Unjust Billionaire: A dom romance (Bossy Billionaire Book 2)

by Savannah May

  What a dumbass thought. A man who attended Jay Valentine's private offshore parties was not going to be capable of a simple dinner date. And me? Wasn't that exactly what I claimed to dislike about forming intimate connections – the inauthentic presentation of a mask?

  If only I could work out in my own mind what it was I was searching for, maybe I wouldn't continue to find myself in these mind fuck situations. Although why was I even pretending that turbulence was discomfiting when every session I spent playing in Valentine's company elicited increasing levels of exhilaration?

  I wanted more, to be pushed to my limits, yearned to reach the outer edges of myself. But those boundaries had always been attained through the perseverance of my master. My nerves were frazzling because my dinner date was a mature maven, who no doubt had decades of experience in playing.

  And I had no clue who he was.

  This was the ultimate definition of a blind date and I hoped it wouldn't also be a blindfold date. This one I wanted to go into with eyes wide open.

  My outfit was a stunning couture full length gown by Thierry Mugler. It fit me like my own skin and was constructed, that being the only word to describe such fabric sculpture, from material I couldn’t name. It was a combination of leather, lycra and silk – an exquisite, luxurious bandage dress with broad warrior shoulders. The back was cut out, allowing access to a gentlemanly supporting hand to graze across bare skin. Thank the masters of the universe I hadn't eaten lunch because every last pucker of my flesh was molded into curvaceous sinuous form.

  I fought my hair into a futuristic up-do, going for a Bladerunner look, and prayed inside that my date would be more Ryan Gosling than Deckard. The towering heels made me seem way more svelte and dynamic than I felt in my jittery state, but I had to congratulate myself- and I did.

  “Girl, you looking hot,” I told the mirror and wished I could swish past Valentine's office on my way through the main entrance. “Eat your heart out, boyfriend.”

  I tried to convince my swollen heart that he’d even notice my absence.

  The chopper was waiting for me, rotors whipping through the air, pulsating for lift-off. We rode through the clementine skies skirting the coastline, past San Francisco to land at a beachfront estate further south. Maybe around Monterrey, but I couldn’t be sure.

  “You are going to be waiting to take me home?” I inquired skittishly of the pilot who inclined his head with a non-committal smile.

  “You’d better be,” I snapped.

  Fuck, did everyone at Valentine's estate have to be so damn non-committal?

  An oriental butler, if that was a politically correct label for the dark gold, serene man dressed in white, was waiting to lead me up the cliff. To a discreet hidden plateau with a table over the surf.

  Oh freaking bugger it, I had hoped for a more public spot. Ideally some swanky resto in downtown Frisco, not some isolated spot, no matter how stunningly situated (My god this planet possesses some incredible beautiful corners for those who can afford them). Movement in the trees and three or four tuxedoed men built like wrestlers emerged.

  The security team announced my arrival down the line into their lapels. Oh good goddess, I wasn't eating dinner with the President? Please, no.

  Then it came back to me. Valentine had said that Gianni was intending to run for that office in Italy. It made sense that with the mafia and kidnappings there, a billionaire businessman and politician would be surrounded by beefcake.

  I was seated in the comfortable throne and grabbed the chance to take a deep breath and enjoy the beautiful expanse of orange and purple ocean before my companion came down the cliff from the low slung white mansion atop it. My heart began thounding ridiculously under the tight gown that pushed my breasts up into the perfect semblance of womanhood.

  Cool down. Why on earth was I so spooked, bordering on terrified?

  A jolt of recognition quaked my core as the man came closer. I knew him. But from where? Was he famous, from a magazine? I didn't read news or fashion publications, only interiors and architecture. Then he rose up in the annals of my memory – the older guy from Valentine's yacht. He’d been there. And every time my eyes peeled the room searching out my master, Gianni GianCarlo's priapic gaze had swarmed up into view.

