The Billionaire’s Treat
The Secret Billionaire’s Club
Tracey Pedersen
Daring Online Adventures
The Billionaire’s Treat
Copyright © 2019 Tracey Pedersen
All Rights Reserved
ISBN 978-0-6483422-8-1
* * *
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical or electronic, including photocopying, scanning or recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the author. This includes transmission by email.
Reviewers are permitted to quote brief passages for the purpose of reviewing only.
The Billionaire’s Treat is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is purely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized by, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
The entire Secret Billionaire’s Club series is dedicated to my fellow authors. Who knew such a fun, supportive community existed in an industry many consider to be ultra-competitive? For all the romance authors who gave guidance, shared their publishing secrets, let me into their Facebook groups, and laughed at my crappy jokes, these books are for you. To remind you that we really can go further together.
Contents
Chapter One - Danny
Chapter Two - Tina
Chapter Three - Danny
Chapter Four - Danny
Chapter Five - Danny
Chapter Six - Tina/Danny
Chapter Seven - Danny
Chapter Eight - Danny/Tina
Chapter Nine - Tina
Chapter Ten - Tina
Chapter Eleven - Danny/Tina
Chapter Twelve - Danny
Chapter Thirteen - Danny/Tina
Chapter Fourteen - Tina
The Billionaire’s Duty
The Steamy Sensations Books
Also by Tracey Pedersen
About the Author
Before you go…
Chapter One - Danny
A cat stares at me from a second floor window of the house next door. It sits upright in that way cats have—ears pointed, tail curled around its legs. I swear it’s glaring at me.
I hate cats.
I examine this house at least once a day, imagining how the two blocks, which sit side by side, will someday become one and I’ll build a walkway, or something equally tacky between the two. This is the first time I’ve spotted a cat sitting in the window that I intend to build my walkway through. In fact, today is the first day in months that the curtain has been opened.
I hit the call button on my phone and a wary voice answers. “Hi, Danny. What can I do for you?”
“There’s a cat next door.”
“A cat?”
“A big, fat, ginger cat. In the window.”
“Umm.”
“Why is there a cat?”
Sylvia, my assistant, slash manager, slash realtor, slash babysitter, hesitates. I stare at the orange beast next door and it observes me without blinking as I wait for her answer. “I’ll need to check and come back to you.”
“If you could. I haven’t seen it there before.”
“I’ll call you back.”
I don’t miss the sigh before Sylvia disconnects. No doubt she’s relieved I only have a cat query today. She knows that I could just as easily have asked her to organise me a new yellow Monaro to drive on the weekend. Maybe a picnic for fifty of my closest friends. Or even a private audience with my father.
Or that private jet the guys and I have been talking about buying for a year.
Yeah. That jet is a sweet idea. Maybe we can make it a prize next year in a new kind of game. Once this year’s amusement is finished, of course.
I turn toward the staircase and my eyes flick to the ornate mirror leaning against the wall. It has a thick gold frame and is almost as tall as me. An auction house delivered it yesterday, and I’ve yet to decide where to hang it. My eyes track along the wall, looking for a suitable space. The wall is filled with art, a scribble painting that one of my step-siblings did for me last year, and a shiny silver mirror I rescued from an estate sale last month. The silver doesn’t really go with my decor, but it was my duty to rescue that item. A woman with a giant birds-nest hairdo bid against me, and I just know she was going to hang it in her tiny dog’s bedroom.
I snort to myself remembering the yappy dog that disrupted the sale. If I thought I wanted a pet, that event convinced me I didn’t. I like my quiet life, even if it is kind of lonely.
I take the stairs to the kitchen where Luciana, my favourite Italian mama, waits with my breakfast. She scowls when I sit at the counter—that’s her regular morning face, since I take so long to come downstairs every day.
Today it’s not my fault. That cat was staring right at me, piercing me with his green eyes. A cat that should not be there. A cat that ruined today’s daydream about joining the houses. “What delights are you spoiling me with this morning?”
Her scowl disappears. If there’s one way around Lucy’s disapproval, it’s to flatter her cooking. I do it every morning and it never gets old to watch her toothy smile appear, and her chest puff out as she presents whatever she’s created for me. “Today you have oats, made with coconut water as you requested. There’s banana and fresh berries, and if you’re still hungry I can make you a waffle.”
I try a mouthful then load up my spoon, again. “This is plenty. Are you trying to fatten me up with waffles every day?”
Lucy smiles as she starts on the dishes. “Of course not. I like to see you eat good food, that’s all. It seems a shame you always eat on your own, though.”
“Eating alone isn’t so bad. Plus, you’re here.”
She raises an eyebrow and changes the subject. “You have a package.” Lucy’s stilted accent is cute as she gives me her best disapproving look. “You must not have any more room.”
