Billionaire Romance Boxed Set (9 Book Bundle) (24 page)

Caleb looks up. “Uh oh.”

Brian turns his head to gaze at what his best friend is
looking at.

A thundercloud of a woman storms into the poker room. She
has a mass of appealing brown curls that make her look blow-dried and ditzy,
but nevertheless extremely attractive. She has a cute button nose, so he would
guess her age to be under twenty-five. Her complexion is slightly freckled. She
gives off the aura of being passionate, robust and healthy – with a clear
zest for life.

And her eyes. She has the most incredibly mesmerizing eyes.
They are a vivid blue, and so large that he thinks he can drown in them
forever.

Careful
, he warns himself.

Oh boy, but she’s so fuckable. He wonders if she would make
a pass at him – in which case, he would drag her into the pool room,
clear everyone out and fuck her on the table immediately amid all the colored
balls rolling around. Hell yeah, he can even imagine the table creaking and groaning
under their collective weights. Balls rushing into their pockets everywhere as
he sinks himself repeatedly into her.

It’s amazing. He had just fucked somebody a mere hour ago,
and he now has a raging hard-on under the table. The familiar rising of his
cock sends the entire crotch area of his jeans into massive strain. Enough
strain to pop his zipper.

But he can’t help it. Whoever this woman is, she’s just
fucking adorable.

She’s staring at him.

Great.

They all do.

Her eyes flash blue fire as she strides up to him, still
seated at the poker table. Everyone’s eyes are riveted upon her.

“Brian Morton?” she says.

Behind her, a gaggle of women – including the
brunettes who were eyeing him from the bar and the blonde he had just fucked
– troop into the room, hanging around the doorway bemusedly to watch.

“Yes?”

“Did you go to St. Theresa Academy? Around thirteen years
ago?”

“Give or take a few, yeah.”

She’s very close to him. He can smell her perfume – a
light summer scent that brings daisies and bright meadows to mind. He smiles up
at her. That cocksure, predatory smile that renders women, so he has been told,
weak at the knees.

Oh, she wants him. He can tell.

She says, “Good. Because there’s something I want to give
you.”

With that, she draws back her fist and punches him right in
the face.

4

“What did you do that for?” Brian splutters, nursing his
jaw. He has gotten to his feet, erection notwithstanding.

She could be some woman he had fucked and left high and
dry. But he doesn’t remember fucking her. And hell, he would have remembered
someone like that.

“Because you made my middle school a living hell.”

“Middle school?” Brian eyes the woman warily. His entire
middle school is a blur, especially since he was yanked out midterm to go to
another school. “I don’t fucking remember middle school.”

Caleb laughs. “And you weren’t even smoking joints until
you were fifteen.”

“Typical,” the woman says angrily. “Bullies like you never
remember your victims.” She jabs a finger at his chest. “I sat in the second row,
two seats away from the window in Ms. Mulholland’s class. You used to scatter
sweet wrappers all over my desk.”

Brian’s eyes go wide. It’s coming to him now. But he just
can’t recall her name.

It’s …

Jenny?

Janey?

“Jaws?” Caleb’s mouth is open.

A startling memory blindsides Brian like an oil tanker
slamming into him full frontal. Rapid images of the geeky girl with braces he
had teased mercilessly as a rite of middle school passage stream in procession
through his churning mind.

B-but she was stick thin then. Flat-chested. And her hair
was short … not this glorious wild mane that just begs for his fingers to
claw into while she writhes under his hard body and screams out his name.

And she wore braces to keep her buck teeth in. The biggest,
flashiest, brightest braces this side of the sun.

No, it can’t be.

And yet here she is, all grown up. With an amazing body to
die for. Although she is dressed in officious work wear – a cream blouse
over a plaid A-line skirt – he can see that her tits are straining at the
buttons. God, they must be 38D at the least. He has had plenty of women with
big breasts, but he never tires of playing with protuberant tits.

But these tits on a skinny, gawky kid he used to know from
eighth grade!

The girl he used to call ‘Jaws’ is magnificent before him.
All filled out and lushly curved. Her eyes spit blue fire, and he can well
imagine them sparkling fire of another sort under him.

