Filthy Rich Revenge: A Filthy Rich Billionaires Book

by Lynn Raye Harris

  She’d stroked his hair. “I’m sorry.”

  And then he’d said what had been on his mind. The thing that had awakened him and sent him to his office, unable to sleep. “I cannot do it again.”

  “You won’t have to.” She’d said it fiercely, determinedly. He’d almost believed her.

  “You cannot know that.”

  She’d taken his hand, placed it over her abdomen. “I do. I won’t let it happen.”

  “I have said the same thing,” he’d replied. “But there are some things even I cannot control.”

  They’d returned to bed and he’d held her close, as if he could protect all three of them from harm. He’d blamed Rebecca for his pain because without her betrayal he’d have never married Caridad. Never had Anya and known what it was to lose her. But did that make any sense anymore? Was it really Rebecca’s fault? Or had he needed the numbness and single-minded focus that blaming her had given him for so many years?

  He’d awakened early and had to force himself to come to the office today. He could’ve worked at home, but his feelings were too chaotic so he’d gotten dressed and taken his Aston Martin Vanquish from the garage. Zipping through the streets of Madrid, he’d tried to concentrate on all he needed to accomplish.

  Focusing on work had gotten him through so much over the years. It would do so now.

  He’d arrived at Ramirez Enterprises’ headquarters, given orders to his team, and gone to his big corner office to look over a proposal. The distraction had worked for a little while, but now that he was at his desk, his mind was wandering again.

  Focus. The hotel in Dubai was finally about to begin construction. Though it’d been weeks since he’d uncovered his spy—a man in the Dubai office who’d been taking bribes from a local competitor—it’d still taken time to disentangle the web and get everything straightened away with the authorities.

  The reorganization of Layton International was proceeding. Alejandro always felt a little pang of guilt when he reviewed the progress. Absorbing the company was a good move, but the difficulties he was experiencing with management made him long for the days when Rebecca was in charge.

  She knew that company like she’d been born to it. He allowed himself a smile. Indeed, she had been born to it. Literally when her mother delivered her in the New York hotel.

  He’d considered more than once asking Rebecca to come back to work, but he couldn’t sort out his feelings about it well enough to do so.

  Was it a sign of defeat? Weakness? Was it tantamount to admitting he’d been wrong?

  And what about the baby? Would it be too stressful on her pregnancy? Could she manage the hotel business and a baby too? A very male part of him wanted to lock her in the house and keep her there, but he knew from personal experience that whether or not a woman worked had nothing to do with her ability as a mother. Caridad had nothing but time and she’d failed miserably. His own mother was self-absorbed. Apparently, so was Rebecca’s.

  He hadn’t missed the disappointment on her face when her mother finally called after the wedding. The conversation was short, to the point, and over without Rebecca saying more than a dozen words. Valencia had chattered endlessly to him about his marriage—she whispered that she liked Rebecca very much—and he’d come to think that women liked to talk about romance and weddings. It seemed as if Rebecca and her mother did not.

  Alejandro sat back and spun his chair to look out the windows at the view.

  Madre de Dios, he was married. If someone had told him two months ago that not only would Rebecca Layton be pregnant with his child, but she would also be his wife, he never would have believed it.

  Life was very strange sometimes.

  His secretary came in with some paperwork and he turned his attention to accomplishing something today other than thinking about his wife. Several hours later, when he’d spoken with his trusted man in Dubai, negotiated a new contract in Russia, and approved an impact study for a proposed site in India, he felt he’d done enough work to justify returning home. Perhaps Rebecca would be wearing that little bikini he’d bought her. She’d protested that she’d soon be too fat for it, but he’d bought it anyway.

  There was nothing sexier than his wife lying beside the pool in her hot pink bikini. Especially when she let him take her into the house and peel it from her body as he kissed his way over every centimeter of her satiny skin.

  Whatever else was between them, Alejandro loved how excited Rebecca made him feel. How determined he was to possess her. He loved her sighs and moans as he stroked and licked and kissed, and he loved the way her body clenched around his cock as he fucked her into a shattering orgasm.

