The Penthouse Secrets: A NYC Billionaire Romance Trilogy Boxed Set

by Amanda Horton

  “I hope you do well with it.”

  We entered the wide-door elevator together since Jersey seemed unwilling to let go of my waist. But one of my spiked heels caught momentarily in the groove between the elevator door and car, and I pitched forward into Jersey’s arms.

  “I seem to be doing okay,” he said with a disarming smile.

  The elevator doors closed sealing us in our own private chamber.

  His strong arms held me upright, and my primal brain, where thoughts of sleep, food, and sex stirred, found the kinetic strength of his guitar playing muscles intriguing. And since my head jammed into his chest from my graceless stumble, my lungs drew in more of his sexy scent. I turned my head upward to catch his chocolate brown eyes sparkling with intent. He lowered his head ever so slightly as if to kiss me and, damn it, I wanted to taste his lips.

  This was ridiculous. With salacious fantasies about my father’s best friend, and the sexy encounter with Cole Kane, how can I possibly be thinking about kissing Jersey Dys?

  Face it, girl. You’ve suffered one long dry patch.

  If that was what drove me to lift my face to his and let him press his lips to mine, then so be it. His lips descended slowly to my lips, and magnetic electricity filled the small space between us, drawing us closer together. Hungrily he took my mouth, like a man starving, pouring such passion in the melding of our lips that went beyond lust.

  His hands strayed to the small of my back, the place that always tingled when touched and my core clenched in anticipation.

  But the elevator dinged, and the metallic doors inched open threatening to reveal the outer world. Reluctantly I pushed him away.

  “I really should go,” I said as I stepped off the elevator. But this time I watched where my heels went so I didn’t fall over my feet again. Two nurses got on after I exited.

  “Go where?” he said. He held the door open with his hand and looked at me expectantly.

  “I have work.”

  “I understand that? But on the Maternity Ward?”

  In shock, I saw. Indeed, the floor was Maternity, a place I never expected to see.

  “Oh,” I said. Sheepishly, I stepped back onto the elevator.

  “Let’s grab something to eat, and discuss your plans for our social redemption? I’m sure there are a ton of details we haven’t gone over yet.”

  I remembered then that the Nyberg show was tomorrow and I haven’t done a single thing to pull that together.

  “You’re right,” I said. And then I saw something in Jersey Dys’ face I hadn’t expected.

  Hope.

  Shit.

  “Excuse me?” said one of the nurses. “Are you Jersey Dys?”

  He flashed a rock star smile at her. “Yes.”

  “I knew it! I knew it!” she said excitedly. “Oh my God. My daughter is going to flip when I tell her. Look, can I get a picture with you?” She pulled out her camera.

  He shrugged at me apologetically. “Sure. But no posting on social media for a couple of days, okay?”

  “Sure. Sure.”

  Jersey posed with her, and then her and her friend.

  “Can I get one of you and your girlfriend?”

  “I’m not—” I started, but Jersey pulled me into his strong arms and squeezed me hard.

  “Sure,” he said enthusiastically.

  I stood like a deer in the headlights as the woman took the picture. He then whispered in her ear, and her eyes got wide, and she giggled like a teenager.

  “Sure,” she said. She then whispered in his ear, and he grinned broadly.

  “Thank you very much.”

  The doors opened again, and they stepped off, giggling and star struck. Jersey leaned forward and hit the button for another floor. But I noticed it wasn’t for the first floor. No, we stopped on the fourth floor, and he pulled me along as he stepped out.

  “Where are we going?”

  “The nurse said there is a conference room here,” he said craning his neck to check out the sign plaques at the doors.

  “Why?”

  He stopped at one door and pushed it open.

  “To take a critical meeting.”

  Before I could protest, Jersey pulled me in, shut the door, and crushed me against it. He stared into my eyes like a man possessed.

  “I have a confession to make,” he said.

  “What?” My throat grew dry, and I could barely croak out the word.

  “I’ve had a thing for you for a long, long time.”

