by Myers, Kelly
Ruthless
Kelly Myers
Copyright © 2021 by Kelly Myers
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Also by Kelly Myers
Daddy Knows Best Series:
My Secret Daddy || Yes Daddy || Forbidden Daddy || Billionaire Daddy
Searching for Love Series:
Frenemies with Benefits || Breaking All The Rules || Fake Heartbreak || Against All Odds
Platinum Security Series:
Dark Kisses || Dark Riches || Dark Sins || Dark Secrets
Standalone’s:
Ruthless
Contents
Also by Kelly Myers
Blurb
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Excerpt: The Guy Next Door
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Blurb
People say I’m ruthless, but they have no idea the depths I’m willing to go to get what I want…
I’m this close to achieving my goal.
The secret one I’ve worked behind the scenes for years to make happen.
Until a feisty dark-haired journalist gets in my way and threatens to expose it all.
There is only one option.
Take her out of the equation and get her under my control.
But she isn’t going down without a fight.
It’s a good thing I thrive on challenge.
And Dina definitely does that.
As I push her to explore dark desires, she forces me to face my own demons.
We just need to make sure the darkness doesn’t consume us both.
People say I’m ruthless, and Dina is about to learn just how ruthless I really can be…
1
Gabriel
Stepping into the famous coffee chain branch just a few steps away from my house, I push my sunglasses over my nose and keep my head low, letting my brown hair—longer at the front—cover most of my forehead.
With my formal shirt and pants, I know that a baseball cap would just look odd and draw more attention, which is why I dub it a counter-productive idea.
“Good morning, Lane,” I nod, greeting the friendly twenty-something-year-old barista who has been working here for a long time now.
“Good morning, P.,” she grins. “The usual?”
“Please,” I keep my head down, pretending to examine the many criminally unhealthy pastry options in the display chiller between us. As I pay her the exact same amount every morning, I no longer need to say. “Keep the change.” She knows.
“P.,” her colleague, the scrawny-looking college student, smiles from a few feet away as he hands me my drink. “Here. Enjoy.”
“Thanks, buddy,” I grab my fix and go, heading straight for the door.
I don’t add sugar, cream or any of that jazz to my coffee. Ever. If I was to maintain the youthful looks of a thirty-year-old professional athlete I have been blessed with, then those gimmicks had to go.
“Oh my,” I hear a demure giggle and try to glance from behind my glasses and just at the corner of my eye without turning around. She was a young woman, possibly eighteen, stifling laughs along with her friend as they brazenly stare at me.
Swiftly walking by, I open the door and leave, their giggles still ringing through my ears.
That’s how women react around me. I can claim that I can’t explain it, but why lie to myself when the truth lies in plain sight? My appearance is reminiscent of those Hollywood actors over whom women often swoon. But that’s about it.
Appearances.
Which leads me to my car—the latest sports number in champagne with dragon-like performance and curves that make men drool. What can I say? If you want to be taken seriously in my world, you have to indulge in the finer things. And for me, that list is topped with a half-a-dozen cars in the garage.
“Good morning, Mr. P.,” my junior assistant leaps up from behind her desk, holding my second cup of coffee in her hand. “Your nine o’clock is twenty minutes away.”
“Good morning, Gloria,” I take the cup from her hand as I walk past. “That’s great, thanks.”
As I walk into my office on the top floor of the Palanick Tower in downtown Boston, I see my senior assistant standing at my desk, organizing some files.
“Good morning, Amanda,” I place down my coffee, making my way around the glass desk and taking my phone out of my pocket.
“Good morning, P.,” she smiles, the fine lines around the corners of her lips a familiar feature that I grew to love. “Got a chance to do your morning workout?”
“Of course,” I scoff. “What blasphemy would it be if I didn’t?”
“I’m sure those darling blue eyes can save the day, just as well,” she giggles, placing the printed documents in front of me.
“Your faith in nature astounds me.”
“Your genetic makeup gave me a whole new creed,” she jokes.
“Too bad it’s not saving the world, so I have to get up at six in the morning to do it.”
She laughs, throwing back her head like she always does. I’ve had Amanda with me since the beginning when my father passed on the company to me. Amanda was only a second secretary back then, but soon I learned that she’s the most loyal. The most reliable. The most infatuated with all of this. And what better way to gain someone’s devotion but to let them in on plans greater than themselves?
“Need anything?” she turns to me with her manicured fingers on the edge of the door.
