Entrapped: A Billionaire Romance (The ROGUES Series Book 3)
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Entrapped
The ROGUES Series Book 3
Tracie Delaney
Copyright © 2020 Tracie Delaney
Edited by StudioEnp
Proofreading by Katie Schmahl, Jean Bachen,
and Jacqueline Beard
Cover art by Tiffany @TEBlack Designs
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted, in uniform or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Contents
Title
Introduction
A note to the reader
Books by Tracie Delaney
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
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Enchanted
Tempting Christa
Books by Tracie Delaney
Newsletter Sign Up
Acknowledgments
About Tracie Delaney
If I wrote an autobiography of my life right now, I’d call it “Blackmailed by the Billionaire”.
Ruthless, callous, and self-serving are the nicest words to describe the powerful CEO who wants what’s mine.
He’ll use any method at his disposal to emerge victorious—including coercion.
Okay, fine, I’ll concede defeat, but as his interest pivots I spot the opportunity for payback.
And hell, I’m gonna take it.
A note to the reader
Dear Reader,
Thank you so much for choosing Entrapped when there are so many other books out there you could have picked. I am having such a good time with these ROGUES. Garen, in particular, was brilliant to spend time with, although be warned, he is very much the anti-hero, so if you’re looking for a warm and fluffy man to cuddle up at night with, reading this novel might result in disappointment :-)
Catriona gives as good as she gets, though. Maybe not in an obvious way, but believe me, she makes her point. The two of them together are absolute dynamite.
I hope you enjoy reading Catriona and Garen’s story. I’d love to hear what you think about Entrapped once you’re finished reading, either by leaving a review, or by joining my Facebook reader group Tracie’s Racy Aces. Can’t wait to chat to you over there.
In the meantime, flip the page. Garen and Catriona can’t wait for you to join them.
Happy reading.
Love,
Tracie
Psst… if Facebook isn’t your jam, then you might want to consider joining my newsletter. There’s a free book on offer as a thank you for signing up. Hope to see you there.
Books by Tracie Delaney
The Winning Ace Series
Ace - A Winning Ace Novella
Winning Ace
Losing Game
Grand Slam
Winning Ace Boxset
Mismatch
Break Point - A Winning Ace Novella
Stand-alone
My Gift To You
Draven
The Brook Brothers Series
The Blame Game
Against All Odds
His To Protect
Web of Lies
The Brook Brothers Complete Boxset
Irresistibly Mine Series
Tempting Christa
Avenging Christa
Full Velocity Series
Friction
Gridlock
Inside Track
Full Velocity Boxset (Books 1-3)
ROGUES Series
Entranced
Enraptured
Entrapped
Enchanted
Enthralled
Enticed
1
Catriona
“One, and two, and three.” I rapped my black dance cane on the floor in time to the music, with Ammaline, one of my most talented students, responding to each tap. “And plié. Arms up, bend at the elbows. That’s it. Good girl. Lovely positioning. And jeté. Wonderful.”
Ammaline flashed me a broad grin, my compliments providing exactly the right amount of motivation. She blossomed under praise, although I only gave it when it was earned. Telling the kids they were doing brilliantly when they weren’t wouldn’t do them any favors in the long run. That didn’t mean I was ever cruel, only constructive. The sad fact remained that ninety-five percent of the girls who attended my classes wouldn’t make it as chorus line dancers, let alone prima ballerinas. This was a tough business, and only the very best had a chance at making it.
Ammaline, though, was my star pupil. I had high hopes for her. She’d attended my ballet school for three years now, ever since she and her mother moved to Vancouver from Banff, and during that time, I’d watched her morph from an awkward teenager into a young woman with true promise, if seventeen counted in the ‘young woman’ category.
Last week, she’d received an invitation to attend the Royal Academy of Dance (RAD) in Battersea, London. Within the month, she’d leave these shores and start her new life in England. My pride in this girl knew no bounds, and while I’d miss her terribly, her future lay elsewhere. I’d taken her as far as my knowledge extended. To move to the next level, she needed higher-quality teachers than me.
