Romance: The Billionaire Alpha Collection (3 page)

Chapter 3

It is another hour before Stacey punches Bryce’s number into my phone and shoves it into my nervous hands.

“Do it.”

“Hello?” I wince when someone picks up, but say nothing. “Um, Bryce? Is that you?”

“Ah, Amelia. It’s you. Yes, I’m here.” His soulful voice sets my legs to jelly. “I’m so glad you called.”

“You are?” Stacey listens on speakerphone and holds up a script we prepared for me to follow. But now I’m speaking to him, it seems too phony to use.

“Of course. I take it you’re calling to accept my offer?”

“I, uh...” Oh shit, I am.

Am I? Is that what I’m doing?

“Do you want me to send my driver to pick you up?” he asks in a matter-of-fact tone, like he always expected me to call anyway. “He’s ready to go.”

“What, you want me there tonight?”

Stacey mouths ‘No!’ and points to the script.

“Yes,” Bryce says, as if he has to restate the obvious. “I want things to happen between us as soon as possible, Amelia. And I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

“I bet you don’t.” My stomach flips.

Why his almost abrasive attitude turns me on so much I don’t understand; he makes me want to salute and masturbate, in unison.

The list of things Stacey and I prepared for me to say waves in front of me and Stacey pokes my ribs.

“Well, first thing’s first: I’m afraid. Can we meet to talk over that contract you mentioned? You know, to protect me and my...investment?” I hate discussing the money side of things, but it is a pretty big deal.

“Ah.”

“Problem?” I ask.

Please don’t let there be a problem.

“Course not. But when I meet you next, I want you to be mine, not to discuss business. I do that to death already. I’ll send you an email. What’s your address?”

“Oh. Okay…um… it’s [email protected]. Send the contract and I’ll sign on the dots if everything’s in order.”

Stacey sniggers and whispers, “On the dotted line, you nitwit. Not on the line.”

I’m an idiot.

He’ll think I’m a bloody idiot.

“Good,” Bryce says, “then I’ll sign...on the dots, and send you a copy for your records. But you’ll be mine in two hours, otherwise the deal’s off. Yes?”

“If everything’s in order.” Stacey nudges me, reminding me of one final request. “Oh, um. Do I get a deposit at all?”

“No, I’m sure you know by now that I’m good for it. Problem?”

He knows I searched for him on the Internet. Cringe. “Nope, guess not.”

He lowers his voice. “See you soon, Amelia.”

Then hangs up.

Two seconds later, I check my smartphone and find one email ready to read.

He really did expect me to call back.

Dear Ms. Amelia Delphin:

For up to twelve hours of your complete surrender to Mr. Bryce Morgan, he will transfer $100,000 to a bank account of your choosing. Alternatively, he will provide cash.

Please sign here [we accept electronic signatures] if you agree:

Witness [if present] signature:

Please send this back, signed, immediately if you consent, and Bryce will send a driver to collect you.

Many thanks,

Stella Beechum

Morgan & Morgan Law Firm

I read the words several times. “No suggestion of how I’m expected to surrender. What if he plans to hurt me? I’m so not into pain. Or choking. Or anything like that.”

Stacey swipes the phone from my hand and begins typing. “Then we’ll stipulate you will not consent to suffer physical or psychological trauma during your period of ‘surrender.’”

“What if he doesn’t like that?”

“Tough.” She bites her lip in concentration. “You don’t want him leaving you bruised or broken, do you? That’s reasonable. You don’t want to spend the $100,000 on psychologist’s bills, do you? Plus, we have less than two hours to sort this out before he withdraws this offer altogether. Dithering won’t get you anything.”

“Okay.” I let Stacey add a few things to the contract and send it to Stella Beechum, whoever she is.

A few minutes later, another ping tells us to check my inbox. The new email says:

We accept your conditions. Please sign the amended contract below and send it back immediately. The clock is ticking.

Bryce Morgan

“Oh my god, Stacey, he’s there with her.”

“Sign and send,” she grins. “Don’t you see? He’s agreed not to hurt you. You’re safe. I’ll sign as your witness.” She signs digitally then nudges me. “Come on, quick. Your turn.”

“Oh shit, this is a legal contract for sex. Isn’t this illegal, and therefore forfeit?”

Stacey frowns. “For heaven’s sake. Do you want this or not?”

My reasoning ability is being squashed by need. “Yes. No. I don’t know.”

I rub my face, hoping some blood will help my brain work or bring me to my senses.

Stacy rolls her eyes, offering me the phone. “You’re wasting time; you know you’re doing this.” She smiles. “Oh, before you press send, don’t forget to copy me in and include your address and cell number so his driver knows where to find you. Then go get a shower.” She kisses my head. “I have to get ready for work.”

“But…” I try to protest.

“Now come on.” Stacey claps her hands. “Move it.” Stacey rushes off to her bathroom and calls from behind the door, “Try to enjoy yourself. This could be the best thing that ever happens to you.”

“Thanks.” My hands feel shaky. “I’ll try.” I sign the contract, still not sure it’s the right thing to do. “Although, I’m kind of hoping for better things to happen in my life than selling my ass.”

Eyes closed tight, I press send.

Stacey pops her wet-haired head around the corner. “Quit thinking of it that way, or it’ll be a disaster. What’s the difference between this and him buying you dinner?”

“Oh I dunno, the sheer amount of money offered, the need for a contract. I don’t even do one-night stands remember? So for me, dinner would be just that—dinner.”

