The Billionaire’s Fake Engagement: Durand Billionaire Brothers, #1

By Leslie North

In love and art, beauty is in the eye of the beholder…

 

For bad boy billionaire Philippe Durand, love is like mixing oil and water… It just makes a mess. But after Philippe and his brothers get into an embarrassing bar brawl, his grandfather demands all three complete a community service task or lose their inheritance…

 

Philippe is assigned to help stage a local art exhibition by the gorgeous, if endearingly awkward, American artist Violet Shaw. And it's not long before this paint-spattered woman colors his world in ways he never expected. And suddenly, messy doesn't seem so bad…

 

Violet isn't sure about her talent as an artist, but she knows without a doubt that Philippe Durand is the most gorgeous man she's ever met. Which is why every time she's with him, she can't quite stop herself from saying things she shouldn't. Such as during her first press conference for the art exhibit, when she accidentally blurts that she and Philippe are engaged! Thank goodness Philippe covers for her, and immediately confirms their relationship.

 

But it's more than just attraction for Violet; she's fallen head over heels for a man whose biggest fear is falling in love...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Relay Publishing
• Release date: Dec 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215316801

Book preview

1

Philippe Durand glanced in the rear-view mirror of his rented Mercedes F-105. Between the traffic, which was practically at a standstill, and the oppressive heat of a St. Louis summer afternoon, he was more than ready to pull his hair from its roots. Taking a deep breath as he struggled to hold onto his temper, he reminded himself that the quicker he completed this inane mission his grandfather had sent him on, the quicker he could get back to his real job and life in Paris.

His phone pinged notifying him of an alert and he looked down to see yet another meme with the now infamous headline:

Playboy grandsons of billionaire tycoon Laurent Durand are captured in fisticuffs over local performer.

The photograph had been even worse, displaying Philippe with his eyes wild and his shirt torn. Gui had mayonnaise smeared all over him from the sandwich the performer’s beau had smashed in his face, and Bastien was caught with his fist about to crush the other guy’s skull. Definitely not the brothers’ finest moment but also not their worst. And yet, it was the final straw for their grandfather, Laurent Durand, who had been raking them over the coals on a daily basis ever since the tabloid news story had come out.

A bit of community service will teach you all how to behave, his grandfather declared. You each will be responsible for a project that I will assign, and I expect no less than your best work. Your trust funds are still under my control, I’ll remind you.

The challenge wasn’t about the money, not really. It was about proving themselves to their grandfather—the man who had raised them with an iron fist after the death of their parents, expecting nothing less than excellence and always getting what he wanted. It was perhaps what made Laurent such a successful businessman. Whether it made him a fully successful parent was a whole different matter.

The car in front of him inched forward and for a moment, Philippe thought that he was in the clear, but then brake lights flashed and he was back to a standstill.

His thoughts returned to his grandfather. As boys, Philippe and his brothers always took second place in the hierarchy of importance. Laurent’s work was number one. He had goals to reach and never fell short—not for Bastien’s football matches or Gui’s recitals. Laurent had missed Philippe’s graduation from lycée because he’d had a meeting with a prominent client that he’d refused to reschedule. The boys had learned that sealing the deal is all that matters, and as far as Philippe knew, his grandfather had never failed to do so.

It wasn’t easy to be under his grandfather’s thumb, but, in a way, the man’s temperament had taught Philippe to be who he was today—driven, detached, and successful at all costs. Being raised by a demi-god like Laurent meant pressure and high expectations to achieve, something the brothers strived for regularly. Except for Bastien who seemed to be on a quest to break away from the expectations dictated by their grandfather.

Damn Bastien. The whole disaster was his middle brother’s fault. He was the one who had started the bar fight by flirting with another man’s girlfriend. Sebastien was always the troublemaker, and this time he’d pulled Guillaume and Philippe into the hot seat next to him. Once the fight had started, there was no way that he and Gui would just sit back and let their brother get pummeled—no matter how much he deserved it. And yes, Philippe could admit that the fight had gotten out of hand, but how was he to know that someone had gotten pictures of the whole thing?

The news story was embarrassing. The subsequent lecture from their grandfather was humiliating. But the punishment—dragging his ass all the way to the godforsaken American Midwest to do a favor for the granddaughter of one of his grandfather’s friends—was beyond the pale.

