Bad for the Billionaires: A Bad Boy Billionaire Bundle

by Penelope Bloom

  She had been practicing for it for the last few weeks, and I had the original date marked on my calendar. They were going to have it two nights prior and then there was some big mix up with a local celebrity singer they had arranged to warm up the crowd and they had to move it to today. And I forgot.

  The worst part was the next morning Jen didn’t even bring it up. She was still her usual, sweet but sarcastic self, and she even assured me it was completely okay when I talked to her about it.

  But it wasn’t okay. I haven’t needed the money from my business for years. Even if I made a full time fucking job out of trying to spend it all I couldn’t do it in ten lifetimes. So how could I look at myself in the mirror if I let the job I don’t need come before being the best father I can be for Jen?

  I’m not always perfect at it, I know that, and I never will be. But I’m sure as hell going to do anything in my power to be the best father I can for her. That meant walking away from my business, so I did it. No hesitation.

  A few days pass in a strange sort of haze. I recover surprisingly fast from my injuries, and before long, my swollen face is back to normal aside from a few dark bruises. I have to admit a small part of me is disappointed to be well enough that I lose my excuse for Camille to keep nursing me back to health. Aside from her failed mission to bring me ice that first day, she has been extremely attentive and at my side most of the day. When she’s not with me, I can hear the faint sounds of music and singing from somewhere in the house, or the loud laughter as she talks with Selene or my brothers.

  In a way, I feel like these few days have been some of the happiest I’ve ever had, but instead of enjoying it, my gut churns at the thought. For as long as I’ve been alive, happiness never comes without cost. It never lasts, not before it gets worse, and as much as I try to push past my pessimism, a bleak cloud hangs over what should be a span of perfect days. Whether it’s Barry finding some way to pay me back for passing over him when I handed my business to Peterson, or if it’s Sean lashing out at Camille somehow, I can’t shake the feeling that something is coming to shatter our peace.

  All I can do is keep my eyes open and stay alert.

  The pillow and sheets beneath me feel soft and wonderful, but too much softness will make me soft as well, so I don’t linger. I sit up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, wincing against the sun streaming through the windows lining the East wall of my bedroom. Camille’s tangle of hair is all I can see on the pillow beside me because she pulls the covers half-way up her face when she sleeps. I feel an ache that isn’t entirely sentimental when I look at her.

  I’d like to say my lingering feelings are noble, that I’m dreaming of what life would be like if she and I were to forge a real relationship. To say that I’m not thinking of the wet heat between her legs and the way she tastes, but there’s no use in lying to myself. I don’t think she’s ready yet, and pushing things right now wouldn’t be right, not for her. Otherwise, I’d grip that tight ass of hers and flip her over. I’d rip her nightgown up and satisfy the urge that has had my cock aching with need since the last time I had her.

  “You awake?” I ask.

  She stirs, sucking in a surprised breath. “I am now,” she says sleepily. She recovers from her surprise quickly, narrowing her eyes and taking in my shirtless body. Her small hand rises to a dark purple bruise beneath my chest and she touches it so softly it could be a butterfly landing on my skin. The sadness in her eyes is profound.

  “Hey,” I say, taking her hand in my own. “What’s going through that head of yours?”

  “That somewhere along the way you started to seem like more of a victim in this thing than me,” she says, not making eye contact until she’s finished speaking.

  I look back into her searching gaze, shaking my head. “Dean Sharp doesn’t play the victim,” I say with a grin.

  She laughs a little. “Come on, Dean. I’m being serious. You’re sacrificing so much for me. And this all happened because of me,” she says, motioning to my bruises.

  “If I walked a day through the desert to reach water, would you say I sacrificed too much to satisfy my thirst?”

  “This is different, and you know it,” she says, but there’s a lingering hope in her expression, a sense of waiting, as if she’s hoping I’ll convince her otherwise.

  “I can wrap it in as pretty of a package as I want, but at the end of the day, I wouldn’t have kidnapped you to help you if I didn’t want you. Now that you’re here, I don’t just want you, Camille. I need you. Like I need water. So no, there’s no sacrifice too great. There never will be.”

