Alpha Bait_BWWM Billionaire Romance Novel

by Jamila Jasper

  He had more resources than I could ever hope to.

  And even if he believed me dead now, he was paranoid enough to investigate the slightest rumor. Jamal was meticulous that way.

  I set the clippers down with a loud sigh of relief. This was it. This is the beginning of my new life as Patsy. "Goodbye" lay in a black heap at my feet. Athena eyed me curiously.

  "Do you like it?" I asked, running my hands over my scalp.

  Remaining hairs prickled my palms, but I'd never felt more liberated in my life.

  I wondered if Rich would recognize me like this. No matter, he'd never have the chance to do so. This was my official goodbye.

  Ciao, Sicily

  RICH

  Trapani had started off well. At first, it bothered me that I hadn't been hearing much from my brother. I had been working and he had promised me updates. Those updates had been fewer and further between. I'd heard nothing from Indie either. My cousins and aunts were too useless for me to bother reaching out to. When I didn't hear from my brother for three weeks, I knew that something was wrong.

  There was no reason why I shouldn't have heard from him. Every day we inched closer to the Holloway acquisition reaching its completion which meant we would be inched closer to a potential disaster. Putting our heads together was the only hope we had of avoiding that disaster.

  I began to have an inkling of a worry one evening. I had been out late, catching up with an old Italian friend of mine that flew across the ocean from Boston with his wife.

  After a night of drinking, a little bit of gambling and a whole lot of catching up, a strange grip tightened on my chest. The sensation came out of nowhere and for a moment, I believed I'd succumbed early to the heart problems that plagued the Carmichaels.

  I chalked the tightening to nerves when it lasted longer than my sobriety. I should've felt completely comfortable. Sicily was beautiful and it had always been one of my favorite places to vacation as a child.

  My instincts were seldom wrong, so when I began to have an intense worry that distracted me from the conversation, the delicious wine that never ceased flowing, and the strong espresso, I believed something was wrong.

  There were not many Carmichaels to whom I shared a bond as strong as the one I shared with my brother or my late cousin, Selena.

  There were few others I could call in a pinch. My second cousin, Martha, did have a pair of twin boys who worked for the company, one named Ward and the other named Xander. Both of them graduated from Princeton a couple years after I had left.

  Xander worked as an account executive for the family company and Ward, who didn't have the brains of his brother, worked as one of our hiring managers for the Texas branch of the business.

  I opted to call Xander.

  My first few phone calls went unanswered and found myself winding down that night faster than I expected due to a morose mood which threatened to turn me into a lumbering drunken beast before daybreak if I didn't retire.

  My friends understood and I walked the cobblestone streets home, fuming as if I'd experienced a mysterious grave offense.

  It didn't help that I had not heard from Indie since arriving in Sicily. We'd always found a way to speak in secret, and I wondered if she'd given up on me, or worse, perceived me as giving up on her.

  The idea of losing her tortured me. I had reached out to her a few times, but I had no clue how she fared in New York without me. She was safe, I expected, but I wondered if she was upset with me. Perhaps her brother had made it more difficult to reach out.

  I missed her. I would often replay our first meeting on the yacht over and over in my mind as I lay in my bed alone, wishing that she were in it with me. I missed her soft hair, pressing up against my arms as she lay between them. I missed her skin, that delicious shade of walnut brown always smooth and perfect. I missed kissing her. I missed listening to her laugh and unwinding with her after a stressful day at the office.

  I waited another day before calling Xander again, but I wasn't too thrilled with how long he had been taking to respond to me. And as for my brother...

  Calling Ames had proved fruitless and I wondered if he had simply been lying about sending me to Sicily for my own good. I couldn't help it. I had never had radio silence like this, and my suspicions were raised. I'd learned that Carmichaels can always surprise you.

  In the middle of the night, I received a phone call. Xander's name flashed up bright on my phone and quickly doing the math I calculated it was around 7:30 p.m. in New York.

  "Where are you?" He asked.

  "Some greeting," I mumbled.

  "We need to make it quick."

  "Go on."

  "I did not want to be the one to have to tell you this," he whined, sniffling with the perpetual cold he seemed to have.

  Impatiently, I snapped, "tell me what Xander? Spit it out."

  "I'm sorry Richard. Your brother is dead. The police are saying he's killed himself."

  My mouth went dry. My head spun against my will and all I could muster up to reply to my cousin was, "Bye, Xander."

  "Wait! Don't go. I have more news."

  I snapped again, "what?"