  He must have wanted me then. I trembled in that constrictive gown, knowing that he’d likely been one who'd stroked my bare naked slit, pulled apart and exposed to view by Valentine's rope bondage. Had he sauntered past my blindfold, trussed up body and tweaked my nipples, tugging an eager bullet in an agonizing twist until I almost cried out?

  It required every ounce of strength and pride to maintain my gaze on the approaching figure. My cheeks flushed hot and I almost curled into a ball at the fact he'd already plundered every secret crevice of my body. Recognizing his face as the one that loomed up in front of me repeatedly that night gave me chills all the way down my bare back.

  I had no reason for the misgivings. He approached me with a George Clooney style smile on his rough hewn but elegant face. How do men manage to be handsome into older age while women head straight for the flophouse? He took my hand in both his firmly cosseting palms, then reached around to clasp my bare back while he kissed me on both cheeks.

  “Thank you for agreeing to join me this evening,” he said in a voice of pure iron ore, with a touch of the erotic Mediterranean that made me think of Marc Chapelle.

  European men had an innate charm that would seem scuzzy on Americans. As his firm fingers grazed along my spine, giving a very good indication of the strength in his arms, small tingles erupted in my core. That had to be due to the climax control games of the night on the yacht. I couldn’t be sexually attracted to this older man at first glance, could I?

  “Thank you for inviting me,” I said.

  “I feel as though I've waited my entire life for this moment,” he replied.

  Seriously?

  Still it managed to sound sincere from the man. He’d make a great politician.

  The dinner passed spectacularly, with a parade of superb dishes, all Italian. Just as I'd come to expect as de rigeur from the professional personal chefs these wealthy guys kept on contract. Gianni listened with genuine interest to my excited ideas about interior design.

  “I have an extension in the courtyard of my home in Venice that is about to fall into the canal,” he joked.

  He was very classy in not trying too hard to impress me with the fact that his home was a fifteenth century palace right on the Grand Canal. I pictured his extension as some massive gilded ballroom sinking onto the sand pilings that held up the fabulous city I'd longed to see.

  “It truly is about to collapse and I'm keen to replace it with a structure that brings the building into the 21st century- this juxtaposition as you call it.”

  “The placement of super modern against ornate old, highlights rather than detracts from the best facets of both,” I said, always animated by talk of design.

  “And a turf roof is an ingenious idea in Venice where green spaces are virtually non-existent.”

  “I would love to help you if you ever decide to ask for proposals,” I said.

  Look at me networking.

  “That works out perfectly,” Gianni said, taking my hand in both his once more, as soon as the waiter deposited the flaming sambuca and departed.

  “Is everything okay, Andie?” he asked.

  33

  The blue flame on the clear liqueur made me gasp with the sudden memory of Josh – how he always ordered the fiery after-dinner drink and insisted I bring the burning liquid up close to my lips. ‘Playing with fire’ he called it. How had I never noticed the flicker of cruelty in his eyes? Gianni watched me but I saw no torturer's stare.

  “Yes, I'm fine,” I stuttered. “Sorry, I haven't seen a Sambuca in a while.”

  “Would you prefer something else? Limoncello? I have it made here with California lemons.”

  “No, I'm fine, really.”

  “Good. I was ab
out to suggest that you come with me to Venice when I return and view the work that needs to be done.”

  He slapped his flat fingers on the edge of the table as though it was settled.

  “I, oh my, that's, that would be amazing.” Oh stop with the girly garble and get control before you blow it. “As you know I'm right in the midst of a contract right now. But when I'm finished with that, I'd be-” My last words were drowned out by Gianni's instructions.

  “Jay Valentine can easily be persuaded to let you out of your contract,” Gianni said with a wave of those fingertips.

  I'd never seen my very intimidating boss dismissed so perfunctorily. This Italian was way high on the arrogance scale. Presumably he had way more billions.

  I had no doubt Valentine could be easily convinced. After all, he'd already dismissed me from his presence. But he was also possessed of demonic waywardness and I had a feeling if I tried to leave him, he'd be just as likely to issue consequences for abandoning him and his project.

