Million Dollar Devil

  PRAISE FOR KATY EVANS

  “Katy Evans’s books are like a roller coaster; the excitement, anticipation, and absolute thrill of the ride keep me coming back to her awesome romances time and again.”

  —Kylie Scott, New York Times bestselling author

  “Katy Evans, your men are soo delicious and soo irresistible that life stands still and I can’t get anything done until I get to the end of the book!! : )”

  —Tricia, iScream Books Blog

  OTHER TITLES BY KATY EVANS

  MANHATTAN SERIES

  Tycoon

  Mogul

  Muse

  WHITE HOUSE SERIES

  Mr. President

  Commander in Chief

  White House—Book 1 and Book 2 Collection

  MANWHORE SERIES

  Manwhore

  Manwhore +1

  Ms. Manwhore

  Ladies Man

  Womanizer

  Playboy

  REAL SERIES

  Real

  Mine

  Remy

  Rogue

  Ripped

  Legend

  Racer

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2019 by Katy Evans

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542043809

  ISBN-10: 1542043808

  Cover design by Letitia Hasser

  Cover photography by Wander Aguiar

  To it all

  CONTENTS

  THE ONLY MAN IN THE ROOM

  THE PERFECT MAN

  WOMAN ON A MISSION

  THE MAN ON MY COUCH

  MAKINGS OF A GENTLEMAN

  THE FIRST DAY OF THE REST OF JAMES’S LIFE

  SPA DAY

  TIM’S BAR

  PROMISING

  OUT WITH THE DEVIL

  YOUTUBE

  SUITING UP

  DINING ETIQUETTE

  BEHIND THE WHEEL

  PHONE CALL

  LUCK: WHEN PREPARATION MEETS OPPORTUNITY

  HOME

  PHOTO SESSION

  THE HILL

  WEST COAST

  DINNER

  JAMES ROWAN

  OUT

  GOING HOME

  GOLDEN BOY

  CHANCE MEETINGS

  NEW YORK COUTURE

  DAY OF RECKONING

  CHANNEL

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PLAYLIST

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  She’d make the devil into the perfect man.

  THE ONLY MAN IN THE ROOM

  PROLOGUE

  Lizzy

  The room is packed—everyone who is anyone in the city is here. All the movers and shakers. The most influential reporters, bloggers, you name it. I grip his arm tighter as he leads me into the ballroom of the five-star hotel we rented out for the launch. I suppose I’m more nervous than he is. I glance up to my left and see his masculine profile, and my stomach clutches. He has a face that—until now—only existed in my dreams. Hard jaw, chiseled to perfection. Firm, plush, kissable lips. Sharp, pristine blue eyes that feel like lasers zeroing in on me. He catches my gaze, and the devil’s smile suddenly playing on his lips is worth a million bucks.

  That’s exactly how much it cost me. What this guy cost me. I would’ve paid so much more.

  It’s like he’s the only man in the room. Like he belongs here. Confidence oozes out of his every pore. Masculinity envelops him as perfectly as his custom black suit. He walks like he owns the place. My heart beats harder and harder for him.

  I can’t believe I got him to agree to this.

  Women are vying for his attention. His moves are smooth. Sophisticated. Elegant.

  “An autograph?” a young woman asks shyly.

  He takes the notepad and pen she extends and scribbles his name, his voice low and rough. “There you go.” Beneath all that polish is his raw masculine energy. The determination that brought him here.

  “James . . .” I halt him before we go any farther. “Whatever happens . . .”

  He looks at me. A thousand words lingering in his look. “I know.”

  But does he? I’ve fallen in love with my own creation. I polished a diamond, and now it’s flawless. Perfect. But it’s not mine to keep.

  He is not mine to keep.

  This elite world he’s about to join isn’t one he was born into. These fans only know him because of me. His place at the top? That’s not where I found him.

  THE PERFECT MAN

  Three months before . . .

  My father has been staring in nerve-racking expectation at me for the past three minutes, and I can barely hear myself think. As I sit across from him at his massive oak desk, I’m nervous. I’m more nervous than I ever remember being. I prepared for this meeting all last week, when he gave me permission to bring him my proposal for the much-anticipated launch of our new line of men’s designer suits. But it’s one thing to talk to my reflection and quite another to have the Harold Banks staring back at me. My father isn’t always easy to please—hell, try never—and his office always intimidates me. It serves as a reminder of one little bitty thing I can’t ever seem to forget: I’m not what he wanted.

  You see, his office is a shrine of collectibles. All around me, there are pre-Columbian artifacts, old tapestries, framed stamps. My father collects everything, the best of everything, except the one thing he wanted to collect the most. Sons. On their first try, my parents had me. And before they could keep trying for long, she left him. Leaving my dad with only me.

  I’m twenty-five, dark haired, and green eyed; slim, thanks to healthy eating habits and exercise; and well groomed, thanks to the habits instilled in me by my nannies. A good girl who has never gotten into trouble. I’m a perfect daughter by anyone’s standards. But still a daughter—one who’s trying her best to thrive in a company that caters mostly to men.