“Thanks, hon,” I shake my head, opening my laptop. “Gotta go over the slides before Ford gets here.”
“Knock ‘em dead.”
“Always.”
Just as the modern frameless clock on my wall strikes nine, I hear a knock on the door before it parts open.
“Mr. Quentin Ford,” Amanda professionally announces before stepping aside, clearing the path for my new potential ally to greet me with his stiff grin.
“Mr. Palanick,” he extends a hand. “Hope all is well.”
“You tell me,” I shake his hand firmly. “A large portion of my day will depend on what happens in the next thirty minutes.”
“Don’t be like that,” he tilts his head. A sneaky look makes its way from his eyes to mine, igniting a state of alertness in my mind.
“Please, have a seat,” I gesture to the massive black chair across from where I sit. “What you’re about to see now is my own personal pet project,” I slide a file containing just one page over the desk, following it with my black pen. “It does, however, require you to sign this first.”
“An NDA?” he scoffs as his eyes
spring back up to meet mine.
“It’s not like we’ve never done this before, Quentin.”
Clearing his throat, he picks up the pen and jots down his signature at the bottom of the page. “Whatever makes you comfortable.”
“I appreciate it.”
For the few minutes that follow, I go over the broad lines of what I’m currently working on. My hushed endeavor aims to build a pioneering software that promises to demolish online secrecy for the benefit of the greater good.
“Terrorism, human trafficking, the trade of hard drugs and weaponry are thriving on the dark web right under our noses,” I explain. “You and I both know that The Office can use whatever help they can get. That’s where this baby comes in.”
“This will anger a lot of people,” his warning stare meets me from under his bushy eyebrows.
“Let’s see,” I sit back, interlacing my fingers over my stomach as I throw my head back. “Anger versus… plain murder.” I then quickly sit back up, locking eyes with him as I end the slideshow. “I’ll take my chances. Are you in or out?”
Making sure that my eyes convey a complete lack of hesitation, I stare at him as he slowly tilts his head.
Eventually, he lets out a sharp sigh. “I do believe I can pull something off, as you kids say today.”
“Quentin.” I keep my voice monotonous. “You were at my fortieth birthday.”
“You say that to a sixty-year-old man and expect a trophy,” he chuckles, standing up and buttoning his blazer. “Good to be doing business with you again,” he extends his hand again, grim as ever.
“Likewise, my friend,” I shake his hand and escort him to the door, and Amanda takes it from there.
After he leaves, Gloria ushers in my two technical heads. Next to Amanda and Gloria, these men are my ultimate gatekeepers. They’re the top minds in the realm of tech—one of them is the most talented hacker the world has ever seen. And they both work for me.
“So,” Tucker the Hacker, donning black from head to toe, relaxes in his seat and touches the black plastic frame of his glasses. “Are they in?”
“They’re in,” I turn away, sliding my hands into my clack pockets and gazing into the horizon of the Boston skyline. “Hamish?” I turn to the other, who was scrolling through his phone in haste.
“Yes, P?” he impatiently answers without looking up. “Does this mean I get to unleash the kraken?”
“The approval will be in your inbox within the hour.”
“Halle-fuckin’-lujah.” He stands up, gliding the phone into his pocket and turns to Tucker. “Let’s?”
“Oh,” he draws it out, the grey eyes in his red, bearded face gleaming. “Abso-fuckin’-lutely.”
For the next meeting, I have to sit and watch our VP of Marketing recite our corporate presentation for the millionth time for a new client.
“As you must know, Palanick Holding’s primary objective is to build a portfolio of businesses by developing, acquiring, and investing in emerging companies.”
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I have to stimulate myself not to be put to sleep by boredom.
“With offices in Zürich, Hamburg, Gothenburg, Vienna, Paris, Milan and Dubai, we are major players in the automobile, aerospace and data technology industries. We also lead select markets in the fields of real estate and hospitality, Medicare and pharmaceutical research and development. As for our position on Wall Street, this morning’s…”
Saved by the bell, I shoot up from my seat at the head of the long conference table as my phone starts to vibrate. It’s my friend Nicky, but I pretend it’s an important call and excuse myself.
“Hello,” I chuckle as I step out onto the terrace.
“Wow,” she titters. “you answered on a Tuesday morning. To what do I owe this honor?”
“A mind-numbingly dull meeting.”
“You’re the boss. Just leave.”
“I can’t. They brought their CEO. It’s common courtesy.”
