Billionaire Bad Boys: A Collection of Contemporary and Paranormal Bad Boys

by Calinda B

  He stabbed the seat with his forefinger. She hesitated, caught off-guard by the sudden change of events.

  He tapped the seat again, his mouth a grimace.

  She moved next to him.

  The smile returned. “Which do you prefer? Pills or injections?”

  “What? I…neither. Why are you asking?” She started to scoot away.

  He grabbed her arm. “I say injection.”

  He lifted the lid to the briefcase and removed a syringe.

  She tugged against his grip. “Stop! What are you doing?”

  Ignoring her, he bit the plastic cover from the needle and spit it on the floor. Then, before she had a chance to protest, he jabbed it into her arm and squeezed the plunger.

  Instantly, her eyelids began to flutter.

  “You kids,” the gold-toothed guy muttered. “I can’t stand the new generation.”

  He rapped on the privacy screen before she fell into oblivion, wondering how she managed to fuck up before the mission even began.

  3

  A rough shake of her shoulders followed by a sharp, stinging assault of some sort of ammonia smell, brought Savannah back to consciousness. Her eyelids flew open. Her gaze landing on the thick neck and large nostrils of Frank, who cradled her in his arms, holding her close to his sweaty chest. Her attention drifted to the guy wearing a white lab coat standing a foot away—it was the same gold-toothed guy who’d drugged her in the car.

  He waved a vial under her nose.

  “Enough!” She shoved his hand away, taking in her surroundings.

  She, Marcus, and Adam were all in a large service elevator with the goon squad. The numbers over the door, indicating the floors they passed, climbed ever higher, heading toward triple digits.

  One guy, looking more like King-Kong, supported Adam.

  The other guy, his gorilla lookalike, had his arms wrapped around Marcus’s chest.

  “She’s awake,” gold-tooth said with a smile. He held the small glass ampoule between thumb and forefinger. “Sal volatile. My own formula.”

  “I know what sal volatile is—smelling salts. Yes, I’m awake. But I shouldn’t have had to be drugged to get here so you could try out your concoction.”

  She glared up at Frank’s chin. “Put me down.”

  “I’m not sure you can…”

  “It’s all right. She’ll manage,” gold-tooth said. “I’m Dr. Doucette, by the way. House doctor for the Diamond Club.”

  She ignored him, shaking her head to get her bearings. A massive headache lingered from whatever drugs they’d used to put her to sleep. I’m Naeva Weathersby. Three separate vehicles to get us here. Am I on the inside?

  Her attention flashed to the brute holding her. “Down. Now.”

  Frank shrugged and lowered her to her feet, keeping a grip around her shoulders. She pushed his arm away. Her legs became putty. She swayed, grabbing for the flat metal bar lining the lift.

  Frank started to reach for her, but Dr. Doucette placed his slight hand on Frank’s beefy arm. “Let her be. She’ll be fine.”

  Once stable, her attention focused on Marcus, Adam, and the two giants performing the same wakeup trick on them—only no one cradled them. They were being propped up by giants one and two.

  Adam came to like he was in a fight club, but with unfocused eyes and no idea who to punch first.

  “Where is she? Where’s…” He caught himself before possibly breaking cover. “Where’s Naeva?” He blinked and shook his head like a dog. “Are you okay?” he said, focusing his blue-gray eyes on her.

  “Yes.” Still gripping the handrail, she gave a wan smile. “My father seems to be having a hard time of it, however. Is he okay?”

  Marcus’s head drooped listlessly.

  The doctor waved his magic formula under Marcus’s nose. “Hmm. Me thinks we gave him too strong a dose.”

  He nodded toward Frank.

  Frank returned the nod, slid his hand into an inside pocket of his jacket, and retrieved a syringe. He handed it to Dr. Doucette.

  “What are you doing?” Adam said. He started to run interference, shielding Marcus.

  Savannah gave a barely perceptible head shake.

  He backed down.

  The doctor removed the blue plastic cover and jabbed the short needle into Marcus’s neck.

  Her fake father let out a loud gasp. His arms flailed, smacking Adam and the King-Kong man next to him.

