Romance: The Billionaire Alpha Collection

by Ward, Penny

  “Things must be bad if you need my advice, girl.” She swipes the card from my hand, and I almost want to fight her for it. If it disappears, so does the chance of financial freedom and the one chance I have of seeing Bryce again.

  Each time I think about the peculiar opportunity offered to me, and about the man who made the offer, I’m almost convinced to go ahead with it.

  Do I want advice, or am I really hoping Stacey will agree with the side of me screaming to be Bryce’s property for an evening?

  “It’s a posh business card.” Stacy scrutinizes either side of it, and shrugs. “So what?”

  “A little under an hour ago, the owner of the posh business card offered me $100,000 for one night of...my company. He says during that time, I’m his. That he owns me.” I blush at the memory, but rebuke myself as the weight of my feminism comes crashing down about my shoulders. “I know it makes me a whore if I accept. Can’t believe I’m even thinking about it.” My eyes widen to take in my friend’s reaction, waiting for the news to filter around her caffeine-addled mind. “It’s bullshit, isn’t it?”

  Stacy gapes for a moment, then says, “Hang on, you mean like Robert Redford and Demi Moore in...” She clicks her fingers. “You know...the movie, what’s it called?”

  “Indecent Proposal!”

  “Yep. Loved that movie.”

  I slump down next to her, relieved, and check the time. Just two hours before her next shift begins. Reality sucks.

  “Madness, right? Although he didn’t offer me a million, sure feels like it to me.”

  “Yeah, this guy’s cheap.” Stacey says sarcastically.

  We both laugh, ignoring the severity of the subject for a moment.

  “Why me, Stacey? Of all the women out there and he stops me? Of all the high-class escorts who’d do if for far less, who’d be more knowledgeable and entertaining.”

  Stacey’s eyes widen. “Maybe he doesn’t find sex workers attractive? Maybe an unassuming girl-next-door type is exactly what feeds his fantasies. He sounds like a ‘Dom’ if he used that phrase, so I doubt he wants a pro.”

  “What phrase?” I ask, but remember Bryce saying I own you, and wiggle on the seat. “Oh, the bit about ownership? Yeah, I thought that sounded scary. But shouldn’t he want, I dunno, a submissive woman to fit a Dom fantasy? A woman who knows how to be submissive? One who knows about all that bondage stuff?” A chuckle sticks in my chest, ambushed by conflicting emotions, and burns like trapped wind. I lay a hand on my chest. “Closest I get to all that is on my Kindle, thankfully.”

  Stacey winks. “You, me, and half the women in the Western world.”

  We both snigger.

  “I can dream about that fantasy all night, but if a fella comes near me with a whip, I’ll break his fingers.” Stacy screams with laughter this time, but I can’t.

  Instead, I imagine Bryce brandishing a whip and wearing nothing but a leather thong, and a blanket of sweat covers my back.

  “Of course,” my voice shakes as I speak, “he may well be a psychopath who wants to cut me into a thousand pieces and feed me to his cannibalistic Dom chums.”

  We go silent, and the atmosphere is tense when we look at each other.

  “No way. Why bother with the conversation, the contract offer, or the card. He could have just chatted you up, took you on a date, pretended to like you, then cut you up into a thousand pieces.”

  This shouldn’t reassure me, but it does. “Good point.”

  “So, what’s he look like?” She grins, rubbing her hands together. “This wealthy Dom of yours? Is he worth the money?”

  “Oh yes,” I gush, “You have never saw anyone like him. I mean, models have nothing on this guy.”

  “Details please.”

  “Okay, well. He has the palest, deepest set eyes; green, I think. Maybe pale blue-green? Piercing, brooding. We weren’t close enough for long for me to get a good look. Plus, I was too nervous to stare.”

  “Sounds dreamy, but screw his eyes.” Stacey’s brows pinch. “What about the size of the bulge in his crotch?” She grabs my hand. “What about his body?”

  “Never noticed his crotch, thanks. But he’s super tall and lean. I imagine he’s all muscles under the Italian suit he wore.”

  “And his mouth? Is he kissable?”