  Unless that was me projecting my own attitudes, as he'd informed me was my habit. My imagining that Valentine wouldn't let me go when it was I who had invisible rope ties holding me securely moored to him like one of his fancy yachts. Now the offer was on the table, I couldn’t imagine detaching myself from the man who'd made himself my master.

  I hated him. I even did stupid things with Marc, with Josh that weekend, to try to get his attention. I wasn’t proud of that. But I hated him. I'd told him as much to his face and that I wanted to be free from his manic control. Now, faced with leaving his secluded castle and never seeing him again, the prospect was completely inconceivable.

  I was bound to him as tightly as if he'd strapped me up in a bondage corset, or his favored shibari rope ties. Maybe he had decided he didn't want me, or maybe he was playing another of his games, testing me to see whether I was securely under his domination. But as hard as I bucked against his control and insisted I wanted to escape, in truth, I was more than attached to him.

  He was buried inside me- mentally and emotionally. He was the master of my soul, my motivation, my experience of myself. He had entered me with brute force in every way except the one I desperately craved. That denial was making me a little deranged, but I couldn’t be parted from him. Despite his authority, I was convinced Valentine needed me more than I needed him. His inability to trust was reflected in his mind games, toying with my emotions. Was it arrogant to think my leaving could potentially shatter him?

  Maybe my reading of him was all wrong and what I saw was simply my own unconscious need to be important in Valentine’s life. Still, I was convinced he and I had a journey to make together, our personal adventure into the Egyptian tombs. There was no way I was going to break free until it was over.

  “What do you say, Andie?”

  Gianni had been closely observing the thoughts battling across the open field of my face with the same intense plundering of my feelings that my boss enjoyed observing. Both seemed to enjoy watching the machinations of my mind depicted on that outer screen of my body. Gianni was just as intrigued by my inner being as Valentine and waited for my response with an eagerness I found disconcerting.

  Why was he suddenly so keen to have me view his project? Had he really paid Valentine one hundred thousand dollars for a date with me? If so, why? I didn't dare inquire.

  “I would be honored to view your project as soon as my current contract is completed but it would be unprofessional to abandon it at this stage, even if the client were willing.”

  Gianni GianCarlo's face clouded over, sudden darkness replacing his previous mask of serene confidence.

  “Perhaps you should leave decisions to those better equipped to make them,” he murmured with malice dripping from his jaw.

  His hand gripped mine in an iron clamp and his eyes ground into my widened ones with thwarted rage.

  “I may be a submissive in the dungeon but I am very capable of making my own choices,” I informed him with shaky imperiousness.

  His jaw ground hard enough to saw through solid bedrock.

  “Ms Cannon, I have made you an exceptional offer that you clearly do not properly comprehend,” he said in a voice of restrained beastliness. “It's an offer a woman in your humble position is unlikely to ever see repeated in her lifetime and it seems to me that you should reconsider your position. The fallout if you refuse might be very unpleasant. For you. For others.”

  The words were less terrifying than his lethal delivery of them. Was he threatening me? There wasn't any doubt he was but the shock of his complete turnaround in personality caused me to doubt my eyes, ears and perception.

  People didn't go from being jovial and fascinated in one instant to snarling wolves of narcissism the next. For sure Gianni was completely accustomed to getting his own way but me checking his property was hardly of global importance. It could wait.

  “Gianni, you're hurting my hand.”

  I pulled away from his lock that was crushing the small bones in my fingers, tugged harder against his hold without success. The first thing I'd noticed about him on the yacht had been his wrestler body. His strength at the table as he worked to pulverize my knuckles under his vicious fingertips was awful. The harder I pulled the harder he exerted his torturous grip.

  “Please, Mr Giancarlo, that really hurts. I've given you my answer. I cannot leave this current project while its under construction, but I'm more than happy to view your project in a couple of months. I'd be honored to,” I added to sweeten the blow he still chose to take as an egregious insult.

