Beauty and the Billionaire (Billionaire Boys Club #2)(6)

“It pays three hundred grand.”

Gretchen stopped, fork poised in midair. “Three . . . hundred grand? Seriously?”

“So I’m told. Lead title, you know.”

“And this is a legit publisher? Really? They’re putting out that kind of money?”

“Yeah. Weird terms, though. Ten percent up front, ninety percent upon turn in of an acceptable manuscript. And that’s not the weirdest.”

Most publishers paid half upon signing. Still, thirty grand up front was more than she’d gotten for her last book, so even if the contract went south early, it was still a good investment of her time, all things considering. “What else is weird?”

Kat suddenly looked uncomfortable. She reached for her wineglass. “Well, there are unusual working terms.”

“Uh-oh. Am I going to like the sound of this?”

“Probably not, which is why I didn’t mention it when we first sat down. It’s strange, Gretch. Really strange. Apparently the project they want you to do is an epistolary novel of sorts. There’s some old letters someone found in an attic of a very old, very famous mansion. The publisher said the letters were really romantic, so they’re seeing this as some sort of quasi Anne Frank meets The Notebook sort of project. They think it’ll be huge. But there’s a catch. You can’t take the letters off the property.”

“Okay, that’s a little picky, but do-able.” She was starting to get excited about this project. Anne Frank meets The Notebook? Launch title of a new publisher? With that kind of money for an advance, it sounded promising. “Who’s name am I writing under?”

“Don’t know yet. They didn’t want to release it until the project was agreed upon.”

“So where’s this house?”

“Mansion,” Kat corrected. “And it’s in Hyde Park.”

Her mouth went dry. “Like . . . the Vanderbilt one?”

“Close. You know the one with the white columns and the crazy rose gardens?”

“Holy shit. Yes, I know that one. Buchanan Manor.”

“That’s the one. And that’s the location of our letters.”

“That’s so cool,” Gretchen said, fascinated. “I’m totally in on this project.”

“I think you need to think about it.”

“Why? The money’s awesome, the house is fascinating, and it’s a lead title. What is it you’re not telling me?”

“It’s the house. You heard the part about the letters not being able to leave the premises?”

“Yeah, but what’s the big deal? I’ll just drop in on some weekdays and take photos. I don’t mind going on location if the pay is right—which it is.”

“You’re going to be very on location. As in, if you take the job, they want you to live on site for the duration of the project. They don’t want you coming back and forth. The owner’s a bit of a recluse and doesn’t seem to like traffic much, so he’s insisting that the ghostwriter live on the premises with him.”

“Do what?”

“Live. On site. With the owner. He’s the one who doesn’t want them leaving the premises.”

“That’s a little . . .”

“Creepy? I know. That’s what I said and that’s why I think you should turn it down.”

She thought for a long minute. The money was nice and the house was intriguing, but the thought of living there with a stranger? That tipped things over from eccentric to downright bizarre. “Exactly how many letters are there, again?”

“Several hundred.” Kat gave her a curious look. “You’re not considering it, are you?”

“Not seriously,” she admitted. “Though it would be cool to visit the house and see what it’s like on the inside. And the money would be nice. But . . . ”

“Yeah, it’s that ‘but’ that makes me keep pausing. You want me to turn them down?”

Gretchen toyed with her fork, thinking of the expensive salad on her plate that she couldn’t pay for, at least not until a payment came in. “Not yet.”

Kat shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

She shoved a crouton around her plate. Three hundred grand could be several years of financial security, even in pricey New York City. “And they asked for me, huh?”

“Who knows. Maybe the recluse is a big fan of Astronaut Bill.”

Yeah, right. Or maybe she was the only idiot available who would actually consider the job. Gretchen sighed to herself and then nudged Kat’s fluffy wheat roll. “You going to eat that?”

***

“Never worry, Uranea. I’ll stop them with my trusty laser sword.” Astronaut Bill put his hand on the sheath at his waist.

Uranea gasped, her small hands flying to her mouth. Her bosoms quivered with distress. “Oh, please be safe, Astronaut Bill!”

“They won’t know what hit them,” Bill said grimly, dragging his immense blade from its sheath. Uranea gasped again, clearly impressed by the size of it. “Now I’ll send them on a one-way ticket back to the stars . . .”

Gretchen rolled her eyes at her own page and took a sip from a water bottle. Garbage. Pure and utter garbage. If Uranea walked into Cooper’s Cuppa and ordered a drink, Gretchen probably would have hauled across the counter to punch her in the face.