by Calista Fox
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About the Author
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To all the fans of my two billionaire ménage series, The Billionaires and Bayfront Billaionaires. I have sincerely enjoyed creating these two worlds, which are somewhat intertwined, for you, and I am deeply grateful you’ve come along for the ride!
Chapter One
“Ah, bliss . . .” Liv Tyner sipped her mai tai while taking in the cloudless sky and the breathtaking coastal inlet and harbor sprawled before her. The blazing sun cast a spotlight on a magnificent yacht anchored beyond the cove, stealing the thunder of every vessel occupying a slip in the marina of the exclusive Bayfront Yacht Club.
She settled more comfortably on the thick turquoise cushion of the rattan lounge chair lined up on the sunning deck of the club. A balmy breeze off the ocean caressed her bare skin as enticingly as warm fingers sweeping seductively up her legs and across her belly, sending a sensuous ripple through her.
It was a beautiful California day. The scent of brine floated on the sultry air, infused with the zesty aroma of the vat of paella simmering on the patio. Gentle waves undulated along the sandy shores of the private cove, the soothing rhythm mingling with the low background music from a steel-drum band that entertained the lunchtime diners who spilled out from the opened glass doors of the restaurant.
Liv’s best friend, Fallon Carteris, occupied the lounger next to Liv. Fallon lifted her own cocktail from the end table between their chairs, took a long drink, and then sighed contentedly, sharing Liv’s Zen.
Fallon said, “Finally, a little R&R. Not complaining, but you know, for all the effort we bridesmaids have put into Chloe’s wedding, you’d think one of us was tying the knot.”
“Oh, honey,” Liv said with a good-natured snicker. “With my crazy schedule, I don’t have a single prospect on the horizon. And I regret to inform you that marriage, for you, would be downright illegal in most states.”
“So are half the things Dev and Morgan do to me every night—and morning.” Fallon shot her a coy smile. And no doubt had a twinkle in her eyes, which were covered with sunglasses, as were Liv’s.
Liv laughed. “’Bout time those boys came around and homed in on the good thing right under their noses.”
“I understand it was difficult for Dev and Morgan to see beyond our childhood friendships and view me in a different light,” Fallon contended. “Plus I needed to hot myself up. They turn every female head. Had to up my game to compete.”
“And you are stunning.”
Fallon beamed. Rightly so. When her mother had retired from managing the housekeeping staff in the Presley mansion—Morgan’s family’s estate—Fallon had flown out to Miami to visit her for a week. And had ended up staying for three years, Zumba-ing her ass off on the beach and completely making herself over. She’d returned to Bayfront with shimmering dark-auburn tresses to complement her emerald irises, and a tanned and toned body that now turned even more heads than Devon McMillan and Morgan Presley did.
Fallon had considered herself an ugly duckling, and if that had been the case, she’d certainly emerged the swan to end all swans. She’d overcome her internal struggles, and with newfound confidence, had launched a budding skin care company, managed a restaurant in the club, and enjoyed a cozy threesome with a pair of Bayfront’s formerly sought-after eligible bachelors.
She told Liv, “The blood, sweat, and tears were well worth the reward. I am one ridiculously satisfied woman.”
“You glow as fantastically as our bride-to-be Chloe. I’m over-the-moon ecstatic for both of you. For all of our friends,” Liv added.
The small community of Bayfront—located south of San Francisco and adjacent to River Cross wine country and a two-hour drive from the celebrity-riddled Bliss Mountain Ski Resort—had become known internationally as a hotbed for the rich and affluent.
And of late, the cove had developed a reputation for embracing a scintillating alternative lifestyle—sizzling ménages.
Four of Liv’s female friends, including Fallon, had each partnered up with two fabulous men and were finding happily ever afters with a polyamorous definition of love. One that involved the sort of emotional and physical passion that permeated every aspect of these trios’ lives and clearly enriched their relationships.
