Undisclosed Desire: An Alpha Billionaire Romance: + bonus novel (8 page)

Whatever his story is, I know I want to hear it. I also know that I have to be careful with him. He caught me off guard like no one has before. It scares and intrigues me.

"Chicken," I say.

Yuka smirks at me as I get up from the table to fetch my phone.

Nicky

"Yes?"

I hold my breath.

Yes
? Who says hello like that on the phone? Especially when it's an anonymous number? It could be him, but I am not entirely sure.

I am sitting at the kitchen table, observed by Yuka's overly curious eyes and ears while she holds her hand above her mouth to quiet herself. My hand tightens around the phone as if I was trying to crush it, pressing it against my ear with excessive force.

He's still there. I can hear him breathing.

Say more
, my mind begs. I need to be sure.

A few more moments of awkward silence follow, before he finally adds something.

"Nicky? Is that you?"

Fuck
!

I hastily remove the phone from my ear and try to end the call by uncontrollably pushing on the touch screen. These damn touch screens! Nervousness takes over and turns me into a trembling mess as I try to hit the red symbol that would let me escape into the save haven of anonymity. Instead, the phone slips out of my hand and drops down to the floor – with the call still running.

Yuka yelps and giggles in surprise while I dive after my phone, unable to prevent a bunch of panicky curses to escape my mouth. I finally get a hold of it and manage to end the call.

"Fuck!" I yell, now sitting on the floor at Yuka's feet.

Of course, she is having a great time with this. She bursts out laughing, almost falling off her chair as she tries to help me get back up on my feet.

"Oh my god, Nicky!" she cries. "That was awesome!"

I actually broke a sweat. My cheeks are flushed and my heart is racing like a mad animal.

"Damn," I continue my barrage of cursing.

How old am I again? I am acting like a stupid teenager. And I haven't even behaved like that when I still was in high school.

"So, I assume that really was him?" Yuka asks, still laughing at my unfortunate behavior.

I nod. My hands are trembling like an aspen leaf.

"Yes," I utter. "It was him..."

Yuka's eyes are glowing with excitement. "What did he say?"

I look at her, still trying to gather myself.

"Yes," I reply. "He said 'Yes'. And then he said my name."

"Oh, damn, Nicky!" Yuka exclaims, unable to contain her excitement. "So he knew it was you?"

"Maybe," I stammer. "Well, I'm pretty sure he knew after that little stunt... and after you started giggling."

"Hey," Yuka objects. "Don't blame me, girl. You were the one who went for the chicken option!"

I know she's right. I sink bank into my chair and let out a desperate sigh.

"Well, this went great," I mumble.

"I think it did," Yuka adds, still smiling from ear to ear. "You
have
to properly talk to him now. Obviously."

I look at her, raising my eyebrows with doubt. "I guess so..."

We both flinch when my phone lets out an unexpected beep to inform me of a new message.

Yuka looks at me, alarmed.

"Nah, can't be him," I assure her. "I hid my number."

"You sure?" she asks.

I nod as I casually look down at my screen. It is only a short message: "Smooth, cool girl."

My eyes widen. I recognize the number – because I just dialed it.

"Oh my God, is it him?" Yuka investigates as she notices the look on my face.

I nod in silence.

How is this possible? I made sure to hide my number several times. Was I really that clumsy? Or does he have some kind of spy device that makes anonymous numbers obsolete?

"What does it say?" Yuka presses.

I glance at her. "He is making fun of me. Just like you."

She claps her hands and laughs. "Haha, with good reason!"

"Whatever...", I mumble.

Another message pops up.

"If you want to see me again, you just need to say it."

I gulp. My heart is racing again.

"So?" Yuka is sitting at the edge of her chair, beaming over to me. "Will you be getting another billionaire treatment or what?"

"Oh, Yuka, please –"

"Hey!" she interrupts, raising her hands in defense. "Come on, there's nothing going on in my love life – let me at least get excited about yours! Especially when it's the elusive Evan Beckhart who is courting you."

"Love life – don't call it that," I object. "It's not like we're dating or anything. I'm not even sure I would want that. I mean, this could get really complicated with who he is..."

"Yeah, yeah," Yuka says, stopping me with a wave of her hand. "I like that you're being so cautious. It's probably for the best with that guy. But would you please meet him for coffee or something? And don't let him forbid you to ask questions again!"