  “Hell yeah. His lips are the softest part of him, like two pink cushions in a diamond sculpture.”

  “What? So his face is supposed to be the diamond sculpture? You’re no poet, Amelia. Sounds like the annoying Twilight guy who everyone got the hots over. I’m still in the wolfs’ corner.”

  “I wanted both,” I snort, recalling my ménage à trois fantasies of nights with a vampire and a werewolf—both demonstrating a delicious blend of dominant consideration. Arousal builds inside me, remembering Bryce’s high cheekbones, strong jawline, and lofty height. In my mind, he’s already naked, beckoning me into his bed.

  “Oh stop. I just mean he has a striking, angular face which encases achingly feminine eyes, and a voluptuous, oh-so-kissable mouth.” I try to explain.

  “You got me, he sounds hot. Scorching hot. So what’s the problem?”

  I imagine him beneath me as I ride him to orgasm...

  “He wants to pay a life-changing sum of money to spend time with you. Sounds to me like you’d go there for free. Hell, so would I. Actually, I could join you. We could go halves in the money.”

  I stop imagining him for a minute and consider Stacey’s justification. “You think I should do it then? Whore myself out like that?”

  “Don’t get bogged down by labels like whore. He’s a gorgeous guy who wants to spend a night with you but without strings presumably, and is not only prepared to pay for dinner, like a normal date, but a whole lot more. It’s not like you’d have to screw a man you don’t fancy. Look at you. You’re already doing it in your head, aren’t you?”

  It’s like she can read my mind, I swear. “How do you do that?”

  “You’re an open book, sweetie. That’s why I love you, but why guys leave footprints on your forehead. And it’s exactly why this offer is a potential lifesaver. Bryce can wipe away your troubles, give you a little loving, and feed your fantasies for a lifetime. Don’t think about it as being a whore just because he’s offering to pay. He is fate’s gift to you, and you deserve it. If you go about this with your eyes open, you can make this work for you. You’re in control here, not him.”

  She actually thinks it’s okay?

  Am I making a big deal out of nothing?

  “I appreciate what you’re saying, but this still feels strange, Stacey. Even dangerous.”

  She holds the card up in front of my face, ready to rip it in two.

  “Best get rid of this then. Don’t want you taking a chance on something incredible if it feels ‘strange’ now, do we? Anyway, I have a shift to get ready for.”

  I’d have to wait tables for a lifetime to earn $100,000.

  “Stop!” I yelp.

  “Oh yes?” Stacey questions with a smile.

  “Don’t rip it, I’ve not made a decision either way yet. But what if he’s a psycho? Seriously, what then?”

  “I say meet him in a neutral location and set something down in writing. I’ll come too if you like. I’ll hide nearby, with a big stick.” We share a smile. “Once a legal contract is drawn, and he knows you have someone waiting for you who expects you to return, he can’t do anything bad to you or else the police get involved...”

  “He said he has a contract for me to sign; ‘To protect my investment,’ he said.”

  “There you go then. He wants you to feel reassured. He knows how women might struggle over this kind of thing. Get his contract; get him to sign it too, and I’ll keep it safe for you. If you don’t get home the next day I’ll call the police and he’s one busted rich guy.” She shrugs as if it’s all so simple, then glares over at her coffee pot.

  “The police will come but I’ll be melting in a tub of acid by then. Okay, get your
damn coffee. Get one for me too while I think this over.”

  “Don’t think so much,” Stacey says, standing. “Google Bryce Morgan and see if he really is the guy on this card before we waste any more time on this. He could be some weasel who rented a nice suit; you need to know he can cover the $100,000. It’s a serious paycheck.”

  “Superb idea.” I open up Stacey’s laptop, close the erotica literature site she’d been browsing before I arrived, and type Bryce Morgan in the browser.

  And… there he is.

  “Oh my, he’s here. Come see him, I wanna see you drool.” The picture of him, where he’s wearing a suit and shades and talking to someone on his phone, made me sigh. The headline reads, “Bryce Morgan: Youngest Independently Wealthy Executive to Make Over One Billion Dollars.”