  “We’ve barely known each other a week. What if you start getting tired of me once the new car smell wears off?”

  I lean forward, sniffing her neck. She giggles at the touch, trying to push me away but I pin her down, running the tip of my nose up her neck and her chin until our lips are just a breath apart. “That new car smell is pretty nice,” I admit.

  She bites her lip. “See?”

  “Let me tell you something about myself,” I say quietly, fighting the urge to take those lips with mine and leave the words for some other time. “I don’t live with regrets because I don’t hesitate. When I see something I want, I take it. When I find something important to me, I protect it at all costs.” I kiss her now. A slow, lingering kiss. “And I want you. You’re important to me. I don’t need months or years to figure that out. I know it right now. I feel it here,” I say, taking her hand and pushing it to my chest.

  Tears well in her eyes and she rolls her head to the side, looking away, but the expression on her face isn’t one of happiness. I see the same sadness there that always threatens to rise to the surface. She wears it now as plainly as a mask. “I’m not as strong as you. I don’t just know what I want right away. I don’t just feel something and do it. I hesitate. I have regrets. I make bad decisions and wish I could go back and change the past.”

  I take her chin and turn her to face me again. “You don’t have to feel the same way as I do right now. If you need time, take it.”

  “And you’ll just patiently wait for me to figure this all out?”

  “Patiently?” I ask, smirking. “With that body of yours, no. Not patiently. But I’ll wait.”

  She gives me a wry smile. “So it’s just my body you want?” Her tone is playful, but I know a test when I see one.

  “Well,” I say. “Your body is only part of it. There’s these lips,” I say, kissing her softly. “For starters. And those eyes,” I say, taking in the way little flecks of gold are speckled through the blue pools of her eyes. “And you know, your personality is a plus, too.”

  “Oh,” she says, laughing and trying to push me off again. “It’s just a plus?”

  I laugh, but cut short when she pushes too hard on a rib that’s still tender. I fall to my side, clutching the spot and groaning.

  “I’m so sorry!” She says, scrambling to her knees and trying to get a look at the spot.

  “You will be,” I say, dropping the act when she lets her guard down and tossing her to the bed again. The laughter between both of us fades quickly, and for a moment I think she’s going to want me to fuck her right here and now, but just when I’m about to kiss her again she looks away, easing herself out from under me.

  “I had better get a shower,” she says somewhat stiffly, padding barefoot toward the bathroom, closing the door.

  I’m left watching after her with a confused face and a very confused hard-on. Fuck. I’d trade half my money for a clue about what goes through women’s heads.

  10

  Camille

  Jen sits cross-legged across from me with her guitar in her lap. We’re on the back patio, where the shade of nearby trees lets only a few spots of dappled sunlight stream through to warm our backs. Birds chirp overhead and the trickle of water from the waterfall creates an atmosphere of perfect relaxation. I can’t help taking a mental snapshot of the moment, saving it away for a darker time when I need to remember thes
e days.

  I feel content, maybe for the first time in my life. Or at least I would, if it wasn’t for the lingering certainty that this won’t last.

  “Are you an only child?” asks Jen suddenly. We’re supposed to be working on a vocal lesson, but she has a habit of sprinkling in personal questions without warning like this one, so I’m not exactly surprised, even if the question makes me uncomfortable.

  “Yes,” I say. “I mean, I wasn’t always, but I am now.” I’m startled when I feel a warm tear land on my leg. I swipe at my eyes, laughing and shaking my head. “Sorry, my allergies are acting up.”

  Jen isn’t fooled though. She’s leaning forward now, eyes intent. “What happened?” she asks.

  “I don’t want to--” I start, but the look on her face stops me mid-sentence. I don’t want to talk about it. That’s what I was going to say. I was going to shut her out like I’ve shut everyone out before her. Maybe I do it out of shame or guilt or something entirely different. I don’t know. All I know is when I talk about it the memories come back. And they hurt. But right now it feels like it would be selfish to hold her memory in the dark recesses of my mind just to spare myself the pain.