"Yes, ma'am," I reply.

***

The message I send him has a picture of the article attached to it. And I keep it short and distant: "We need to talk. Coffee?"

This feels like the perfect move that he would expect from me. Or so I hope.

I can see that he reads my message shortly after I sent it, but he does take his sweet time in replying.

I don't have to work this entire weekend and have very few things to distract me, so I actually spend the majority of my time glancing at my silent phone in hopes of hearing from him. How pathetic.

At least Yuka is busy. She never spends much time at home and this weekend is no exception. With two jobs, a big circle of friends, her band and her current attempts at making it as a freelance designer, her life is about ten times as busy as mine. It's no surprise that she hardly finds the time for men.

I feel lame and one-dimensional compared to her. While she is bubbling over with ideas and passion for so many things, I tend to be fully content with wasting my free time in front of my computer, or napping, or grabbing a low priced beer at a grungy club with loud – and good – music. As much as I like alternative music, I really don't have a sense of rhythm or any talent for playing an instrument myself, even though I truly wish I did.

Yuka is a drummer in her band and saved up for a long time to be able to afford her own little drum set. It is rather small sized but still takes up almost half of her room.

She is out for band practice shortly after our chat. After that, she has another shift to cover at the bar, just like last night.

And I am just sitting here, alone in my room, with nothing else to do but to wait for a message from him.

I feel worse about myself with every minute that passes, so I decide to pursue the one activity that Yuka cannot call her own: Running. I run a lot, not only because I like to stay in shape, but also because it is the best way to clear my head and be just by myself for a few minutes. My phone always stays in my room, and sometimes I even decide to run without music and just take in my surroundings.

Not today, though. I need to move and get out, but I don't want to be completely alone with my thoughts. I don't want to think about him too much, and my music could help with that.

It has been more than five hours since he has read my message by the time I leave the house for my run.

Six hours by the time I get back.

Seven hours by the time I have showered and prepared myself a simple dinner.

Almost eight hours, when I finally hear the relieving beep.

I am standing at the kitchen sink, right in the middle of washing the dishes when I hear it. My phone is placed on the table behind me, next to the magazine. The little light that announces there are new message is blinking.

I take a deep breath and quickly dry my hands before I turn around to fetch it.

It's him. Finally.

"Do you want to see me again?" he asks.

I frown at the screen. Has my last message not been quite clear about that?

I ponder whether I should make him wait just as long as he did with me, but decide that I have displayed enough childish actions for this weekend.

So I start typing.

"Yes. That would make talking to each other easier, don't you think?"

I hesitate for a moment before I hit send. If you ask me, it is his obligation to provide now, no need for me to be all sweet and begging.

I put the phone aside and turn around, ready to continue my dish washing duties, when the phone beeps again.

My hands are shaky when I pick it up this time.

"Do you think that's the way to talk to me?"

Damn. Okay, he does not take my sassy side well today.

Another message pops up.

"If you want to see me again, I need you to say it. And address me the proper way when you do."

Address him the proper way?

My cheeks blush when I realize what he is talking about. The dominant type, huh. I didn't know this sort of power play would be extended beyond the bed room.

An excited little tingling inside me tells me that I like it. A lot.

I quickly look around as if to check if there was anybody who could watch me. Ridiculous, of course. I am all alone. Yuka's curious eyes are far away and not concerned with me at the moment.

And I would never have to tell her about this. I never will, I am sure.

I am nervously biting my lower lip as I type my reply.

"I would really like to see you again, Sir."

Send.

It is baffling to me, how exciting this is. So different from the way I usually act toward other people – and especially men. And so incredibly satisfying.

This man makes me want to please him, serve him. And only because it gives me pleasure.

This realization is only underpinned by the gigantic leap my heart takes when I read his instant reply.

"Good girl."

Evan

That girl is in dire need of a good spanking. While I’m flattered to see how nervous I appear to make her, I’m also annoyed at her childish behavior. Calling me, not saying anything and then dropping the phone to the floor while laughing like an idiot? I’m not impressed.

Although, I’m quite sure that the laughter I heard in the background wasn’t hers. The fact that she wasn’t by herself when she called me doesn’t make things any better, though. I don’t like to feel like I’m being made fun of, and this incident provoked exactly that kind of feeling.

