by Angela Foxxe
A BILLION
SECRETS
A BILLIONAIRE VAMPIRE ROMANCE
ANGELA FOXXE
Copyright ©2017 by Angela Foxxe
All rights reserved.
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About This Book
He's a billionaire. He is also a vampire. And that is not his only secret...
When Isla Morgan found herself strangely drawn to handsome billionaire Gabriel Ramsey she figured it was because of his handsome good looks. Or his money.
Little did she know it was because Gabriel was a 100 year old vampire and Isla was his latest target.
However, this vampire didn't want Isla for her blood. He wanted her for her body.
In more ways than one...
This is a Paranormal Billionaire Romance aimed at adults. Expect mystery and adventure alongside sensual love scenes. Start reading right away, you will not regret it!
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER ONE
Twenty years ago
Her life, she realized had been truly a battle. A battle to survive, a battle against every cruel person around her, a battle against other money and power hungry relatives, a battle against herself… all this she realized as she lay in a pool of dark, thick blood, the warmth of it spreading slowly beneath her body.
It wasn’t true, what they said when one was about to die. For a whole life to flash in front of you was too much. But it was true that only important things flashed before her eyes as she lay there. It was important that she had survived life up until this very cold night, it was important she had met him. It was important she had loved him, and loved him truly.
If she could only see herself – a bird’s eye view of her body lying there on the ground, surrounded by an inch of snow – she would actually write about it… Maybe angels were on their way for her. In her mind she laughed as she lay unmoving, and her normally sparkling grey eyes were now unseeing. Angels? Well, she would dare to believe in anything supernatural after what had happened to her seven months ago. Angels would be a welcome sight by now.
Anything was better than what she had faced earlier, actually.
She felt her breath leave her slowly, it was a struggle to get any oxygen into her lungs but she was immobilised. Her body hadn’t known that much agony could exist. And she had thought fencing was torture sometimes. It hadn’t measured up to what they had done to her tonight.
If she could shiver she would, but the cold was creeping into her and she could barely remember what it was like to feel warmth anymore, even if it was just a mere ten minutes ago that she had been standing, vivacious and full of blood. It suddenly felt like it was a long time ago, she thought.
She wanted to focus, call out to him to save her, but she couldn’t. Perhaps, this was what she was born for, to die as early as possible. She could feel her existence slowly draining away, and she could no longer feel the blood rushing out of her. Her body was as cold as the night. She had hoped he was far away now, safe from the Hunters.
She tried to move her head again, but she was unsuccessful. Her body felt glued to the ground and even mere breathing sent a rush of pain through her. She didn’t want to give up. This was still a battle and she wanted him to win. Only, her physical condition proved to be her mind’s bane.
The snow began to swirl heavily around her and she didn’t feel it at all. There were shadows and shouting and blood all around her, not her own, but she didn’t see it or hear it. All she could feel was death coming to greet her like they were the oldest of friends. She embraced the warmth it gave to her and took one last breath.
She thought about him. She thought about his smile, the words he whispered into her ear, the assurance that it would end happily for them. Aidan…
Then she no longer exhaled.
*
September 2014
She rolled over in bed, determined to get up after hitting the snooze button on her bedside alarm twice. It sounded off for the third time and she huffed, finally flinging off the maroon hued comforter that had been so devoted to her last night. She wished she could be as devoted to stay in bed.
She couldn’t be late for work, not when it was her first week. She cautiously stepped on the dark wooden floors, missing out on the carpet, much to her vexation. The floor was a bit chilly. Perhaps the heater was busted again, the landlord told her that the heater had a tendency to go bonkers. She stood up and stretched, feeling her muscles still quite sore from all the bending she had to do the previous day.
It was a good kind of pain, she knew it. It meant she worked hard and loved what she was doing. Twenty-two-year-old Isla Morgan was on a year-long internship in London, a product of her motivation and natural prowess in matters of an archaeological nature. She was an extraordinary student, with good grades and a good track record with extracurricular activities. She was good in many things, except, she told herself, she wasn’t good looking and she considered it an honor when people who had known her mother told her she looked like Alicia Morgan.
Isla was of average height and had shoulder-blade length hair that she didn’t bother styling much. She also had the most beautiful grey eyes (some had teased her in grade school that they should have belonged to a cat) and rather thick eyelashes that gave her this sleepy look most of the time, when in fact she was far from sleepy. She had a shy nature, but enjoyed talking to people who shared the same interests as she did, if and when they started talking to her.