  I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to finally prove to my father that I’m a woman who can be an asset to his company—to our company.

  But a man like my father never takes anyone’s word. He expects results, and he expects them fast.

  Hence my nervousness. I don’t want to bite off more than I can chew. And our new line of suits has been a huge investment for the company. I know my father wanted someone more experienced to handle this launch.

  I, however, have other plans and hopes.

  “Have you started up that nonprofit yet to help the sick children of Uganda?” he finally asks. He always seems confused about why I want to work in his business rather than do things “women should be doing.”

  “And what happened to decorating your new place? Don’t you have something to buy?”

  I pretend nothing he just said bugs the hell out of me.

  “I started that nonprofit last year, and it’s been doing incredibly well. My apartment is perfect; it doesn’t need anything else.” There’s a pause. I hesitate, then plunge in. “I can work in your business, Dad. Just because a bunch of old-fashioned stuffed shirts run this place doesn’t mean I can’t run it too. My Stanford degree is just as good as theirs. And besides, I think nobody knows what a perfect man should be like better than a woman.”

&n
bsp; His eyebrows pull together, and another uncomfortable silence ensues.

  Say yes, I try to mentally channel.

  “You won’t disappoint me, will you, Elizabeth?” he finally asks.

  My heart skips a beat, and I suddenly realize, I’ve got him!

  With a quick nod, I keep my voice stern and businesslike, the tone my father usually uses with me and that I have been taught to use in return. “I won’t disappoint you, Dad. I know I’ve disappointed you before, but I’m more careful now—”

  “Are you? That prick you were dating was hardly a diamond. Rich, yes, but not very well mannered. Standing up my daughter on the day he was supposed to meet his possible future father-in-law . . .”

  “And that’s why we’re not dating anymore. I won’t settle for anything but the best, just like you’ve always told me, Dad.”

  He nods complacently and straightens his tie. I think I get my OCD from him. I can’t ever survive a meeting without him straightening his tie several times. “You’re perfect. You deserve the perfect man,” he assures me.

  My dad has always told me that I’m perfect—and every part of me, down to the pristine designer pumps I’m wearing, is a testament to how much effort I put into looking the part.

  I smile at his compliment, wishing he’d spoken it with a little more warmth and that the words perfect . . . for a daughter . . . didn’t ring in my head.

  I want my father to give me one of those proud looks I rarely receive from him. I want him to say, “My daughter is the fucking best, best daughter, best at everything.” I want to give him a reason to smile. I know that he’s looking for his replacement for when he decides to step down—and I don’t want him to hire a CEO who didn’t grow up with our company like I did, who doesn’t breathe and live Banks LTD like I do. I’m a Banks, and if someone inherits my father’s legacy, it should be me.

  “If you want to prove to me that you can be a competent CEO, then this should be the greatest launch of any line we’ve ever launched, Lizzy. I won’t go for a half-assed job.”

  “Got it. There would be no better CEO for the company when you decide to retire than me, Dad.”

  “Good. I’m willing to give you this opportunity to show me you’ve got what it takes, but if you fail me, I’ll be up front with you: I’ll start prepping LB for the job.” Letting this last unwelcome tidbit sink in, he claps his hands together as if that’s that. “So, who is the face of our new line?”

  Springing into action, I reach into my briefcase and pull out a set of folders. “I’ve got a list here of attractive, successful bachelor entrepreneurs who embody what our line represents—vitality, masculinity, power, money, class.”

  “Ferdinand Johnson. I like him,” he says as he inspects the first photograph, turning it over to read the details I’ve put on the back.

  A winning smile appears on my face as pride starts to swell in my chest. “I’ve got an appointment with him at three.”

  “Gregory Hutchinson. He could do.” He nods in approval again, and more pride swells.

  “I’m meeting him at one thirty.”

  He lifts a brow, clearly impressed, but saves any compliments. I never did receive coddling from my dad. My mom left us when I was only four, and I grew up in a world full of men. I’ve done my best to thrive in it. Butting heads with the best of the best.

  “Leave it to me,” I tell him as he reviews the rest of the photographs without any comment.

  “I will. But be warned, Lizzy: I won’t cut you any slack because you’re my daughter. Work is work, as—”

  “As you’ve told me before, yes, Father,” I quietly concede, pulling the photographs into my neatly labeled folder and easing it into my briefcase.

  I step out of the room, my heels clicking steadily on the floor as I stride down the hall. I’m summoning confidence with every ounce of my being as I pass his two secretaries and give them a grateful smile. It was difficult enough to get my dad to give me a meeting, and it was equally difficult to schedule a meeting with each of these eight millionaires. But somehow, I’m going to pick the very best and convince him to be my model. Our model. This launch is my baby, and it’s my personal challenge to make our men’s designer suits synonymous with class and elegance—a staple for the best males of our species.

  My dad wants the perfect man. I plan to deliver.

  “I’m sorry, Lizzy, but no amount of money will get me to agree to this,” Ferdinand Johnson said as he finished his coffee, set his napkin aside, and left me staring blankly at the bill.

