Sparkling Passion: An Alpha Billionaire Romance

by Bella Forro

  Sparkling passion

  Bella Forro

  Copyright © John Q. Smith

  All Rights reserved

  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 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  Mark

  The sun was blinding, and my head was throbbing.

  Just another morning after a fallout with Amy.

  She was going to be the death of me; I was pretty sure that was the direction we were heading in. And, to be honest, it was starting to look like the better option for me.

  But last night’s meltdown had been of epic proportions — even for Amy.

  You’d think I’d have ripped the clothes right off of that other girl and had my way with her right there in the restaurant, instead of just giving her a friendly nod as we passed.

  But with Amy’s logic, it was one and the same. I should know better by now to just be openly rude to everyone and save myself from the war zone any friendly gestures will create.

  I get out of the bed as quietly as possible. I didn’t want to deal with Amy, not yet. The California King bed was enormous, and since Amy was laying as far away from me as possible on the other side of the bed, it wasn’t too difficult to achieve.

  I’d like to think she might sleep it off, might wake up and forget all about last night, but this wasn’t my first time in this position with her, and I knew the whole damn thing was going to linger for days before it began to lift. Even worse, Amy would pull her morning after crap like always. I seriously didn’t have time for this.

  I checked the bedside table again.

  I was running out of time.

  I wished I could take an extra long, extra hot shower, but today was not a day where I would have that luxury.

  I had to be at the office first thing, and I had to be on top of my game. It wasn’t every day the board got together, and I was in for twelve hours of presenting, navigating questions and concerns, straddling that line between being prepared and being able to process on the fly.

  So far the morning wasn’t off to a great start; I could only hope it would get better from here.

  I quietly walked to the bathroom, thinking that if luck were with me I might be able to get in the shower and out the door before she even woke. That would definitely improve my morning.

  The water was hot. As hot as I could stand it, and it did help to clear my head, if only a little. Beggars can’t be choosers, though, and I was going to take whatever I could get.

  A quick shave and a hefty dose of Visine later, I was slipping back through the door and into the bedroom.

  For a moment I thought I was in the clear, but then Amy was sitting up in our bed, the covers pulled tightly to her chest, though I could see the red spaghetti strap of the negligee she’d worn to sleep, slipping off of her shoulder.

  She always took great pains to dress in sleepwear she had no intention of letting me appreciate when she was pissed at me.

  But two could play that game, and I tucked the towel firmly around my waist. She could look all she wanted; I could hold a touch embargo just as easily as she could.

  Her blonde hair was a mess, in that way it always was in the morning, a ravaged halo around her face. Amy wore mornings better than any other woman I had ever known.

  Like every night, she’d spent ten minutes in the bathroom removing the makeup she’d spent an hour putting on, until her face was bare, her skin pale and smooth.

  “Hey,” she said, and like always I marveled at her ability to wake up and leap into the day. She never had that morning voice, that scratch that spoke of hours without use. It was like she hadn’t slept at all, had barely paused at all.

  “Morning,” I said in return, moving toward the closet, thinking I might be able to escape the brunt of the conversation if I moved quickly enough.

  But, like everything else this morning, that just wasn’t to be. She was out of the bed and moving after me, stepping into the small captive room we considered a closet.

  I knew what was coming. It was always like this the morning after. She would find a way to make it seem like I was the one who’d been out of line the night before. Like I was the one who’d overstepped the boundaries.

  Amy has this way of making me feel like a total ass, even though I hadn’t done anything at all. I’d literally smiled and nodded. God, I don’t even think I’d said a single word to that other woman.

  I was flipping through my shirts, holding up a collection of ties, trying to remember what I’d worn at the last meeting and what would be best for me to wear for this one. No one talked about it in the office but there were unwritten rules on what colors you should wear, what patterns you could use, how many times someone could see you in the same tie.

  I literally had enough ties to wear a different one every day of the year. And there were times I wore one only once before donating it. Let some other poor sap reap the benefits of this insane office culture I had to participate in.

  Amy paused in the doorway, propping herself up against the frame, making sure to cross her legs in front of her, to angle her body, so that it was impossible for me to ignore her shape, the curve of her hip, the swell of her breasts, the length of her legs. She was nothing if not a pro at selling her positive attributes.

  And she wasn’t short on those. Even on mornings like this where I wanted nothing to do with her, where I seriously questioned my ability to spend the rest of my life with her, I felt that stirring, that desire I always seemed to have for her.

  Frustrating didn’t even begin to describe it.

  She watched me picking through the ties. “You want me to make you some breakfast?” Amy asked, somehow turning something that should have been a sweet gesture into a reminder that she was doing me a favor I didn’t deserve.