It thrilled Isla that she was in a different place this time, a different continent. The sights and sounds were new. The accents were enjoyable and she was glad her father had been British, she could pass off as one when she imitated a few accents – if she didn’t get lost most of the time.
She quickly relearned that ‘loo’ meant the toilet, that ‘bumf’ meant a lot of paperwork, and that cabs in London were all in black, which she thought was pretty classy. She also learned to like tea in the few days she had lived in the city, when she had never been a tea drinker, but her father was. Her current superiors at the museum drank tea at least three times a day and she picked up the habit quickly.
She shared a flat with a co-worker at the museum, an unmarried woman in her late 40s who had a penchant for singing while doing random chores, horrible singing was the best way she could describe it. Isla didn’t mind though, as Amanda Hackney kept to herself and didn’t bother much with her new roomie, the ‘Murican,’ as some of her colleagues joked.Amanda had been obligated to take the double-decker bus with Isla on her first four days, so sh
e would learn to get to the museum on her own, which Isla appreciated greatly. It was the nicest thing anyone had done for her since she had stepped foot onto England. She knew no one. Her father had been an only child and her grandparents were long dead; she had English blood, but no familial ties.
“How is it possible you’ve only been to England once if your parents were British?” Amanda suddenly said, breaking her silence.
Isla looked up from her omelet breakfast. She shrugged. “Well,” she began with a cross between American and English accents, “my dad thought America was pretty okay to raise a family in, so we stayed there. I guess work became sort of a fortune after they passed away.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. They did tell us about that,” Amanda said, sounding a bit indifferent, a contrast to her words.
Isla nodded. The staff at the museum must’ve known about her family history already, although it wasn’t such big news. Her father had been a celebrated archaeologist and historian, and her mother was a brilliant historian in her own right. Her childhood had been largely confined to the United States while her parents took turns traveling abroad for projects and studies.
They never took her with them, until one morning when her father announced they were taking a long overdue vacation – one outside of the United States, the place where her father had been born and where he had met Isla’s mother.
She couldn’t contain her excitement, but that excitement died the day her parents died, the day she also almost died but didn’t. It took all of her willpower, physical and psychological therapy and sleepless nights to live through the anguish of losing both her parents in a single night. She shrugged off the memory, and smiled at Amanda.
“I’ll see you at work?” Isla told her brightly.
Amanda gave a faint smile, if it could have been called a smile. “Yeh,” Amanda replied as she put on her brown loafers and left.
Her roommate left early, Isla noticed. Maybe it was to avoid her, maybe it was to drop by something, or avoid the morning rush. Whatever it was, Isla still had an hour left. She looked out the window and saw people rushing for school and work. Then she looked back at the flat and surveyed it.
She pretty much liked her new apartment. It was no luxury suite, but it suited her fine. The internship didn’t pay much, so room sharing was the best way to save, plus, the museum partially paid for the rent as well. Her bedroom had enough space for a study table, a single closet and a bed. It was home for now.
She took her time eating her two-egg omelet with cheese and tomatoes, plus a glass of milk. There was a small telly at the corner, surprisingly an LED flat screen, and she turned it on to watch a bit of morning news.
There was a car collision somewhere down King’s Cross. There was also some news about a celebrity getting pregnant for what was supposed to be the fifth time. And then there was interesting news about a manor being saved from demolition. This piqued her curiosity. It was a beautiful building, with renovation costs going beyond ten million pounds, some project funded by a young millionaire.
It was admirable; what young man would want to spend his millions on an old and abandoned home? She liked looking at pictures of that three-hundred-year old manor. It had fallen into a severe state of disrepair and she had wanted to see it before it was about to be demolished.
Looks like I have more manors to see, she told herself as she began to wash the dishes; including Amanda’s own. She found herself playing with a pendant her parents had given her as a child, and she had worn it ever since. Her father told her it was an heirloom, further sparking her interest about the antiquities as a child. Realizing she was idling about, she headed to the shower.
Isla dressed modestly, with a crisp white linen shirt, and black slacks and her trusty ballet flats. She would have to change into something with heels later on, which she didn’t like. For someone who was on the shorter side, she disliked heels. Besides, what good would heels do when she was an art conservationist? She was no curator.
She took the #29 bus (with 16 stops, she memorized), and walked the remainder of what was to become her usual morning route for a year. It was a sunny day; a rarity, according to her co-workers and fellow interns at the museum.
“Top of the morning to you, Isla,” an intern greeted her as she stepped in the office.