  “Easy,” the giant said. “I’ve got you.” He tightened his grip around Marcus’s chest.

  “Let go of me, you buffoon.” He shook off the giant’s hold.

  “Father, are you okay?” Savannah said, rushing to stand in front of him. She placed her hands on his shoulders.

  “Yes, dear, I’m fine.” He kissed the top of her head, then glowered at the men surrounding them.

  She stepped back.

  “This is certainly uncalled for,” he said, smoothing his hands along his jacket and fidgeting with the knot of his tie. “I can understand drugging my daughter and her bodyguard, but me?”

  Savannah clenched her hands. Such a loving father.

  “You know the rules,” Frank said. He lifted one of his linebacker-worthy shoulders. “You haven’t checked in, in over a month. We take security seriously, you know that.”

  “I’m going to have words with someone,” Marcus said, straightening. He turned to Savannah. “Naeva, darling, I’m sorry you had to go through this. This isn’t the kind of welcome I’d hoped you’d receive at our prestigious club.”

  “Thank you, father.” She cast a demure gaze at the floor. “I’m fine. I’m sorry you had to go through this, too.”

  “Okay,” Frank said, reaching for the open-door button. “Pleasantries are over. You can enter, now.”

  The door slid wide revealing a stern-looking woman in a suit. She had a mannish appearance composed of sharp angles and lines, from her sculpted cheekbones to her severely tailored garment. Overall, she gave off the impression of being made of iron.

  Behind her stood a black-suited guard of sorts, nearly as tall as Adam and twice as wide. His hands were folded in front of his abdomen. He stared blankly at nothing, but Savannah guessed he was aware of their every move.

  The woman swept her icy gaze over each one of them.

  “Stand here, please,” she said in an Eastern European accent. She pointed to one side of the small, dark room.

  Shadows covered the concrete walls. A shade had been pulled over the window, making it difficult to see. Two doors faced one another on opposite sides of the room.

  Savannah tensed and glanced at Adam for reassurance.

  He blinked twice, a code gesture the two of them had developed meaning “I’m watching. It will be okay.”

  She nodded, clutching her hands together.

  “This is ridiculous,” Marcus snapped.

  “I already told you. You know the rules,” Frank repeated. “Let’s get this over with, so you can get on to playtime, shall we?”

  He shoved Marcus out first.

  Savannah and Adam followed, standing next to her fake father.

  “Someone’s going to hear about this.” Marcus tugged at his suit jacket.

  “Knock yourself out,” said Frank. “In the meantime…” He gestured toward iron-woman and the guard.

  The guard began patting down Marcus, while the iron-woman stepped toward Savannah.

  “This is an outrage!” Marcus said.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know how you people get.” Frank turned to the men remaining in the lift. “You three can head back downstairs. I’ve got this.”

  Dr. Doucette nodded from his position in the elevator.

  “Enjoy your stay,” he called, in a cheery voice directed at Savannah. He waved his fingers at her, like playing her a song on the piano.

  Savannah wanted to say, “If it’s like this, I don’t think so,” but instead, she pasted on a smile and lifted her hand in a wave. Then, she turned her attention toward the mulish woma
n before her.

  “Spread your legs. Put your arms out like so,” iron-woman said, putting herself in a starfish position.

  Savannah extended her arms and assumed a wide stance.

  The iron-woman patted, groped, and prodded everywhere, even between Savannah’s legs.

  Savannah gritted her teeth, resenting the invasive touch.

  “Open your mouth.”

  Savannah opened wide, hoping her fillings resembled the dental records of Naeva, since she had no idea what they were looking for.

  Iron-woman seized a flashlight hanging from the wall. She flicked it on and held the blinding beam in front of Savannah’s face.

  Gripping Savannah’s cheeks, she peered into her mouth. She nodded and said, “Okay, she’s clean.”

  Who’s she talking to? Savannah scanned the room for signs of a listening device, but it was too dark to discern anything.

  The guard finished patting down Marcus and turned to Adam. “Who’s he? I thought only you and your daughter were coming.”

  His expression one of strained rage, Marcus straightened his attire. “He’s her bodyguard. I’m quite protective of Naeva.”