  “Not today, Amy. I have to get to work. I have meetings scheduled and they start early. We have a Continental spread set up and it wouldn’t look right if I arrived and didn’t eat with them. Plus,” I took great pains to consult the watch I’d snapped on before leaving the bathroom, “I’m running behind and I just don’t have the time for a leisurely breakfast with you.”

  She pouted. I knew she would, and then she reached over toward the clothes I was flipping through, plucking a pair of khakis and a navy blue blazer she knows I hate from the rack.

  “You should wear this. I love the way it brings out the color in your eyes.” Her own eyes were lit, almost burning with the unspoken challenge, daring me to do something other than what she wanted.

  I snatched them out of her hand. There was no way in hell I was going to a board meeting in anything less than a suit. And I definitely wasn’t going to be wearing that blazer. Ever. The only thing that kept it hanging in my closet was that it had been a gift from Amy our first Christmas together.

  But that wasn’t going to be enough to save it
this time. I was going to make damn sure it went out of the house in a bag. I didn’t even care if it ended up at the Salvation Army store or if it ended up in the trash; there wasn’t much it was good for.

  “Thanks, Amy, but I’m not a child. I think I can manage to dress myself.”

  Her face darkened and she flounced away from me. “Be that way, then, Mark. I don’t have time for your childish behavior.”

  Funny how she would say that as she was out and out having a temper tantrum. I suppose I should be surprised, but there wasn’t much she did that surprised me these days.

  “Want me to call Daddy and let him know you’ll be late?”

  I felt the anger bubbling inside of me. I couldn’t help that it was my father’s company. I couldn’t help that I had responsibilities to maintain as the next in line for the corporation.

  And dammit, even if I could, I had zero intention of doing breakfast with Amy.

  “Enough, Amy. Just let it go.” I tugged on a charcoal grey suit and a white shirt. Boring, certainly, but I wasn’t about to make any waves on a day like today, where I felt like I could barely keep it together.

  I didn’t even bother putting the tie on. I just snatched the one I wanted — another indisputably boring choice in navy blue — and grabbed my cufflinks from their spot on a shelf. I would deal with all of that once I was out of the house. Out of the house, and away from Amy.

  “Don’t forget the Charity Gala tonight,” she called after me, the sound of the door ringing as it closed, bringing with it blessed silence and an end to the argument. At least, for the time being.

  Chapter 2

  Mark

  This could, quite literally, be the very last place in the world I want to be.

  After a day with the board, I wanted to kick back. Probably with a drink. Definitely without my imported Italian loafers. I wanted to zone out in front of the television, catch a game, do anything that was an enviable waste of time.

  I did not, in any way, shape or form, want to be spending my time at a Charity Gala. Especially a Charity Gala where I was going to need to be arm in arm with Amy, and have her glued to my side for the entire night.

  And not that I had anything against Charity Galas. I loved them. In theory. I was always happy to give an oversized cardboard check and pose for photos.

  I just didn’t want to do it tonight, with Amy draped all over me, looking incredible in a long, elegant black dress with a v so deep I couldn’t even imagine how she wasn’t constantly experiencing a wardrobe malfunction.

  I pasted a smile on my face. We twisted this way and that. Photographers called our names, flashes went off in our faces.

  In truth, it didn’t matter whether I was having a good time or not. Whether I wanted to be there or not. I damn well better look like those things were true or it would be all over the front page of some no-name paper and I’d have to hear about how ungrateful and spoiled I was and that would go viral faster than we could get damage control on board to stop it in its tracks.

  Amy tipped her face up toward me, her hair swept up and back into something that looked complicated, dotted with jewels that caught the light and the flash, and dazzled just like she always did.

  And damned if I wasn’t right back where I’d been this morning. Because when I looked at her like this, her eyes so blue and welcoming, her teeth straight, and her smile friendly; it was hard for me to even remember what it had felt like when I’d been second guessing our entire relationship a few hours ago.

  I knew I wasn’t out of hot water yet, but Amy could put on the kind of show that made you believe you were. And I was just lining up to get suckered into it.

  But I knew it was too good to be true. We were barely out of the press alley, making our way toward our table, when she was giving me the cold shoulder, her body stiff and rigid next to me, one step away from stalking.

  “Amy, Christ. Lighten up, would you? I don’t want to have to do this with you all night.” I wanted to pull my hand through my hair, but I knew I couldn’t. There was enough product in there to keep it in shape through the next presidential term.

  She gave her head a toss, the same kind of toss that if her hair hadn’t been cemented to her head with that shiny shellac, would have sent her hair tumbling back over her shoulder.

  She’d damned near perfected that move while we’d been together.

  And then I was right back to where I’d been earlier, imagining how footloose and fancy free I’d be if I weren’t saddled to her for the rest of my God-damned life.

