The Billionaire's Bargain

Chapter 1

The Gala’s Locked Glasshouse

Rain hammered the windshield until the Voss estate blurred into iron gates, black trees, and pale stone. Nora Bell tightened her grip on the wheel, watching the gatehouse lights strobe. She’d planned forty-five minutes: inspect, propose a fee, leave before dinner. No champagne, no private tour, no billionaire charm turning a ruin into a privilege. The gate groaned open. The drive climbed between wind-bent cypresses; the glasshouse appeared in shards through the trees, a vast Victorian skeleton of steel and glass, its roof flashing like a blade under the storm. Her pulse gave a hard, unwanted lift. That was why she’d come, not for Adrian Voss, whose name dominated the business pages, attached to hotels, shipping lines, and a talent for acquiring things others couldn’t afford to lose, but for the glasshouse. At the top of the drive, a woman in a charcoal coat hustled from the entrance under a black umbrella and opened Nora’s door before she’d killed the engine. “Ms. Bell? I’m Mrs. Vale, Mr. Voss’s estate director. You’re late.” Nora glanced at the clock. “The storm closed the south road.” “Mr. Voss dislikes delays.” “Then he should have commissioned the weather.” Mrs. Vale’s mouth tightened; she stepped aside without apology. “This way.” The entrance hall smelled of wet wool, beeswax, and expensive stone. Servants moved silently along the edges, collecting umbrellas and coats as if Nora were an inconvenience to be folded away. She kept her portfolio against her ribs. “I was told the glasshouse would be unlocked.” “It was.” “Was?” “The electrical system has been unstable since the first lightning strike.” Mrs. Vale passed a uniformed guard. “Mr. Voss is waiting in the west salon.” “I’m not here to wait in a salon.” A man’s voice answered from the staircase. “That makes two of us.” Adrian Voss stood at the foot of the marble steps, one hand on the banister. Taller than she expected, in a dark shirt with sleeves rolled to his forearms, a wet curl plastered to his forehead and a thin cut scoring a knuckle, he looked less like glossy photos and more like a man who’d been arguing with the storm and refused to concede. His gaze swept herThe tree, she said, is salvageable, but the planter’s split and the roots are waterlogged. You’ll need a new rootball, proper drainage, and rebuild the planter. And the roof, three panes gone, ribs bent, the support corroded where the water’s been pooling. The backup heaters are clogged; mold’s set in behind the panels.