The woman was an artist, whose work had been accepted as part of an important juried exhibition. But before she could head to Paris and dive into the media furor surrounding the event, it would seem that she needed an image makeover. And that was where his grandfather had decided Philippe came in. Sure, he was in the business of re-imagining people—it’s what his marketing firm did for corporations and small businesses alike, but an artist? He didn’t have much expertise in this area. But the stakes were too high to screw this up. To hell with his trust fund—how could he ever look Laurent in the eye again if he failed at this task?

Putain, Philippe swore under his breath at the gray-haired woman who cut him off before he could get through the green light. According to his Google Maps app, he was only about three miles from the artist’s home. How much longer could he sit in this traffic?

Philippe sighed as he pulled up in front of a little blue ranch home with a rocking chair on its front porch. Stepping out of the car, he quickly headed to the front door. The sooner he got out of here and on his way home, the better. He reached out and pushed the doorbell then waited.

Nothing.

He rang the bell again, hoping Ms. Shaw hadn’t forgotten their appointment.

A minute later, he was ready to turn and head back to his car when suddenly the door swung open.

And there standing in the doorway, covered in brightly colored paint from head to toe, was the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on.

Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry I made you wait! she said. I got so caught up in a piece I was working on that I completely forgot to look at the time. And just look at me, she said and began to rub droplets of paint into smears on her white coveralls.

Philippe did just as she told him and looked at her. In fact, he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Willowy and tall with the neck of a swan and hair like copper, she looked like something out of a fairy tale. A Scottish princess or a real live fairy from Ireland. She turned her sky-blue eyes to his, and his breath caught.

Come on in, Mr. Durand, she said then released a tinkling laugh. I’m assuming that’s who you are, anyway. Am I right?

Yes, he managed. Philippe Durand, from Durand Re-Imagination, Paris. I’m here to work with you on your brand...for the art exhibition in Paris.

That was who he was, and that was his purpose, he reminded himself. Work, and only work. No matter how attractive this woman was, she would not distract him from completing this project cleanly and concisely.

I’m Violet Shaw, she said in a voice like honey. Welcome to St. Louis.

Violet tossed her mane of wavy red hair to the side and smiled disarmingly at him.

This was going to be interesting.

2

Violet still couldn’t believe she was going to Paris! The chance to have her art displayed at the Modus exhibition was a dream come true. As soon as she’d gotten word, she’d immediately called her grandfather, Charles Byrne, to tell him the exciting news. The enthusiastic Frenchman had always been her biggest fan and most dedicated cheerleader.

Oh Violet, I’m so incredibly proud of you, cherie.

She’d heard the tears in his voice. Thanks, Grandpa Charles. I’m a little nervous about what to wear. What should I pack?

I haven’t dabbled in the art world for a long time, but I have an old friend who might be able to help, he’d said. I believe he has a grandson who works in marketing. He might have some advice for you.

Violet had expected to maybe get an email with some general tips—if she was lucky. But instead, two days later, Grandpa Charles had called to inform her that not only was the man available and willing to help but he was coming to St. Louis in person to pick her up and fly her to Paris on his private jet. He’d be on hand throughout her whole exhibition experience to coach her on what to wear and other things.

Violet’s head was spinning. Paris, art exhibition, private jet. It was all too good to be real! And now, this Philippe Durand was standing on her doorstep, and she could hardly take her eyes away from his let alone wrap her head around this fantasy becoming reality.

Her Grandpa Charles hadn’t warned her that the French marketing guru would be so easy on the eyes. A little preparation would have been nice. Dear Lord, this Philippe was tall as an oak tree and just as broad. Built like a Viking but with dark, broody eyes and wavy brown hair. She had the overwhelming urge to run her fingers through it, but instead reached out to shake his hand as he entered her house.

So nice to meet— Before she finished her sentence, she noticed the red paint all over her hand and now on the cuff of Mr. Durand’s suit jacket.

I am so sorry! she said and stepped back in embarrassment. Great, she’d already made an idiot out of herself.

Don’t worry, he said. It’s not a problem.

Of course it is. I’m sure that coat was expensive. Blushing, she reached into her pocket for a rag and used it to try to dab the paint from his cuff.

Really, it’s okay, he said. He was smiling.

