More Than Love (The Barrington Billionaires Book 5)

by Ruth Cardello

  More Than Love

  The Barrington Billionaires

  Book Five

  Ruth Cardello

  Author Contact

  website: RuthCardello.com

  email: Minouri@aol.com

  Facebook: Author Ruth Cardello

  Twitter: RuthieCardello

  Goodreads

  Bookbub

  New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Ruth Cardello returns with a hilarious addition to Barrington Billionaire series.

  What happens when a normally reserved billionaire tries to be a regular guy and discovers he has a wild side? Grant Barrington is a quiet hero who is about to flex his alpha billionaire muscle.

  Viviana Sutton is living in Boston after being swindled by her ex-boyfriend. She’s done with relationships and isn’t looking for forever. Giving in to one naughty, incredibly hot romp with a financially challenged stranger actually makes her feel better until she takes a pregnancy test.

  To help his family, he’ll need to be the man she makes him feel like he can be.

  For the sake of her baby, she’ll give him a chance to prove what they had was more than sex—and he’s more than just a regular guy.

  Copyright

  Kindle Edition

  An original work of Ruth Cardello, 2017.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, events, business establishments or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my friend, Missy. Never stop reaching for your dreams. You are a very talented lady and I’m so glad you’re in my life.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Author Contact

  Blurb

  Copyright

  Dedication

  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 Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Epilogue

  Bonus: Billionaire Unbound by J.S. Scott

  Copyright Page

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Excerpt from Billionaire Undaunted

  Chapter 1

  Connect with J.S. Scott

  Books by J. S. Scott

  My billionaire world at a glance:

  Chapter One

  ‡

  Grant Barrington’s right hand tightened on the grip of his Beretta. He brought his other hand around for support then spread his feet shoulder-width apart, bent his knees slightly, raised the gun toward his target, and aligned his sight. Only when he was certain of the shot did he slowly squeeze the trigger with precisely enough force to discharge the weapon.

  Perfect shot to a non-kill zone on a paper torso that was moving toward him. He waited before firing again because more than one bullet per second was prohibited. It didn’t matter that he was the only shooter on the exclusive country club gun range or that there was virtually no chance that the range safety officer would correct him. Rules and procedures were important. A clean win was the only one worth celebrating.

  Another perfect non-kill shot followed by a deadly one to the head just as his retired police captain instructor had designed the drill. Grant’s precision brought him little satisfaction. He wasn’t practicing to impress anyone. He was a man who believed in being prepared, and this was nothing more than a step in that process.

  His brothers joked he was as spontaneous as a sunrise. He took that as a compliment. Reliability was a trait he valued. Once he chose a course, he held to it until he achieved his goal. Perseverance succeeded where brute force failed. Unwavering, methodical action was an under-celebrated, unbeatable force. In a modern culture where the goal was instant gratification and flashy results, Grant remained steadfast to the idea that slow and steady won the race.

  He hadn’t always been as self-disciplined. When he was still a child, his family was shattered by a tragedy. His mother had fallen apart and his father had lost his fight. None of them had ever been the same. His oldest brother, Asher, had learned to lash out to protect himself. Kenzi and Lance had withdrawn. Ian had become a master negotiator. Each of them had learned to make a life for themselves outside of the family—coming together for a long time only when guilted into doing so.

  Grant had found his sanctuary in the predictable nature of numbers and the calm of researching the nuances of financial law. He learned early on information was its own power. Where others fumbled and guessed, he was precise and informed. Not only had he used that skill to stabilize his family’s fortune when it had teetered, but he had a reputation for solidifying the prosperity of his clients.

  After successfully completing one more drill, he unloaded, cleared and locked the gun, placed it on the shooting bench in front of him, and removed his earmuffs and earplugs. He replaced all of it in his range bag and handed it off to the safety officer. It would be cleaned and ready the next day when he returned. Now it was time for free weights followed by a jog on the treadmill.

  “Nice shooting,” a man in a charcoal suit with short brown hair said as he walked up. He didn’t look comfortable in his suit although it had been tailored to fit him. He appeared close to Grant’s age but rough around the edges like someone who had lived a harsher life.

  “Thank you,” Grant answered with a slight frown. “Do I know you?”

  “You might. The name is Marc Stone.” He waited for recognition then added, “I work for Dominic Corisi.”

  It was a questionable reference, but Grant held out his hand in greeting. Although Dominic wasn’t someone Grant would count as one of his friends, they navigated the same social circle, and Marc looked familiar. “Nice to meet you. Since it’s unlikely you’re here by coincidence, what can I do for you?”