I was just about to leave home when she called. After finishing a leisurely breakfast on top of the hotel, I called my driver to bring me home, so I could change before I head for the office again. It’s the weekend, but work never really stops for me. Besides, I have nothing else to do, nothing else that I’m passionate about enough to devote my weekend to it.

I don’t have time for silly games and decide to leave Nicky a message instead of calling her back. Who knows if she’d even be able to speak properly?

I put the phone into my suit pants and leave the high rise building that has become my home and get into the black limousine that’s waiting for me outside.

“The office, Sir?” my driver asks, casting me a quick look over the shoulder.

I nod. I hardly have him take me anywhere else. Office, the occasional hotel, the penthouse, other people’s homes – and that club a few days ago. That was an exciting change, not only for me, I assume.

My penthouse still feels a bit alien to me. I just moved here a short while ago and have only recently begun to decorate the place. Of course, I hired someone for that. Home décor is not part of my many interests and I prefer to leave these decisions to a professional. A woman.

There has never been another woman at that place except for my interior decorator and I intend to keep it like that for a while. Privacy has become a rare good in my life these days.

A short jingle coming from my phone announces that I received a text message. I produce my phone and feel my heart sink when I see the message. When I see that it is from Nicky and has a picture attached to it, I’m excited for a second, before I see the content of it. It’s one of those dreadful articles that I couldn’t prevent from being published. The kind of article that would only tell and show her the most ridiculous things about me.

“We need to talk.”

I sigh. Yes, we do. But not now.

I put the phone away, determined to give myself a while before I get into that conversation. I knew it was only a matter of time until she would find out. Who knows, maybe the girl who was giggling next to her was the one who told her. It was surprising enough that Nicky had no idea, I had to expect that she knows someone who does.

I lean back into the soft leather seat and close my eyes. Regret. I hate that feeling, but it keeps coming back to me every time I’m faced with the consequences of that failed relationship.

Sheila. I’m not even mad at her, not anymore. I loved that woman, but she destroyed more than she knows. The scars and repercussions she left me with are so deeply rooted within me that it’s impossible to let go off her properly. She casts her shadow over everything, and my encounter with Nicky was no exception.

As if things weren’t already troubling enough, my phone rings to announce the last person I want to talk to right now.

Roy. My publicist. I hate the fact that I had to hire him in the first place, because I don’t enjoy the dances people like him arrange and work with.

“Yes,” I say as I pick up the call.

“Evan,” he says. “Glad to get a hold of you. How are things going?”

I hate small talk. I know why he’s calling me and I hate that he’s not getting straight to the point.

“I’m not doing an interview for those people,” I say, repeating something I’ve said before. “Nothing has changed.”

I hear him sigh at the other end. “Yes, yes. I know. I’m not calling to press you about that again. I got your point.”

I arch my eyebrows in surprise. “What’s this about then?”

“The event,” he says. “The charity event. You promised me you’d go to that, and I just wanted to remind you.”

“I promised?” I ask. “That doesn’t sound like me.”

“Evan,” he pleads. “Please. This is not about some girly magazine and satisfying a bunch of horny single ladies. This is business. You’re involved in that charity, you need to show your face, your empire needs to be present.”

“I understand that,” I say. “But if even one person comes up to me asking for an interview I’ll—"

“That won’t happen,” he promises. “Pictures, yes. You can’t avoid that. And I have no power over what happens with those pictures. But no interviews, I made myself very clear in that regard.”

“Good,” I say.

“So, we’re good? You’re coming?”

“Yes, for God’s sake.”

“It starts at eight and—"

“I know the details,” I interrupt him. “Don’t treat me like a child.”

“Well, don’t act like a child. That’ll make things easier for the both of us.”

“Goodbye, Roy.”

I hang up before hearing his reply. These things are so bothersome, but I know that Roy has a point when he says I should show my face. It’s easier said than done, but it’s necessary.

I glance at my phone again, wondering whether I should send Nicky a reply, but decide against it. After her little teenage stunt, she can wait for a few hours.

Besides, I have work to do. Weekend or not, there are things that need to be dealt with and they’ll keep me busy until the evening. I’ll have a better grasp of my upcoming schedule by then, too, because contrary to what I just told Roy, I’m not a hundred percent sure of that event’s details and other appointments I might be forgetting about.

I’ve never been good in keeping up with these things, especially when my mind gets derailed by a mesmerizing distraction by the name of Nicky.