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

by Calinda B

  This guy is supposed to be my father? Holy hell. “Thank you, father.”

  “Bring her back here when you’ve finished, Marcus. I’d like to chat with her some more.”

  “Of course,” he said, the cigarette dangling from his lip. With Savannah’s hand resting on his elbow, he led her out of the room.

  Adam followed them.

  They trekked down a narrow hallway to a set of double doors. Marcus opened the doors for her, allowing her to lead the way.

  The enormous ballroom had four gigantic crystal chandeliers. The walls were lined with mirrors. The floor consisted of onyx tiles, polished to a gleam. At the opposite end of the ballroom, stood glass double French doors.

  Savannah’s boots echoed through the space. Marcus followed, and Adam trailed behind.

  When the door closed behind them, she whirled to face Marcus. “You knew about this engagement, didn’t you?”

  “Not here, love. Let’s get to the atrium. It’s far more private.”

  She bit her tongue and stalked toward the French doors. Her ruffled skirt made soft swishing noises as she stomped across the room.

  Marcus caught up with her, grabbed her elbow, and hissed in her ear. “Act per your status. My daughter would never stomp.”

  She stopped and took a deep breath. She glanced around for signs of cameras or listening devices. Placing her hand on his shoulder, she said, “I’m so sorry father. I don’t wish to offend. My nerves are shot after our ordeal following the long flight yesterday. Forgive me.”

  She flashed him a gracious smile, noting, out of the corner of her eye, Adam’s smirk.

  “You’re forgiven. I understand. Enter,” he said, throwing open one of the French doors. “This place is soothing.”

  She sashayed into a room filled with plants. Butterflies flitted about, landing on well-tended flowers. Birds hopped from branch to branch. Water burbled over stones.

  Savannah took a deep, cleansing breath.

  Marcus stepped after her.

  “Get the door,” he said to Adam, waving his hand over his head without sparing him a glance.

  Adam strode through the doorway and slammed the door. Then he moved directly in front of Marcus.

  “You’ve got some explaining to do,” he growled. He jabbed his forefinger into Marcus’s chest.

  “I’ll do no such thing.” He took hold of Adam’s finger and shoved it away from him. “This is my world, not yours. I told you there was a price to be paid. We're like the mafia. We arrange marriages to solidify alliances, to secure the strength of the Club. She's been trying to get my daughter for her Liam for years.”

  “You should have said something,” Adam snarled. He grabbed the lapels of Marcus’s suit. “We would have been prepared.”

  “Let go of me. You would have backed out, and I'd be in an orange jumpsuit,” Marcus responded. He sucked the last of the cigarette smoke into his lungs. When done, he flicked the butt into the trickling stream.

  “This looks like a sanctuary to me, father. Aren’t there places for trash?”

  He regarded her coolly. “Not in here. But there is a significant number of staff at the ready.”

  She shook her head. I already hate this place.

  “Back to the real point,” Adam began. “This marriage thing is not going to take place.”

  Marcus shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.” Then, he pivoted toward Savannah. “Do you have anything better lined up?”

  “That’s not the point,” she spluttered. “This is an assignment. I get in, get out, and don’t wind up having to get an annulment for a marriage I didn’t agree to. And then, what happens when the real Naeva returns, huh? Have you thought about that detail?” Her mind drifted to the kinds of punishment the women of Mosul experienced at their supposed transgressions. They could be stoned to death. Or…beheaded. A tremble rumbled through her body. This isn’t Mosul. I won’t be killed for treachery. Will I?

  “Indeed, I have. I might just let her stay in Paris.” A secretive smile fell into place.

  “What? While I play pretend until I can escape? No, Marcus. Hell, no.” She began to shake with rage.

  Marcus picked a piece of tobacco from his tooth. He flicked it onto the floor. “Anyway, you might like Liam. He is, after all, a Chartier. Another noble elite in the scheme of things.”

  “That’s definitely not the point, Marcus. I’m here to gather information. Not wind up entangled in someone’s life.” Her head fell back, and she groaned.

  “It's not that big of a deal. You're already pretending to be my daughter. Just pretend to be this rich brat's fiancée.”

