Tech Titans: The Complete Billionaire Romance Series

by Swann, Marcella

  Tingling warmth explodes through my belly as he sidesteps, circling me like a wolf. Whoever he is, he’s having a weird effect on my pulse and breathing. La vache! Maybe I’m getting sick. That’s it. This guy isn’t causing this weird feeling, maybe I’m getting the flu. In the middle of summer.

  “Qui êtes-vous? Who are you?” I ask. My voice sounds demanding and I lift my chin into battle position. This guy better have answers, quick. He’s here, in my space, uninvited. I don’t give a shit if he’s the freakin’ pope, he’s got no right to be here.

  A little grin tugs the corners of his lips. “You first,” he says, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. There’s something guarded about him that I understand on some primal level.

  “I don’t have time for games,” I say, planting my hands on my hips. I’m half a second from telling him to get out.

  “Then tell me your name.” He’s firm. There’s a challenge in his eyes.

  I’m not about to be cowed by him or anyone else. “I am Sabine. Sabine Baptiste.”

  I see a light of recognition in his eyes. He steps closer, offering his hand. “Hayden Stallworth.”

  “Taisez-vous!” I shout, knowing full well he won’t understand. His scent fills every breath I take and I feel like I’m going to pass out. “Shut up,” I manage to mutter. “I didn’t know I was in the presence of the devil himself.” I feel the grin spreading across my face. His shake is strong and I feel the static jolt of his touch.

  He dips his head a quarter inch, never taking his eyes off mine. “At your service … mademoiselle.”

  “Imposter. The real Hayden Stallworth would never serve anyone.” My light tone takes all the sting out of the words. His eyes narrow slightly and that odd tingling heat pulses through me with every heartbeat.

  “Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think you do,” he growls. There’s velvet steel under the words and a warning I ignore. I know exactly what he’s implying, and it’s disgusting. I love it.

  “Oh, I know all about you. You own the evil company that rips me off.” I shift my weight, cross my arms, and hold his gaze with my own.

  His eyes narrow slightly. “Rips you off? How so?” he asks, his posture relaxing a little like I didn’t just volley some inflammatory words his way.

  He seems so at home, it’s weird. I jerk a shoulder upward and answer. “I’ve got more than 100 million streams on SXz and I’ve made about $12.” I’m exaggerating, but it’s been a sore spot. He’s got billions in the bank and I’m struggling even as I pad his pockets. Screw him and all his thieves.

  “One hundred million streams, huh?” he says, his eyes locked on my face. “Last I checked, you had about 103,028,066 streams. SXz has paid you three-hundred ninety-one thousand, two-hundred and forty-six dollars and sixty-two cents. So far.”

  I must look as stupid as I feel because he flashes me a tight smile and answers a question I didn’t ask.

  “I’m good with numbers … and your welcome.”

  Those numbers don’t sound right. I need to double check with Bassirou. My manager doesn’t like it when I ask questions, but this seems like something got messed up somewhere. I thought I’d made so much less. Staring at this man with a new appreciation, I don’t bother trying to contain my excitement.

  “I’m not good with numbers,” I say honestly, a nervous laugh erupting out of me.

  The girl peeks in the tent. “Boss, hate to break this up and all.”

  I turn to Hayden. “I’ve got to get ready.” Regret floods me. I’d been enjoying our back and forth. It’s nice to find someone who doesn’t treat me like I’m some fragile thing that might shatter at the smallest bump.

  “We’ve got more to talk about,” he says.

  I feel the same way but I give him a fake number anyway.

  Chapter Three: Hayden

  “You’re distracted.”

  I glance up at Judy, noting her glaring yellow dress shirt and matching pants. She looks like a tall glass of lemonade.

  “You’re yellow. Of course, I’m distracted, you’re blinding.” I take a sip of my coffee.

  “Somebody’s got to be the sunshine around here,” she smiles.

  “Why did Damian tell me to hire you?”

  “’Cause I’m brilliant … and my best friend is the girlfriend of one of your co-founders. And making a right decent man outta that bad boy. Remember?”

  “Oh, yeah,” I say distractedly.

