by Holly Hart
Table of Contents
Part I
Part II
Epilogue
Part III
Stay in touch!
The Deal
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
The Deal
Holly Hart
Contents
Stay in touch!
I. The Deal
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
II. The Baby Race
57. Jeremy
58. Jeremy
59. Evan
60. Jeremy
61. Caitlin
62. Jeremy
63. Jeremy
64. Caitlin
65. Caitlin
66. Caitlin
67. Jeremy
68. Jeremy
69. Jeremy
70. Jeremy
71. Caitlin
72. Caitlin
73. Caitlin
74. Jeremy
75. Caitlin
76. Caitlin
77. Jeremy
78. Jeremy
79. Caitlin
80. Jeremy
81. Evan
82. Caitlin
83. Evan
84. Jeremy
85. Jeremy
86. Caitlin
87. Caitlin
88. Caitlin
89. Caitlin
90. Caitlin
91. Caitlin
92. Jeremy
93. Jeremy
Epilogue
III. Keeping Her
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Chapter 122
Chapter 123
Chapter 124
Chapter 125
Chapter 126
Chapter 127
Chapter 128
Chapter 129
Chapter 130
Chapter 131
Chapter 132
Chapter 133
Chapter 134
Chapter 135
Chapter 136
Chapter 137
Chapter 138
Chapter 139
Chapter 140
Chapter 141
Chapter 142
Chapter 143
Chapter 144
Chapter 145
Chapter 146
Chapter 147
Chapter 148
Chapter 149
Chapter 150
Chapter 151
Chapter 152
Chapter 153
Chapter 154
Chapter 155
Chapter 156
Chapter 157
Chapter 158
Chapter 159
Chapter 160
Chapter 161
Chapter 162
Chapter 163
Chapter 164
Chapter 165
Chapter 166
Chapter 167
Chapter 168
Chapter 169
Chapter 170
Chapter 171
Chapter 172
Chapter 173
Chapter 174
Chapter 175
Chapter 176
177. EPILOGUE: SARA
Stay in touch!
Stay in touch!
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Part I
The Deal
Three billionaires.
A dark secret.
And one rule: Don't fall in love.
The Deal. We made it to keep us safe.
We agreed never to marry, never to let a woman close enough to find out what we did.
But men get urges.
We need the touch of a woman. The smell. The taste.
So we found a solution.
We decided to share.
We picked three women, to spend a year with each of us in turn.
And then live the rest of their lives in luxury.
It worked for years. It protected us.
Until Stella.
There’s something intoxicating about her.
Her curves. The way she arches beneath me.
I'm addicted.
I don’t want to share. Not this time. Not her.
So I won’t.
But Stella has a secret, too. O
ne that wasn't part of the deal.
And now my former partners are coming to seek revenge.
But I'll risk everything to save our family.
I lived my life by one rule. It's time to break it.
1
Stella
I toss my gym bag in the corner and peel off my sweaty top and sports bra in one. Time to get into character. Countess BeeBee never breaks a sweat, any more than the pampered maltipoo she’s named for.
We dreamt up a whole life for her—me and Jen and Asha—over lattes and tiramisu, the day I came up with Countess BeeBee’s Bee-Lieve It Or Not. She’s up at the crack of noon, downing mimosas in the bath till one. Two to five is champagne brunch; five to seven’s mani-pedi time. Then, it’s party, party, party, till dawn sweeps the glitterati away. She drinks like a fish, eats nothing but chocolate and foie gras, and somehow weighs ninety-five pounds. Thinks food stamps are edible postage. Dyes her dog to match her outfit. Owns a Segway. She’s Marie Antoinette, New York edition.
I can’t afford the arsenal of lotions and gels the Countess would use, or spare an entire hour for a bath, but I spice up my shower with a foamy, bougainvillea-scented body wash that reminds me of home. Afterwards, I slip into my other indulgence: a sinfully fluffy robe that cost me a month’s coffee money. A glass of sparkling water, BeeBee’s Favorites on my iPod, and it’s time.
My browser’s already open to Wordpress. I open a new entry and hesitate, fingers hovering over the keys.
Romance of the Three Kingdoms
I sip my water, frown, and backspace over that. BeeBee’s a dirty girl. She’d say something more like...more like—
The Three Booty-aires: Good Things Cum in Threes?
Yeah. Straight to the point.
I keep typing. It’s getting downright easy to slide into the zone.
Klara Dunston. Shazia Khatri. Anne Sherman. What do these three wannabe socialites have in common, besides tragic hair, man-hands, and, ahem...problems walking in heels?
Picture time: I drag in a photo of Shazia stumbling on the red carpet during Fashion Week, arms flailing, chunky necklace smacking her in the face. Caption: Have a nice trip! See ya next fall!
I hit up Facebook next, in search of dumb middle names, wardrobe disasters—anything I can mock without stooping too low. And there it is, under “home town”—
Well, they all burst onto the scene out of literally NOWHERE (Medicine Hat, Anne? Is that even a place?), they’ve all been spotted clutching limited edition Birkins (like, what!?!?!?!? HOW!?!?!?!?), and they’ve all banged the same three billionaires.