  Marc shook his hand firmly. “Alethea Niacharos is my fiancée.”

  Grant looked the other man over again. Confident. Physically fit. Carries himself like someone with military training. It’s plausible. Alethea hadn’t mentioned him, but they hadn’t discussed much outside of how to find Clarence Stiles. “Interesting.”

  “She doesn’t know I’m here or that I know the two of you have been in contact. I’d appreciate it if you don’t say anything to her.”

  “I have no reason for further contact with her.” Marc wouldn’t be the first man to accuse Grant of being with someone he shouldn’t have been with, but Grant didn’t sleep with married or engaged women. Every sin
gle encounter he’d had with Alethea, beautiful as she was, had been purely professional. Anything else would have invited chaos.

  “So it’s true that you fired her.”

  “I did. Her investigative skills didn’t match my current needs.”

  “Because she blurs the line when it comes to surveillance laws?”

  In an age of easy to conceal cameras and audio recording devices, Grant always chose his words with care. “You would know that better than I, but either way it’s no longer of consequence.”

  Marc rubbed a hand over his forehead. “I wish that were true. I love Alethea, but I’m not blind to her . . . personality quirks. She doesn’t respond well to being told she can’t do something.”

  Grant arched an eyebrow. “Then explain to her I didn’t refuse her services, I merely invited her to offer them to anyone but me.”

  Marc almost looked as if he might smile, then he ran his hand over the back of his neck. “I would if I thought it would stop her. The problem is, her instincts are always spot on. This case is frustrating her, and that’s not a good sign. Someone went to extreme measures to ensure the truth about your brother’s death would stay buried. Your aunt’s journal reads like an obituary column, and Alethea thinks you’re about to add your name to the list of casualties. I agree. No offence, but you’re not exactly the Barrington for this job.”

  So much for client confidentiality. If Alethea wasn’t Marc’s source of information, then she was getting sloppy. Someone had loose lips. Rising to his full height, Grant narrowed his eyes. If it had done nothing else, the conversation had supported Grant’s instincts to not use Alethea. “Good luck with your fiancée, Mr. Stone.” He moved to step around Marc.

  Marc blocked his path. “Alethea will be in the mix whether you want her to be or not. She can’t help herself. If you’re not working with her, that adds another layer to what is already potentially a dangerous situation. Protecting you while hiding from you might be a dangerous distraction for her. I can’t let you go forward like this. You have a choice: You can work with her or work with me.”

  “This conversation is over,” Grant said, stepping forward and clipping his shoulder forcefully against Marc’s as he passed him.

  A second later, Grant was flat on his back, looking into the barrel of a gun, gasping for air as Marc pressed the heel of his shoe into his chest. Another man would have started swearing and threatening Marc, but Grant quickly regained his calm. Anger clouded a person’s ability to assess a threat.

  If Marc was who he said he was, the only logical goal for knocking Grant off his feet was to scare or confuse him. It was a power move. One of Grant’s early martial arts instructors had welcomed each new student with a similar humbling takedown. Grant appreciated Marc’s form even as he refused to allow the move to work.

  Experience had taught him the best defense for an act of aggression was an equally forceful and unexpected offense. Calculating the necessary leverage and force came naturally. Practiced patience allowed him to give Marc a moment to think he’d won.

  Looking confident, Marc lectured, “The people you’re hunting won’t fight fair. They won’t stand perfectly still while you take aim. You need someone watching your back. Am I hired?”

  “No.” Grant rolled toward Marc, clasped the back of his knee and used his full weight to buckle it. Marc tipped backward, landing on his ass with a thud, as Grant jumped to his feet. After calmly dusting himself off, he held out a hand to assist Marc to his feet.

  Marc tucked his gun into a holster beneath his jacket and took Grant’s hand. “You’d be dead if I’d wanted you to be,” he said once he was on his feet.

  “Maybe.” He’d never been the type to get in a pissing contest. He preferred the quiet win. Grant glanced around for the safety officer. Although the man wouldn’t have the nerve to say something, it didn’t mean he wouldn’t talk about the exchange once they were gone.

  “He’s with my men. If they do their job right, he’ll think they were here to price membership to the firing range,” Marc said.

  “I hope they’re more subtle than you are.” Henchmen at the country club. Perfect. Had Grant wanted the drama, he would have let Asher know where he worked out. His older brother had a reputation for being a hammer even when alternate methods were an option. Like Dominic Corisi, Asher had a good share of enemies. And unscrupulous friends. Alethea Niacharos was a prime example, proving that people with similar ethics tended to gravitate toward each other. “Dominic Corisi earned every enemy he has, and I understand why he might require someone like you on his security team. I, however, do not conduct business the way he does. As far as uncovering the truth about a crime that may have occurred nearly thirty years ago, your fiancée’s instincts are off this time. It’s mostly a paper chase. I won’t require anyone to save my ass.”