  "There's been an accident. Our Post source says news will break tomorrow that Indie Holloway is dead."

  I hung up without replying. Two pieces of bad news at once had shaken me to my very core and I threw my phone on the ground releasing a scream of frustration and rage. I had just been growing accustomed to life in Sicily, but now I wished I had never left New York.

  The two people I cared about most in the world were now dead. I didn't wait for confirmation. I knew it was true. The strange feeling I'd had a couple days ago and the radio silence from both of them proved that something had gone wrong.

  I couldn't tell if Jamal were responsible for this, or if this had simply been a coincidence that the two of them had ended up dead within a few hours of each other.

  I felt sick. The last time my brother and I had spoken, he mentioned having to tell me something important about Indie. He'd never had the chance.

  Now both of them were dead and I was thousands of miles away and legally obliged not to enter city limits.

  I had to do something. I refuse to allow Jamal to render me impotent. I had no choice but to break the law. I didn't relish in it, but a man must oblige his duties.

  Without my brother and without me, my second cousins and my various aunts and uncles would all be vying for the family fortune. With nothing to unite them, with the Holloway acquisition on the horizon threatening their wealth, they would become like children rushing at a broken piñata hoping to get a piece of candy. This was not how my father's legacy was supposed to end.

  I growled and threw my fist at the wall in frustration. I dented the drywall and shook my throbbing knuckles until they didn't hurt anymore. Fury still roared.

  I'd have bet a fortune that Jamal played a role in both deaths. If my brother had somehow passed away, or if the news had only been about Indie, I would have suspected nothing. The combination of deaths and the timing appeared far too intentional.

  Getting in touch with Xander again proved far more difficult than I anticipated. My cousin, when I did manage to get a hold of him, was elusive and insisted that I should not return to New York for my brother's funeral.

  Hearing the phrase, "Ames funeral", forced me to acknowledge his death in a way that I hadn't done before.

  After that senseless phone call, I spent the entire day in bed with whiskey and a cigar by my side. My house staff couldn't keep their whispers to themselves. Even my assistant seemed concerned and she pulled me aside to tell me that she believed I should go to New York immediately.

  Easier said than done. I called Xander to inform him that I intended to return to New York and our conversation ended in another fight. He insisted that I would cost the family too much money in legal fees if I were to return and that making the arrangements for Ames was stressful enough along with managing the fears of our ravenous board
of directors. I insisted, but our argument only escalated and I hung up on Xander again.

  They didn't have a choice. I was returning to New York. My heart sank when I realized that I wouldn't get to see Indie while I was there. I'd always expected she would be a part of my life in the city. The tragic realization steeled my resolve.

  My assistant arranged a pilot and passage on the family jet in secret. I prepared my new house in Trapani to be rented to an old Chinese couple, then sold.

  I had no intention of returning to Europe. I was too much of my father's son to sit idly by while our fortune fell into shambles and while Jamal danced atop our ever increasing number of graves.

  Making decisions didn't come easily, and they definitely didn't come until I was properly drunk. My beard had grown out longer than it had ever been before. My hair hung to my shoulders and I was sure that barely anyone in the city would recognize me. Italy had left me with a deep suntan that darkened my complexion to a tawny color, and freckled my face.

  Despite my best attempts, I would still have to wait one week for the jet, which meant I would miss my brother's funeral and Indie's too. Of course, I would have never been invited to Indie's funeral and I would have never gone at the risk of exposing what we had vowed to keep a secret. Her death had almost hit me harder than my brothers.

  I was a mess. I spent the week leading up to the flight in a drunken stupor. I knew that I should've kept a clear head. Grief promoted whiskey to the only thing that could ever get me out of bed. Grief had its talons hooked into me.

  The plane ride back to America was the longest of my life. Each hour grated on me and the motion of the plane did nothing to help my stomach which had been rubbed raw from days of whiskey, tobacco, and the occasional bits of fresh bread and cheese that my assistant attempted to slip in.

  I had no clue what I would find in New York. Xander's insinuations led to few expectations that my family had remained intact. Not only had I lost the woman I loved and my brother, but I would not even have the company to show for it. The talons sank in deeper.

  I expected no greeting at the private landing strip. After disembarking, my aunt, Bryn Garrett, awaited me. She wore a tweed Chanel suit, strings of pearls and her familiar frown. Her short bottle blonde hair cradled her head in a stiff bob.

  "Did you think you could come to New York without anyone noticing?" She said.

