Falling for My Enemy
A Billionaire Bad Boy Romance
Cassandra Dee
Copyright © 2019 by Cassandra Dee
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Contents
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About This Book
Prologue
1. Stone
2. Stone
3. Morgan
4. Morgan
5. Morgan
6. Stone
7. Morgan
8. Morgan
9. Morgan
10. Stone
11. Morgan
12. Morgan
13. Morgan
14. Stone
15. Morgan
Epilogue
A Sneak Peek: Client Number 6
About This Book
16. Jennie
A Sneak Peek: Sold at the Auction
17. Ellie
More By Cassandra Dee
About the Author
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About This Book
Falling for My Enemy: A Billionaire Bad Boy Romance
* * *
Morgan: I was hired to be a stewardess by the big bad billionaire himself, Stone Evans. I thought he’d be another entitled jerk with too much money. But instead, the man is mouthwateringly gorgeous, with sculpted abs, a bronzed chest, and a giant weapon. But the billionaire makes me a naughty offer: my body, in exchange for information. Can I resist?
* * *
Stone: In the world I come from, corporate espionage is the norm. We all have spies planted with our competitors in order to cut dirty deals and gain the upper hand. But Morgan changes everything. Suddenly, the curvy girl makes me think twice. I want to bend her over backwards and make her take it all, hard and fast, but can I when the beautiful girl may be a spy?
* * *
Hey Readers – Morgan and Stone are sheer filth when it comes to games of love and war. Their chemistry heats up the sheets so much that you’ll need a fire extinguisher just to keep from combusting. As always, an HEA and no cheating and no cliffhangers. Enjoy! Xoxo, Cassandra
Prologue
Morgan
“Come on Morgs, it’ll be fun,” my friend Evelyn wheedled from the screen of my phone. I looked at my mom who lay on the floor of the apartment, her prone form stretched on the shabby floor.
“Go, go!” Sandra spoke weakly, gesturing with her free hand. “I’m fine here by myself.”
“No Mom, I can’t,” was my hushed whisper. “I don’t want to leave you here alone.”
But Sandra wouldn’t hear of it. She turned my way again, gesturing weakly.
“Sweetheart, it’s Friday night, and you should go out. Besides, I’m just doing my back exercises on the floor with this instructor on the TV,” she said, pointing to our boxy set where an aged woman moved slowly, stretching her arms high towards the ceiling. “It’s nothing crazy. Go and have a good time.”
I sighed because Sandra is all I have, and I’m all Sandra has. It’s always been my mom and me against the world since the very beginning. My dad has never been in the picture, and we used to live with my grandma in a cramped one bedroom. But fortunately or unfortunately, my mom has a bad back. It causes her excruciating pain, and she gets disability for it. That money keeps us alive, and it’s what got us the rent-controlled apartment we have in Queens. Of course, I live in Manhattan in a shabby shared apartment now, but I still think of this place as home.
As a result, going out isn’t a priority for me, not when my mom takes dozens of medications a day and is unable to get out of bed sometimes. I’d rather make sure she’s as comfortable as possible, rather than partying and living it up like a normal teen girl.
But my mom wasn’t having it.
“Go!” was her entreaty with a half-hearted smile that turned into a wince. “I’ll be fine. You’ll only be gone a few hours. Live a little, sweetheart. I’ll be okay.”
“Besides,” wheedled Evelyn from my phone, “my new boyfriend is going to meet us. Nick Prescott. You’ll like him,” she chortled. “I wish you could meet him too, Mrs. Nelson!” she sang, craning her head and waving to my mom from the screen.
Both Sandra and I laughed then because Evelyn can be ridiculous. My friend’s just like us: Evelyn’s family doesn’t have much and we make do with what we have. But Evelyn’s come up with an idea: she wants to date wealthy seventy-year-olds because after they get married, the old guy will die, and leave her his fortune. It’s morbid in my opinion, but it’s what Evelyn wants, and what my friend wants is what she gets.
“Come on,” my buddy entreated again. “You’ll like Nick, I promise.”
My mom and I laughed again. This Nick person was probably eighty years old and using a walker, but who am I to judge? Besides, getting out could be fun. I hadn’t been social in a month at least, and this could be a much-needed change.
I nodded.
“Okay, okay. Where should I meet you?”
“The Firehouse,” she proclaimed proudly. “Nick’s taking us there.”
I gasped, eyes going wide.
“But that’s real expensive,” was my hesitant reply. “Drinks there are fifteen bucks a pop. You know I can’t afford that.”
Evelyn laughed again. “Seriously Morgan, you think I haven’t thought of that? I can’t afford it either. Nick’s going to take care of it all, we won’t have to spend a cent,” she proclaimed proudly.
Sighing, I agreed. Again, Evelyn has a way of dating guys who are old as Methuselah and rich as Midas. A fifteen dollar drink likely wasn’t going to make a difference to someone with a bulging wallet. Hanging up, I wandered into my room, staring into the tiny closet.