  Stacey runs to my side, sugar bowl in hand, and leers over my shoulder.

  “Wow woman! What are you waiting for? He’s offering you a lottery win and super abs, and you’re wondering if it makes you rich or a whore, or maybe a rich whore? Who the hell cares? Call him already.”

  She points at Bryce’s card, which she’d left next to me on the couch when she left to make coffee.

  My insides move around so fast, they leave skid marks. “I’m doing this, aren’t I?”

  “Damn right you are, lady. But we’re doing this right.”

  Chapter 3

  It is another hour before Stacey punches Bryce’s number into my phone and shoves it into my nervous hands.

  “Do it.”

  “Hello?” I wince when someone picks up, but say nothing. “Um, Bryce? Is that you?”

  “Ah, Amelia. It’s you. Yes, I’m here.” His soulful voice sets my legs to jelly. “I’m so glad you called.”

  “You are?” Stacey listens on speakerphone and holds up a script we prepared for me to follow. But now I’m speaking to him, it seems too phony to use.

  “Of course. I take it you’re calling to accept my offer?”

  “I, uh...” Oh shit, I am.

  Am I? Is that what I’m doing?

  “Do you want me to send my driver to pick you up?” he asks in a matter-of-fact tone, like he always expected me to call anyway. “He’s ready to go.”

  “What, you want me there tonight?”

  Stacey mouths ‘No!’ and points to the script.

  “Yes,” Bryce says, as if he has to restate the obvious. “I want things to happen between us as soon as possible, Amelia. And I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

  “I bet you don’t.” My stomach flips.

  Why his almost abrasive attitude turns me on so much I don’t understand; he makes me want to salute and masturbate, in unison.

  The list of things Stacey and I prepared for me to say waves in front of me and Stacey pokes my ribs.

  “Well, first thing’s first: I’m afraid. Can we meet to talk over that contract you mentioned? You know, to protect me and my...investment?” I hate discussing the money side of things, but it is a pretty big deal.

  “Ah.”

  “Problem?” I ask.

  Please don’t let there be a problem.

  “Course not. But when I meet you next, I want you to be mine, not to discuss business. I do that to death already. I’ll send you an email. What’s your address?”

  “Oh. Okay…um… it’s ameliadelphin1990@me.com. Send the contract and I’ll sign on the dots if everything’s in order.”

  Stacey sniggers and whispers, “On the dotted line, you nitwit. Not on the line.”

  I’m an idiot.

  He’ll think I’m a bloody idiot.

  “Good,” Bryce says, “then I’ll sign...on the dots, and send you a copy for your records. But you’ll be mine in two hours, otherwise the deal’s off. Yes?”

  “If everything’s in order.” Stacey nudges me, reminding me of one final request. “Oh, um. Do I get a deposit at all?”

  “No, I’m sure you know by now that I’m good for it. Problem?”

  He knows I searched for him on the Internet. Cringe. “Nope, guess not.”

  He lowers his voice. “See you soon, Amelia.”

  Then hangs up.

  Two seconds later, I check my smartphone and find one email ready to read.

  He really did expect me to call back.

  Dear Ms. Amelia Delphin:

  For up to twelve hours of your complete surrender to Mr. Bryce Morgan, he will transfer $100,000 to a bank account of your choosing. Alternatively, he will provide cash.

  Please sign here [we accept electronic signatures] if you agree:

  Witness [if present] signature:

  Please send this back, signed, immediately if you consent, and Bryce will send a driver to collect you.

  Many thanks,

  Stella Beechum

  Morgan & Morgan Law Firm

  I read the words several times. “No suggestion of how I’m expected to surrender. What if he plans to hurt me? I’m so not into pain. Or choking. Or anything like that.”

  Stacey swipes the phone from my hand and begins typing. “Then we’ll stipulate you will not consent to suffer physical or psychological trauma during your period of ‘surrender.’”

  “What if he doesn’t like that?”

  “Tough.” She bites her lip in concentration. “You don’t want him leaving you bruised or broken, do you? That’s reasonable. You don’t want to spend the $100,000 on psychologist’s bills, do you? Plus, we have less than two hours to sort this out before he withdraws this offer altogether. Dithering won’t get you anything.”