  He was growing hard just thinking about what he planned to do when he got home.

  He phoned down to the valet to have his car brought around. When he stepped outside to climb into the sleek gray car, he was a bit surprised to find a gaggle of reporters waiting for him on the sidewalk. What now?

  Long after his years in the bull ring were over, the newspapers still seemed to find his life fascinating. Famed matador to billionaire tycoon was endlessly entertaining to the public. Now that he’d so recently married, the press tended to shadow his and Rebecca’s public appearances. The attention would die down eventually. He hoped.

  “Señor Ramirez,” a reporter shouted at him. “Is it true you systematically destroyed your wife’s former company, Layton International, through an untraceable chain of subsidiaries? That you duped Jackson Layton into the acquisitions that led him into debt and contributed to his apparent suicide last year? Did you do this to force Rebecca Layton to marry you?”

  Alejandro felt as if the ground had been kicked out from under him. If someone had asked him when he’d grown horns and a tail, he’d have been less shocked. He strode toward the group and halted just in front of the security ropes. A guard stood by, looking stony, ready to intervene.

  “I acquired Layton International legally,” Alejandro stated. “You may check all the filings. And Jackson Layton didn’t commit suicide. He died in a plane crash.”

  “My source says otherwise. That he piloted the plane and crashed it on purpose.”

  “Your source is wrong,” Alejandro growled. Rebecca would have told him if her father had committed suicide. Wouldn’t she? Why keep it from him, especially when she’d first arrived in Madrid? She’d gone at him with both barrels back then. She wouldn’t have hesitated.

  Which meant that someone was feeding false stories to the press. But who? And why?

  “You owned the only bank that would lend him money,” another reporter called out. “Was that a sound financial decision? Or a calculation on your part? What does Rebecca Layton think about your involvement? Did you tell her before you married her?”

  “You mean Rebecca Ramirez,” Alejandro snapped before reminding himself to remain cool. Never give reporters anything to feed on. He’d learned that lesson while watching his parents’ very public rows take place in the tabloids in recent years.

  “Are you worried about how this will affect your stock prices, coming so soon on the heels of accusations of impropriety in your Dubai contracts?” someone asked. “Is this indicative of a pattern of subverting rules within your organization?”

  Alejandro’s gut twisted in anger. “We were found blameless in Dubai. The project is back on track and all permits are properly executed and signed.”

  “And who did you pay off in order to make sure that was done?”

  Alejandro turned away, waving a hand in dismissal as he did so. The reporters’ voices lifted, shouting after him as he climbed into the car and slammed the door. He gunned the powerful engine and raced out onto the paseo, his mind racing too. Traffic was heavy, but he barely noticed.

  He was too stunned to think clearly. He went back over everything the reporters had said, focusing again and again on the idea that Rebecca’s father had committed suicide. Who would say that to the press? Who would put that idea out there and then force him to defend aga
inst it? Was it true, or just a nasty rumor?

  His gut churned as he stabbed the call button for his phone. He told the voice assistant to dial his research office.

  “Hello, sir,” René Armas said. “What can I help you with?”

  “Did Jackson Layton have a pilot’s license? And was there any suggestion of suicide about the accident that ended his life? I need answers immediately.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll put a team on it right now.”

  The call ended and his phone immediately rang. It was his mother. As much as he didn’t want to talk to her, he took the call. “Alejandro,” Carmen Ramirez wailed. “Your father has cut off my allowance for the month. You must tell him I need my treatments.”

  By treatments she meant injections and fillers. “Mother, I can’t deal with this right now.”

  “Alejandro! It’s important. I have to keep my regimen!”

  “Then you tell him.”

  “I did. He said it was too much money. Quite frankly, I think he’s seeing that bimbo again and wants to shower her with presents. Perhaps you should increase our monthly allotment?”