Ballet had been my whole life. My grandmother had started this school when she emigrated from her native Ireland to Canada many decades earlier, and she’d instilled her love of dance into me. At one time, I’d dreamed of becoming a prima ballerina and dancing for the Royal Ballet. Then a nasty ankle break at the age of sixteen put an end to my hopes and dreams. Since I couldn’t dance professionally, I did the next best thing and followed my grandmother into teaching.
Grams moved into our family home to raise me and my brother after our parents were killed in a car accident thirteen years ago. I was twelve at the time, my brother barely two. I honestly don’t know what we would have done if my grandmother hadn’t stepped in to take care of us. These days her age had started to catch up with her, and she needed extra support in the form of a walker. Despite her disability, she still took a keen interest in the dance school. Every evening, she’d demand I update her with the events of the day, relaying the smallest detail each of the kids’ achievements. She wasn’t shy at sharing her opinion either, especially if she disagreed with me on a point of principle.
“Hi, Miss Landry,” an unwelcome voice behind me called. “Has it been a week already?”
I looked ove
r my shoulder, frowning at the intrusion. Standing in the entranceway to my studio was a man who’d grown familiar to me over the last few weeks, the usual large envelope clutched in his hands, the cream coloring with the recognizable crest stamped along the seal.
I sighed. Here we go again.
Glancing up at the clock on the wall, I realized Ammaline’s lesson was almost over. Finishing a couple of minutes early wouldn’t do her any harm. “Let’s call it a day, Ammaline,” I said. “Very well done. You’re improving by leaps and bounds at every single lesson.”
She beamed with pleasure, reaching for a towel with which she dabbed at her face and neck. “Thank you, Miss Landry. Is it okay if I take a shower before leaving for home?”
I nodded, gesturing to the rear of the studio toward the changing area. “Of course. I’ll be here for a little while longer. Take your time.”
I waited until she disappeared and the sound of running water reached me, then I turned my attention to the man casually loitering just inside the main doorway.
“Back so soon?” I spoke in an icy tone, even though it wasn’t his fault he’d been sent to do someone else’s dirty work. Don’t shoot the messenger. Wasn’t that the phrase? Regardless, he got the cold shoulder. Served him right for working for an asshole of a boss.
“I have another offer for you.” He held the letter in the air like a trophy.
I pointed to a small area off the studio that doubled as my office. “You can put it on the desk in there.”
He made a face. “Sorry, I need a signature. You know how it is.”
I rolled my eyes and let out an irritated huff. Striding across the wooden floor of the ballet studio, I snatched the letter from his outstretched hand and scrawled an illegible signature on his electronic device.
“Thanks,” he said, heading for the door with a grin and a wave. “See you next week, or maybe sooner.”
I waited until he left, then flipped him off. I stared at the crisp, expensive envelope for a good sixty seconds, then entered my office and flopped in the chair behind my desk. The space overflowed with paperwork as it always did at this time of the week. Friday afternoons were for admin, and today was only Tuesday. Until Friday came around, every scrap of paper had to wait its turn. Including this one.
I tossed the latest arrival on top of the pile, then changed my mind and buried it inside the top drawer instead. Out of sight, out of mind.
I slammed it shut. The warped wood caught on the lip of the desk. I ground my teeth as I wrenched it open, then rammed it shut with considerable force. Why wouldn’t the damned man get the message? Maybe the time had come to take his unsolicited offer, roll it into a tube, and shove it up his ass. On the three previous occasions his lackey showed up, I’d sent a polite note declining the offer and reiterating that my dance school wasn’t for sale. It was evident to me now that Mr. Jerkoff Billionaire had no intention of giving up on his quest. The fact that most of my neighbors had already capitulated to his disgustingly bloated offers to purchase their businesses didn’t help my cause, but this studio meant far more to me than bricks and mortar. It had soul, heart, and so many irreplaceable memories.
Dad standing on the sidelines watching, his face shining with pride the first time I managed en pointe without falling over.
Mom clapping so hard, she almost took the skin off her hands when I earned a rare “Not bad, Catriona,” from my grandmother after I’d mastered the challenging fouetté, a pirouette performed with a circular whipping movement and a raised leg to the side.
The comfort I found in the tired wood paneling where I’d carved my name—earning a fierce scolding from my grandmother—following my parents’ untimely death.
My grandmother hugging me so tightly when the realization hit me that the damage to my ankle meant I’d have to give up ballet.