  “Okay.” I let Stacey add a few things to the contract and send it to Stella Beechum, whoever she is.

  A few minutes later, another ping tells us to check my inbox. The new email says:

  We accept your conditions. Please sign the amended contract below and send it back immediately. The clock is ticking.

  Bryce Morgan

  “Oh my god, Stacey, he’s there with her.”

  “Sign and send,” she grins. “Don’t you see? He’s agreed not to hurt you. You’re safe. I’ll sign as your witness.” She signs digitally then nudges me. “Come on, quick. Your turn.”

  “Oh shit, this is a legal contract for sex. Isn’t this illegal, and therefore forfeit?”

  Stacey frowns. “For heaven’s sake. Do you want this or not?”

  My reasoning ability is being squashed by need. “Yes. No. I don’t know.”

  I rub my face, hoping some blood will help my brain work or bring me to my senses.

  Stacy rolls her eyes, offering me the phone. “You’re wasting time; you know you’re doing this.” She smiles. “Oh, before you press send, don’t forget to copy me in and include your address and cell number so his driver knows where to find you. Then go get a shower.” She kisses my head. “I have to get ready for work.”

  “But…” I try to protest.

  “Now come on.” Stacey claps her hands. “Move it.” Stacey rushes off to her bathroom and calls from behind the door, “Try to enjoy yourself. This could be the best thing that ever happens to you.”

  “Thanks.” My hands feel shaky. “I’ll try.” I sign the contract, still not sure it’s the right thing to do. “Although, I’m kind of hoping for better things to happen in my life than selling my ass.”

  Eyes closed tight, I press send.

  Stacey pops her wet-haired head around the corner. “Quit thinking of it that way, or it’ll be a disaster. What’s the difference between this and him buying you dinner?”

  “Oh I dunno, the sheer amount of money offered, the need for a contract. I don’t even do one-night stands remember? So for me, dinner would be just that—dinner.”

  Stacey shrugs. “This is one helluva first one-night stand, sweetie. Put it this way: you want to be homeless next week, or making big plans?” She raises an eyebrow. “Now scat, this is like winning the lottery and questioning whether you should keep it or give it to charity! And all you have to do is give a good-looking guy a blowjob or something. Climb down from th
e pedestal—life doesn’t throw you this kind of curveball more than once.”

  I close the laptop. “Quit trying to persuade me; I signed already. Call the police if I don’t come back, and wish me luck.”

  She runs across and gives me a peck on the cheek. “If you’re not here in fourteen hours time, I’ll call the police.”

  As we stare at each other, there are tears in our eyes.

  I can do this.

  I nod and I leave my friend, close her door, and look at the door opposite: my apartment.

  The letterbox is crammed with mail I have ignored for several days, and my stomach cramps knowing they are more red letters.

  I sigh, let myself in, and ignore them again.

  Chapter 4

  Away from Stacey’s reassurances, I’m vulnerable.

  Exposed.

  As if somehow I’ve consigned myself to a slow painful death by conscience. My full-length mirror doesn’t help, either, as I strip naked for a shower.

  Can I actually do this?

  Isn’t this madness?

  Why me?

  I mean seriously, I’m nothing special.

  Certainly not worth $100,000 for one night – I’m no supermodel.

  In the mirror, I study my round hips, leading to short legs.

  My slim shoulders slouch above tiny boobs.

  My pale skin is covered in freckles, and my unruly mousy-brown hair desperately needs a restyle.

  “Why? I don’t get what he’s seen in me. It must be a joke at my expense. I’ll walk in there and rich folks will laugh at the poor, clueless fool.” I whisper to myself.

  Someone knocks at my door, disturbing my thoughts.

  “Oh no.”

  I can’t face my landlord yet, so I pretend I don’t hear the knock, ignoring the fact that whoever is outside my door could probably hear my damned shower running.

  “I know you’re in there, Amelia.” Henry’s gravelly voice bellows. “I want the rent, and I want it by Monday or you can pack your bags. You hear me?” The landlord bangs hard against the door with his foot.