God, he had nice teeth. And nice lips. And a great jawline.

Uh, Ms. Shaw, I think there’s some paint on your cloth, he said.

What? Oh. My. God. There was green paint on the rag.

And now there was green paint on his cuff to go with the red.

He had a Christmas cuff.

Her cheeks were on fire.

May I use your restroom, please? he asked, and Violet led him to the powder room off the foyer.

How could she have been such a bumbling idiot? Staining his clothes was not the first impression she’d hoped to make on Philippe Durand.

Well, at least now he knew the task ahead of him—making her appear poised and sophisticated—was going to be a challenge. She knew herself to be a fumbling, bumbling flibbertigibbet with a penchant for making a mess. And now he knew it, too. She half expected him to come out of the bathroom and say that he’d decided the whole thing was a mistake, and that he was going back to Paris without her. Maybe he’d even tell her that there had been a big mix-up and she hadn’t been accepted into the exhibition after all.

She never thought she’d even be accepted into the exhibition, not because her paintings weren’t good but because her parents had taught her to dream small, moderate her expectations, play it safe. It had taken a lot of convincing from Grandpa Charles before she’d even decided to enter. When she got the letter inviting her to show her paintings at the Modus Gallery in Paris, she was thrilled but also terrified.

This was what happened when you dreamed big—those dreams started coming true…and then you had to deal with all the uncomfortable realities. Her paintings spoke for themselves, but she was terrible at speaking! Knowing she would be expected to talk to people about her art and be out in front of the public was extremely uncomfortable for Violet. She preferred to be inside her studio, behind a paintbrush, not in front of people, and she just wasn’t an eloquent speaker. It was too difficult for her to sound confident when she never felt confident.

Grandpa Charles was the only one who’d ever believed in her. Her parents certainly never supported her art hobby, as they called it. They’d insisted she study business in school instead of accepting the art scholarship she’d been awarded. What a disaster a business major had been. She hated it—the classes and the work. It was all numbers and predicted outcomes. No soul. No emotions.

Art was her true love, her passion. Since she was a young girl, she’d found happiness in creating things—drawings, paintings, sculpture. When she was in high school, she’d won every award there was for her projects, but it wasn’t the recognition that even mattered to her. It was the process. There was something cathartic to taking the feelings that were inside of her or even the feelings of others that inspired her and using them to make a blank canvas come alive.

When she attended business school, she spent much of her free time creating in her makeshift studio—the shed behind her parents’ home. Slowly, gradually, her work began to grab the attention of local gallery owners in the St. Louis area. She even had a few pieces in a Manhattan gallery, but nothing had sold there. Paint was her favorite medium, and her abstract paintings were growing popular among art aficionados. She still had a ways to go before she could prove to her parents that art could be steady, could be safe as a career and not just a hobby. But the exhibition was a big step. Surely if that went well, her parents would start to see the truth. Even still, she wasn’t confident she actually deserved to be part of the Parisian exhibition. Her parents’ doubts kept whispering in her ears. Was she really good enough for an international art show?

While she wallowed in self-doubt, Mr. Durand reappeared, his cuff wet but still sporting traces of red and green paint.

Mr. Durand, I am so sorry, she said and put a hand to her forehead. I’m a mess.

To her surprise, he laughed. His smile was radiant and beamed straight at her.

I do believe that’s why I’m here, Ms. Shaw.

Please call me Violet.

Okay, Violet, and you call me Philippe.

She nodded. Pleased to meet you. I’m glad you’re here. I definitely need some help with my image as you can see.

Image is my specialty, he replied.

Well, hopefully he could coach her well before she had to be in front of the public at the dreaded press conference that was coming up. She hated being in front of a crowd.

Would you like to see my paintings? she asked him.

Sure, he said. I need to know about you as a person and an artist in order to help you. Seeing your work would be a good way to start.

God, he was dreamy.

Great. Follow me, she said. She led him out the back door and through the yard to the small shed her parents had agreed to let her use as an art studio. With windows on all sides, the light was amazing. The view of her wildflower garden and birdfeeders inspired her throughout the day.

This is a great space, he said, his eyes fixed on her.

A little shiver ran down her spine. His gaze was hypnotic.

So, what are you working on now? he asked.

I’ll show you, she said.

3

Philippe stared at the canvas, his