He’s aware that his own jaw has dropped to the floor.
Around him, the poker guys are sniggering and even laughing outright. The women
at the door wear expressions of delight at his comeuppance. Clearly, this is a
scenario plenty of women would like to see him wallow in.

He knows he needs to say something. The appropriate (not to
mention decent) thing to do is to apologize for middle school. Apologize for
everything he can’t remember doing to her.

Only he’s fucking speechless right now, and the only image
torpedoing in his head is that of a grinning great white shark.

But wait a minute.

He’s Brian Morton. He doesn’t have to apologize.

He has never apologized to any woman in his entire life,
excepting his mother – when he’s actually speaking to her, that is. He’s
not Mr. Nice Guy. That role has already been taken by Caleb. He’s a predatory
uber-stud who tells it like it is, be damned with the niceties. He never had to
be nice to a woman to get her to spread her legs.

It’s an image he has cultivated and it has served him
nicely all his adult life.

It’s time to say something snarky. Something like “So how
was therapy?” After all, she did deck him a good one for something he did when
he was an immature fourteen-year-old who was too angry with his alcoholic
father who took out his booze-soaked rages on him by whupping his ass and his
mother who stood by and watched the whole thing but did nothing.

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t because his tongue is still
frozen to the roof of his mouth and his vocal chords are locked.

Caleb breaks the awkward silence.

He grins as he says, “I guess we’ve found our lucky girl.”

5

It’s an extremely awkward situation.

Brian Morton and Caleb Carr are seated across Cassie and
herself in an all-night diner. Sam is unable to take her eyes off Brian.

When she had stomped into the poker room, her eyes had been
riveted to the handsomest man in the room. Actually, he is one of the
best-looking men she has ever seen. He’s not conventionally pretty. His brown
eyes are large and deep-set, and they blaze with a confidence far beyond his
obvious youthfulness. His nose is rough-hewn and broad, like a blade in the
middle of his sculptured face. His mouth is wide and generous and extremely
sensual.

The entire ensemble serves to make him extremely arresting.
He radiates an aura of ruthless intensity. A devil-may-care, ‘fuck the world
and I don’t care what people think of me’ attitude. He is the type of man who
walks into a room, and every single head would be averted to watch him.

Damn. Now she can’t take her eyes off him.

But how did he get to be so damned gorgeous? She remembers
him as that heavyset kid. He was definitely overweight then. But now … his
body under that leather jacket suggests hours of toning at the gym.

His hair. She loves his dark hair, especially when hers is
so unmanageable. How does he get it that voluminously floppy over his forehead?

Looks aside, she reminds herself that he is still the bully
who made her cry more than once in the privacy of the second floor girls’
bathroom.

I should hate his guts.

He doesn’t look too pleased to be here either. And the
story Caleb is feeding her is too incredible.

“So he lost his bet to you?” Cassie says, her eyes
gleaming. “And he gets to be her slave for a whole weekend?”

“I call it Atonement 101.” The smirk has not left Caleb’s
face all night. Sam remembers him all right. He hasn’t changed all that much
compared to Brian. Caleb is dark-haired and terribly cute in a boy-next-door
way. He was nice in middle school … sorta. When he wasn’t standing around
and looking on like a dodo while Brian was up to his tricks. Still, kids go
through all sorts of weird issues at that age. God knows she did.

Brian crosses his eyes. He has a caustic sardonic attitude
to everything, even when he’s commenting on the weather – which has taken
on a tint of Arctic. But on him, it comes off as highly sexual. Everything
about him is highly sexual, even though he doesn’t seem to be putting any
effort into it.

“OK, OK,” he says, “no need to make such a big deal. You’d
think I lost the Alamo by the way you’re going about it.”

“It is a big deal,” Caleb insists. He turns to Sam. “So… what are your plans for the weekend?”

Sam and Cassie eye each other.

No fucking way
, Sam thinks. She didn’t even really pray
for her pretend boyfriend. So why is God granting her a favor and dropping a
gorgeous guy on her lap now? But wait. He may be gorgeous but he’s still Brian
Morton. God is having a laugh at her expense somewhere in cherubic heaven.
Brian Morton is not going to be easy to handle, beholden to her whims or not.