“Wear something pretty!” called my mom from the living room, wheezing as she did a series of slow leg lifts. Stretching and keeping conditioned is supposed to help with her back, so Sandra’s meticulous about getting through her hours of physical therapy each day.
“I will,” was my low mumble. “Don’t worry.”
And slowly, I pulled on my one acceptable outfit. It was a plain purple cocktail dress that hugged my curves, emphasizing my hourglass figure. The fabric was tight, and I sighed as I looked into the mirror. As usual, I was busting out in a semi-embarrassing way.
Stay, I commanded my big Double Ds. Don’t embarrass me. Don’t wiggle and jiggle like marshmallows, was my entreaty.
But my body will always be my body, and I was born a big girl. Some ladies start as thin children, and blossom when they hit puberty. Not me. I’ve always been curvy, and now at eighteen, it’s obvious. I have girls that sway and hips that knock like they’re doing a constant rhumba.
But it’s okay. I don’t get out much, so it’s not like there are any guys pounding down my door asking me on dates. In fact, the opposite. There are no men period. It’s just me and my mom most Friday nights. Thus, Sandra’s entreaties for me to get out of the house to meet people and socialize before I become a potato.
But now, standing in front of the Firehouse, I was intimidated. The club probably wasn’t a crazy place because we live in a quiet little corner of Queens, New York. But partying isn’t my normal thing, and the blaze of flashing lights and line of people out front unsettled me. A man rushed by, making me grab my purse strap in fear. Had I just been robbed? But no,
it’s just how people are in a club environment, rude and pushy as they barrel towards the front of the line.
Suddenly, Evelyn’s voice cut in.
“Hey Morgs,” she sang, prancing up to where I stood behind the velvet rope. “Come on out from behind there. Nick’s a VIP and can get us in.”
Tentatively, my hand reached for the velvet rope, but a bouncer beat me to it. Believe it or not, he wasn’t here to kick me out. He was here to help me skip the line.
“After you, ladies,” the bear-like man growled. “Courtesy of Mr. Prescott.”
My heart pumped. Who was Evelyn’s new boyfriend? Clearly, he knew people, judging from the envious gazes of the club-goers around us.
But even the darkness inside the Firehouse couldn’t conceal the fact that Evelyn’s new guy was seventy if a day. Doddering and bent over, he nursed a whiskey alone at a table.
“Hellooooo!” the man sang, swinging a frail arm around my friend and pressing a kiss to her cheek. Yuck. His lips were cracked, dry, and shriveled with age, whereas my friend was in the full bloom of youth, her cheek as soft as a petal.
“Hi,” I murmured, pasting a smile on my face. “I’m Morgan Nelson, Evelyn’s friend.”
The old man nodded, his blue eyes alight. Well, at least the guy was alive and kicking because there was fire in those depths.
“Nick Prescott,” he chortled with a hint of a British accent. “Nice to meet one of my best girl’s best friends. Get it? Best and best.”
I smiled politely.
“Yes, Evelyn and I have known each other since we were six,” was my reply. “Thank you for getting us into the Firehouse,” I said, nodding into the dark interior. “We would have been waiting outside forever if you hadn’t done something.”
“Oh that!” wheezed the elderly Mr. Prescott. “It’s no big deal. I develop these places so putting a name on the VIP list is nothing.”
At that, Evelyn plunked herself into her new boyfriend’s lap, which wasn’t a good idea if you ask me. The man was frail and small, likely with osteoporosis. My friend had probably just crushed him with her sassy weight. But Evelyn is Evelyn and the woman threw her arms around Mr. Prescott enthusiastically.
“Nick is big in construction,” she purred, pressing her cheek to his wizened one. “He owns so many important and famous buildings in New York. This is just a tiny venture by comparison, isn’t that right, sweetheart?”
The white-haired man nodded feebly.
“That’s right, baby. We decided to build in Queens because you’re here. We want to do more in Queens too, so long as that asshole Stone Evans doesn’t get in the way.”
And for the first time that night, I saw Mr. Prescott shed his frail, wimpy exterior. Sure, the guy was shriveled with tufts of white hair, but suddenly those eyes were filled with competitive fire, the gleam harsh and unrelenting.
“Fucking Stone Evans,” he spat once more, tiny bits of spittle hitting the tabletop. “A total asshole.”
“Oh Nickie-poo!” wailed Evelyn, hugging his wiry form tighter to her bosom. “It’s not that bad. We’ll figure it out together.”
I chose to keep my mouth closed, figuring that one, I knew nothing about construction. Two, I had no idea who this Stone Evans person was that had Evelyn’s new boyfriend on edge. And three, it’s not like Nick and Evelyn cared. The two of them were in their own world, my young, scheming friend and her much-older lover gazing into each other’s eyes, a feedback loop of churning emotion.
That’s pretty much how things stayed for the rest of the night. The music pounded around us, strobe lights painting dancers with flashes of red, green, and blue, and Evelyn in Nick’s lap, their foreheads practically pressed together.
“Yeah, I hate that Stone Evans guy,” Mr. Prescott wheezed unsteadily again. “He’s a heartless bastard.”