  Alejandro could feel a crushing headache starting to gather behind his eyes. His parents were the most single-minded, greedy annoyances on the planet. No doubt his father had put a stopper in the flow of money—money Alejandro provided them—in order to get his mother to beg for an increase.

  Dios, he was tired of being used. His parents would do anything to get their way. For all he knew, they were in it together. What did they call that in America? Good cop, bad cop?

  It hit him suddenly who stood to benefit most from manipulating him in the same way. If he took a beating in the press and the markets, how willing would he be to part with Layton International? Would Rebecca be waiting in the wings with an offer to buy it back? Perhaps through subsidiaries?

  If she were that ruthless and clever, then it was his own game being played against him. Was she capable of it?

  The answer twisted his belly into knots. Of course she was. She hadn’t succeeded in business as long as she had without being smart and willing to do what she had to do. And Rebecca wanted her family heritage back, quite possibly by any means necessary. He could admire the balls it took to orchestrate such a scheme, but he felt utterly betrayed at the idea she would do it.

  Because he’d started to fall for Rebecca’s charm, for her sympathy, for the way she seemed to need him when they were tangled together in each other’s arms. What if it was all an elaborate lie to get her company back? The idea was insidious, but he couldn’t shake it once the roots took hold.

  He got rid of his mother with vague promises to take a look at things, but his parents were the farthest thing from his mind as he zipped through traffic on the way home.

  Had he been blind? Stupid? Had he allowed his desire for his wife to overpower his razor-sharp instincts?

  He’d thought she might be falling in love with him, falling for him the way he was starting to fall for her. What if everything she did, every caress and kiss and sweet sigh, was nothing more than a lie?

  He couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t bear another betrayal right now, and he couldn’t bear the thought that he and Rebecca would always be sparring behind the scenes like his parents did. He didn’t want that life. It was bad enough having to be a part of his parents’ drama, but to have it in his own home?

  It had never been a possibility before. With Caridad, he’d been indifferent. She hadn’t mattered. They went their separate ways after Anya was born, and they’d remained that way until Alejandro divorced her.

  But Rebecca was different. She did matter—and that was the worst betrayal of all.

  “Thank you for the tea, Señora Flores,” Rebecca said. The other woman smiled and dipped her head in a nod before retreating to the kitchen. Rebecca couldn’t help but grin. She’d been convinced, when she’d first arrived, that Señora Flores had hated her. Now the woman took pains to pamper her.

  It might only be because of the baby, but Rebecca thought maybe there was a little more to it when she remembered how irritated the woman had seemed with Alejandro over the prenuptial agreement. Rebecca didn’t blame him, but his housekeeper apparently did.

  Rebecca lounged at the table on the terrace, beneath the bougainvillea, studying a fat book compiled by the decorator that Alejandro had hired. She’d wanted to paint the baby’s room herself, had wanted to order fabrics and toys and pick out her own rocking chair. But Alejandro insisted it would be easier with a professional’s help. The woman he sent understood Rebecca’s urges and made a book with many samples to choose from. She also recommended combinations that went together.

  It was, Rebecca thought with a sigh, far easier than her plan had been. It was also thoughtful of Alejandro to recognize that she needed the help. The idea of him doing so made her happy.

  “What would you like, baby?” she asked, flipping pages. “White wicker? Mahogany? Oak? Will we need pink or blue?”

  They would not know the baby’s sex for a few weeks yet, though she was secretly hoping for a girl. Little girls’ clothes were so cute. And since Rebecca was new at this mother thing, she figured she would understand a little girl better than a little boy. Perhaps the next one would be a boy.

  A boy with Alejandro’s smile. That would be nice. More than nice.

  She thought of last night when Alejandro had taken her to bed. He’d made love to her so tenderly and hotly, and then he’d gathered her close and fallen asleep. When she’d awakened and he wasn’t there, she’d gone looking for him. The sadness and pain in his expression had nearly undone her. She’d gone to him, hugged him, and vowed as fiercely as she could that their baby would be fine. She knew she couldn’t promise, but she’d done so anyway.

