The Billionaire's Revenge: Billionaire Brothers Billionaire Bachelors (Tycoon Billionaires Book 3)

by Farrell, Julie

  “Me too… thank you for this opportunity.”

  He snorted. “Sure. Now if you’d like to wait outside my office, my assistant will arrange security clearance for you for Press HQ over in East Village. You’ll be assigned to a team and the editor-in-charge will brief you.”

  Robertson looked down and started to write something in an expensive notebook.

  Eleanor glanced at Matthew. He shrugged.

  Robertson looked up. “Still here? Don’t you want the job?”

  Eleanor stared at him. Her instincts were yelling at her to say no. But it was one story. No one was going to get hurt, were they? Were they? She felt as if she was at the top of a slippery slope: she could walk out of this office now and go back to being a freelance journalist scratching out a living for an insignificant community paper. Or she could take this chance – jump through this hoop – and obtain the lucrative and fulfilling career that she’d always wanted. Surely it was worth taking the chance? This was her dream after all.

  “Yes I do want the job,” she said.

  “Good. Now off you go, sit outside my office and my assistant will meet you once she’s organised security clearance. Then you’ll need to go across town to Press HQ, where the tabloid and broadsheet are both based.”

  She frowned. “So the newspapers aren’t based here?”

  “Hell, no. This is the headquarters for my entire business conglomerate – all of our clients and advertising partners come here, and I don’t want them being subjected to hordes of angry protestors, do I?”

  Eleanor’s stomach lurched with nerves. “Angry protestors?”

  Robertson waved his hand dismissively. “It’s just because of the nature of what we do. Some people get a bit touchy, huh?”

  Eleanor nodded slowly. What the hell did that mean?

  Robertson gestured to Matthew. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, Eleanor, I’ve got some record company issues I need to discuss with your boyfriend.” He shuffled some papers on his desk. “And later I’m having dinner with the Mayor and the Chief of Police. Should be a fun and productive day all round.”

  Eleanor stood up and thanked him. As she click-clacked in her heels towards the heavy imposing mahogany door, she prayed she hadn’t just signed up for the biggest mistake of her career. If this was her dream, why did it feel so wrong?

  Chapter Four

  Joseph strolled down the corridor of the News Scape offices trying to come up with some witty replies to the dull questions that Robertson was inevitably going to be firing at him in a few minutes’ time. But it was hard to focus on anything other than this dazzling corridor. It was so ostentatious. The corridor was wide, the ceilings were high, and the windows were huge. He glanced down at his distressed-leather biker boots and realised he was leaving a trail of imprints on the thick immaculate carpet. The potted palms and bright lights gave the corridor a Hawaiian feel, and it was easy to forget it was actually Thanksgiving in two weeks. Joseph half-expected some grass-skirted dancing girls to appear and offer him a lei.

  He chuckled at the sexual innuendo. Perhaps he could say that to Robertson when he met him – it would sound like a compliment but would actually be an insult. Eleanor’s daily banter had trained him well in the art of back-handed praise.

  He strode around the corner and halted as his muscles surged with joy. There she was, sitting on a huge black leather couch, outside what must be Robertson’s office – looking like a naughty schoolgirl. She was engrossed in her iPad, and she’d removed her high heels. Joseph pushed away the desire to remove the rest of her clothing, slowly and sensuously with his teeth.

  He propelled himself forward, making her glance up.

  He threw her his best grin. “Hi, Ellie.”

  She glared. “Oh… you.”

  “How did the interview go?”

  “I got the job, thank you very much.”

  “Congratulations. I’m pleased for you, seriously.”

  “Oh... Thanks.”

  He sat down on the couch without waiting to be invited. “So when can we expect to see articles by Ellie Davison in The New York Guardian?”

  “It’s Eleanor… and I don’t know.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well…” She winced. “Here’s something for you to gloat about. Robertson wants me to write a front-page story for The New York Spin.”

  A smirk beyond Joseph’s control appeared on his lips. “The tabloid?”

  “Yes. It’s hilarious, isn’t it?”

  He folded his arms across his chest. “Well, it’s a surprise… Now there’s a headline for you: Investigative journalist sells out big time!”