  “Can it not wait until then?” I pleaded, still tugging to extricate my crushed hand. “I'm sure your palace isn't literally falling into the Adriatic as we speak.”

  My attempt at a joke, desperate to break the shroud of menace that had come down over the table fell on strung-out ears. His eyes were black empty caverns and the vengeful bursts firing from them was making me nauseous.

  There were two options open. I could make up a lie, tell him I'd ask Jay Valentine to release me for a few days, long enough to fly out to Venice. Or- and this was my preference over making lame excuses, despite the likelihood of being taken out by the security swat team- I could kick him in the balls, or at least the shin, with a quick heft of my not insignificant footwear.

  I set my face and glared back into his eyes, batting back the malice, well, at least letting him know I wasn't going to be intimidated. Forcing myself to show no fear, keeping it all firmly repressed, flying around in my core, my eyes informed him I was not backing down and I was not scared.

  Even though my stomach was whirling like a dervish and about to toss its excellent carpaccio appetizer over the cliff. Oh god, maybe Gianni would toss me over. I was close enough to the edge and he was certainly strong enough.

  I slitted my eyes slightly. The way my mother had slapped my face for looking at her, as a child. Defying her, she called it and it made her nuts. Suddenly, Gianni GianCarlo lost his momentum. He rose from the table and walked away. I may as well have been the empty pizza box, so suddenly did he discard me without a thought. There was a rush of activity in the treeline as the security detail leapt into response mode, chattering into their suit jackets. They mustered around the boss as he vanished up the path.

  Saved. Now I had to get out of here as fast as possible.

  An enormous tuxedo pulled up in front of me, like the side of an eighteen wheeler.

  “Follow me,” he issued the order.

  I didn’t have much choice. I was deposited back into the chopper and we lifted up into the sky with an immense rush of freedom through my heart, feeling as though I'd escaped Hannibal Lecter or something just as dark.

  While the dinner had seemed pleasant and relaxed, I noticed in my departure that I felt a massive unburdening and release around my shoulders. The tension was lifted and I felt a flutter of what could only be described as that very fleeting glimpse of happiness we are occasionally allowed to take note of, before it vanishes again like
a beautiful fluttering moth. I was intensely happy for those brief moments of floating along the coastline with the stars.

  I was going home.

  34

  It was almost midnight when we arrived. Sergio, one of the footmen, was waiting at the entrance for my return. It was hard not to imagine myself the beloved princess returning to the castle. This is what it would be like if Jay Valentine were mine. If he loved me enough to keep me, I'd know the warmth of having people care about my well-being always.

  On my way up the wide staircase, I drew the pins from my hair setting it loose. I was inexplicably all warm and fuzzy at being back where I felt I belonged, even though I'd lived there such a short time. Home wasn't the structure you resided in but the person you lived there with. I might come clean to Valentine in the morning and regale him with every disastrous detail of the botched date with Gianni.

  I’d make it light and amusing but with the strong subtext to the anecdote being that I couldn't leave him. He was an ass and an arrogant bastard at times but there was no way of releasing his hold on me. There was something inside of him too, something holding us together and I could not walk away from him any more than I could walk away from my own self.

  At the top of the stunning staircase, I turned to enjoy myself as a figurehead, standing above the spacious atrium. My arms were even starting to lift, when a figure barreled out of the darkness in the passage. I was grabbed in a painful hold around my wrist and I teetered on the top step, virtually toppling back down.

  “I've been waiting for you,” a voice growled.

  I was lead down the steps, my half unpinned hair falling across my face and obscuring my vision as I fought to not lunge over the obelisks on my feet.

  Jay Valentine was almost deranged, his perfect hair out of place as though he'd been clawing at it for hours, his tie undone flapping loose around his neck. Half way down I stumbled and he turned to catch me. I noted how his face contorted with concern. He made sure I was stable, setting me right before pulling me on in his mad haste, but not before my foot twisted out of one of the giant platform shoes – the one I'd planned to knock GianCarlo into next week with.