sucking-lemon expression. “The uniform,” she began in a pretentious tone, obviously mimicking the person who had just interviewed her, “is not a shroud, dear.”

  Charlie patted Emmaline’s hand. “The lady of the house felt threatened.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Emmaline slouched back in her seat. “And she and her husband have been married for thirty-five years! I thought the formal attire…”

  Her friend thought the formal attire would somehow disguise her lush beauty…or at least neutralize it. But it wasn’t a shroud, nor even convenient woodwork into which one disappeared, which Sara had believed when she began working for the Greers after graduation.

  Turned out it wasn’t armor, either.

  “I’m sorry, Em,” she said now, glancing at her watch again. Every minute she remained sitting here, exposed to the public eye, tightened her nerves.

  “Do you have an appointment?” Charlie asked. “Is that why you’re checking the time?”

  “No,” she answered, sheepish. “It’s that hunted feeling I can’t seem to dodge.”

  Her two friends shared a glance then adjusted their chairs, further shielding Sara from the rest of
the diners in the courtyard.

  “Don’t worry,” Emmaline said. “We’ll keep you safe.”

  The only place she felt secure these days was behind the walls of Nueva Vida. “I suppose it’s all in my head,” she murmured. “I can’t imagine the world cares about me anymore.”

  “With a gossip-hungry audience to feed twenty-four seven, you bet your bippy they still care…especially when the scandal also stars a media uber-mogul they’ve probably all detested for years.”

  Emmaline jabbed Charlie in the ribs. “Gee, that’s comforting.”

  “Sorry.” Charlie made a face. “Forgive me?”

  “Nothing to forgive.” Sara waved the apology away. “Without you, I wouldn’t have found my haven here.”

  The other woman worked for a widower and his young son who lived in another beachside home nearby. Charlie’s chance conversation with a property agent had given Sara a lead to the job, and then with the assistance of the Continental Academy, Saranna Reed-Smythe had become Sara Smythe, complete with glowing recommendations from her instructors.

  They’d not blamed her for the scandal, thank goodness, though she still felt as if she walked around wearing a scarlet letter.

  “Let’s order,” Emmaline said, signaling their circling waitress. “I’m starving.”

  The rest of the meal went well. Though her morning interview had been a bust, Emmaline still held hope she’d find a position in the area. Charlie pulled out her ever-present memo book and jotted some suggestions about other avenues for their unemployed friend to explore.

  “Still with the notes, huh?” Emmaline said, amusement brightening her eyes.

  Charlie sent their friend a censuring look. “I’ll have you know Mr. Archer finds my methods most efficient.”

  “Which should be your middle name,” Sara said. “And a stellar quality, in my book.”

  “We all love Charlie, of course,” Emmaline said, “I just think she doesn’t let her hair down enough.”

  Charlie smoothed her hand over her already-smooth hair. “Now why would I want to do that?”

  Emmaline shook her head. “I give up,” she said and then they paid the bill, Charlie’s phone app splitting the amount three ways to the penny after allowing for a generous tip.

  Following another round of hugs, the women went their separate ways. Sara slid behind the wheel of her sedan, pulled down the visor against the sun’s glare, and breathed easy for the first time since leaving the estate grounds earlier in the day.

  “Time to go home.” Her gaze caught her reflection in the rearview mirror. “I mean back,” she added hastily. “Time to go back.”

  It wasn’t a long drive along the Pacific Coast Highway, and with each turn of the tires Sara’s tension eased. She’d made it out of London. Albeit without a penny in her purse and with the knowledge that if she blew this current job she’d be in dire straits. The academy couldn’t be expected to overlook two failed postings and find her another.

  But she wouldn’t fail this time.

  Already Nueva Vida’s appeal had been enhanced by her attention to the interior and the extensive grounds. The owner’s assistant had made some noise about no long-term promises or plans about the place, but so far, so good. Another nine months to a year without interruption or interference, and she would turn what had been a near-abandoned estate into a beautiful home.

  Then if needs be she would move on, taking with her, she hoped, a decent nest egg and a more-than-decent reference.

  A car suddenly swerved into her lane, but even that didn’t darken Sara’s bright mood as she touched the brakes. Traffic wasn’t a typical bother, though she’d been told once summer was in full swing the cars would line up bumper-to-bumper. It was early May, however, and soon enough she turned in to the estate. Walls kept it private from lookie-loos, and a heavy wooden gate required she enter a passcode to gain access to the long, descending driveway.

  She unrolled her window to reach the keypad, and the green, slightly sweet scent of oleander drifted into the car. The tall and leafy bushes lined the highway side of the estate walls, their flowers pink and red. In Southern California the perennial shrubs marched along freeway medians and sprouted from cracks in the sidewalk, the heat and the car exhaust not slowing them down. They were survivors, like Sara.

  Thrivers. She might not be quite there yet herself, but someday. Someday she’d put down real roots and finally learn to flower.