  “Shut up… I know.”

  “Whatever happened to your duty to report the news – to educate, enlighten, and… what was it?”

  A scowl of contempt appeared on her beautiful face. “It’s just one story, okay. If I can do this, then he’ll let me work for the broadsheet. I’m a good writer and I want to use my talent to expose the truth. I know the value of good journalism.”

  “Oh yeah? Then why the hell are you sitting outside Blair Robertson’s office? You know it’s all just a machine, right?”

  “What? No it’s not.”

  He leaned closer. “Ellie, allow me to explain how News Scape works.”

  “I know how the media works, thank you.”

  “Do you? Have you seen the never-ending cycle of disposable stars, whose glamorous lives are splashed daily across the papers and TV channels?”

  “Obviously – I have eyes. What’s your point?”

  “Well, did you ever stop to realise that those papers and TV channels are owned and controlled by the very same organization as the stars themselves?”

  “So what?”

  “So, News Scape uses sex, sensationalism, and quick-fix thrills to make people like me famous, and then they exploit us for every cent until the public gets tired of the latest craze and demands the next best thing. I’m currently the latest craze, right? I’m huge; bigger than Elvis – adored by millions.”

  She feigned admiration. “And yet still so modest.”

  “Maybe not. But I’m not stupid either. At the moment, Robertson Records are using my music for their own gain, but soon some other clone will be found to replace me and I’ll be forgotten.”

  “Poor you, Joseph, having wealth, fame, and adoration thrust upon you so cruelly by bad old News Scape.”

  He ignored her sarcasm. “Ellie, my point is that everyone forgets it’s all being controlled by one puppet-master: Mr Blair Robertson. He owns the whole damn thing. Don’t you see?”

  Eleanor scoffed. “Yeah, yeah – it’s all a big secret conspiracy.”

  “It’s not a secret.”

  She rubbed her eyes. “Look, Joseph, I want to… I just feel if I can get in there, then maybe I can make a difference from the inside.”

  Joseph shook his head. “Impossible. They’ll change you.”

  She stared at him with serious eyes – the jokey banter forgotten. “You’re wrong. Just because you can’t change things with your music, it doesn’t mean no one can. One person can make a difference. We all have the power to stand strong against the tide.”

  Joseph gazed at her. He could see she really believed it. It was quite inspiring in a sweet kind of way. “Well, I wish you luck with that.”

  “There’s no need for sarcasm.”

  “I mean it. I honestly hope you succeed.”

  She gazed at him suspiciously. “Thank you.” She closed her eyes and composed herself. “Life is simply giving me a test and I can handle it. This is a passing event in my life – like a bit of bad weather on the road to achieving my goals. And we’ve all gotta take the rain as well as the sunshine, right?”

  He smiled. It was true. He wanted to say ‘Ellie, you’re so wise. I’d love to take you out to dinner and get to know you better. We could talk about the world and our place in it. Then perhaps we can go back to my place and I can make love to you all night long – possessi
ng your beautiful body with the best orgasm you’ve ever experienced. Why don’t you ditch your no-good boyfriend and get with a man who actually cares about you?’

  But instead he smirked and said, “Did you read that in a fortune cookie?”

  She huffed, composing her snarky retort, but – before she could speak – she was interrupted by the sound of the elevator pinging at the other end of the corridor. She dropped out of the conversation and leaned forward to grab her purse, as if she’d been waiting for whoever this was. But – as they both saw a man step out into the corridor – her expression dropped to terror.

  Joseph’s primal instincts jumped into action to protect her and he prepared himself to fight. The guy looked about thirty, and he was dressed in scruffy jeans and an old coat. His brown hair was receding, but he seemed like a man on a mission. And – from the look of his demeanour – his orders were coming directly from an insane part of his brain. He halted partway down the corridor and inspected the nameplate on one of the other doors, oblivious to Joseph and Eleanor.

  “Who is it?” Joseph whispered.

  Eleanor’s gaze was fixed on him. “He’s a journalist, or at least he was. Bob Crowe. He was imprisoned last year for using illegal techniques to acquire stories. He was sued by that Hollywood director – do you remember?”