“Yet you’re talking to me.”
“What can I say?” I whisper. “The vision of you from the other night still haunts my waking hours.”
“You’re devious.”
“And you’re intoxicating. Free tonight?”
“Already?”
“Why not?”
“I just don’t want you to fall in love with me.”
“Never.”
“What a gentleman.”
“A gentleman is a man who keeps his promises.”
“Fair enough,” she employs a more seductive tone. “Your place or mine?”
“Not this again.”
“I’ll give my staff the night off.”
“You know I can’t be seen at your place or any other woman’s place, for that matter, Nicky.”
“Why do you act like a registered sex offender?”
“That’s an understatement. A registered sex offender isn’t world-famous.”
“Brad Pitt is, and he’s not afraid of being seen with a girlfriend.”
“Is that what you’re calling yourself now?”
“That’s what the press will call me.”
“Precisely,” I hiss, infusing my tone with the sexual tension I knew she craves. “Nine o’clock. My house. Surprise me.”
“I’ll wear something impossible.”
“Challenge accepted.”
Later that night, after the help is done for the day and retire to their quarters at the pool house over two hundred feet away, I crank up the music and press a button on the remote that shuts all the blinds. My house is built like a fort with two floors and a concealed basement. Nothing that happens here can be seen or heard for miles.
At exactly five-to-nine, the doorbell rings and I strut over to open. My eyes land on Nicky, who instantly spread her coat open, revealing a full-body latex suit, skin-tight and with no zipper in sight.
“You’ve outdone yourself,” I smirk, letting her in.
“What can I say?” she winks as she passes me by, tossing the coat aside. “You get my creative juices flowing.”
“Do you like the music?” I make my way over to the bar, picking up the martinis I made before she got here.
“It’s as good as any,” she shrugs, taking the glass from my hand. “How’s work?”
“We’re not here to talk about work,” I down my drink in one go, feeling the heat invade my insides like a trail of fire running down my core. “We’re not here to talk at all.” I pull her in, her glistening red lips beckoning me to ravage them.
“Then let’s stop talking,” she whispers, downing her drink in turn and throwing the glass onto the couch.
“Phone at home?” I lick her jawline.
“As you demanded,” she throws back her head, sighing.
“Perfect,” I whisper, picking her up and kissing her neck and down to her cleavage, reaching the smooth, cool material in the deeply cut décolleté.
A deep moan comes out of her throat, dripping sweet honey into my ears.
“Hush,” I whisper. “No talk, remember?”
She nods, quickly giving in to the motion of my fingers between her thighs. It’s not long before she has to bite her lower lip to stop herself from screaming my name. I don’t like it when women talk during sex, and she knows it.
I am Gabriel Palanick.
Welcome to my life.
2
Dina
“Oh my God. Where do you get off?” Ellen glares at Cusack, who just said he was “a little blasé” about her new header design for the landing page.
“I can’t help it,” he flamboyantly shrugs. “It’s too… corporate.”
“We’re the B-Gazette—”
“Yes, and it’s the business section. I get it,” he rolls his eyes while his fingers fiddle with his stylus, annoyingly flipping it from side to side.
“Guys?” I interfere. “We have the same argument every month. It’s frustrating, and frankly? Getting a little old.”
“More frustrating than not havi
ng your voice heard?” Cusack scoffs, shaking his head in exaggerated dismay.
“I’m the Art Director here,” Ellen raises her voice an octave, her fingernail digging into her chest as she points at herself in a victimizing manner.
“And I’m the voice of reason, of all the people who stumble upon our sad, sad little business section.”
“You know what? That’s it,” I smack my palm against the cool surface of the meeting table. “I’m calling for a vote.”
“Not again!” Cusack drops his shoulders, rolling his eyes to view the rest of our colleagues who are now staring at us the same way they do every time we have this conversation.
“Ready?” I raise my eyebrows, addressing everyone but him. “By a show of hands, who wants Ellen to share a new design?”
Only three of the team members lift up their arms.
“Now, who thinks this banner is good enough?”
Five respond.
“Great,” I press my lips into a thin line and quickly glance at a deflated Cusack. “Now to content.”
My phone starts to vibrate, and I look to see that it’s Michael calling. He knows I’m in a meeting, so I flip the phone over and let it ring.
Derek Peele, one of our top senior journalists, clears his throat. “I got something on Palanick Holding that can’t really wait.”