  “I bet you say that to all the publicists.”

  “No,” he said. “Damn it, Jacine. How long have we known each other? How many pool parties with you dancing around in your bikini can a man take? Can you tell me all that time you never noticed me, never wondered what it would be like to be with me?”

  Of course, I did. What girl wouldn’t? But like anyone we worked with - off limits.

  “You are my client. I’m supposed to keep a professional distance. I can’t look out for your best interests if—”

  “That’s your father talking, Jacine. And I’m damned tired of listening to him.”

  His hips pressed into mine as his mouth descended on mine, hungry and demanding as if to prove a point. His velvet tongue teased my lips encouraging me to take him in, stealing my ability to breathe.

  Jersey’s hand squeezed my breast and then fluidly my nipple between his thumb and forefinger spreading fire through my body.

  This was wrong. Illicit. And so damn good I didn’t want him to stop. My hand strayed to his straining bulge. Damn, he was big, and he moaned as I stroked it through his jeans.

  Without warning, he lifted me and spun me around then set me on the edge of the conference table.

  “What are you doing?”

  He smiled at me. “I’m hungry.”

  With his arms, he threw my legs over my shoulders and then pushed the hem of my dress to my hips.

  “Mmmm,” he said as he eyed my black lace panties.

  His tongue was on me and around me sucking my clit through the panties, and my head fell back. He lashed and nibbled as he growled shooting a vibration through me that snaked up my spine. Then in one swift move, he yanked at the panties, literally tearing them off me with a snap. His head went between my legs again continuing his rampage, as if he was trying to claim me. His tongue found my folds and speared me, lashing back and forth.

  He pulled back as I gasped, wanting and needing more.

  “You taste so damn good,” he said. “I can’t get enough.”

  Jersey dipped his head once more between my thighs, latched his mouth on my clit and lashed it unmercifully. I gasped and moaned while I clutched at his long, dark hair that swung wildly as he played on stage giving up his passion in song. But here he was giving his ardor to me, only me, his singular audience, and at this moment his most ardent fan, and I screamed out his name as relentless pleasure blazed through me like a fireball streaking the night.

  Or I would have if someone didn’t rattle the doorknob trying to get in.

  Damn if this didn't turned out to be the most frustrating day.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Rory

  The pretty make-up artist powdered my nose, gushing over me, as some women do because I play the drums. When I was in my early twenties that stuff turned me on, but now, meh. Too many anonymous women in equally nameless hotel rooms rubbed the shine off casual sex for me. I’m not looking for anything permanent, mind you. But to feel a connection with a woman, someone who desires you for you, instead of your image would be welcome.

  But with my face flashing a big neon sign that says, “Here’s a big star,” that isn’t likely to happen.

  “Five minutes, Mr. Holmes,” said a production assistant carrying an iPad as he walked by the room.

  “I think I’m okay,” I said as the make-up artist raised the large powder brush to my face again.

  “Sure, Mr. Holmes. Good luck on the show tonight.”

  I would need luck becau
se on stage would be my old band mates from Banshee, Cole Kane and Jersey Dys, two people who could not stand each other.

  It was stupid, what happened. Cole and Jersey, in a late night drunken poker playing, went too far. Both of them had money, so that meant nothing in a poker game. So when the Jack Daniels started talking instead of their brains, Jersey demanded some real stakes for the cards laid out on the table.

  Sometimes Jersey doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut.

  Cole suggested that they put the ownership rights for the songs they co-wrote on the table. Jersey agreed. They wrote up their little agreement on a napkin, which Cole idiotically hangs framed in his home office.

  Cole’s cards won the hand.

  And that’s when the fight started.

  It culminated in a nightmarish suit in civil court at which I had to testify. Neither man spoke to me for years after that.

  Banshee was dead before the judge returned his verdict.

  Through no fault of my own, my life disintegrated. My best friends were no longer speaking and my livelihood demolished over a stupid poker game. I did my best to put together the shards of my life, but damn it, when both of your best friends betray you, that digs deep.

