Billionaire Behind the Mask (Texas Cattleman's Club: Rags to Riches 5)

“What the hell?” he shouted, glaring at Oliver.

“Sorry about that.” Oliver pushed sincerity into his tone, hiding his satisfaction as the bully got a little taste of his own rudeness.

“Sorry?” the man raged, pulling out a business card. “I don’t care if you’re sorry. I want you to pay for my dry cleaning.”

“Of course.” Oliver scanned the card. “Ty Littel. I promise you’ll be hearing from me soon.”

“It’s pronounced Li-tell, not Little.”

Oliver inclined his head and replied smoothly, “My mistake.”

“Whatever.” With a sneer, Littel pushed past Oliver and stomped toward the exit.

Tapping the card against his fingertips, Oliver watched until the man disappeared from sight. He then headed toward the bar and the woman who sat stiffly facing forward, her lips tight with suppressed emotion. Oliver stepped up to her side and slid a fifty toward the bartender to cover the couple’s tab. He’d noted when Littel had left his date that he’d neglected to pay for the drinks.

“That guy was a dick,” Oliver declared, hoping his words would alleviate some of the sting from the previous encounter. “You’re better off without him.”

Not wanting to intrude after what had been a fraught moment for the woman, he’d intended to make the gallant gesture and leave. But then her warm-brown gaze touched his, and for an instant, every thought came to a crashing halt. He was utterly transfixed by the emotions darting across her oval face. Anger. Horror. Recognition. Relief. The changes came so fast that Oliver could barely keep up. But it wasn’t until she slammed the door on her reaction to his appearance that an elusive memory tugged at him.

“Do I know you?” The question blurted out of him.

He expected her to bristle at the obvious pickup line in a hotel bar. Instead, her left eyebrow gave a minute twitch.

“Do I look familiar?”

“Somewhat. I just can’t place you. Are you a model?”

Her lashes flickered, giving the impression that his question displeased her. “For the moment.”

Her enigmatic remark stirred his curiosity. “I thought so. I’m Oliver Lowell.”

A tiny tug at the corner of her mouth might have indicated a smile. “I know.”

Unsurprising, since he’d made a splash in the fashion industry as a model before earning a solid reputation around town for his photography. “Have I photographed you?”

When he’d quit modeling, the transition to fashion photography had made the most sense. He’d started by doing beauty shots for up-and-coming models, and his work had been so well received that he’d started getting offers from magazines.

She shook her head.

“Of course not,” he murmured. “I definitely would’ve remembered you.”

Her enigmatic smile flashed, making his fingers twitch, but as before, not in the direction of his camera. He longed to caress her flawless skin and see if it could possibly be as soft and smooth as it appeared.

“So, where did our paths cross?” he asked, scouring his memories but finding only a vague impression that they’d met. Not surprising, since much of his early twenties were lost in a drug-induced haze.

“We walked the Valentino spring show eight years ago.” As they spoke, she eased the white-knuckle grip on the purse in her lap. Now she brushed a wayward curl behind her ear with long fingers, tipped with short nails painted a forgettable nude. “It was my first runway show.”

Fury and self-loathing burned in Oliver’s gut. “And my last.”

That was the night his friend died from an overdose. A night where Oliver had not been there for Carson because he’d been too busy screwing up his life.

“And now you’re behind the lens,” she said, seemingly unaware that his thoughts had taken him down a dark road. “How does that feel?”

“I like being in control,” he replied, ignoring the mocking laughter echoing in the back of his mind.

Control was something he hadn’t known much growing up as the youngest son of a powerful family. His father had pushed him to do better, to match the achievements of his older twin brothers, and then punished Oliver when he failed to live up to the expectations established by Joshua and Jacob.

He’d had no control when his father told him he would attend Falling Brook Prep and later Harvard. Nor when Oliver had tried to resist his father’s heavy hand and join the photography club. Older brother Joshua’s artistic talent and their mother’s insistence on indulging it, despite their father’s protests, meant that Oliver h