  “This is a marriage we’re talking about, Marcus. This isn’t part of the mission. This totally fucks it up.” She threw her hands in the air. “And, unless you abide by different laws, a marriage is a binding contract. I’d still like to think I’ll wed for love. We’re not in the Middle Ages anymore, when wedded bliss meant securing territory.” She moved to the other side of Marcus.

  “Here, at the Diamond Club, that’s exactly what it does.” He gave her a cold gaze—the kind a snake might make before striking.

  She leaned close to him, grabbing his collar. “If this mission goes south because you neglected to give us a few key details—like me getting married—I’m going to personally cut off your balls and feed them to you. Got it?”

  “There shouldn’t be a problem.” Marcus plucked her hand from his collar.

  Standing between Savannah and Adam, Marcus looked from one to the other. Beads of sweat covered his brow, even though the temperature in the atrium was mild.

  Savannah caught movement out of the corner of her eye. She turned to see Tyler shuffling through the ballroom.

  “I’m not done with this topic,” she said to Marcus.

  “Neither am I,” Adam said.

  “I’m afraid there’s nothing you can do.” Marcus glanced at Tyler’s approach.

  Savannah crowded Marcus. “Oh, there’s definitely something I can do. I can quit. Then, you’d be screwed.” And I’d be out of a job. Back to my fucking orphaned status. No job, no co-workers, no sense of belonging anywhere. This is my fucking last chance mission. “Any immunity you were granted to be part of this deal would be wiped out.” She snapped her fingers in his face.

  Marcus plucked a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his face. “It’s out of my hands. Besides, he’s a key player in the upcoming heist, or so I’m told.”

  “He is?” Savannah’s interest perked. She exchanged looks with Adam. “Well, then. That changes everything. I can play-act as someone’s fiancée until we get what we want.” I’ll have to play this just right. Another seduction, coming up.

  Marcus shimmied out from between them and reached to open the French doors. “What is it, Tyler?” he snapped.

  Tyler spoke with a slow, dreamy voice. “Aunt Ambrosia asked if you’d escort Naeva to the Diamond Strumpet’s club.”

  “Certainly. Tell your aunt we’ll be right back. I think Naeva is feeling better, aren’t you, dear?”

  “Yes, father,” she cooed. “Much.”

  “Right-o,” Tyler said. He made a graceful pivot and sauntered away.

  After he left, Savannah hissed, “The Diamond Strumpet’s club? Another ambush? Care to tell me anything else you might have failed to mention?”

  Marcus remained implacable. “Can’t think of a thing.” He placed his palm on his cheek as if mulling things over. “Nope, I think we’re good.”

  He turned and strode away.

  Savannah gave Adam an uneasy look and scurried to follow. “Wait!”

  “What?” Marcus said, without looking behind.

  “Can’t you beg off the exchange? Tell them I’m exhausted from jet lag and the drugs? I need time to absorb everything you’ve told me, so I can prepare.”

  “You just told Tyler you were fine,” he reasoned.

  “I said better. I told you I felt better, not fine.” She placed her hands on her hips.

&nb
sp; Marcus shook his head disapprovingly. “Tsk tsk, Naeva, since when did you begin assuming challenging postures like that? In this part of the Club women here tend to be much more”—he tapped his lips with a manicured finger—“…submissive.”

  Her mouth fell open, and she dropped her hands to her sides. “Forgive me, father, I’ve spent too much time in Paris.”

  Inside, she reeled at the implication. Submissive? Since when was I ever submissive?

  He spun on his heel and strode away from her. “I’ll see what I can do. Maybe I can get you an hour or two.” Marcus swished his hand over his shoulder in her direction.

  “That’s not enough. I need more time.” Savannah’s mind spun like an out of control car heading toward a cliff.

  “Quiet! Someone might hear you,” Marcus hissed, twisting to look over his shoulder.

  She bit back her words.

  He led her and Adam down one flight of stairs and along another hallway. Stopping at a closed door, he softly knocked.

  “Marcus, is that you?” came Ambrosia’s velvety voice.

  “Yes. I’ve brought Naeva.”