  It’s only because Franklin Alexander pulled my shit together that I’m standing here ready to go on stage and lie my fucking mouth off about what happened at Angelo’s. I owe him in more than one way for my life, so I’ll do what Jacine says and put on a happy face, and talk up this concert her miracle team pulled out of their nether regions at The Hollywood Bowl? Eighteen thousand seats of screaming fans? Yeah. With a gross of around four million for one night. But the money wasn’t in the ticket sales. It was in the television rights, and the CD recorded from the performance. Millions more rode on those deals.

  Not that I needed the money. No, this was a way to show promoters that despite our butt head action, we would make filthy lucre for them.

  Hell, even my former business manager called me, leaving several pleading messages that his quitting was a big misunderstanding.

  So far, I hadn’t answered. The jerk should have had more faith in me. Let him sweat.

  Jacine stood in the wings with Jersey and Cole next to her giving each other the evil eye. Tobias Marshall shadowed them all, which surprised me, but I suppose he was here to hand out a few forthright legal words of advice like “don’t fuck this up.”

  I won’t. My bread is buttered firmly on the side of "let's not fuck this up."

  Cole and Jersey, on the other hand, stare at each other as if the other was an interloper in their private territory. I notice that Jacine is between them as if she’s trying to keep them from tearing each other apart. And the lawyer? His eyes are narrowed and his lips drawn into a tight slash. He keeps glancing at Jacine and my ex-confederates as if he wanted to separate all of them, which might be a good idea.

  But the music cues with our signature hit Ever, and Jersey doesn’t even have time to shoot Cole a nasty look, because Cole will get the royalties for that even before the PAs usher us to the entrance. We all plaster huge smiles on our faces and walk out waving to the studio audience, totally lying about our feelings of being on stage together.

  The studio crowd, either naturally enthusiastic or groomed, I don’t know which, stood on their feet and gave us a standing ovation. We sat down on the long sofa that holds guests and Nyberg smiles at us like we are old friends.

  And the lying continued. But we pulled it off. The audience laughed, Bob Nyberg wished us luck, and we walked off the stage like we were best of friends.

  As if.

  Once off the stage though, Cole and Jersey looked at each other cross-eyed and quickly Jacine, and the lawyer moved to intervene.

  And because I had enough of these two’s nonsense, I did too.

  “Come on, guys,” I said. “Let’s not blow this. Jacine here set up a sweet deal for us after the disaster at Angelo’s.”

  Both of them gave me the stink eye, but I don’t care. It was about time these two manned up and started acting like adults.

  “Why don’t you mind your own business, Holmes,” snapped Kane.

  “Cole,” said the lawyer. “He’s right.”

  “And what business is it of yours?” said Cole.

  “If you want to know, it was my connections that got you that date. My reputation, not to mention friendships of long standing are on the line if you screw up.”

  “What?” said Jacine with disbelief betraying this was news to her.

  “I wouldn’t do it for just anybody, Jacy. But I placed a call. Or two.”

  “Tobias, you shouldn’t have.”

  “It was important to you, so I did.”

  Cole looked like someone took away his favorite toy. Jersey bristled, and I didn’t understand why, until I saw Jacine Alexander’s eyes sparkle with affection for the lawyer. And Cole and Jersey obviously had their sights set on her.

  And losing badly to Mr. Lawyer.

  “What the hell!” spouted Cole.

  “Cole, please,” pleaded Jacine.

  “Why are you trying to appease this asshole,” snarled Jersey.

  “Let’s take this outside,” said Tobias.

  “Shut up!” Cole and Jersey said in unison.

  A shocked PA ran up to them. “Guys, we are trying to tape here. You’ll have to leave.” A security guard moved into our line of sight, punctuating the need for us to get out of Dodge.

  Cole scoffed, and Jersey sneered, but they turned toward the exit. Even in this, they made into a competition by nearly pushing each other out of the way.

  Jackasses.

  And then it got worse.