The scowl takes up residence again as soon as I slide off the stool, my mouth full of oats and fruit, a grin stretching from ear to ear. I love it when packages arrive. “Don’t worry, Lucy. I’ll find somewhere to squeeze it in. What was in the parcel?”
“I don’t know. It was too big and heavy, so I left it at the front door.”
“It must be my new chair. Didn’t they offer to bring it in?” I head for the door, not listening for an answer as she starts up a protest about soggy oats.
I’ve been looking forward to this delivery, even if I have zero use for the chair. Who am I kidding? I have no use for most of the stuff I buy, but it gives me something to do all day. I don’t have my own business. My closest friends all work, and with an inheritance the size of mine I haven’t found anything to capture my attention long enough to bother turning it into a venture.
Mostly I support other ventures by buying their stuff. Why else would I have a chest freezer full of Kangaroo meat I bought from Wyatt? Or more than a hundred copies of Cole’s first independent movie packed in boxes in the garage? Kent, my most entrepreneurial friend still laughs whenever he tells the story of how he made us all buy his newest women’s eyeliner so he could show great sales figures to potential investors. He never lets me tell the second part of the story: how I sold the boxes back to him for four
times what they cost when he had a stock supply issue a year later.
Turns out I can successfully buy things that increase in value.
I yank the door open and stare at the giant box blocking my doorway. I test to see how heavy it is. All signs point to it being a fairly easy lift, so I brace my feet and dig my hands into the handles cut in the side of the packaging. My phone rings before I can lift, so I answer instead, leaning against the box and looking up the street. Three doors down one of the neighbours reverses their people mover onto the road. I can hear her kids arguing in the back seat as it moves slowly past my house.
“Hey, Everett. What’s up?”
“I need your money.”
“Said every woman who met me, ever. What for? What are we buying? That jet?” I grin at the idea. How great will it be when I finally talk everyone into that purchase?
“Not quite. Jillian’s hospital is having a black-tie fundraiser and you need to buy two tickets.”
“Who am I sitting with? I’m not going if I have to sit with old ladies who want to feel me up.”
I can imagine Everett’s eyes rolling as he replies. “You’ve never been to a gym in your life, Danny. I don’t know why that woman at Merek’s building opening last year kept saying she wanted to see your abs, but I can assure you that won’t happen here. We have a table of ten. You will be two of those. 10K a ticket. You in?”
“Ten grand? That’s some fundraiser. Yeah, I’m in.”
Everett pauses. “Who are you bringing?”
“Probably Felicity.”
“I dunno about that. Isn’t Easter your weekend to have a proper date? I can tell you right now that Felicity does not count. You two are never going to be a thing. Want me to hook you up with one of Jillian’s nurses?”
I sigh and look through my front door, assessing whether I can drag the box and keep talking. “Don’t worry. I’ll have a date. I’m hardly going to lose at my own game, am I?”
“Righto, then. The Fundraiser is Easter Saturday. That’s a week—really short notice to get that date happening—so mark it in your calendar and I’ll send you the bill.”
“Didn’t sell enough tickets, eh?”
“Nah, they added more tables because it sold out. Jill can hardly believe it. I figured we could easily fill a table. Get your suit dry cleaned this time. And wear matching socks.”
“Sure, Mum. Can’t wait,” I say, as the line goes dead. Everett isn’t one for long goodbyes.
I need a date for Easter.
It sounded so simple, but I’ve been on the lookout for someone I like since the week after New Year’s. Here we are in April, and besides Felicity, who really isn’t that into me, I’ve yet to find someone I’m attracted to enough to ask on a date. Sayer and Everett made it look easy, but I’m learning that a lonely heart can’t be satisfied by just anyone.
It turns out I’m searching for ‘the one’. Who knew?
I slip my phone into my pocket and turn my attention back to the box. I dig my hands in again, and I’m about to drag it inside when an orange flash zips past the box and through the open door behind me.
“Hey!” I drop the box and rush inside, calling to Lucy, “Did you see that? I think it’s the cat!”
“A cat? What cat?” She appears from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Oh, I see it. Did you buy a cat, now?” She points and we both stare as the monster rubs itself along the back of my vintage leather lounge, then jumps on to a side table. He sits, stares at me for a few seconds, then licks his paw and rubs it over his face.
“No, I did not buy a cat.”
Who does this cat think he is?
I push the front door wide open so he can easily escape, then I circle around behind him, hoping he’ll get the message and see himself out. Instead, he leaps onto a second lounge just as I reach out to grab him from behind.
“Damn! Get on the other side, Lucy. We have to get him out.” The cat and I glare at each other. I watch his eyes dart left and right as Lucy faces me, the cat now on the coffee table between us.
“You know you can’t catch a cat that doesn’t want to be caught?” she says.
“I don’t need to catch him; I just need him to get out.” I lunge on the last word, my hands clutching at fur, quickly followed by empty air as the orange demon slips between my legs and runs up the stairs. “Jesus, this could go on all day.” I force myself to take a deep breath when I hear the squeak in my voice.