  The guard let out a grunt. His eyes narrowed as he stared at Adam like he already had a fight in mind.

  Adam pursed his lips and glared back.

  “Arms out. Legs wide.”

  When Adam complied, the guard began his search. His movements seemed far rougher than warranted.

  Savannah’s hand went to where she usually kept her gun, at her side in a hip holster.

  Marcus put his palm on her arm. “Chérie, this is part of our world. It will be over soon,” he soothed.

  Adam bristled as the guard focused on Adam’s pocket, visibly excited.

  “Got something!” He shoved his hand into Adam’s pocket and lifted a small black object. He waved it in the air, then handed it to Frank. Like a viper attack, he seized Adam’s shoulders, whipped his arms behind his back, and shoved him into the concrete wall.

  Savannah winced, holding herself back from assaulting the guard and blowing her cover. She doubted Naeva had advanced training in hand-to-hand combat.

  “It’s a fucking pen!” Adam’s words were muffled from his face being pinned to the wall.

  Frank snapped the pen in two. Black ink spurted on his hands and spattered his shirt and neck. “Christ almighty. He’s right. Let him go.”

  Adam writhed away from the man restraining him. “Classy joint you’ve got here, Marcus.”

  “Okay, that’s enough.” A female voice boomed into the room.

  Savannah searched for the owner of the disembodied woman but saw nothing.

  “Bring them in. They’re fine.”

  Frank retrieved a white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the black ink from his hand and clothes, turning it into smears. “Fucking hell. My wife’s going to kill me. Okay, let’s go. Follow me.”

  He twisted the doorknob on one of the doors and stepped to the side so they could enter.

  Savannah went first, followed by Adam and Marcus.

  Her eyes widened. She stared at an oval table, around which several individuals sat, all dressed lavishly. In the top corner sat a monitor, trained on the room in which they’d been patted down.

  Great. We were watched the whole time. Am I about to be busted? What did the woman say we’re okay for? She shifted from side to side.

  Empty plates, lined with crumbs or other remnants of lunch, sat on the table. Champagne and wine bottles, from half-finished to completely empty sat in the middle of the table.

  A few people held lit cigarettes. Coils of smoke lazily streamed overhead.

  One guy, a hipster looking dude, sucked a lungful of smoke from a vaporizer pen. From the puffy, drooping eyelids, and his languid posture, Savannah assumed he was stoned.

  Others lifted crystal goblets of clear, bubbly liquid to their lips and sipped.

  She glanced at Adam—plastered against the red-painted wall—before taking note of the layout of the room—from the center table to the exits; the windows to the walls. An open door led to what looked like a kitchen. Distant sounds of clanging pans and the tinkle of glassware confirmed her theory.

  A wet-bar stood against the back wall. A table, that looked like the kind found in a doctor’s office, rested next to it, with what looked like handcuffs locked to the legs. She frowned. Handcuffs? A floor to ceiling pole—the kind used by pole dancers—stood near the couch. The walls were lined with whips, feather dusters, leather straps and other sex-play accouterments. Swings, handcuffs, various kinds of netting and other materials hung from hooks. The entire room, illuminated with low lighting, simmered with a naughty, wicked vibe.

  Before she could continue her study, a woman’s voice said, “Marcus, bring her closer.”

  Savannah turned toward the source of the voice, coming eye to eye with an elegant older woman.

  Marcus looked up from the cigarette he’d removed from a slender, silver case resting on the table. After procuring a silver lighter from his pocket, he lit it and took a deep drag. He removed the cigarette, exhaled a long plume of smoke, and then placed his other hand on the small of Savannah’s back, guiding her toward the woman.

  “Naeva, meet Ambrosia Chartier.” He leaned down to kiss the woman’s cheek. When he stood, he said to Savannah, “She’s considered royalty.”

  “Mrs. Chartier,” Savannah said, extending her hand, wondering if she should curtsy. “Enchanté.”

  “Call me Ambrosia.” She took Savannah’s hand between her cool, slender fingers. “Isn’t she a doll?” she said to the other diners, without taking her piercing violet eyes from Savannah’s face.