It’s still unbelievable how providence has struck for her.

But still … he’s Brian Morton.

Sam says, “I’m going to Hartford for my sister’s engagement
party.” She pauses as she swallows the sudden lump that has bolted into her
throat.

“Go on,” Cassie urges.

Go on?

I need a pretend boyfriend. You know, so my sister, mother
and their pals don’t think I’m a complete old maid loser.

Brian says, “Don’t tell me. You need a date.”

‘Yes, she does,” Cassie puts in.

“You don’t have a boyfriend,” Brian states.

The way he says it puts a flush into her cheeks. You don’t
have a boyfriend … and you want me to be your showcase boyfriend for the
weekend. He gets it immediately, she can tell. He’s a smart cookie.

She says in a lofty tone, “Well, I’m between boyfriends
right now … and it’s not required that I bring someone. But I suppose it
won’t hurt.”

Oh crap. The way she said it was so lame. She sounded
positively desperate. Can he see through that? Can he tell?

The side of Brian’s sensual mouth curls up.

“No, I suppose it won’t hurt,” he drawls.

Smug and sanctimonious bastard. Her eyes narrow. Is she
reading too much into everything he says? It’s just that they had such an awful
history together. If her wounds didn’t still chafe at the weight of her
pre-pubertal experiences, she wouldn’t be feeling this way.

It’s like Pride and Prejudice. One chance remark, and
she’ll hate him forever. Or in this case, there had been plenty of off-putting
remarks. Too many to count. Caleb is fine. She doesn’t have too many bad
memories of Caleb, other than he stood there while Brian did the dirty to
everyone.

Brian says, “So let me guess. You want to stick it up to
your sister and her friends who are going to be there. And you need a
good-looking guy who will suck up and play loving boyfriend to your adoring
audience.”

How did he ever get so conceited?

She says, “I guess I’ll have to look elsewhere then because
I don’t see any good-looking guys at this table.” She cranes her neck to Caleb.
“No offense intended.”

Caleb whoops with delight. “None taken. You tell him,
Jaws.”

“Shut up.” Cassie shoots him a glance that can vaporize
concrete walls.

Brian says, “Well then, I guess this discussion is at an
end. Samantha doesn’t need a ‘boyfriend’ and I don’t need to be here when I can
be out there fucking somebody who doesn’t sock me in the chin.”

He rubs his jaw as he says this even though it is clearly
unmarked.

“Good, it’s a done deal then,” Sam says.

“No, no, no, no. This is not over,” Cassie interjects. “Sam
… a word, please. In private.”

She drags Sam out of the dining berth. Brian lights a
cigarette as he watches her amusedly. Oooh, if only she can wipe that smirk off
his face.

They go outside into the cold.

“Brrrr,” Sam says, shuffling her feet, “whatever you’re
going to say, you’d better say it before I lose a toe to frostbite.”

“You’re not going to get frostbite. Don’t be a drama queen.
Now listen to me. This is an opportunity to kill two birds with one slingshot.
You get to – ”

“ – I know, I know, sock it up my sister – ”

“Yes, and – ” Cassie grabs her shoulders and stares
deep into her eyes, and continues very slowly, as though to a child who is soft
in the head “ – take your revenge on Brian Morton. As he deserves.”

“You mean spend a whole weekend with him?”

“Yes … with him as your slave. You heard the terms of his
bet. He has to do anything you want.”

“Ewww, I don’t want to sleep with him.”

The moment Sam says it, she knows it’s not true. Brian
Morton possesses an extremely masculine sexuality that leaps out at you, even
if you’re utterly blind and sworn to the nunnery.

“Who says you have to? No.” Cassie’s features turn crafty.
“But you can make his weekend a living hell.” She grins. “I’ll help you.”

“I don’t know. I don’t have that … ” Sam struggles for
the word.

“Sadistic streak? Meanness? Don’t worry. I do. Remember all
those times in middle school when you swore you’d get your own back at him?
Well, he left our school before you got the chance. Now’s your chance.” Cassie
grabs her arm. “Say, is your sister going to invite me to her engagement
party?”