I will not let a cat outsmart me.
“Looks like he wants to move in.” I can hear the amusement in Lucy’s tone, and I press my lips together. “Just leave the door open and he’ll go out once he discovers how boring all the expensive rubbish in your house is.”
I frown at her back as she returns to the kitchen. Expensive rubbish? Every piece in this house has been chosen by me, specifically. There’s no junk here. It’s all top quality.
My eyes return to my new chair, still blocking the doorway, and an idea hits me.
That damn cat came from next door. So, next door can take him right back.
Chapter Two - Tina
Fists beat against my front door and I almost scream as I jump a foot in the air. Even with the radio turned up loud, I get a fright.
Deafening, repeated pummels drown out the music, like the drug squad is on the front steps. There’s no shouting so I try to calm my hammering heart, reminding myself that no one knows where I live. I press my eye against the peephole, being careful not to rattle the door and alert my noisy visitor that I’m inside.
When the stubble-covered, square jaw of my sexy neighbour comes into view my eyes widen and I grab the door knob without meaning to. The sound gives me away and I see him take a step back, expectantly staring at my door. Reluctantly, I engage the chain and pull it open.
“Yes?”
“I’m from next door.” He frowns when I don’t open the door all the way. He glances at the chain and then his eyes focus on the one eye of mine he can see. “Umm.” He hesitates, his eyes widen, then he coughs. “I think your cat is in my house.”
“Mr. Biggles?” I frown and think back to swooping him off the landing a few minutes ago. I nearly passed out when I discovered him perched in the window, the curtain left wide open after I dusted up there last night. My heart pounds again at the remembered oversight. If I forgot one little detail of closing the curtain, what else have I forgotten? At least I had the good sense to wait for my neighbour to stop staring into my home before I grabbed my gorgeous boy. “Hang on.” I close the door and grab the stereo remote. With a click I silence the music before opening the door and peering through the gap again.
“Bee Gees fan, huh?”
“Um, just a music fan really. Mr. Biggles is out?”
“If Mr. Biggles is a big, fat, orange, ball of lightning, then yes, he’s out. Out of your house at least. He’s now in mine.”
“Oh.” I frown and bite my lip, my face turning red as I recall my conversation with the cat. “What are you doing in the window, you naughty boy? We’re meant to be incognito. How can we fly below the radar if you flaunt your pretty face to the hot neighbour?” That’s what I’d said to Mr. Biggles as I’d gripped the handrail and carefully descended to the lower level. Now he’d done a lot more than flaunt his face to the attractive man darkening my doorstep. I shouldn’t have left the back door ajar, but I’m powerless to resist when he pushes his face into my hand and meows in that pitiful tone he’s perfected. At least one of us deserves to be out in the sunshine.
I shake myself and focus on the man waiting patiently at the door. He’s staring at me, but not in an aggressive way. Patience shows clearly on his face as he waits, and any of the anger he arrived with has dissipated.
“Could you come and get him? We tried to catch him, but he ran upstairs.”
A giggle escapes my lips, and I clap my hand over my mouth. It’s been so long since I laughed that I almost don’t recognise the sound. God. He probably thinks there’s something
wrong with me! “I’m sorry. Give me a minute to get dressed and I’ll come over.”
“Okay.” He steps away and, for a second, I don’t want him to go. I never accept visitors but for a crazy moment I want to invite him inside. I could throw the door open and grab his arm, pull him back and offer to make him coffee. Or brunch.
Of course, I don’t do any such thing. I watch as he moves out of sight then I close the door and make sure the chain stays in place. Critical eyes look down at my pyjamas and stare at my bare feet. For the first time in days, I’m going to have to get dressed.
For the first time in a year, I’m almost excited at that thought.
I take the stairs two at a time, ignoring the handrail and heading to my bedroom. I run my hand over the clothes folded neatly in the wardrobe, before pulling out my favourite jeans and a light sweater. I locate some underwear—it’s the first time this week I’ve bothered to wear any—then I turn the heater on in the small, opulent bathroom attached to my bedroom and discard the sleepwear I wear all day, every day.
Working from home has its advantages, and one of the best is wearing whatever I want.
I brush my hair and clean my teeth, a little disgusted to note that I didn’t bother with that step yesterday. My self-imposed isolation often leads to a deep laziness. That’s been a difficult discovery about myself that I’ve yet to overcome.
Why bother with a shower when there’s just the cat for company? Does anyone really care if I have bad breath, when I’m working at home? So, my shirt is a little smelly today. It’s no big deal since I’m the only one who might notice. It’s not like the guy next door has ever once looked up when I’ve peeked around the curtain to watch him in his yard.
The Billionaire’s Treat: The Secret Billionaire’s Club Page 1