“Oh, poor baby,” cooed Evelyn into his ear, her blonde hair brushing his nose. “I love you!”
My stomach churned but I managed a weak smile. Unfortunately, after an hour of two of hearing them coo like doves, I’d had enough.
“Thanks for the lovely night,” I said with a fake smile on my face. “Thank you Mr. Prescott. I appreciate the trouble you went to.”
But did they hear me? No. Evelyn kept cooing in her new boyfriend’s ear, the wizened guy listening and laughing. He was on top of the world with a pretty blonde to do his bidding.
Sighing, I gave up, making my way out of the club. Because this night had been a bust, for sure. There had been loud music blasting in my ears, making my head ring, and now my feet hurt from the high arch of the stiletto heels.
But that’s life, and I smiled ruefully to myself. If only Prince Charming had shown up to drop a kiss on my cheek. If only Prince Charming could be found at places called the Firehouse with cheesy crowds out front and octogenarians inside. Yeah, right. It was unlikely my so-called prince would ever materialize, and in the meantime … there was just shy, sweet Morgan Nelson, with nary a man in sight.
1
Stone
The monitor clicked off from video mode, displaying only the logo of Gravity Holdings. I sighed and slid the remote onto the table. The meeting had gone on much longer than it needed to.
Of course, that call would have been over sooner if Daniel would just learn to shut up. But underlings are like that. They love hearing themselves speak, while I, the boss, lean back and listen.
Talk is overrated.
Listening on the other hand? There aren’t many people good at that.
I watched, amused, as my employees juggled huge stacks of paper and stained coffee mugs while filing out the door.
It was their problem, and not mine. As CEO, I give orders, and then guess what happens? That’s right, other people jump.
Because the meeting was just the beginning. Now that we had a concrete list of to-dos, my employees would be burning the midnight oil figuring out this or that.
Again, it was their problem, and not mine.
The chair dipped as I slung a foot over the desk and leaned back. There were still a couple executives in the room, yapping about this or that.
Daniel, Mr. Unsubtle, jumped up, sending his chair rocketing into the wall. “Five-hundred mill!” he cried.
Another guy yelped his agreement.
“This is the deal of the century, boys!” Willy remarked. His stomach and double-chin jiggled, fists shaking in the air. Then Daniel mock-punched Willy in the shoulder, the two of them air boxing like little children.
Really? Really really? Were we frat boys or billionaire executives?
But unbelievably, the jawing and ribbing kept going, the boys twittering like excited birds over the news. Then again, their joy was understandable. After all, we’d just closed a historic round of funding: three billion for the new pipeline project running from Uzbekistan all the way to the North Sea.
So I punched the comm.
“Helena? We’ll need some bubbly in here.”
The smooth chirp of a woman’s voice piped in through the speaker. “Right away, Mr. Evans.”
As the celebrations continued, a young intern pushed a silver cart into the room. He kept his eyes lowered, setting out multiple flutes and filling each to the brim with sparkling amber liquid.
I raised an eyebrow at the green bottles. The champagne Helena had chosen wasn’t that nice. Probably five hundred bucks a bottle. Me, I like them in the four figure price range, but then again, this was office champagne. No sense in complaining.
As soon as the flutes were filled, Motormouth Daniel trotted across the room, helping himself to a glass. Throwing an arm in the air, the dude made a toast.
“Gentlemen!” he bellowed magnanimously. “Here’s to more money!”
Subtle, real subtle. But I managed to keep my smirk in check and kept silent as Daniel launched into a long speech about the deal, congratulating everyone in the room, and most of all himself.
Again, these guys make millions. They had cash pouring out of their ears, an
d rivers of money so deep you could drown. But there was no humility in sight, not by a long shot.
And I get it, in a way. To them, the world is their oyster. But me? I’m a billionaire, and I still don’t act like one. After all, this is an era of inequality, and it’s important to be sensitive. Flashing your wealth in an obvious manner is crude, crass, and most of all, it’s uncalled for. Once upon a time, I was a poor boy selling knife sets door to door, hoping to make a buck. From that, my empire grew. But I still remember what it was like standing outdoors in the chilly New York night hawking my wares. I’d pray for a sale as doors slammed in my face. My joints and tendons would ache as I trudged through snow on yet another house call.
It was decades ago. But I still remember.
As a result, I don’t believe in being snobby. Because one day you’re on top of the world, and the next, the rug’s pulled out from under you. A boot’s halfway up your ass, and damn, but it hurts.
So yeah. There’s no need to go nuts. No need to trumpet your achievements from the rooftops. In some ways, silence is even more powerful.
But these lackeys aren’t about being discreet. Some of the guys were literally dancing around the room now, doing jigs with their knees up in the air. Champagne splashed this way and that, sloshing all over the floor. No one cared that we were ruining a formerly pristine white rug.
“I’ll be taking it slow on the ranch in Wyoming.” Tom cackled, guzzling from the bottle like a drunk. “We got some new giraffes in.”
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