  A tiny eye-level opening appeared.

  Moans, interspersed with laughter, could be heard from behind the door.

  Violet eyes ringed with mascara covered lashes peered through the slot. “Marcus, you and the bodyguard can’t come in. You know the rules.”

  “I’m afraid Naeva’s extremely tired, Ambrosia. Can’t this wait?”

  “Don’t be silly. You know we don’t bite…much.” She let out a throaty laugh. “I simply won’t accept no for an answer.” She waved her fingers in front of the opening. “Shoo, shoo. Her bodyguard can wait near the door. You can be on your way.”

  The tiny door slammed shut with a thwack.

  Marcus shrugged. “Wait here,” he said to Adam, pointing at the wall. “Daughter, dear. We can catch up later.”

  He leaned forward, kissed her cheek, and pivoted on his heel to stride away.

  Savannah swallowed and looked to Adam.

  He made the two-blink gesture.

  “Thank you,” she mouthed. She lifted her hand and timidly knocked on the door.

  No one answered.

  Straightening her spine, she knocked more forcefully, repeating something Margaret had told her. You’re a Weathersby. Act like one. She sighed. It didn’t matter what identity she assumed. At heart, she was only an orphan, forced to live wherever she was told with no real place to call home. And play-act at love. She hoped she could convince the ladies of the Diamond Club of her role as Naeva—and then, work her way into Liam Chartier’s good graces and get the dirt on the bastard. This, she thought, should be a piece of cake with a cherry on top.

  5

  Savannah’s eyes followed Marcus as he disappeared down the long hall, forcing her to face her supposed mother-in-law to be—alone.

  His footfalls made no sound on the plush carpet lining the hallway as he rounded the corner, leaving her to prove her lie to a group of women she didn’t know.

  She glanced at Adam.

  “I’ll be right here if you need me.” He kept his usual, expressionless “body-guard” face in place, but his eyes conveyed warm assurance.

  She nodded, turning to face the door where Ambrosia had greeted her through the tiny slit in the door. Straightening her shoulders, she stood tall and lifted her hand to knock again.

  The door cracked open before her knuckles touched the wood. A hand snaked out and yanked her inside, slamming the door behind her.

  Ambrosia greeted her with wild eyes, her artfully messy hair even messier.

  As Savannah beheld the room, her mouth fell open.

  An audience of women barely registered her appearance. They raptly watched the two people in the center of their circle of sofas and cushy chairs.

  The brunette who’d promised Marcus the opportunity to play with her “rocks” knelt before a man. Her hands rested on her thighs. Her perfect body was adorned with silky, see-through lingerie. Diamonds dripped from her throat and circled her waist.

  The man stood before her, wearing a black leather hood and pants. The hood hugged his entire head, save for two almond shaped slits for his eyes, giving him an evil superhero appearance. Fine black mesh smothered his mouth. Coal-colored suede bands dotted with diamonds adorned both wrists. He clutched a riding quirt. It's braided strap looped around his wrist, allowing him to grip the sturdy foot-long handle. Two leather tails dangled from the end of the whip, reminding her of a snake’s forked tongue.

  He let the quirt trail along the woman’s back, swishing it back and forth, with lazy insistence.

  His other hand stroked the brunette’s cheek.

  The brunette practically purred. She rubbed her cheek into the man’s caress like a cat, coiling around its owner’s legs.

  Without warning, the hooded man flicked the quirt with practiced ease.

  It lashed her back with a crack.

  The brunette jerked and cried out. Her scowling expression simmered with displeasure as she glared at him.

  “Lower your head. You’re not to look at me,” the man commanded.

  His voice carried an electronic tone like he was speaking through some sort of voice modification device. Chills crawled up and down Savannah’s skin.

  “What? No! I’ll look at you if I feel like looking at you.” The brunette’s glare turned to one of indignation.

  A couple of the audience members passed around a small gold rectangle Savannah recognized as a pricey vaporizer. She’d seen it as part of the evidence in a cocaine bust.

  Others sipped from crystal glasses filled with jewel-toned liquids.

  They all spoke softly, as if in quiet reverence at the act before them.