  “The only way I’d agree to this is if you tripled the offer,” Gregory Hutchinson said. “And maybe not even then. It simply isn’t worth my time.”

  Keith Halls hardly let me finish. He spent the entire time talking to my cleavage, even though it was discreetly buttoned away behind my silk blouse to show I meant business. I fended off the urge to say Eyes up here about a thousand times.

  And the others?

  The others weren’t any better . . .

  “‘Thanks, but I don’t have any time to play Ken to the Barbies out there’? That’s what he said?” My best friend, Jeanine, is on the other end of the line as I walk out of my last meeting at 8:30 p.m.

  “YES! And that was only one of them. Jeanine, it was a massacre. I . . . I’m truly shocked by how rude, arrogant, and plain uninterested they were! What the hell am I going to do now? It’s the first shot—the only shot—my father has given me, and I’m completely stumped here!”

  Eight appointments. Eight. Nobody cares to be the face of our new Banks LTD men’s suiting line. Nobody could give a shit about it. One asked for five million. Another kept glancing at his watch. Another listened to me, nodded, and simply asked, “Are we done yet? I’m playing tennis in half an hour.”

  These millionaires are spoiled rotten, and I’m reeling from how badly these interviews went.

  I tend to beat myself up for any mistake I make because I’ve been taught that failure is not an option. My father—the Harold Banks—believes that famed quote about failure being the road to growth is bullshit. He believes that aggrandizing failure is something only fools who can’t get it right the first time do.

  He’s a tough act to follow, but follow him I do.

  As I walk down the street after my lackluster interviews, I can’t bear the idea of going back to my father empty handed.

  What did I expect? It’s not like I haven’t been around men like that all my life; they’re the same men that my father might consider worthy of me. Men like the eight I just met with are the reason I’m destined to be single the rest of my life. They’re so self-important that I could’ve offered them the world and it wouldn’t have been enough. Combine them with my dad, and I’d probably get more action as a nun.

  “Are there no decent men left in the world, interested in hard work and good money?” I ask her, glaring down as I watch my feet move. “Sheesh, I offered a cool million for their troubles, and all they had to do was launch the product with me, be the face of our new menswear suits, wear them to a couple of events—and that’s that.”

  “You know what . . . the ones who’ve already made a name for themselves are probably too big for your purposes.” She waits a beat. “A million dollars is chump change to Ferdinand Johnson. Maybe you should go smaller.”

  She’s right about that. “Smaller. Hmm. Like . . . where do I find such a beast?”

  “I don’t know. Take a walk around Midtown? Scour the wine bars? You’ll land on your feet. You always do.”

  She seems to forget I live in Atlanta’s Midtown, and I’ve never seen anyone that even comes close to ticking off the boxes on my list. “Besides, I worry anyone smaller might be like Daniel.”

  “Ugh,” she moans at the mention of my horrible ex, who was too afraid of my father to even show up to meet him. “Not every man will be as spineless as him. There are real men out there, I promise. So, what are you going to do?”

  “Right now? I want to get hammered, like Ernes
t Hemingway hammered. Hemingway’s best works supposedly materialized when he had a bottle in hand. I’m giving it a try.”

  “Well, I’d drink to that if I could. Right now, I can’t. One of the interns screwed up, so all hands are on deck tonight.”

  I continue walking down the block with no idea of where I’m going, only certain that I can’t go home like this, and I certainly can’t go back to my father empty handed tomorrow. “God. Maybe I’m just not cut out for this job. Maybe I’d be better off working for someone else, someone easier to please.”

  “You’re a Banks, lovely. Your father’s daughter through and through. You’ll think of something and make it happen, Liz.” Jeanine is trying to give me a pep talk, but it’s hard to let her words sink in.

  “I have thought of something. I’m getting drunk and not going to work tomorrow,” I say.

  She laughs, then says, “Okay. Have one drink. It’s on me. Then go home and put your mind to work—you’ll figure something out.”

  “I see a bar. A seedy bar, which is good because I don’t want to bump into anyone I know in my hour of abject desperation. I’ll call you tomorrow—”

  “Lizzy, are you sure—”

  I hang up before she can protest and stare at the sign. TIM’S BAR.

  Wow. I must have switched streets without noticing, and now I’m in a not-so-nice part of town, with my Hermès purse and my Louboutin shoes. I furtively scan up and down the dark streets. Something moves in the shadows of the narrow alley beside me, probably a sinister figure, like all these neighborhoods have. Oh god. Suddenly I feel naked. I might as well have MUG ME written on my forehead.

  I’ve never gotten seriously drunk at a bar, for fear of embarrassing my father. At this place, however, good ole Tim’s Bar, I’ll bet there’s no one who’s even heard of him or our products. That’s just what I need.

  But I can’t go inside, can I? Who knows what kind of rough, scary people are in there. Growing up, the most badass person I ever met was Sensei Tim, my Tuesday-Thursday judo instructor, and he lived in the suburbs and had a side business selling scented candles.

  As I’m debating, Sinister Man steps out of the shadows. He has no teeth and slits for eyes, and impossibly, he’s even more sinister in the streetlight. “Hey, sweetie,” he hisses.