  “Then why the gun?” Marc asked.

  “Insurance, but most likely unnecessary. Statistically, dangerous criminals have shorter life spans. Given the length of time that has passed, everyone involved is probably dead or no longer in positions of influence.”

  Marc shook his head slowly. “What if you’re wrong?”

  “I’m not. I’ve already confirmed what Lance and Andrew discovered in Aruba. There is no proof that Clarence Stiles was involved in my brother’s death outside of Andrew’s account of their conversation. My brother has had a difficult year. I wish he had spoken to me before involving our mother. I won’t know how much Stiles was actually involved until I speak to him myself.”

  “If finding him was possible, Alethea would have already.”

  Using a similar tone to what Marc had used earlier, Grant said, “No offense, but hacking into computer systems isn’t the only way to locate someone. It’s a good place to start, but since her method wasn’t productive, it’s time for an off-the-grid connection.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I intend to interview every person who ever worked for Stiles, dated him, stood behind him in a grocery line. Someone knows him and knows where he would go. I’ll find that person and resolve this.”

  “Stiles was afraid enough to burn his house with all of the old records in it. A man doesn’t do that unless there is still a threat.”

  Is there anything this man doesn’t know? “It doesn’t require much of a threat to frighten a coward, but the facts don’t match up. Andrew wasn’t followed. The private investigator Lance paid to snoop around hasn’t encountered resistance. I don’t expect to either.”

  Marc sighed. “Send me. I’ll do better at talking to the locals.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Marc motioned at Grant from head to toe. “You reek of money. People won’t trust you.”

  Now that was simply flat-out wrong. “I’ll have you know that prime ministers, royal families, and even some dictators trust me with their financial secrets. My ethics are above reproach.”

  “Yeah, you’ll have to tone that way down before anyone on the street will open up to you. What’s your favorite beer?”

  “I prefer an aged Scotch.”

  “Sports team?”

  “For investment purposes I used to own a hockey team, but the tax benefit from losses wasn’t worth the aggravation.”

  “Hobbies?”

  “Never had the time for them.”

  “Friends?”

  “Of course, I have friends.” Grant was losing patience with the conversation.

  “Any of them not have a trust fund?”

  Grant opened his mouth to list those who didn’t, but stopped when he realized he couldn’t think of any. He’d been born to money, attended private schools before graduating from Wharton School, and worked in the investment industry since. He lived at work, and his clients were people who wanted to stabilize or grow their portfolio rather than start one from scratch. Now that he thought about it, those people weren’t what some would call friends—they were a network of business associates he spent time with. That realization was disconcerting and didn’t
match the image he had of himself. “I don’t see how this is relevant.”

  “Because you’re out of touch with reality, and that’s a whole other danger. If you’re going to do this, you need to get out of the country club and spend some time with regular people.”

  Regular people. Grant thought about how his brothers, Asher and Lance, had both chosen women from a significantly lower economic stratosphere. And I like them. I’m not an elitist.

  He reviewed Marc’s assessment of him. But apparently I sound like one.

  “Where do I start?” Asking such a question went against how Grant had been raised. Barringtons didn’t need help. They didn’t stumble. They didn’t bleed. Appearances meant more than the truth. Anything less than perfect had risked upsetting their mother.

  That’s a moot point now.

  His mother was justifiably, unapologetically obsessed with what Stiles had told Andrew because it made possible a memory she’d been told she’d only imagined. She remembered holding Kent, alive and well, after his birth. The doctors had told her that was impossible since Kent had died at birth. Their family, having not been in the room for the birth, had believed the doctors.

  Had the doctors lied? It was impossible to ask them since both the nurse and doctor had died within days of Kent’s birth.

  To cover up what? Negligence? Murder?

  His family was scrambling to make sense of the possibility that something horrific, more horrific than a nearly full-term stillbirth, had occurred. If his mother had actually held Kent, then no wonder no amount of counseling had been able to convince her of the opposite. No wonder she’d doubted her own sanity.

  Before Stiles claimed responsibility for Kent’s death, no one had believed her. No one.

  And that had broken her along with their family. In an attempt to protect his wife, their father had demanded an illusion of perfection from his children.

  The truth was their road back—and his mother deserved it, no matter how ugly it was.