6

They are in Brian’s black Ferrari, the four of them, on
their way to Hartford. Brian is at the wheel. Caleb is seated beside him and
Sam and Cassie are at the back.

“Don’t drive so fast,” Sam says nervously.

Brian turns his head heavenward. “Yes, Mom. You’ve said
that for the sixteenth time already. I’m within the limits, OK?”

He was right. She’s driving him batty, hot body or not. No
wonder she doesn’t have a boyfriend. Now, if only he can get this weekend over
with and everything would be normal again. He’d go to clubs with Caleb, pick up
girls and fuck his brains out. And no one is going to tell him, “Don’t drive
into me so fast.”

Christ, what a waste of a weekend. Especially when she made
it clear he isn’t to have any sex – not with her, not with her friend,
and not with anyone else at the party because they are supposed to appear as ‘a
couple’.

Hell, he’ll find his ways.

“Hey, asshole, you’re supposed to be her slave.” Cassie
knocks the back of his head with her fist.

“Ow. Doesn’t mean I won’t bitch and gripe my way through
it. There isn’t a rule against bitching, is there?” Brian glares at Caleb.

“Nope, forgot to make that a condition,” his best friend
says.

Sam says, “I think we should go over the list again.”

Brian groans. “I remember everything, OK? You like Zumba.
We met at the gym. You were wearing this two-piece outfit and I thought you
were hot.”

She is hot, but he’d rather eat thumbtacks than to ever
admit that.

“Go on,” Sam says tersely.

“So … I asked you out. And we found out … during
our ridiculously romantic date – ”

Christ, he doesn’t even
do
dates.

“ – that we went to the same school together.”

Cassie interrupts, “I still can’t believe you never told
your Mom about Brian.”

“What’s there to tell? It was hideously embarrassing.”

Brian sighs. OK, so he was a handful as a kid. So his folks
had to pull him out before he got expelled. But he did get expelled from two
schools anyway and he had to have psychological counseling.

“Look, I was a kid, OK?” he says in a conciliatory tone.
Semi-conciliatory, since he doesn’t do full-out conciliatory. “We were all
kids. We did things. Stuff kids do. You’ve just got to let all that stuff go or
you’d be a nutcase.”

He certainly did, and look where he is now.

“Wow, and that’s supposed to be an apology?” Cassie says.

“Butt out. I wasn’t talking to you.”

“Hey, be polite. Sam, make him grovel.”

“Groveling’s not in the deal,” Brian remarks. He’s still
not clear about what is and what isn’t in the deal, but Caleb promised to make
it up as they went along.

Oh shit. That’s exactly what he should be afraid of.

Still, he’s glad Caleb has managed to make the payment to
the bank before the foreclosure. He would hate it if Mrs. Carr, proud woman
that she is, would be out in the streets. Especially when she has been practically
a mother to him when he was growing up.

The Carrs. Damn their fucking pride. There was many a time
he wanted to go to a fancy restaurant or order a bottle of Dom Perignon when he
and Caleb were out together. But nooooo, Caleb had to insist on paying his fair
share. Which would set him back a week’s wages. So Brian just gave up, and they
did stuff more attuned to the size of Caleb’s wallet – such as going to
clubs and bars and gyms and bowling.

Sam lets out an audible whoosh of breath. “So you remember
everything,” she says.

“Yeah, and you like your vibrators turned up to the max.”

Sam gasps in horror.

“I do not have a vibrator! Where did you come up with
that?”

“Yeah, asshole!” Cassie slaps the back of Brian’s head
again.

“Seeing that you are between boyfriends, I’m reckoning
you’re probably sexually repressed.” Brian turns to Cassie. “You do that again,
and I’ll write ‘ASSHOLE’ in chalk on your seat.”

“Oh, so you remember.”

“It’s all coming back to me through hypnotic counseling.”
Brian glances at Caleb. “Light me a cigarette, will ya?”

“You shouldn’t smoke while you’re driving.”

“So send me to detention.” Brian sighs. He figures he’s
going to have to go through a whole carton of cigarettes before the weekend is
up.