Engaged couple Chloe Lockhart and John McDermott were an exception to the group of love triangles Liv was surrounded by. And Liv herself wasn’t dating even one man, let alone two.
Though she had experienced a hot and heavy ménage herself, long before her friends had ignited the trend here in town.
Paris. Five years ago.
A champagne-fueled hookup that still provided highly arousing fantasy material when called upon in the late-night privacy of her bedroom, to accompany her Cadillac of vibrators on the occasion when Liv really needed a spectacular release of pent-up sexual tension.
She never spoke of her ultra-sexy affair with stepbrothers Nathaniel Dalton and Tristan Reeves, whom Liv had known most of her life, or how it’d unexpectedly come about. The two men were Bayfront’s most recent success stories—global communications tycoons whose operations were headquartered in London.
Liv kept their steamy ménage tucked under her pillow, finding it particularly titillating that she’d been the first of her friends to flirt with what could very easily be deemed risqué and scandalous behavior.
Not that Liv shied away from the risqué or felt compelled to hide that side of her. Not by a long shot. The reminder curled her toes, in fact.
Perhaps it was because her magical evening had been so sensuously beautiful, so celestially orchestrated, that it was much more thrilling to retain under lock and key. Her own delicious, forbidden secret.
Aside from that, similar to her ménage à trois partners, Liv’s focus was on her career. That made their “ships passing in the night” scenario decadent and memorable without being cumbersome—or creating any sort of personal or professional hiccup for any of them.
There’d been no expectations or constraints beyond that one scorching-hot encounter. The three were on different trajectories and none of them were inclined to derail their individual agendas.
Again . . . a perfect moment in time, to be forever cherished and never repeated.
For Liv, her star was shining bright and she concentrated on that, mostly undertaking acting roles for independent producer Nick Faulkner’s studio, who was also a Bayfront resident and longtime friend. Liv had gotten her start in the entertainment industry at a young age when she’d modeled and appeared in a couple of short-lived TV sitcoms. When she’d turned sixteen, however, she’d landed the lead in Nick’s first production, which had been a breakout hit at the Sundance Film Festival.
An indie star had been born, and Liv had found a sustainable and exciting niche that involved travel to various locales mixed with studio work, so that she ended up with the best of both worlds—exhilarating excursions that always led her right back home.
Well, she could also tack on the advantage of being a recognizable face and name, yet not someone who lived under a microscope. The paparazzi kept he
r on their radar screen, though she usually wasn’t a big enough target for them to migrate far enough north from Hollywood to camp out on her doorstep on a routine basis. Only when she had a new release—and those media stalkings were usually in conjunction with tracking down Nick as well, and best-selling novelist Hunter Valens, who also wrote scripts for Faulkner Studios.
At the moment, Liv was on hiatus and enjoying her vacay before another impending shift in occupational gears—a new enhancement to her résumé—which she hadn’t revealed to anyone beyond her trusted team. Not even Fallon, who was performing a juggling act as well.
“So how’s the remodel of the lounge going?” Liv asked her.
“Swimmingly, if I do say so myself.” Fallon lifted her glass and they clinked rims. “Who would have thought I possessed project management skills in this arena?”
“Well . . . considering you’ve worked at both Michelin-starred restaurants in the yacht club for longer than I can remember—excluding your time in Miami—I’m not surprised.”
“I’ll admit that, at first, I feared I might be biting off more than I could chew,” Fallon said. “Luckily, I have us on track to host Chloe and John’s rehearsal dinner in two weeks, and then we’ll be open to members the next day.”
“I can’t wait for the big reveal!”
“Neither can I,” Fallon told Liv. “I think everyone’s going to love the new decor and menu. Still a more casual venue than the formal dining room and cigar lounge, but with an updated look. A few additional twists,” she teasingly threw in.
“That you have yet to share with me. Some best friend you are.” Not that Liv could really talk, given the mental confidences she maintained . . .
Fallon laughed softly, but didn’t elaborate further.