  A metallic knock sounded overhead, startling Sara. Her foot slid off the brake and the car glided into the heavy duty fortress-styled gate with a discreet but definite thunk.

  The sole of her shoe returned to the pedal—too late—as a male voice cursed. Sara jumped again, but this time had the presence of mind to put the car into Park then turn it off altogether. She reached for the door handle just as a broad, long-fingered hand snaked inside the window to do the deed.

  The door swung open and by instinct she cringed, leaning toward the passenger seat as a man—presumably the one who’d knocked on the car’s roof—bent to peer at her. “Are you okay?”

  She didn’t see a camera. Just a dark-haired male figure in jeans and a dress shirt with the tails out, sleeves rolled up to expose powerful, veined forearms dusted with black hair. Weird, how attractive Sara suddenly found those forearms. It took effort to yank her gaze to his face. A chiseled jaw, firm mouth, straight masculine nose. The rest was covered by aviator-style sunglasses with mirrored lenses. Looking in the direction of his eyes meant gazing upon two images of herself, mostly cap brim and lips.

  “Are you okay?” he repeated, his tone more brusque now, which reminded her he might not be.

  Who was he? “How did you get here?”

  Still half-bent, he glanced over the top of her sedan. “Car.”

  Following the direction of his gaze, she saw it now, most of it screened by the lush-growing oleanders on the other side of the driveway. “Oh. Did you…did you break down?” She reached into her purse to locate her cell phone. “We can call a tow.”

  “I didn’t break down,” the stranger said. “I couldn’t get in.”

  “Get in?”

  “You must have changed the passcode.”

  “Oh.” Uh-oh. Sara moistened her lips, hoping, hoping this wasn’t going where she thought it was going.

  “You are Sara…Sara Butler, right?”

  “Um, almost.” Then her training kicked in, even as embarrassment at the awkward meet twined with resentment—because her privacy was now compromised—coursed through her. She punched the release on her seatbelt and climbed from the car. The man moved back to give her space. He was over six feet tall, broad-shouldered and muscular.

  She pinned her gaze on a neutral spot near his Adam’s apple and stood straight before him. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Sara Smythe. The butler. And you’re…”

  The master, a mischievous voice said in her head, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Emmaline’s. He’s your master.

  Sara’s face burned hot. Get your mind out of the gutter, the voice continued, a suppressed laugh in its tone. I meant, he’s the master of your house.

  With a silent gnash of her teeth, Sara ignored the Emmaline-in-her-head and reached out her hand. His grasped it, their palms touching, his fingers closing around hers.

  “I’m Joaquin Weatherford.”

  “Yes. Mr. Weatherford.” Sara pulled her hand away and hoped the jerky movement didn’t betray the urgency she felt about getting free of him. But from their point of contact a bolt of sensation had shot its way up her arm and was now tumbling down her spine. It seemed like a warning. “It’s nice to meet you, sir,” she said, to mitigate any residual rudeness from her hasty de-coupling. Memory reminded her that the estate’s owner was indeed one “J. Weatherford.”

  “Thank you. And nice to meet you…the, uh, butler.” He shook his head, then turned and paced toward the front bumper of her car to inspect the place where it had met his front gate. “You’re not American?” />
  Behind his back, Sara made a face. People here thought she had an accent. People in England thought she had an accent. “Half. I grew up sometimes here and sometimes in the U.K.”

  Without glancing at her, he gestured toward the driver’s side with his hand. “Looks like you’re not hung up. Just put your car in reverse and back up a little.”

  Sara did as instructed, then popped out of her seat again. Her bumper appeared mildly scuffed, the gate just fine. She blew out a relieved sigh and stroked the wooden surface. “Don’t worry,” she reassured it. “Not even a scratch.”

  Then she felt eyes on her and realized Mr. Weatherford was staring, his eyebrows arched over those aviators. Okay, her action probably seemed odd. Her cheeks heated, and she thought maybe she could convince him that talking to a house, well, the entrance to a house, wasn’t weird, but a Brit thing. A Brit butler thing.

  To cement the idea, she turned to him and pinned on her best staff smile, restrained and with no teeth showing. “All’s well. Jolly good.” Her hand waved. “Tally ho.”

  “Jolly good?” he echoed, his tone dry. “Tally ho?”

  She nodded and waved her hand again. “No harm done. So…”

  It was ridiculous, what a hoper she was. A survivor, maybe, and a thriver perhaps in the future, but right now the hope was running strong inside her that the master of the estate was in the next moment going to climb back into his car, merge onto the Pacific Coast Highway, and cruise along to wherever he’d come from.

  Leaving her to her sanctuary.

  Taking away that strange…awareness she had of muscled, hair-dusted forearms.

  “So…” he said, echoing the way she’d drawn out the word. “Sara Smythe, aren’t you going to let me in?”

  Her futile wish dashed, her fingers knotted together at her waist. “Have you… Have you come to inspect the estate?” That wouldn’t be so bad, maybe. A quick walk-through and then he’d return to wherever. She thought he’d been living in Portland, Oregon?