Stacey shrugs. “This is one helluva first one-night stand, sweetie. Put it this way: you want to be homeless next week, or making big plans?” She raises an eyebrow. “Now scat, this is like winning the lottery and questioning whether you should keep it or give it to charity! And all you have to do is give a good-looking guy a blowjob or something. Climb down from the pedestal—life doesn’t throw you this kind of curveball more than once.”

I close the laptop. “Quit trying to persuade me; I signed already. Call the police if I don’t come back, and wish me luck.”

She runs across and gives me a peck on the cheek. “If you’re not here in fourteen hours time, I’ll call the police.”

As we stare at each other, there are tears in our eyes.

I can do this.

I nod and I leave my friend, close her door, and look at the door opposite: my apartment.

The letterbox is crammed with mail I have ignored for several days, and my stomach cramps knowing they are more red letters.

I sigh, let myself in, and ignore them again.

Chapter 4

Away from Stacey’s reassurances, I’m vulnerable.

Exposed.

As if somehow I’ve consigned myself to a slow painful death by conscience. My full-length mirror doesn’t help, either, as I strip naked for a shower.

Can I actually do this?

Isn’t this madness?

Why me?

I mean seriously, I’m nothing special.

Certainly not worth $100,000 for one night – I’m no supermodel.

In the mirror, I study my round hips, leading to short legs.

My slim shoulders slouch above tiny boobs.

My pale skin is covered in freckles, and my unruly mousy-brown hair desperately needs a restyle.

“Why? I don’t get what he’s seen in me. It must be a joke at my expense. I’ll walk in there and rich folks will laugh at the poor, clueless fool.” I whisper to myself.

Someone knocks at my door, disturbing my thoughts.

“Oh no.”

I can’t face my landlord yet, so I pretend I don’t hear the knock, ignoring the fact that whoever is outside my door could probably hear my damned shower running.

“I know you’re in there, Amelia.” Henry’s gravelly voice bellows. “I want the rent, and I want it by Monday or you can pack your bags. You hear me?” The landlord bangs hard against the door with his foot.

I whisper to myself, “No choice, Amelia. You have no choice.”

My phone beeps from the kitchen, so I rush to silence it and to read the message:

Be ready for collection in one hour. My driver will text you when he arrives. Do not wait for him in the street. Be clean, be alone, wear no perfume or underwear beneath a black evening gown, and wear heels. I also prefer minimal makeup. Do not keep me waiting. Bryce

“Bossy...” The corners of my mouth creep up in spite of me. “No underwear, a black evening gown? He thinks I’m a tart?” My smile dies.

Sneaking my way around the apartment, I rush to the refrigerator and fix myself a large glass of red wine before taking it to the bathroom.

Damn Greg for leaving me in debt.

I’ve never had to hide from a landlord before, never had to consider selling myself before either.

“What have I become?”

I gulp back the wine in a couple of mouthfuls and climb in the shower.

Enjoying the buzz of alcohol and the hot soapy water as it cleanses my every crevice, I think of Bryce, of what he might want me to do for him, to him, and I touch myself until at least some of my anxiety spills down the drain.

Then I dry off my hair, wondering whether I should attempt to style it instead of letting the crazy curls take over as usual.

In all fairness, there is little to be done with it other than a ponytail, and that just seemed wrong for this event.

Instead, I squirt it with defrizz oil, which at least sets it to manageable waves.

Then I pull out my only black dress, a knee-length velvet tube-like thing I bought from a sales rack two years previous, and my only pair of heels—also black, suede, but too high for me—which appear new because I only wore them once before. Once dressed and strangely missing my padded bra more than my panties, I wait for the text from Bryce’s driver, as per his instructions.

Ten minutes later and one more large glass of red wine, the driver texts me:

Come down now.

“Short and sweet,” I say, grabbing the purse containing my cell and my apartment keys, I move as quickly as my heels would allow down the stairs. When I step outside, I’m stunned. “He sent the limo, for me?” I say to no one, hoping the neighbors are twitching at their curtains. I climb onto the cream leather seat and face several crystal glasses, but an empty bar.

“Ah, no alcohol.” I’m no alcoholic, but my nerves screamed for more wine.

“Mr. Bryce doesn’t like his ladies to drink,” the driver says from behind a screen.

“Oops.” I hide a hiccup behind my hand. “Just needed a little Dutch courage.”

The screen rolls down and the smiling driver—in his late fifties —throws me a pack of gum. “Chew as many as you can. Drink several glasses of water. You’ll be fine by the time we arrive, and he doesn’t need to know nothing.”

He winks and smiles. I like this guy straight away.

“Thanks. Sorry, I don’t normally drink so much so fast.”

“No problem. We all get a little nervous now and then. My weakness is Jack and Coke. What’s yours?”

“Red wine. It’s the only alcohol I like the taste of.”

“Bet you like champagne though, huh?”

“Wouldn’t know, sorry.”

Me, champagne?

He frowns. “Right, this drive will take a little under half an hour. Sit back and relax. I’m under strict instructions not to speak to you while I drive, and to make sure you use your seat belt. Mr. Morgan likes things just so.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” I search for the seatbelt. “Now where’s the...oh, here it is.” I buckle up and throw a large glassful of water down my gullet before removing my shoes with an appreciative sigh.

“Ready to go?”

I take one, large deep breath.

“Ready.”