“Fine. Have your intrigues and keep me in suspense.” Liv’s gaze drifted back to the marina and the enormous yacht. Changing the topic of conversation, she mused, “That’s quite the floating Plaza Hotel, don’t you think?”
“Maybe there’s a rock star visiting,” Fallon said. “Dev or Morgan would have had to grant permission to enter the cove, but I haven’t seen either since this morning. The captain obviously had to drop anchor along the outskirts of the harbor because we don’t have slips that big.”
“Ah, you left the door wide open for me.” Liv grinned. “That is clearly an extension of someone’s penis.”
“Trust me when I say, my penis is large enough.” The male voice came from behind her. A deep, rough-around-the-edges-in-a-purely-erotic-way male voice.
Liv sputtered, then swallowed her drink while covering her mouth and trying to catch her breath. Because there was a distinct note of familiarity in his tone.
She dragged her gaze from the mini–cruise liner, dared to glance over her shoulder . . .
And nearly fell out of her chair.
Holy. Fuck.
Nathaniel Dalton stood alongside her. And good Lord—he was hotter than hell!
Or was she hallucinating? Conjuring a vision of him through her remembrance of their blistering time together?
“Hey there, sweetheart,” he said in his intimate timbre. The one that always set her pulse racing, but which did so much more than that now, because it held the scintillating vibe of arousal as he stared down at her in her tiny yellow bikini.
Nope, no hallucination here.
Liv’s inner thighs flamed. Her heart slammed against her ribs. And more memories of that naughty and naked night in Paris flashed through her mind.
Nathaniel’s bold, grass-green gaze slid over her like a feathery touch as stimulating as the breeze off the ocean. As stirring as the spark against her clit and the searing in her veins.
Liv realized she still hadn’t spoken, but she couldn’t come up with a single sensible thing to say. Not in the presence of this new and improved version of her onetime lover.
Nathaniel and his stepbrother Tristan had been on the gangly side growing up, but had started lifting weights their senior year of high school and had really come into their own by the time they’d met up with her in France, after graduating MIT with honors. Clearly, Nathaniel hadn’t abandoned his gym membership—had stepped up his workouts, even—because he was more solidly built than ever . . . downright mouthwatering.
Rendering Liv speechless. Something that never happened to the outspoken performer.
Thank God for Fallon. Liv’s friend stood and rounded her chair.
“Nice to see you, Nathaniel,” she told him.
“Jesus, Fallon.” He took her in from head to toe. Efficiently—not in the absorbing way he had with Liv. He gave Fallon a quick hug and then held her at arm’s length. “I wouldn’t have known it was you if you weren’t with Liv. Damn . . . you look amazing.”
“So do you,” she said, a tinge of pink sweeping over her high cheekbones. “I figured it was time I cranked things up a notch.”
“And some smart fella put a ring on your finger. That’s one hell of a rock you’re wearing.”
“Two smart fellas, actually. Dev and Morgan. Commitment ring.” She held up her hand and wiggled her fingers to show off the four carat heart-shaped diamond they’d given her several months ago, on Valentine’s Day.
“Whoa.” Nathaniel’s brows jumped. “Dev and Morgan?” His glimmering eyes flitted briefly to Liv. One corner of his tempting mouth lifted mischievously, knowingly, inciting more sparks between her legs. To Fallon, Nathaniel said, “Well, congratulations are certainly in order.”
Liv watched as he gave her best friend another hug. He was tall and strapping. His shoulders, back muscles, and biceps strained against the gray button-down shirt he hadn’t bothered to tuck in. His massive traps rose above the collar and the hard swells of his pecs filled the opening of the shirt that he’d paired with inky jeans and boots.
Nathaniel’s usual neatly trimmed and well-behaved dark brown hair was now sexily mussed, sticking up on end in the front. And he sported a deep tan that suggested he’d spent quite a bit of time on the coast, but why was this the first she was seeing of him in Bayfront since he’d left California for MIT a decade ago?