  Murmurs of assent followed, from both men and women. They all focused on her, expectantly, as if she were the afternoon entertainment. She half-expected them to cheer and clap—either that or ask for a lap dance. Something about this space gave off a vibe of “anything goes.”

  Savannah let herself be scrutinized, as she did the same to Ambrosia.

  Dressed in a ruched gold dress with a modest neckline, she looked like a stereotype of a rich, white woman. Diamonds hung from her neck and ears. She looked as coiffed and polished as Savannah felt, but far more at ease with her wealth and status.

  Savannah did a quick calculation, figuring the set to be in the five-figure range. She reached up and fingered her more modest diamond studs.

  The skin around the Ambrosia’s neck looked older than her facial appearance, suggesting she’d had work done. Her cheekbones were high and sculpted, emphasizing her almond-shaped eyes. Her dark violet hair had been piled high in a style Savannah felt certain was meant to look messy but which probably took hours to achieve.

  Ambrosia got to her feet. She stood nearly two inches taller than Savannah’s five foot six, but it could be her stiletto heels—Savannah’s ankle boots didn’t lend much height.

  She gently placed her fingers on Savannah’s jaw, turning her this way and that.

  Savannah held her breath. What’s she doing? Is she going to proclaim me legitimate or will I be busted? Her hands curled into fists at her side. She glanced at Marcus, who seemed more concerned with getting his nicotine fix than anything else. Then, she side-eyed Adam.

  He stood passively alert near the wall, his eyes looking ahead of him as he’d been trained.

  Finally, Ambrosia released Savannah’s face. She smiled, revealing perfect white teeth.

  “Marcus. You didn't do her justice. She's gorgeous.” She stepped backward and turned to him. “My Liam will be absolutely thrilled to meet his new bride.”

  New bride? Savannah suddenly thought better of being here. Maybe she should have stayed in Iraq. At least the rules there were obvious.

  Here, there seemed to be none.

  4

  Savannah gritted her teeth and forced a pleasant smile, as she struggled to process the news bomb detonated in her ears. I’m to be someone’s bride? What if I don’t get the intel we need before that cursed
day? Her vision blurred, making it impossible to focus on the people staring at her, her fake father, or even Adam. I’m going to flay Marcus for not telling me sooner.

  He continued to stand, like a statue, at the wall opposite the wealthy diners. Signs of his rage were evident, though, from the cut of his clenched jaw to the throbbing veins in his neck.

  Ambrosia turned toward the stoned guy slouching at the round table. “Tyler, make yourself useful and get my future daughter-in-law a chair. Or, better yet, give her yours.”

  The guy lifted his gaze with obvious effort. “Sure thing, auntie.”

  “No, no,” Savannah said, putting her palms out. “I need to get some air. This whole thing has been an ordeal. Is there somewhere I can step outside?”

  She hoped to get a clue where the Diamond Club was located. As far as she could tell, she could be in Spain. She glanced at her diamond encrusted watch. The time read two o’clock. If the day was the same one she’d woke up in this morning, she was probably somewhere in Manhattan.

  Ambrosia lifted one groomed eyebrow. “Of course. Marcus, why don’t you show her to the atrium?”

  “Sure thing, Ambrosia.” He reached for the silver case, again, plucking another cigarette.

  A stunning brunette, seated at the table, wearing a low-cut top, said, “Allow me.”

  Diamonds dripped from slender chains, coming to a stop in her cleavage.

  Even Savannah had to look twice at her perfect, globe-shaped breasts. Those can’t be real.

  The brunette picked up a gold lighter near her plate, flicked it, and held the flame out for Marcus.

  He bent forward to light up. Inhaling deeply, he sucked the smoke like taking a hit of oxygen after a climb on Mr. Everest. After blowing a stream of smoke over his head, his gaze landed on the diamonds pooled between her voluptuous breasts.

  Reaching out with his free hand, he scooped the diamonds into his palm, brushing her skin with his knuckles. “Nice rocks.”

  “Thank you. You can play with them later,” she said, adding a seductive grin.

  “I look forward to it,” he said. “Naeva, darling…shall we?”

  He crooked his elbow and held it out to her.