Page 25 of Trailer Park Billionaire (Distinguished Billionaires #3)

“Swift was alive some 500-something years ago, so a canvas that’s about 500 years old.

That will be the hardest to find. It’s necessary if someone were to carbon-date it, though.

I’ll need historically accurate pigments—like lapis lazuli and lead-tin yellow—but I’m pretty sure my grandpa had those in his stash.

Linseed oil, a blow dryer, tobacco, caffeine.

Lots and lots of caffeine. Oh, and I want one third of the proceeds, of course. Twenty-five divided by three is…”

“Five million if it sells for twenty-five or above. Twenty percent if we have to flip it for less. Not a cent more,” Alex shoots back, while staring into my eyes. He throws another poffertjes into his mouth.

I shrug. “Fine. I guess five will do.”

Ben smirks and touches my hand again, making it a little harder to breathe.

Maybe I also need those hands wrapped around my neck to calm me down a bit.

“I’ll get you what you need,” he says in a voice that’s way too sultry. Then he inspects my wrists. “And I’m sorry about earlier. I might have overreacted a little bit.”

My wrists are fine. If the ties had been any looser, I could’ve slipped out without even needing a knife.

“That’s okay,” I answer absentmindedly, already thinking about the heist again.

“There are worse things than getting tied up.” Like having to deal with those gangsters.

But if we can pull this off, I’d be able to easily keep them from tying me up and throwing me into a river.

With five million I could do a lot more.

I could fund art classes indefinitely. I could probably even send one or two of my kids to college and use the remaining $10 to take myself to the movies.

“Alright,” Alex grunts and gets up from the bench.

“That’s my cue. I’m out of here.” He grabs his notebook and sushi, and uses his foot to open the door.

“I’ll find a buyer if you two can get the merchandise.

” The door flies shut. “Don’t tie her up too tight,” it echoes from outside.

“We need her delicate hands to do very delicate work.”

And just like that, I’m left with Ben Lyon—possibly the world’s poorest billionaire—in his trailer in the middle of a trailer park.

It’s kind of cozy actually. Clean, but a little chaotic.

There are clothes scattered about, books stuffed into random corners, the drawings from children glued to the ceiling.

“I didn’t mean getting tied up in a sexual way,” I try to explain, because I really didn’t.

Of course now I’m definitely thinking about getting tied up by Ben Lyon in a sexual way.

Which doesn’t sound half bad either. At first glance sound, anyway.

At second sound, it would blur already blurry lines between us and complicate our relationship unnecessarily.

Which is probably the biggest reason why con men get caught.

Or so I imagine. I’m not aware of any actual stats on the topic.

I glance at his hands again, all veiny, and big, and?—

It would definitely be a bad decision. In fact, it would be a terrible decision.

Hooking up with the guy who could potentially land me right back in my personal hell.

Working with him might be unavoidable to solve my problems. But complicating this—bringing emotions into this whole mess, even if they’re sexy, horny emotions—needs to be avoided at all costs.

Ben clears his throat. “Just to make sure: this is a one-time thing. A one-time heist. People in my line of work rarely get caught because of their actual work—and I’m sure your work will be flawless in any case.

They get caught because they get greedy.

Because they go back for more. Because they start thinking they’re invincible. That’s not going to be us.”

Or maybe that’s the biggest reason. Greed not horniness.

“Well, yeah,” I agree and wonder what happened to Ben that sent him down this path in the first place. “If it were up to me we wouldn’t even have to pull off this one heist.”

“Good,” Ben says, then studies me for a long moment, his gaze flicking to my eye, where the bruising looks more purple today. “Does that have anything to do with why you want to be part of this?”

I think about what to tell him, whether to let him in even more than I already have. But that wouldn’t be a good idea, so instead I try to deflect: “Maybe we should talk about what turned you into a criminal first.”

Ben doesn’t say anything, just nods, acknowledging that I don’t want to talk about it. The motion is barely visible. Then my stomach growls, loud and feral, breaking the silence, which makes Ben grin. “He must have gotten that from you.”

“What?” I ask, confused. “Who?”

“Reuben,” he answers as if I should know who he’s talking about. “Crime makes him hungry too. But I have a feeling I’ll need to feed you something more substantial than chips and cookies.”

Oh. He’s talking about the raccoon that broke into my grandpa’s apartment.

“You named him?”

“He basically named himself. We can change it if you don’t like it.”

“No, it’s… cute, I guess.”

Ben gives me one of his signature smiles—one of the practiced ones, not the genuine kind, which is a little disappointing. “And on that note, I'm kidnapping you again.”

I blink, wondering what he’s talking about this time. Narrowing my eyes, I reach for the knife and point it in his direction playfully.

“Good thinking,” he says, while getting up and opening the door to the trailer. “We’ll need that to cut our food. Come on, I’m re-taking you hostage until you’re properly fed.”

I guess he’s kind of cute. And I am kind of hungry.

I check the time. It’s getting late, but it is a Saturday evening, so technically my schedule is open. If I want to finish both paintings on time, I’ll probably have to start getting a lot more flexible anyway. The thought of giving up my schedule alone gives me goosebumps.

Bad decisions.

It reeks of bad decisions.

The kind that get people jailed.

I don’t exactly agree, but I also don’t stop him when he tugs me out of the trailer and into the RV that’s parked around the corner.

“Seatbelt,” he says as he starts the engine. “Wouldn’t want my best forger to be reduced to roadkill.”

Fifteen minutes later, we pull up to a tiny takeout joint that looks like it may or may not be violating several health codes. The gas station sushi had looked less dubious.

“Trust me,” he says when he catches my apprehension as we make our way to the counter. Without asking what I want, Ben rattles off an order so fast it sounds more like some secret code than a food request. The old man at the counter nods approvingly and jots it down.

A few minutes later, we're back in his RV, and the smell of fried food and spices fills the space. It does smell amazing.

I take a bite of a pakora dipped in chutney—and my eyes nearly roll back into my head. It tastes too good to talk, so we eat in comfortable silence, the only sounds the occasional rustle of takeout containers and both of us humming with every bite.

“So, who drew those?” I ask eventually, nodding at the crayon masterpieces on the ceiling.

He looks up, still chewing. “Friends.”

I wait for him to elaborate.

He just shrugs. “Just kids from around the neighborhood. Sometimes I play with them. Sometimes they paint me a picture. I don’t have the heart to throw them away, so… up they go.”

Something warm settles in my chest, right above the knot that’s been suspiciously quiet all day. “That’s… kind of sweet.”

“Yeah, well, don't go spreading that around. I have a reputation to uphold,” he jokes.

“Rich and powerful?”

“No,” he scowls. “Angry and dangerous.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” I chuckle. “I’ll try to remember.”

“You better…” Ben points a limp masala french fry at me, “or else.”

I almost laugh, and he grins—really grins—in a way that makes my chest tighten. But in a good way? Is that a thing? Am I having a heart attack?

Damn him.

After we finish eating, he drives me home. When I step out, I hesitate. “Thanks. For dinner. And for not actually kidnapping me,” I say. Then I quickly close the door behind me, and head inside to avoid making the moment any more awkward than it already is.

Ben watches me from the driver’s seat as I enter the building.

Once I'm inside my apartment, I peek through the bathroom curtain, just enough to see the parking lot out front. He is still there, leaning against his RV, arms crossed, eyes scanning the street like some grumpy, yet overly charming guard dog. When he sees the light in my window, that grumpy frown softens into a grin. He nods once, climbs into the RV, but doesn’t leave.

Instead, he grabs a blanket, settles into the driver’s seat, and keeps his eyes on my window.

Surely, he’s not planning on staying there all night…