  With that, she walks over and sits on my desk. She turns to face me, pulling her legs up and crossing them. I notice she’s barefoot as usual and her toenails are a matching vivid yellow.

  “Did you notice the new guy?” she asks, lowering her voice like he can hear her.

  “Nope, but I bet he noticed you.” I arch an eyebrow at her loud outfit.

  “You think so?” she asks, fingering an invisible spot on her thigh.

  “I think they can see you from the space station.”

  She laughs. “Perfect!”

  “I need to make a call,” I say, and she hops off my desk and gives me a smile.

  “You’re calling her?”

  I stare at her. How does she know? I didn’t tell her a damn thing.

  As if she’s reading my mind, she gives a little bow. “Wow. She must be something special to have you all hot and bothered like this.”

  There’s no good response to that, so I keep quiet.

  She slips out the door, a pleased look on her face. “Hurry up and bang the woman so you can get your head back in the game!” And she’s gone, the door closing with a soft click behind her as I shake my head.

  Damn, I’d love to.

  Picking up the phone, I stare at the number Sabine had given me. In mind’s eye, I see her sparkling green eyes and lust slams me in the gut. Nobody, and I mean nobody, talks to me the way she had. She’d called me the fucking devil himself. Nobody else would dare insult me like that.

  Not that I was insulted. Surprised, yes. Insulted, no.

  It’s kind of refreshing not to be treated like royalty. She spoke her damn mind and owned it. That’s a rare—and admirable—trait.

  I dial her number and wait. It rings. And rings. And rings. And someone finally picks up.

  “Hello?” The voice is masculine. Too old to be a lover of hers, unless she’s got a thing for men in their sixties.

  “I must have the wrong number.”

  “Women,” the old man snorts. “Better luck next time, buddy.”

  We hang up and I stare at the phone. She gave me the wrong number. I shoot a text to Judy and a second later she pops her head in.

  “How did it go, boss?”

  “She gave me a wrong number.”

  Judy whistles. “She gave you the old slip … and not of the tongue. You got you a winner on your hands.”

  “I need you to track her down.”

  I see her eyes light up with glee. Bouncing up and down, she claps her hands and gives an excited squeal. “I love this part!”

  And she’s damn good at it. If she ever left here, she could open her own private eye business and do incredibly well. That’s why I pay her more than double the salary she’d asked for; she may be my buddy’s girlfriend’s best friend or whatever, but she’s fucking great and I want her to stay on with SXz. She’s an asset to the team and to me.

  “Whatcha got?” she asks, producing a mini notepad and pen from the big pocket on her stomach.

  “Her name is Sabine Baptiste—”

  Judy’s mouth drops open. She stares at me for a full minute before managing to speak. “The Sabine Baptiste?” The words are a squeak. Her pen is hovering over the paper as she stares at me in stunned silence, waiting for my answer.

  I nod.

  “I want to meet her! Oh, my gosh, I freakin’ love Just Love!” She’s gushing, and I’d stop her, but I share her sentiments. Just Love is the title track of her second album. Her first was all jazz and was highly regarded by the jazz world. With Just Love, she went pop and
it’s a crossover hit. The song may well go platinum and a star, a pop star, might be in the making.

  Judy starts singing Just Love. She’s got a pretty voice, but it lacks the raw emotion and power of Sabine’s deep and resonant pipes. Even the recorded version somehow misses some of the magic of her voice live.

  “Judy—”

  “Right. Sorry. I’m a fangirl.” She jots down the name and I notice even her pen ink is bright yellow.

  “How can you even read that?” I ask.

  “You knew my handwriting sucked when you hired me.” She gives me a grin, and I shake my head.

  “No, that ink color is horrendous.”

  “It’s called biohazard yellow. Isn’t it great?” She’s staring at it, enjoying it way too much.

  “By definition, anything with the word biohazard in the name isn’t great.”

  She grins and proceeds to write me a note on the stack of post-its I keep on my desk for jotting down ideas. Peeling it off, she sticks it to the back of my monitor where I can’t see it and hurries out the door. With a shake of my head, I try to get back to work. Unsuccessfully.