  Classical music—Camille Saint-Saëns Danse Macabre, if Savannah’s recall was right—sifted through the room through an invisible speaker system.

  A thick fog of smoke shrouded the room. Other smells mingled with the languid marijuana vapor.

  Savannah sniffed. Perfume, sweat, wine, smoke, and… semen.

  She wrinkled up her nose.

  “Come, come,” Ambrosia cooed. Her words slurred into Savannah’s ear. “Monique is getting a lesson in obedience. She’s new to this and is being groomed.”

  Obedience? Savannah had her fill of “obedience”—more like severe punishment—in Mosul, as well as in foster care. She’d both witnessed it in abundance and had it inflicted on her.

  “She’s been assigned to please Marcus tonight. Marcus has asked the Master to train her.” Ambrosia gripped her upper arm with surprising strength.

  “What?” Savannah’s head whipped toward Ambrosia. “He asked this guy to train her?”

  “You know.” Ambrosia winked. “You haven’t forgotten what a virile man your father is, have you?”

  “Uh, no,” Savannah said. “My father and his…” She didn’t know what to add to the sentence. His frisky antics? His whorish behavior?

  Ambrosia seemed not to care what she said. With an unsteady gait, she hauled Savannah toward an empty sofa. She plopped onto the sofa with none of her elegance in evidence, taking Savannah with her.

  Savannah scrambled to not fall on top of Ambrosia. Christ, she’s hammered.

  The hooded man and Monique froze, their eyes pinned to Ambrosia.

  The women making up the audience stopped, mid-toke, mid-drink, mid-whisper, staring at her and her future mother-in-law.

  Then, the man’s eyes slid toward Savannah, immobilizing her. His shadowed scrutiny seemed like both an invitation and an assault, as he swept his gaze over her body from head to toe.

  “I’m sorry.” Ambrosia giggled. “I’ve had a little too much to drink. Carry on.”

  She swished her hand in the air.

  The women all turned toward the center act, resuming their study of the “lesson.”

  The hooded man grabbed a handful of Monique’s hair, wrenching her head back. She gasped, cringing.

  “You’re to listen
to me,” he growled, in a muffled, yet rich and sonorous voice. “Do what I say, or this game is over.”

  Her hand flew back to tug her hair away.

  “I get to say when I release you,” the hooded man snarled.

  His electronic baritone did wicked things to Savannah’s insides.

  Her thighs relaxed, parting slightly.

  “No one treats me this way.” Monique’s face whipped toward Ambrosia—or, she tried to. She winced, straining her neck since the man kept a steady grip on her hair. “You said this would be fun.”

  Ambrosia replied with a soothing, maternal tone. “It will be, dear. Do as he says.”

  Her head bobbed up and down on her swan-like neck.

  “But…but…I’m a Worthington.” Monique tried to tear her hair away from the hooded man’s grasp.

  “I’m done.” He threw up his hands. “She’s untrainable.” He did an about-face on his booted heel, about to stride away.

  “Master Steele, wait.” Ambrosia’s tone became fierce.

  He paused, keeping his back to the circle of women, his hands fisted at his side.

  Ambrosia’s hand reached out to squeeze Savannah’s hand. “Let’s see how Naeva will do. Monique, step aside.”

  Master Steele slowly pivoted. His eyes trained on Savannah.

  “What? No!” Savannah tried to yank her hand away, but Ambrosia’s long, manicured nails dug into her skin.

  “Darling. Your father assured me you were immersed in your training with the courtesans I selected. I’m sure they showed you something in Paris?” Her voice rose at the end. “Don’t tell me the money Marcus’s spent went to waste.”

  “Of course not, but…” Courtesans? Do they report back to her? What would I have learned? What does she know? None of this kind of information had been imparted to her on her Naeva prep studies.

  “Then, show Master Steele how well you’ve been trained.” Her mouth curved in a gracious smile like she was inviting Savannah over for cocktails. She leaned back on the sofa, indicating tonight’s main event was about to begin.

  Savannah glanced toward the door, wishing Adam would burst in. She turned back to Ambrosia, flashing her a forced, fake smile.