  “I’ve had just about enough of hearing what I can and can’t do, Mark. Lay off.”

  Amy was huffing in indignation, and by the time we found our seats, I was pretty sure both of us would have preferred to have been anywhere other than where we were.

  There was no getting out of it now, though. My father was hosting the damn thing and it wouldn’t do Pierce and Jones Trading Corporation any good for the public to see one of their heavy hitters standing up and storming away from the fundraiser.

  I took my seat next to Amy, but I didn’t miss how she scooted her chair to the side, how she did everything in her power to put as much distance between us as possible.

  Which was fine with me. I was busy counting down the hours until we could get out of there, and wondering how I should call the whole damn thing off with her in as little time as humanly possible.

  The lights dimmed and the tables quieted as my father took the stage. At least now the others wouldn’t be able to see us openly glaring at each other. Small win, but it would do for now.

  My father took the stage, poised behind a rich wood podium, reading from a paper in front of him. I know he spent time crafting his speech, but he had a whole collection of previous works to pull from. These Galas were an old hat to him now, just another day at the office.

  But, like always he was gracious and handled his role with ease. It was one of the things that kept the corporation in the lime light.

  And one of those things that always seemed to be hanging over my head.

  He wrapped up his speech, calling for Amy and me to join him up on the stage. As ambassadors of the program, as big time players in the corporation and in the projects it held dear, we were expected to say a word or two about the charity the Gala would benefit.

  The spotlight followed us as we made our way to the stage. I couldn’t see her face, but I knew Amy was back to smiling her hundred-watt smile, waving to the crowd like she hadn’t just been embodying the biggest diva I’d ever met.

  “Great to see you all here tonight,” I said into the microphone as I took it from my father’s hand. “It’s always a pleasure to be able to champion an organization like Belvedere House. Nothing brings us more pleasure than being able to offer a hand to those who need that last boost to get back on their feet, to get themselves situated in the kind of life they’ve been working toward and deserve.”

  I was on a role, and most of that was because I truly felt all of those things about Belvedere House; it was easy to say great things about an organization that did the kind of good they did.

  Amy dipped her head toward the microphone and interrupted my spiel.

  “It’s our duty and privilege to help those who are less fortunate than we are.”

  I pulled the microphone as far away from her as possible without out and out pushing her away. I was hoping my expression wasn’t giving me away, was hoping that wasn’t a murmur of dissent I heard from the crowd, because the last thing you wanted to do at an event like this was call people “less fortunate,” or seem like we were on a quest to make ourselves feel better about what privilege we did have by helping others. That definitely wasn’t the point. Not that someone like Amy could see that.

  “But who’s to say who the fortunate ones are,” I shot back, hoping it sounded a little bit like teasing, hoping it sounded like a scripted reminder that that wasn’t what we were all about. I heard a little tickle of laughter from the audience, and caught my fa
ther nodding approvingly out of the corner of my eye.

  Success. And Amy was denied a turn at the mic again.

  By the time we made our way off the stage, I was itching to be away from Amy.

  The Gala ticked by, depressingly slowly.

  The dinner was sprinkled with additional speakers, a number tabulating the current donation totals displayed prominently, the number creeping upward with each passing moment.

  This was going to be another raging success we could put down in the books. Another win for Pierce and Jones.

  Thank goodness Amy hadn’t blown it.

  They cleared the plates and gave the go ahead for the group to disperse, and for the crowd to mingle.

  And I wasn’t going to stick around.

  “A word, Amy?” I ground out, moving toward the exit in what I hoped would be a discreet departure.

  But Amy didn’t know the meaning of the word discreet, and she stood with sudden flamboyance that drew attention, and then she was following me out the door, barely waiting for the the door to close before she lit into me.

  “Jesus, Mark. I don’t know why you have to be such an ass. Like it would kill you to be civil to me for once.”

  “Me?” I asked, and even I could hear the disbelief in my voice. “I’m the one who needs to be civil? To you?”

  “Yes!” she hissed, her hands flying to her hips, her eyes spitting daggers.

  “Unbelievable. Everything about you is unbelievable, Amy.” There was a long, drawn out pause between us, which was right about the time I realized we weren’t as alone as I had thought we would be, as I had hoped we would be.

  Instead there was the click of cameras, the whirr of lights, and I knew with a sinking certainty that someone was getting their fill of tabloid gossip for the following day.

  “Look, Amy,” I said through clenched teeth, taking a step toward her so I wouldn’t have to be overheard, so we could pretend like we were going to have the privacy for this conversation we deserved to have.

  She took several steps back from me, opening the distance between us again.

  “Don’t you even come close to me,” she said coolly, her voice loud and sharp, echoing in the space. I was certain I could hear the click of voice recorders being turned on. A sound byte to go along with the wonderful images and captions.