  It was a different life than she’d anticipated, being Alejandro’s wife, but she didn’t hate it. Yes, she missed the excitement and challenge of running her own company—but she didn’t miss the hours on planes, the late nights crunching numbers or negotiating deals, the endless meetings and red tape that came with building new hotels in different parts of the world.

  It was nice to sit in the hot Spanish sun and simply be. She would find new challenges to conquer, but for now she was focused on having a healthy and happy baby.

  A movement in the doorway caught her eye. “Alejandro,” she exclaimed, jumping up just a little too excitedly.

  Did she have to be so transparent? Surely he knew she adored him in spite of her best intentions not to give away the secret. She wanted him to know, and yet she was afraid as well. It was self-preservation not to let him see how deeply she cared. Maybe one day everything would fall together, and he would love her too.

  But right now, he looked stormy. Stony.

  Furious.

  Her steps faltered. “What’s wrong? Did something happen at work? Is everything okay?”

  “Is something wrong at work?” he snapped. “I think you know very well something is wrong! Dios, how did I ever fall for this act of yours again? Your father had a pilot’s license!”

  Rebecca blinked. “So? Why does that matter?”

  Alejandro’s eyes shot daggers at her. “Because someone told the press he committed suicide. They were at Ramirez Enterprises just now, demanding answers and accusing me of being a criminal.”

  Rebecca wrapped her arms around herself, staring at him with her jaw open and her heart breaking. Her stomach lodged somewhere in the vicinity of her toes. Her heart sank like a lead weight. Her limbs refused to move.

  Oh God.

  He thought she’d done it. After everything, he thought she had betrayed him. As if she could.

  Señora Flores appeared in the doorway, then spun and disappeared again.

  Everything was so blurry.

  Breathe. For the baby.

  “Someone? Or me?” she asked, her heart turning to stone.

  He wouldn’t look at her. “Who else?” he spat.

  “Tell me,” Rebecca said, swallowing, making her v
oice very calm. It didn’t even feel a part of her as she spoke. “I want to hear the words from your lips.”

  He raked a hand through his hair, spun back to her, fury written on every handsome line of his face. “As if you don’t know what you’ve done. Dios, you don’t even have the decency to deny it!”

  “Tell me!” she screamed, suddenly angry and… offended! That was the word she wanted. Offended. How dare he accuse her of betraying him? After everything. Her heart hammered and her pulse raced. It took everything she had not to pick up the fat decorator book and throw it at his head.

  Alejandro’s nostrils flared, his chest rising and falling hard. As if he’d run all the way from his office in downtown. As if he’d scaled a mountain to get to her.

  No doubt he had. An evil, ugly mountain of his own design.

  “Don’t get worked up,” he ordered. “Think of the baby.”

  Rebecca dashed angry tears from her cheeks. “Or kittens and puppies. Anything but the nastiness in your mind.”

  “You went to the press,” he grated, stalking closer again. Whirling away. “You told them your father committed suicide and that it was my fault! You want to ruin me, Rebecca. You want Layton International back by any means necessary, sí? You will not get it. I will destroy it first.”

  Her fingers itched to wrap themselves around his throat. Her heart ached. “There was a pilot on the plane, or didn’t your people tell you that? Yes, my father had his license—but that doesn’t mean he crashed the plane, especially not with someone else on board. If he’d wanted to do that, why the hell would he go to Thailand? He could have taken his Cessna up and crashed it into the ocean if that’s what he’d wanted to do.”

  For a moment, Alejandro looked uncertain. But then his expression hardened. “The truth isn’t necessary for what you want. You wanted to make it look like I did something illegal, like I’m a criminal. Just a lowly bullfighter who dared to aim too high, right?” He stopped his pacing and glared at her. “This lie, combined with the Dubai accusations, will make my shareholders think twice, yes? Ramirez Enterprises is in for a rocky quarter. But it won’t work, Rebecca. You won’t win. I’ll never sell Layton International to you.”