  A half hour later, I’m staring at Sabine’s actual number.

  “Call her!” Judy says.

  When I’m alone again, I dial the number. On the second ring, Sabine’s rich voice answers.

  “Bonjour.”

  She sounds off, but I can’t quite place why.

  “Should we pick up where we left off?” I ask, leaning back in my chair.

  Silence.

  “How? How are you calling me?” She sounds like she’s half asleep.

  “You think a wrong number can stop me?”

  Silence. Then thick, rich laughter fills my ear. “I guess not. I bet you’re not used to rejection.”

  “And I bet you’re used to people giving up on you.”

  I hear her sharp inhale on the other end.

  And I dive right in. “Look, I don’t play games. I asked for your number because I wanted to keep going with our little conversation.” Might as well just fucking put it all out there. I don’t have time to bullshit. The computer monitor on my desk flares to life, asking for my password. Like it’s trying to remind me I’m supposed to be working. All it does is make clear to me that this woman has been derailing every productive thought I’ve had all day.

  “You asked for my number because you want to go to bed with me,” she says.

  A tight grin tugs the corners of my lips. She doesn’t pull punches. Damn. I fucking love that.

  But she’s wrong. “I don’t need to chase women or hunt them down. Not who I am.”

  “Charming,” she says flatly.

  “I told you I don’t play games. That means I’m not going to hide the ugly shit behind pretty lies.” My time is valuable. I’d rather not waste it pretending to be something—or someone—I’m not. I stare around my office, remembering where I am, reminding myself who I am.

  “I like that.” She sounds more upbeat, more awake for a second. “Everyone lies to me.” Sudden sadness fills her voice.

  “I won’t.”

  “The liars say that too, you know.” She gives a short, sad laugh.

  “I haven’t lied to you yet. I don’t plan to start.” It’s sad this woman has no one she trusts. I’m a lucky man with Judy, my brother and my other business partners, family. I’ve got people I can turn to. She doesn’t sound like she does.

  “I’m sorry I gave you a wrong number,” she says. “I’ve got a habit of screwing things up.”

  “Well, you’ll have to try harder moving forward.”

  Her laughter fills my ear, and I can’t help but smile at the way she lets loose and really laughs. I want this woman more than ever and I’ve got her right where I want her. I think.

  Chapter Four: Sabine

  Still excited by the conversation with Hayden, I decide it’s time to talk with my manager, Bassirou Masson. After hearing Hayden’s numbers, something just isn’t right.

  I slip out of my room in the two-bedroom suite Bassirou had booked us at the Drake Hotel in San Francisco. He got me the gig at the Monterey Jazz Festival and a headlining performance at the Fillmore, the iconic venue that has hosted legends like Aretha Franklin and Santana. These are bigtime opportunities for me and I’m grateful. Still, you can take the kid off the streets, but you can’t take the street out of the kid. Where’s my money? I think in songs and Rihanna’s Bitch Better Have My Money flashes across mind like a billboard.

  My phone’s in my back pocket, in case Hayden calls back or texts like he said he would. I find my manager in the shared space in front of the TV, several bottles of vodka before him and a loaded bong ready to go.

  “Can I see the accounts and paperwork?” I ask, feeling that same knot of discomfort low in my gut as his eyes narrow and he leans back on the couch.

  “Since when do you care about the numbers?” he asks. There’s a falsely playful note to his voice.

  Since someone told me I made a hell of a lot more than you told me. “I’m just curious,” I say, trying not to get defensive and angry. That always makes him mad.

  He pats the couch beside him, but I shake my head, shoving my hands in my back pockets. I see his eyes dart to my hips, then they take their time, trailing over my full curves slowly before meeting my eyes again. The heat behind his stare turns my stomach.

  He shoves a cup toward me. “Drink. It’ll calm you down.”

  I’m torn. On the one hand, it will calm me down and make this whole confrontation easier. Because I’m not leaving without seeing those accounts and statements. That’s my money, damn it.

  But I also don’t want to. As much as I welcome the warmth of numbness, I feel like I need to be on my toes for this talk.