*

They arrive at the boutique hotel in Hartford which is
rented by Lori Fox, soon to be Mrs. Lance Buchner. The blood starts to roar in
Sam’s ears. This is a mistake. She shouldn’t be trying to delude anyone. What
was she thinking about, letting Cassie talk her into this sham with Brian
Morton of all people?

Still, the black Ferrari gets stares from the doormen as it
revs up the driveway. It’s like Brian – sleek, dark, shark-like. It was
Cassie’s idea to make Brian drive them to Hartford in his car. Well, one of his
cars, anyway. She had even handpicked the most polished and flashiest.

Whoever would have thought that Brian would turn out to be
one of the reclusive Mortons of Chicago? It never registered with Sam in middle
school that Brian was a rich kid. He certainly never gave off that silver spoon
vibe, and he certainly didn’t talk about it in school.

Still, he was someone she never wanted to get to know in
school. And as irony would have it, she knows plenty about him now.

She hopes she remembers everything.

No one she knows is at the hotel lobby to greet them. Not
her sister, not her mother. That’s a good thing, she consoles herself. At least
she wouldn’t be bombarded with awkward questions right off the bat.

Lori had been majorly curious over the phone when she asked
to include three more guests.

“Oh my God,” she had gushed. “He got back from Tokyo in
time?”

“Tokyo?”

“Yes. You said he was jetting to Tokyo for the weekend.”

“Ah yes,” Sam replies hastily, “Tokyo was a washout. All
that rain and cherry blossoms scattering around. And so he cancelled.”

“How come you never told me about him, Sam? How come you’ve
never mentioned him to Mom?” Lori’s tone turns a tad suspicious.

“Oh well, you know, we hardly see each other and
everything.” Sam manages a casual laugh. “Anyway, you never know when these
things might end, so – ”

“I get it. You don’t want to jinx it.” Lori pauses
sympathetically. “It must be so awful to be you, Sam. I mean, you’re my older
sister and everything, but you have the damndest luck when it comes to
boyfriends. So I perfectly understand why you might feel embarrassed about
introducing one of them to us … just in case, you know, he doesn’t last out
the week.”

Damn right if he doesn’t, Sam thinks. But still, Lori
doesn’t have to be such a bitch about it.

The reception is one of those quiet little areas you find
in boutique hotels – with teak paneling and cozy armchairs and mirrored
marble floors and oil paintings of the hotel’s mustachioed founders, who just
all happen to be women.

“Wow,” Cassie says to Sam, “I take it Mr. Lance Buchner is
paying for all this.”

“More like Papa and Mama Lance Buchner. I hear they are
filthy rich. Believe it or not, I’m her sister and I’ve never even met Lance.”

Cassie raises her eyebrows. “Wow. You two sisters are
tight. You must have been inseparable in grade school.”

“Only when Mom strapped the two of us together onto the
child seats.”

The four of them go up to the reception desk. The
receptionist is a young, attractive bottle blonde who immediately makes a
beeline for Brian. Sam grimaces.

“And you are?” The receptionist flashes Brian her most
winning smile.

He smiles winningly back.

Sam replies, “Samantha Fox and Brian Morton. Caleb Carr and
Cassandra Harris. We should have reservations made for all four of us.”

The receptionist checks the screen on her desk. “Well yes,
we do. A double room for Samantha Fox and Brian Morton. And two single rooms
each for Caleb Carr and Cassandra Harris.”

It was at the back of Sam’s mind throughout the entire
journey, but it hasn’t struck her fully until now. Of course. She would have to
share a room … and a bed … with Brian. Lori assumes they are a regular
couple and she would have arranged nothing less.

Sharing a bed with Brian Morton.

Ugh!

Brian senses her misgivings. He leans over to the receptionist.
“And would that be a double bed in the double room?” he asks in a silky voice.

The receptionist appears charmed. Typical, Sam fumes.

“Of course. Your rooms are equipped with a king-sized bed,
Wi-fi, refrigerator and a shower stall as well as a long bath.”