  Joseph frowned as the story drifted into his memory. “Oh yeah. He used coercion techniques to expose a malicious bit of gossip, right? Can’t remember what it was now.”

  “Right. He broke all kinds of privacy laws.” Eleanor lowered her voice. “It’s terrible, I mean, what kind of reporter uses underhand methods like that to get a story?”

  “Probably most of them who work for this organisation.”

  She ignored this slur and eyed-up Bob with caution. “I thought he was in prison. I wonder what he’s doing here. He must’ve been released.”

  Joseph watched as the rogue journalist sauntered towards them. “Well,” Joseph said to Eleanor, “the way I remember it, News Scape dropped him like a hot potato – they washed their hands of him and abandoned him to the judge and jury. Maybe he’s back to tell Robertson what life in jail was like.”

  As Bob drew closer, he suddenly noticed them and burst into life. “It’s corruption! They’re controlling the world – it’s a plot again our civil liberties!”

  Joseph stood up and held out his hands. “Now, come on. You sound like a conspiracy nut.”

  Bob delved manically into the inside pocket of his coat, and Joseph watched coolly, expecting him to pull out a secret document or something, but the atmosphere exploded with dread as Bob’s hand came out holding a semi-automatic military pistol.

  Joseph’s palms twitched as he suppressed the desire to grab the weapon. The seconds dripped by like sticky tar as his brain tried to figure out what to do. Nothing existed now apart from his raw emotion, which merged in the air around him, stretching his essence wide across the room, hoping to prevent anything bad happening to the woman he loved.

  Joseph unglued his feet and subtly positioned himself in front of her. He’d never realised it before, but – yes – he would take a bullet for her. Although hopefully he wouldn’t need to today.

  Bob spoke in a measured voice. “Blair Robertson needs to be obliterated. I’ve come to fulfil my destiny.”

  Joseph forced himself to remain cool, realising he’d need to placate this nutjob and grab that gun before anyone got hurt. He muttered to Eleanor, “What did you say his name was?”

  “Bob Crowe,” she whispered, gripping the leather couch with tense fingers.

  Joseph set his expression to tough-yet-sympathetic. “Come on, Bob, put the gun down. You don’t wanna hurt anyone.”

  “Yes I do.” He glanced at Eleanor. “And I’m planning to do much more than hurt.”

  Gripping the gun in both hands, he suddenly pointed it straight at Eleanor, who recoiled in terror. “No!” she screamed.

  Joseph’s anger surged into his fists. No one was hurting her. He leaned towards Bob, driven by a primal desire to protect. “You wanna kill someone, motherfucker? Kill me – come on. Point it at me.”

  Bob’s arms trembled as he continued to point the gun towards Eleanor. Joseph knew he was bluffing – there was no way he’d shoot her; he was a bundle of nerves. But Joseph couldn’t risk an accident.

  “I said point the fucking gun at me!” Joseph shouted.

  Bob suddenly swung his arms around and pointed it at Joseph.

  “Joseph…” Eleanor whispered. “What the hell are you doing?”

  Joseph’s mind focused single-pointedly on Bob, pinning him down with his glare and not allowing him to make one false move.

  He held up his hands. “You know who I am, right, Bob?”

  Bob nodded, quivering under his own crushing emotion. “Joseph Quinlan.”

  “Right. And do you want to kill a rockstar today?”

  He shook his head frantically. “No… no.”

  “Alright, let me tell you something – you’re not killing anyone else but me. If I see you pull that trigger, I’ll put myself between the bullet and your target. Understand?”

  Bob opened his mouth to reply, but Robertson’s office door was suddenly yanked open and the man himself strode out, followed by Matthew.

  “What the hell is going on out here?” Robertson shouted. He recoiled as he noticed the intruder, but he quickly composed himself. “Bob, how the hell did you get up here?”

  Bob pointed the gun at Robertson. “I’ve come to kill you, you bastard!”

  “Nobody’s killing anybody,” Joseph said. “Point it at me, Bob. Remember what I said? You squeeze that trigger and I’m taking the bullet.”