And this isn’t the first time Erik Moss, Magnus Gunnarsson, and Jack Brightman have made their love lives a team effort. Before Klara, Shazia, and Anne, there were Rita, Valentina, and Jane. Fiona, Maria, and Kate. Nine women in nine years, cycling between billionaires in groups of three. Uh, guys? They’re vaginas, not timeshares in Aruba.
I highlight the last two sentences and hit delete. There are limits!
Now, Countess BeeBee’s all in for swinging (and sex swings!), but this takes it to a whole new level! I mean, a year’s, like, an entire relationship. What happens if one of them falls in love? Or two of them can’t stand each other? How do they FIND each other? Is there a secret, super-exclusive swingers club I’m somehow not a member of? Some kind of...Tinder Groupon? Do they hold auditions? So many questions!
I pull in an animated gif of a dog scratching its head. Caption: WTF?
Erik, Magnus, and Jack share more than their taste in women. All three grew up in the Bronx, went to the same summer camp, and began their rise to riches with their surprise takeover of private military contractor Blakemoor, nearly a decade ago. All three served our country (thanks, boys!), Erik and Magnus taking to the skies with the US Air Force, while Jack was a big, bad Marine.
I grab another photo. Jack’s definitely the most photogenic of the three, six-plus feet of sculpted Greek god. I take a moment to drink him in, shirtless in a GQ spread, black-and-red Cerberus tattoo snarling its way over one bulging bicep. Its three snake-tails wind down his forearm to whip around his wrist. He’s let his hair grow out since his military days, and it sweeps low over his brow, giving his eyes a mean, shadowed look. His upper lip’s quirked into something that might be a smile or a snarl. Caption? Hoo-ah!
Magnus is more the Nordic prince type: burly, blond, blue-eyed. Erik’s the most military of the three, stone-faced, close-shorn, standing in his corporate portrait like a general surveying his troops. I add their pictures below Jack’s. Holy billionaire beefcake, Batgirls!
What do you think, sweethearts? Would YOU sign up for three years of high-society hanky-panky with these hunks? Countess BeeBee says “Sirs, yes SIRS!”
Vote below, and don’t forget to like, share, and comment! <3 <3 <3
I add a poll: Where do I enlist? / This is totally Section 8! / Only if I get a Birkin bag out of the deal! ;-)
I’m excited about this one. Tempted to drop it right away. But I click on Save Draft, instead, scheduling the post for tomorrow at noon. Because Countess BeeBee’s a total bathtub blogger. And because predictable update schedules equal better reader retention.
There’s more to this story. I can feel it. All kinds of intrigue, bubbling under the surface. Kink, maybe—or what if there is a network, a club, some kind of...underground sex-swap empire? Dozens of people could be doing it. Hundreds, even. These three only pinged my radar ‘cause they’re hot and famous. But there could be others: bankers, judges, doctors, professors—a who’s who of the nation’s rich and boring.
There could be enough for a followup, even a series. A book, if I play my cards right.
The sun’s going down. I should at least try to push on with my actual book, the one I’ve been working on since I quit my nine-to-five. I switch BeeBee’s Favorites for Nostalgia, Wordpress for Microsoft Word, and dash off a couple of lines.
I didn’t mean to look back, but halfway across the Ponte Regina Margherita, my eye lit on the rearview mirror. There it was, the sword of the Archangel, and the tip of his wing, intruding on the sky.
I replace “lit” with “caught,” and “intruding on the sky” with “piercing the blue,” but none of it sounds right. None of it captures the moment. I delete it all, type My mother, and sit watching the cursor blink for a good five minutes.
Well, shit.
My alarm goes off at six. I fumble for the snooze, miss, and send it clattering to the floor. Well, now I’m up. I drape my quilt over my shoulders and head for the kitchen. Countess BeeBee would be doing her nightly walk of shame right about now, stumbling one-stockinged down Park Avenue, Jimmy Choos swinging from her pinky. She’d be falling out of some drapey Valentino thing with a high price and a low neckline. Pushing last night’s artful ringlets—this morning’s wilted rat-tails—out of her face. Still half-drunk, and already half-asleep.
I set some water boiling and plop in an egg. Barefoot on the linoleum, watching the bubbles rise and burst, I plan my day. Got a tip about a gallery opening both Katya and Kylie Lederer are set to attend. Neither knows the other’s coming. Could be some juicy drama there. Later, there’s Gerome Heriot’s birthday bash. Everyone’ll be there—myself included. I didn’t expect an invite, after that one awkward date last summer, but looks like I’m on the list. No need to slip in as someone’s plus-one.
When my egg-timer’s half done, I pop a slice of sourdough in the toaster. The smell of burning crumbs permeates the air. Just enough time for....
Countess BeeBee @grandcountess * just now
Heyyyyy, party people! <3 Little BeeBee's caught wind of three FILTHY rich piglets dipping their snouts into TRIPLE trouble! I know you're DYING for the deets, but first, your Countess needs her beauty rest! Catch up soon...usual time, usual place! ;-)