“Interesting.” Brian flickers a sidelong glance at Sam.
“Because you know, she’s the sister of the bride-to-be, and I’m her new
boyfriend. Being newly devoted to each other in a most loving and committed
relationship, we expect to be making love to each other … all night. I hope
your rooms are soundproofed.”

Heat climbs into Sam’s cheeks. Even the receptionist
flushes slightly.

“Of course, Mr. Morton. You are free to, uh, be as
uninhibited as you wish.”

Sam feels like crawling into her suitcase and locking
herself up in there.

Cassie grins and nudges her.

“No worries,” she whispers, “slavery has its perks,
remember?”

*

Sam doesn’t feel remotely like a mistress to her purported
slave when they take the elevator up to their room. Her double room is on the
third floor, east wing, while Cassie’s and Caleb’s are on the second.

She’s now alone with Brian Morton. Her betraying cheeks are
still flushed.

Brian inserts the key into the lock. It’s one of those
old-fashioned brass keys which she would find quaint if the situation were any
different.

Gawd! How did she ever think she could pull this off? She
– who can’t even lie effectively to Mr. Hughes when she was caught
smoking a joint in twelfth grade.

Brian says, “Would you like me to carry you over the
threshold and throw you onto the bed?”

Why is everything he says tinged with a layer of obvious
sarcasm?

“No thanks. But you can carry my bags, lover boy.”

OK, that didn’t come out right. If Cassie had said that, it
would have been polished and quippy and zesty, kind of like lemon punch. Out of
Sam’s mouth, it just seems rehearsed and trite, as if she’s a not particularly
good stage actress who hasn’t mastered her lines.

“After you then, darling,” Brian says with a grin.

She squeezes past him to enter the room. His body heat
radiates from underneath the designer leather jacket he wears. Why does he have
to stand so close to her and why does he have to be so damned smug?

The room possesses a king-sized bed with white sheets and
four fluffy white pillows. The thread count here apparently goes into the
thousands. There are two black-and-white striped armchairs and a glass table,
but no couch. The ceiling-to-floor windows proffer a view of the gardens. The
whole ensemble is very rustic, very nineteenth century.

Brian throws the suitcases on the floor. He wrenches off
his leather jacket.

“I stink. I’m going to take a shower.”

She has yet to talk to him about their sleeping
arrangements. Naturally, he would be taking the floor.

He throws the jacket onto the bed and starts unbuttoning
his black shirt, which is so well-cut as to emphasize his torso. She can’t help
staring. He has a very nice body. Scratch that. He has an amazing body, with a
smooth sculptured chest, broad shoulders and flat abs. She can see and count
every muscle. Even the snaking veins on his arms.

It doesn’t occur to her that he will stop there until he
unzips his jeans.

“What are you doing?” she says, taken aback.

“What does it look like? I’m taking a shower.” He doesn’t
wear anything under his jeans. A tuft of black pubic hair springs out. He is
brimming with raw sexuality – a well-toned predator on the Serengeti,
sleekly muscled and boiling with energy.

Oh my God.

Her face inflamed, she turns to face the window. His cock.
She doesn’t want to see his cock.

Who is she kidding? It will be magnificent.

He’s doing this to infuriate her. She can see (or try not
to see) right through him. He doesn’t think he will tantalize her in any sexual
manner, but he senses that deep down she’s a prude, and he’s making sure he
pushes all her alarm buttons in every way possible.

“You can damned well take your clothes off in the
bathroom,” she hisses.

“But we are lovers,” he says in a singsong voice. He places
a caustic emphasis on the word. “Lovers are supposed to see each other naked
all the time. I have nothing to hide.”

She’s aware of that double entrende. She still has her back
turned on him.

“Believe me, I’ve seen nothing on you that remotely
interests me,” she says in a tone that is meant to sting.

“That makes two of us, sweetheart.”

She hears him sauntering off to the bathroom and she
half-turns to steal a look. His incredible bare buttocks roll as he disappears.
A moment later, and the sound of a shower hits the tiles. He hasn’t even
bothered to shut the bathroom door.

If she’s supposed to be the mistress and he her willing
slave, he certainly has got the tables turned.

How is she ever going to get through sleeping in the same
bedroom with him tonight?