  Bob’s eyes were fixed on Robertson – as was the gun. “I’ve fantasised about killing you since you abandoned me to rot in prison!”

  Joseph glanced at Robertson and saw his brow was prickling with sweat. He was starting to panic. Surely he didn’t believe Bob would actually go through with this?

  “You don’t want to kill him,” Joseph said. “You don’t want to end up back in jail.”

  Bob’s fingers gripped the gun tight. “I need to show him he’s not the superhuman he thinks he is. He needs to be reminded that no one’s above the law. He’s flesh and blood, like everyone else.”

  Sympathy arose in Joseph’s chest. Bob wasn’t a killer – he was a man in pain who thought he could get peace by destroying the object of his anger. But that would only make him feel worse and send him straight to hell. “Bob, come on, point it back at me.”

  Bob ignored him, resolutely aiming the gun in his shaking hands at Robertson. He flicked off the safety with a terrifying click, meaning all he needed to do now was pull the trigger. Joseph realised brute force was going to be required. His desire to protect Eleanor overrode his sense of personal welfare and he launched himself forward to grab Bob’s wrists.

  Bob yelled in protest, but the force of Joseph’s dive pulled them both down, and they crashed to the ground – with Joseph on top gripping Bob’s wrist tightly. He squeezed hard, crunching Bob’s wrist bones with such power that his fingers opened and he dropped the gun as he screamed in pain. They writhed together on the expensive carpet as Bob struggled to push Joseph off him, but Joseph was determined. He pushed himself up to his hands, then – resting all his weight on one arm – he pulled back his fist and punched Bob hard in the face, rendering him dazed. Joseph jumped up and drew back his foot to kick him, but he realised that would be brutal and unnecessary – the man was stunned and wouldn’t be getting up anytime soon. He lowered his foot, restraining himself. Then he reached down and grabbed the gun. It was surprisingly light for a military weapon…

  “You’d better call security,” Joseph said to Robertson. “And get this guy back behind bars.”

  Matthew – who was cowering behind Robertson – darted into the office to make the call. Joseph realised he’d better keep the semi-conscious Bob talking while they waited the slow uncomfortable minute for the g
uards to arrive. But Bob seemed defeated now – he looked like a little boy who wanted to go home. The guards didn’t care about that though. They rushed over, grabbed him violently, and dragged him away – hopefully to the police station and back to prison where he clearly needed to stay for a long time.

  Joseph turned to face the others. He noticed Matthew hadn’t reappeared.

  “You okay?” he asked Eleanor, who was still sitting tensely on the couch.

  She gazed at him with her mouth open. “Joseph… you...”

  He wanted to throw her over his shoulder and ride off into the sunset with her by his side, but Robertson pulled him back to the stifling corridor with a hearty backslap. “Well, thank you, young man. I think you just about saved my life there.”

  Joseph gazed at the gun. “Actually, it’s plastic. And I was only trying to save… anyone who might’ve gotten hurt.”

  “You’re okay by me,” Robertson said gruffly.

  Matthew crept into the corridor, straightening his tie as if he’d been the one saving the day. The atmosphere clanged with tension – the aftermath of the gun attack resonated in the air, smothering them.

  “Er, Mr Robertson,” Matthew said. “This is Joseph Quinlan. He’s one of the musicians I manage. He’s rather popular with the young people.”

  “I know who this is!” Robertson snapped. “I own a goddamn tabloid newspaper – I see his face on the front page every morning when I’m pouring maple syrup on my goddamn pancakes.”

  Joseph scoffed. “Yeah, you’d need something to sweeten the bullshit you print.”

  Matthew gasped. “Joseph! How dare you speak to Mr Robertson like that?”

  Robertson laughed. “Don’t worry, Matthew. My life’s work has been called much worse. But don’t you forget who butters your bread, young man.”

  “I butter my own bread, thank you, sir.”

  He waved his hand. “Nonsense. No one had heard of you until we put you on the David Peterson Show – which – if you don’t know – I own.”

  Joseph’s chest prickled with irritation. He didn’t know that.

  “Listen, son,” Robertson said. “I know sometimes it must be hard having your private life splashed over the pages of the tabloids. But it’s for the greater good.”