She gave a quick smile, still a bit wary of her surroundings. She was an introvert who tried to be an extrovert. It worked for a while, and then she would feel fatigue run through her. She couldn’t sustain being too cheerful and talkative for too long. She needed “me” time to recover. Perhaps it was part of growing up with very calm parents, or it was the fact that she didn’t have too many friends as a child (she chose her friends carefully).
Whatever it was, her current arrangement suited her fine. Show up for work, be pleasant enough, engage in just a bit of small talk, and then leave with proper endorsements.
Their office had no cubicles, and it was messy in its own endearing way, surrounded by mounds of paper and random knick-knacks here and there. She took a seat and turned on her laptop. Her co-workers were a friendly bunch, who understood the importance of quiet, especially when she was in the process of working on something rather delicate.
Many marveled that she had that kind of expertise for someone so young and just starting. The university had given her a glowing recommendation, and the British Museum’s interest grew even more when it was mentioned her father was renowned Dr. David Morgan and her mother Dr. Alicia Guevara-Morgan.
She hoped to get that doctorate title one day as well, a legacy to be added to her parents’ legacy. She missed them terribly and to be surrounded by relics and paintings that echoed times gone by made her feel like they were still around, guiding her. It was probably why she felt right at home.
She was working on a report about the latest project she had begun to work on, along with her mentor, Ravi Nayar, a middle-aged professor of antiquities. She considered it an honor to study and work under him, since he had been her father’s contemporary in his university days. Apparently, Ravi felt the same way; pleased that his close friend’s only child had talent and brains for this endeavour.
“Why not the Getty?” Ravi asked her one day. “They have a very competitive program.”
“Dad wanted me to see the museums here. It was why we had that trip years back.”
Ravi remembered this, as David had called him for the news. He hadn’t seen his friend in fifteen years. David had told him he was rather interested in sending Isla for further studies in England as well. It hadn’t materialized with the couple’s untimely deaths, and yet, by fate, here was David’s daughter on a year-long internship and scholarship in the same museum David had interned in many years back.
“Well, do him proud and your mum, too.”
Isla nodded, taking a deep breath as she donned gloves to try to piece together these supposed Neolithic tools that had been unearthed near Peterborough. Nothing like silty mud and clay around the pottery to start her morning right.
*
She took a break from the delicate work at around half past four in the afternoon, stretching around a bit, drinking tea with Ravi and another conservationist, of course, tea with some scones. Then she decided to take a walk around the museum for just a bit. She hadn’t fully explored the building in full, knowing there was history crammed into every corner possible in the most tasteful way.
“Good day, miss,” a security guard greeted her.
She greeted him back and browsed through the current gallery she was in, the Victorian section. She liked the intricacy of the frocks from the Victorian Era and had wanted to work on a few gowns to test her skills on that aspect. She had worked on everyday objects from days gone by and even jewelry, but she hadn’t worked on clothing.
It was something that made her a bit nervous, every time she touched textile. It wasn’t that it was delicate, all antiques were, but there was a special kind of care needed for clothes from a previous era. She would get there
soon. She had all the time in the world, anyway, well 12 months to be exact.
Isla stopped, observing a Victorian mourning dress encased in glass, the black lace and ribbons that wove through the black Paramatta silk skirt, and the replica shoes that went along with it. Black was a symbol of spiritual darkness, she remembered hearing a professor say that, it was an outward display of what the relatives felt. She wore black to her parents’ funeral and hadn’t stopped wearing black ever since – not that she wore it every day. She wore it when she could. Black just looked nice. Even colors were steeped heavily in tradition. Her mother disliked black and had never owned a black dress.
She wondered what her life would have been like if she had lived in the Victorian Era, wondered what it would have been like if her parents had died. She couldn’t picture herself wearing such a heavy gown to mourn for a year or so. She would also be obligated to take photos of them, propped up, as if they were alive. Memento mori. Isla thought having photos of the dead was fine, as long as they stayed dead. She suddenly remembered a poem she had read after the death of her parents.
There's a beautiful face in the silent air
Which follows me ever and near,
With smiling eyes and amber hair,
With voiceless lips, yet with breath of prayer,
That I feel, but cannot hear.
Her mother had amber-colored hair. She suddenly missed her terribly. It wasn’t a rarity, but it was something she kept to herself. She thought of her parents nearly every day and told herself it wasn’t as painful as it was seven years ago. Keep to the good memories.
She took a breath, determined to finish the day. Break time was almost over for her. As soon as she stepped away from the dress, she heard the quiet shuffling of shoes and she ducked, hoping the museum visitor wouldn’t be disturbed. She didn’t want to look, but she could smell his aftershave, making her look his way.