“Bye, Miss Landry.” Ammaline poked her head around the door to my office, her face scrubbed clean of perspiration, her still-wet hair pulled back into a severe bun on top of her head.
“Ammaline,” I scolded with a shake of my head. “It’s cold outside. You really should dry your hair before walking home.”
She shot me a grin and gestured dismissively. “It’s fine, Miss Landry. It’s only ten minutes.”
“Well, don’t dawdle.” I smiled fondly at her. Sometimes I found it hard to believe I was only eight years older than her. I felt about eighty years older.
“I won’t. See you Friday.”
She gave me a final wave, and left.
I waited until the click of the door reached me, then I opened the drawer and removed the thick, cream envelope. I tapped it against my desk, wondering what this latest offer would entail.
With a resigned sigh, I slid my fingernail underneath the seal and opened it. I removed a single sheet of matching cream paper, and a whiff of cologne assaulted my nostrils. I closed my eyes and breathed in the masculine, and undoubtedly expensive, scent. Garen Gauthier, local billionaire businessman and all-round arrogant prick wouldn’t think of gracing his too-handsome face with some cheap cologne. One bottle by his favorite designer probably cost more than my entire year’s taxes on the income from this place.
I scanned the typewritten letter, ignoring the majority of hyperbole, searching for the financial offer I knew was somewhere on the page. When I reached the particular section, my eyes widened. I quickly ran the figures through my head. He’d increased his offer. Significantly. Another thirty percent by my reckoning.
Hmm. I’d bet the increased offer had something to do with the amount of capital he’d already sunk into buying up the businesses on this prime piece of real estate in downtown Vancouver. He intended to replace these independent ventures with yet another hotel in a chain that was growing in size across North America. His narcissistic attitude meant he confidently assumed every single business owner would be only too happy to sell out for the right number of zeroes on the check.
And then he’d met me. Well, not met, exactly. No, I hadn’t had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Gauthier. He sat in his ivory tower while his minions did his bidding, buying up all but two businesses.
Mine, and Jeff’s, the butcher’s shop two doors down.
I wonder if Jeff’s had another offer?
Making a mental note to ask him tomorrow—he didn’t open on Tuesday’s—I gathered my things, including the offending letter, locked up, and set off for home.
Halfway there, though, I changed my mind. Maybe it was time I told Mr. Gauthier directly to his face that he was wasting his breath—and his expensive letter-headed paper.
My business wasn’t for sale, and neither was I.
2
Garen
My phone dinged with a text. I gave it a cursory glance, reading the banner across the screen.
Offer delivered and signed for.
I picked it up and unlocked it, opened the message, then hit call.
“How was it received?” I asked, tapping my pen against the desk.
James, my executive assistant, chuckled. “This time she only said ‘fuck off’ with her eyes. She might be coming around.”
I laughed, even though there was nothing funny about this situation. Huge amounts of cash had already gone into this venture, and I wouldn’t allow one stubborn woman to stand in my way. Maybe the time had come for me to employ more… coercive methods.
“The butcher signed, though. I just got the paperwork through.”
A tight smile lifted my lips. That meant she was the only one still holding out. Should make things easier.
“Good.” I cut the call without any warning. Not that James would care. He’d worked for me for two years and had grown used to my curt manner. At least he didn’t spend half his time crying at his desk like his four predecessors. I tore through executive assistants almost as fast as I tore through women. The former usually resigned. The latter I dumped after three or four dates before they got any silly ideas of something longer term.
I didn’t do relationships.
In my experience, women were too needy, always demanding validation or attention. Don’t get me wrong, I liked female company as much as the next guy, but only as a means to an end. I was a twenty-nine-year-old virile man. I needed sex almost as much as oxygen. That didn’t mean I wanted the baggage that came with the orgasms.
A tentative knock at my office door brought my head up. “Come in,” I barked.
The door opened slowly, and a young girl peered inside. I vaguely recognized her as one of the recent group of interns. Daisy? Poppy? Daffodil? Some stupid name or other.
“Yes,” I snapped when she stood there, frozen to the spot as if by simply entering my office, she’d turned into stone.
“Um, Miss… Miss Calderwood n-needs you to s-sign this, Mr. Gauthier,” she stammered, her face blooming with color as nerves took over.