curious and he almost wished he hadn’t said anything. Grayson Smith was simply the name he used on his professional bio. But at least his real last name hadn’t raised any obvious flags for her.
Considering the way the Fortune name had been in the news since the revelation that Austin icon and bazillionaire Gerald Robinson was actually Jerome Fortune—an heir to even more millions who’d supposedly died a lifetime ago—it was a relief.
It was time to leave the subject of his name well enough alone. “Mind if I pull my chair a little closer so I can see better?”
“Please do.” She rolled her own chair a few inches over so he could edge nearer to the desk.
Nearer to her.
“I apologize again for the close quarters. I’m still the smallest fish in the pond here, so I don’t get the pick of offices just yet. Or the pick of clients, so I have to thank you again for requesting me specifically, Mr. Fortune.”
His mother had requested Billie, but who was he to correct her now?
“Just Grayson,” he replied. He hadn’t set out to be known only by his given name any more than he’d set out to be a celebrity. Over the years, it had sort of cemented itself in the public eye. But ever since his mother had admitted that she hadn’t simply decided to use the last name Fortune because of her good fortune when she gave birth to healthy triplets, but had actually given them their father’s name, he’d been increasingly happy not to use it.
Which was a line of thinking certain to put him in a bad mood.
And Billie—young or not—was too much of an unexpected pleasure for him to be in a bad mood thinking about the bastard who’d sired him and his brothers.
He maneuvered his chair almost next to her. It meant he had to stretch one leg out her office door, where someone might trip over it as they dawdled and gawked, but he didn’t much care. “And I’m not complaining about the tight space.” He nodded toward her computer screen. “All right, darlin’. Show me what you’ve got.”
Thirty minutes later, Billie watched Grayson stride out the Austin Elite front door. She held her breath and turned to face the receptionist.
Amberleigh Gardner was fanning herself. “That man makes even an old woman like me feel faint. And you’re the lucky girl who gets to work with him.” She winked. “You know he’s not married.”
Hoping that she was hiding the shakiness she’d felt since realizing that her prospective client Mr. Smith was The Grayson—famous rodeo rider, local business owner, endorser of everything from beer to saddles—Billie calmly started back to her office. “He’s a client, Amberleigh. No more or less important than any other client. His marital status isn’t relevant.”
Right.
Which was why she’d darn near tripped over her own feet in shock when she’d come out to greet her new client and recognized him. “Besides, you know the rules.” No romantic involvement with clients. It was DeForest Allen’s sacrosanct rule after having seen too many deals go south because of it.
“Keep tellin’ yourself that, hon. Some girls would think losing a job over a guy like that to be well worth it.” Amberleigh smiled knowingly as Billie passed her.
Once in the office that she’d been assigned three weeks ago when she began working with Austin Elite, she moved the chair Grayson had used back to its usual position before sitting down in her own chair.
Then it felt like all the strength in her body left her and she dropped her head onto her desk. Not caring if anyone did see.
From the top of his wavy, caramel-brown hair to the bottom of his expensive boots, Grayson was six-plus feet of drop-dead gorgeous.
Her skin felt flushed and her heart was racing.
She definitely needed to get herself under control before she met him the next day.
“How’d it go with the reigning King of Rodeo, Belinda?”
She sat bolt upright, assuming a confident smile for her boss. She didn’t believe for one second that DeForest Allen had known who her prospective client was before Grayson arrived, any more than Billie had. “It went very well, Mr. Allen. I’m setting up a tour of six properties for tomorrow morning.”
He nodded his silver head. “Close the deal quickly, Belinda. We don’t want another Dickinson situation.”
“No, we don’t, sir.” But inwardly, she’d tensed. She’d hoped by moving from Houston and back home to Austin, she’d have left the Dickinson situation behind her. She reminded herself that she’d been here only a few weeks, though. And trust took time.
Plus the proof of signed sales contracts. Dickinson aside, Billie had had plenty of those since getting her license years earlier. Reminding her boss of them, though, was probably not very politic. Despite her track record, she was still surprised he’d hired her. Austin Elite was the premiere agency in town. She’d never actually expected to be offered a position there.
He cupped the steel door frame of her cubicle, oblivious to the clear fingerprints he left on the glass. He was the firm’s owner and broker, so they were his glass walls to smear up however he wanted. “Don’t wait for the weekly status meeting to keep me posted.”
“I won’t,” she promised.
She waited until he’d entered his own office before letting out another breath.
Did he think she wanted another Dickinson situation? Rhonda Dickinson, reeking of Texas oil money, had been a nightmare of a client, pulling out at the last minute on three different sales because she’d happened to find something that looked “just a teensy bit better” each time.
Of course, they hadn’t been better in the end, either.
Ultimately, she’d blamed Billie—and subsequently the Houston-based agency she’d worked for—for her own inability to commit, and took her business to their chief competitor.
Last Billie had heard, Rhonda still hadn’t signed her name on the bottom of a purchase contract. It was some small comfort, she supposed. If Billie would have been able to get the woman to commit, it would have been her largest sale to date. But now Billie had Grayson Smith—make that Grayson Fortune—as a client.
The Fortune name was a big one around Texas. She couldn’t help but wonder if he was connected to it.
Her phone chimed musically and she automatically reached out to answer it. “Billie Pemberton.”
“You goin’ to Selena’s birthday party this week?”
At the sound of her cousin Max’s voice, Billie glanced at the photos sitting on top of her filing cabinet and plucked one from the collection, of Max taking down a steer. She’d used the excuse of putting Grayson’s water glass there earlier to turn the shot of her cousin away from her new client’s view. “I’m bringing the cupcakes and Mom’s hosting, so yes. You?” Selena was the daughter of a mutual cousin.