She mentally shook her head. Didn’t matter. He was in town and she couldn’t be more thrilled by his long-overdue visit. An impish trill along her spine had her shooting to her feet, then leaping onto her lounge chair. Spreading her arms wide, she finally found her voice and declared, “The prodigal son returns!”
Nathaniel chuckled, an evocative rumble that warmed her to the core. “I’m hardly a prodigal anything—all very respectable and gainfully employed, I assure you. But thanks for the public service announcement.” His grin deepened, showing off gleaming white teeth that were perfectly straight after years of braces and retainers. “I see the world is still your oyster—and your personal stage.”
“I don’t think the world would have it any other way.” At that proclamation, there was a round of applause on the sundeck for her theatrics—to which the good citizens of Bayfront were accustomed.
Liv took a mock bow, always willing to ham it up for this audience. She had plenty of friends stretched out on loungers or sitting around the pristine, infinity-edged pool, soaking up the rays and sipping exotic cocktails. They were, by far, her favorite and most dedicated fans.
Well . . . perhaps they took a slight back seat to the devilishly handsome man standing before her. Liv leaned toward him and planted her hands on his impossibly broad shoulders, marveling over all the rigid muscles beneath her fingers, which burned to strip away the material and explore every tantalizing inch of him.
Her inner thighs continued to quiver and sizzle.
“So studly,” she playfully said of his strikingly masculine appearance. “What brings you in from London? I was beginning to fear you’d permanently defected. And what a damn shame that would be!”
“Never,” he swore with a titillating wink.
His large, smooth hands clasped her about the waist to hold her steady as she swayed on the thick cushion—mostly due to his n
earness and his roguish expression, both of which were sending tremors down her bare legs.
His skin was hot on hers, and Liv couldn’t help but conjure more explicit visuals of how those hands of his had pleasured her, palming her breasts, massaging firmly if not a bit roughly to drive her wild. And when one had slipped inside the scant triangle of her thong in her hotel room overlooking the Champs-Élysées, rubbing her slick folds, then targeting her clit until she’d shattered under his skilled touch . . . Well. She’d had one powerful climax after another that night!
Now she choked down a moan. Banished some of her more lascivious thoughts. No need to get all worked up here at the yacht club. As it was, her skimpy bikini bottoms were already damp, thanks to hunky Nathaniel, his smoldering gaze, his hands on her body . . . and her errant ruminations.
He said, “I’m here for the wedding. So is Tristan. He’s wandering about somewhere inside. Getting a drink, I think.”
“Nope, he’s headed our way,” Liv said as she caught sight of her other favorite man in the periphery, her glance shifting to Tristan. She was grateful for the much-needed distraction. Not that Tristan Reeves didn’t have her creaming even more . . .
Her already molten blood turned to pure magma.
“I can’t believe this!” she exclaimed. “You’re both home for the wedding!”
“Not just home for it,” Nathaniel told her. “John had asked us to be groomsmen—Tristan and I needed to wrap up some business before we could commit. But we’re free and clear and available to escort you up the aisle following the nuptials.”
She tore her gaze from the Adonis sauntering toward them. “Oh, my God!” Her heart jumped into her throat. “You wouldn’t tease a girl, would you?”
“Not this one.” Excitement flared in Nathaniel’s eyes as his gaze dropped to her plumped-up breasts. He swallowed hard before adding, “And you are no girl, sweetheart.”
Liv tried to ignore the zings ricocheting through her body. No easy feat. She was slightly breathless as she said, “Aww . . . you’re here to rescue me! I’ve been dreading that part of the ceremony for weeks. Dev and Morgan are escorting Fallon. The maid of honor, Sylvia Carter, will be on the arms of Seth Lofton and Noah Donovan. And then there’s me, all by my lonesome.” She jokingly said, “I’d resigned myself to begging the four-year-old flower girl and the ring bearer to let me walk them up the aisle instead of their very own mother!” A distant cousin of John’s.