  “She died. My little sister, I mean. Vanessa.” I say finally, voice surprisingly calm despite how I feel inside. “I was six and she was four. Vanessa was the kind of kid every parent hopes they will have. She had blonde, curly hair and a little angel face. She made presents for my parents even when there was no reason to and she loved hugs. She had the sweetest little laugh and I still can’t remember her ever saying a mean thing. She was perfect. And, well,” I say, voice breaking a little.

  I clear my throat, bracing myself to continue, feeling the memories rise up, hot and real, so vivid I can smell the wet earth following the rain again. I can feel the way the grass tickled its way between my bare toes. I can feel the ripping sensation of hopeless shock when I saw… I close my eyes, forcing myself to continue. “My mom had always told us not to play in the front yard unless Mrs. Crowe was out in her garden. She could keep an eye on us while mom was inside with a client--she was a therapist and worked from home, so we would kind of be on our own for an hour or two whenever she had an appointment. Well, Mrs. Crowe was in her garden that day, so Vanessa and I went outside to find good puddles because we had just gotten this stupid little toy boat and we wanted to see if it’d float.

  “All the puddles around our house and in the areas mom said we could play were too shallow, so we got on our bikes and went down just a few houses but still where Mrs. Crowe could see us. We had found the perfect puddle. It was so deep we could put our arms in it and the water went up to our elbows. It was on the road, but just near the edge, so we parked our bikes behind us and started playing with the boat.

  “And…” I start, but my voice trails off as the memories take over. I can still see the small, hot pink boat floating in the puddle. I see the little ripples of dirty rainwater bouncing around the edges of the pothole. I hear what sounds like thunder, maybe a remnant of the storm from a few hours ago. But when I stand to look toward the sound I only see the grill of an SUV barreling toward us. I’m standing at the edge of the road and Vanessa sits just a foot away from me, but I couldn’t move. I was paralyzed with fear, and all I could do was watch.

  Jen is hugging me, shushing me soothingly like she’s the adult and I’m the child. Right now, I feel six again. I feel vulnerable, scared, weak, and useless. “I should have saved her,” I say thickly.

  “You loved your sister, right?” asks Jen.

  I nod.

  “Then you did all you could.”

  She’s sweet to say so, but I know the truth. I know I was old enough to have thought that she shouldn’t sit in the road with her back turned to traffic. I know we should have stayed closer to home, even if Mrs. Crowe could see us. And I know there were at least two seconds where I just stood there, paralyzed with fear, eyes locked on my sister’s perfect angel face as she reached to prod the boat. I could have pulled her out of the way if I hadn’t frozen. I could have saved her.

  Dean finds me later that evening napping in his bedroom. I called off the vocal practice with Jen, who seemed to understand, and headed upstairs to get some rest. Reliving the past drained me., Apparently, I was in the middle of sleeping the day away when his heavy footsteps startle me upright.

  “Wear something sexy,” he says. “I’m taking you out.”

  “Taking me out where?” I ask. “Don’t I get a say in this?”

  He glances over his shoulder and then crosses his arms, leaning confidently in the doorway, smirking at me. He’s already wearing a suit and somehow manages to make the remnants of his bruises look unbelievably sexy. They add a rough, roguish sort of danger to him that fits him just fine--like everything else in the world seems to. “You’re still my hostage, or have you forgotten?”

  I would roll my eyes at him, but in a way it’s true. I know I could run if I wanted to. He wouldn't stop me, but if I leave, I'll be giving up. Sean will end up finding me again, and he will hurt me. If I really think about it, I’m actually Sean’s hostage and Dean is setting me free under the guise of captivity. “I haven’t forgotten,” I say, feeling a dirty thrill.

  “Good. So get dressed. Remember, wear something sexy.”

  Dean and I enter the theater a little after noon. His hair is styled up and away from his forehead, but still looks a little messy in a sexy, carefree way. He grins at me, not even showing the slightest bit of shame in the way he checks out my cleavage.