  But if I don’t, things will get worse. I take the cup he offers, wincing at the sting as the vodka overwhelms my senses. I swallow every drop, knowing he’ll check. The alcohol hits me like a truck and I feel dizzy, realizing I haven’t eaten today.

  I hand him the cup, and he peeks in before setting it down on the table, seeming satisfied with my show.

  Numbness sweeps through me, and I breathe a sigh of relief as the first wave of nausea passes. “Okay. Can I see now?” I ask. That fucking drink went down badly. Holding the back of my hand on my mouth, I back the bile creeping up my throat.

  Bassirou is on his feet in a second. I want to back up a step as he reaches out and drags his knuckles down my cheek. It takes all my willpower not to jerk back away from his unwelcome touch. His brown eyes jump back and forth between mine.

  “We’re one and the same, mon trésor.” His hand skims down my neck to grip my shoulder, and I feel the urge to pull away stronger than ever. “My treasure,” he repeats in English this time, “we come from the same hell.”

  He’s right. We’re both from the Goutte D’Or neighborhood in Paris. Goutte D’Or isn’t where they take the tourists. They call it Little Africa, and it fits. Not even the French think we’re French. Both Bassirou’s parents were immigrants from Senegal. My mother is also from Senegal, but my father is a green-eyed Frenchman. Or so I’m told. I wouldn’t know. My father was never around when I was growing up. Sometimes I wonder if I traded one worthless drunk for another, but that’s stupid. I’ve never even met my father and Bassirou is more big brother than anything else.

  Bassirou has a bad habit of making a lot of promises. I get it, though. When you grow up on the streets of Goutte D’Or, you’ve got to work the hustle any which way. I ran in those same streets as a kid, and that’s how I met him. My friends and I started singing on the street corner, hustling for nickels and dimes. He heard me on one of those street corners. We thought he was so cool. He’s about 10 or 15years older than I am, but I don’t even know his age. On the streets, you keep that shit to yourself. Less people know, the less they can use against you. When I met him, he looked like my ticket out of the streets. It turns out I was his. The fact is that he’s kept most of those promises. He had me signe
d to a record deal by 18 and my first album out by 19. Now, I’m 22 and in America, singing pop songs. Hell, Just Love was his idea. I hadn’t wanted to step away from jazz, but I trusted him. And it’s paying off. I should give him more credit because I wouldn’t be living the life if not for him. It’s just that things are getting weird between us.

  He leans in and presses a damp kiss to my cheek. The stench of liquor, weed, and body odor roll off him like noxious fumes, and I turn my head to the side like I can avoid his stink and not offend him. “You can’t trust them. They aren’t like us. They didn’t come from where we came from. But I’ll always protect you,” he says softly before pulling me into a tight hug.

  I want to push him away, but he’s right. I can’t trust other people. Everyone is out for themselves. I’ve been hurt before more times than I can count. And it all started when I was too small to do anything about it. Sometimes I still feel too small to do anything about it.

  “Your heart is beating hard,” Bassirou says. “Let’s get you a little something to calm you down.” He backs off, touching my face again. This time his thumb trails over my lower lip and I fight not to jerk back. Every brain cell is screaming at me to run, but I’m rooted to the ground. He’d follow if I left, and I don’t want him in my room. I’ve already taken to locking my door at night. Not that he’s ever done anything, I just can’t shake the feeling…

  He’s been touching me more and more. At first, I thought it had been supportive, sweet even, so I brushed aside that little voice that told me it wasn’t right. But as the days go by, his attention becomes more and more icky. This guy is like an older brother to me. I’ve never seen him as anything else.

  “Don’t touch me.” The words pop out and I want to squeeze my eyes closed. I’ve poked the bear. Why did I poke the bear?

  “Excusez moi?” Fury bleeds into his voice.

  It’s too late to back down now. “Please don’t touch me. I’ve told you I don’t like it.”

  “Who pulled you off the street, Sabine?” he asks, grabbing my face to peer into my eyes. His eyes slash back and forth across mine as he continues. “Who sacrificed everything to get you here? Who has given everything to make you a singer?”