  I followed her and the lawyer out to the parking lot to find Kane and Dys rolling around on the ground.

  It was a perfectly fine spring evening, with the sun shining low in the sky and the temperature a perfectly reasonable seventy-two degrees, but these two were sweating like pigs in their effort to pound each other into the ground.

  “Damn it,” I grunted as I pulled the topmost, which was Dys, off of Kane.

  “What are you, five?”

  The lawyer helped Kane off the ground, but none too gently.

  “Do I have to remind you,” he said derisively, “that a condition of your bail is that you don’t get into any more trouble? Do you want to go to jail?” the lawyer sputtered.

  “Tobias, will you get Mr. Kane home?”

  “Oh, so it’s Mr. Kane now?”

  Her eyes grew dark as a raven’s wings as she put her hands on her hips. Though she wore a thoroughly LA fashion statement of a red duster, white cami top and skinny black jeans, the expression on her face was utterly fearsome. She stood as a Norse Valkyrie, chooser of the slain. Only she appeared to want to slay both Kane and Dys.

  She was magnificent.

  My breath hitched in my throat as I watched her stare down two of the biggest rock stars in the country. Now, that was a woman worth having.

  “What do you mean, ‘now?’” spouted Dys.

  “Enough!” she ordered. She waved her hand at a limo parked by the door, and the driver rolled the window down.

  “Anson, please take Mr. Dys home.”

  “Yes, Ms. Alexander.”

  “But Jacine—” Dys said.

  “Go! I’ll talk to you later. And neither one of you better have a black eye tomorrow because we have more talk shows to do.”

  Dys drew his lips tight together but entered the limo after the driver opened the door.

  “Tobias, please take Mr. Kane home.”

  “I’ll drive myself,” he said.

  “No. Look. Goddamn it, your eye is swelling already. You won’t be able to see out of it to drive. Go home. Put some ice on it.”

  “I’d rather you put something else on it.”

  I could not believe the jerk leered at her.

  “Tobias, please,” she said as she squeezed her eyes shut.

  “Come on, Mr. Kane,” said the lawyer. Though he spoke f
ormally, his tone was anything but respectful. Jacine scowled at Cole, and he nodded his head.

  “I’ll call you later,” he said as if he had that right.

  Jacine stood like the ice princess she was as the men drove off, leaving her alone with me. And then she blinked.

  “Damn,” she said. “I don’t have a ride home.”

  “Don’t worry about that. I’ll take you anywhere you want to go?”

  “How about a nice island in the Caribbean?”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Jacine

  What a cluster fuck. I’m beginning to wonder about my ability to make these grown men act like adults.

  “I’m sorry,” said Rory.

  His words were surprisingly gentle for a physically huge man. Rory stood at six two with a bulky chest and biceps born of pounding drums for a living. Though he liked to sit behind the drum sets, he was the driving force behind his band Clash. Like many musicians he was multi-talented, and though it is usual for the band’s front man to be the band’s leader, in Clash’s case it was Rory.

  The slanting sunlight casts a kind of halo in his red hair, and his green eyes glittered in a way that never came out in his band posters. He’d gained heft too, since his younger years, and I seemed to like him. He may have been number three in my affections when he played for Banshee, but now I found myself reassessing that position.

  “You don’t have to apologize for those two,” I said. I bit my lip because I fully intended to check in with my father tonight. And crazily I found tears forming in my eyes.

  “In a way I do. Maybe it’s fucked up, but I still think of those two like brothers. Here, my car is this way.”

  He pointed in the general direction, but it didn’t take a hound dog to pick out his car. A cherry red Ferrari sat angled into two parking spots. No one was going to nick his precious baby. He clicked on the key fob, the doors unlocked with a click and he gallantly opened the door for me.

  Aside from a driver, no one opened the door for me.

  In New York, because I don’t have time for personal encounters, it never happens. Even if I did date, I doubt a man would do it. It’s a kind of backhanded snub to women’s independence, or least that’s the excuse for the modern man’s laziness in trying to woo a woman.