  I look away, trying to fight the impulse to pull up on the dress. It’s a little black dress I picked up when he let me go clothes shopping after that first night. It fits a lot more snugly and shows a lot more skin than I remember. I vaguely wonder if Dean was devious enough to replace it with something more scandalous when I wasn’t paying attention. Either way, he has barely been able to take his eyes off me since I put it on, not that he ignores me normally to begin with, but now he’s practically ravenous. I can tell he is dying to have his hands on me, and even though it makes me feel a little dirty to admit it, his attention feels wonderful, and I don’t want it to stop.

  “So do I get to know where we’re going yet?” I ask as we enter through the front doors to a room full of equally well-dressed men and women.

  “It’s a performance,” he says. “Some fancy artsy bullshit. I thought it would make me seem sophisticated to bring you here.”

  I give him a look of disbelief even as he cracks a small smile. “You know,” I say, “it might have worked if you hadn’t just admitted your plan.”

  He shrugs. “I’ll take sympathy points for going to the trouble of impressing you.”

  I laugh, distantly aware of how we must look together, how I must look standing beside a man like Dean. It’s like looking at a dream--some impossible snapshot from a life I never even dared to hope I might live. In that world, I’m looking uncharacteristically elegant in my black dress and supremely comfortable in my own skin. My hand is on Dean’s shoulder as I laugh, and he smiles back at me with eyes that leave no doubt to anyone in the room that I’m his. Any man with half a brain would know from the other side of the large hall that he’s made his claim over me, and to challenge that would be a mistake.

  His words bring me out of the surreal moment, back into my own body and my own mind where I have to constantly remind myself this is real. This is me. “Sorry, what did you say?” I ask.

  “I said you look ravishable,” he says.

  I clear my throat, cheeks burning red. “You mean ravishing?”

  “I mean what I said. Ravishable.” He punctuates his words with a touch to my lower back that makes his meaning completely clear.

  I smile to myself as he leads me through the room like a prize, holding me possessively with that large hand of his. It’s strange how much I enjoy feeling like he’s taking control of me, especially considering when Sean did the same thing it always made my stomach sick. I guess it’s not surpri
sing, because Sean wanted control over me in a cruel way. Dean’s touch only speaks of lust and appreciation.

  “Dean Sharp,” says a deep voice to our left.

  I turn as Dean does, watching the well-dressed man with gray at his temples approach. The crowd parts for him slightly, it’s almost so subtle that I don’t notice, but it’s there. Every time he comes within a few inches of someone, whether they are facing him or not, they shift out of his way. I get an uneasy pit of worry in my stomach as I watch him approach. Whether it’s his unconscious command over the crowd or the hint of cruelty in the way one side of his mouth curls up, I can’t say, but I don’t like the way he’s looking at us.

  “Barry,” says Dean coldly. His hand tenses on my back.

  “So,” says Barry with a sneer. “Is this little minx the real reason you stepped away from the company?” He reaches to touch a loose lock of my hair as he speaks. “Keeping you busy in the bedroom, is she?”

  Dean’s hand snaps out and knocks Barry’s hand away before he can touch me.

  My heart thuds against my ribs as I watch the two men trade stares. Barry finally breaks the contest with a contemptuous laugh through his nose. “Always on edge, aren’t you, Sharp?”

  “Excuse us,” says Dean, motioning for Barry to get out of our way so we can go into the theater.

  “No,” says Barry. “I don’t plan to excuse you for what you did.” He makes a show of looking thoughtful, even though it’s clear he knows exactly what he’s about to say already. “You should keep the ones you care about close, Sharp. There are people who would be happy to see you lose the things you love.”

  “You’re threatening me?” Dean asks in a low, dangerous voice.

  “Me?” asks Barry, laughing too loud and throwing his head back. “Of course not. You think I would dirty my hands over the likes of you? The moment you stepped away from the company was the moment you became an insignificant has-been. No, I’m not threatening you, Dean. I’m giving you a warning out of courtesy for the years we worked together.”