  Some greeting. At least she smiled, which was rare for Carmichaels.

  "I'm here to sort out family affairs."

  "Not everyone in the family will be happy to see you, Richard."

  "Aren't you one of those people?" I asserted bluntly.

  I have never liked my aunt very much, but she won me over with her next sentence.

  "On the contrary. I have a taste for order, Richard. Since your brother has passed, the family seems to have lost their taste for it. I want everything restored to the way it was and I firmly believe that you're the only person who can do it."

  "So you're here to spread goodwill?"

  "I'm here to stop your father's legacy from being pilfered. My brother was never a good man, but he worked hard and he doesn't deserve to see his decades of hard work ripped apart by a pack of ravenous hyenas."

  "Let me guess, Xander happens to be one of those hyenas."

  If I had not been fond of Bryn, Xander was even less so. A mishap on a family ski vacation in the Alps had rendered them practically sworn enemies.

  "Xander is not fit to run a company and neither is that idiot twin brother of his."

  "You won't get me to disagree," I mumbled gruffly.

  A craving for both coffee and whiskey set my hand into jitters.

  "It is not safe for you in New York. The reports say your brother committed suicide but you and I both know that isn't the case. Stay at my apartment. My husband is on business in Beijing and Juliet is in San Francisco visiting friends."

  She sounded as if she were making a suggestion but I knew better than to believe I had a choice.

  My aunt's stern belief in me relieved me. In typical Carmichael fashion, instead of hugging me, she shook my hand and led me to her sedan. Bryn had never been one for drivers, so she slipped behind the wheel and I rode in her heated, leather passenger seat.

  "You look like shit and you smell of whiskey."

  I grinned. Despite her last name, she was a Carmichael through and through.

  "How was it?" I mumbled in response, gazing out the window at the trees that would soon disappear.

  I did not need to specify for her to know I was talking about the funeral.

  "Quiet. Bitter. Depressing."

  At least my brother's funerals had defied my expectations.

  "And the acquisition?"

  "We are fucked."

  "I don't know what I'm supposed to do."

  She sniffed, "don't look for sympathy here. You have been bred for this your entire life, Richard. You can't be weak because you will take care of our family's interests. "

  Bryn adjusted the string of pearls around her neck and smacked her lips together, spreading her rose-colored lipstick just outside the lines of her thin wrinkled lips. Her icy eyes remained transfixed on the road.

  "That's easier said than done. The law is not on my side here."

  "This is not about the law, Richard. This is about honor."

  The drive to Manhattan was long and winding. My aunt Bryn gave me every last detail that she could about everything that had happened. Tension gripped my chest as I asked her the last thing that I wanted to. How was my brother found? What were the details of his death?

  He described the inconsistencies in the report with what she had witnessed. Somehow, he had committed suicide by shooting himself in the chest first and then in the head. You know, as suicides go.

  Fires raged within me as I comprehended the depth of corruption and the depths of evil that had now overwhelmed my family. We were all paying for what my father had done decades ago and I had a strong feeling that we wouldn't stop paying for his actions anytime soon. Jamal was ruthless.

  Bryn had a point. I had to act.

  Although wary of doing so, I had to ask my aunt about Indie Holloway's car accident. She revealed the public speculation that my brother had been having an affair with her.

  "I can't blame him. The only thing wrong with her is that she's black."

  I shifted with unease at her comments, but I could not risk defending Indie without betraying my own position. In her death, I at least owed Indie the dignity of keeping our relationship silent. She had been through enough during her life because of me.

  Because of the shame that I had brought upon her, she had lost her life. By the time I arrived at my aunt's apartment, I rushed for the whiskey. Liquor wasn't enough to sate me.

  I needed to kill Jamal.

  I had nothing to lose anymore. Jamal had stripped me of everything in my life that had mattered. My father's business would fail without strong leadership. I could not lead alone. My family had already been wrecked by the dispute over money.

  Ames, my best friend who had been my confidante throughout my entire life lay dead, buried in the Carmichael mausoleum alongside my cousin Selena.

  And Indie...

  I struggled to comprehend why Jamal had gone so far as to orchestrate the death of his own sister, but I firmly believed that's what he had done.

  As I lay asleep, too drunk to strip my shoes off with my tie only slightly loosened around my neck, I promised myself I would avenge them. I had to be strong. I had to avenge their deaths. Let no one say that Richard Carmichael, III was a man without honor.

  If I couldn't have Indie, I could at least have this.

  U-Turn

  RICH

  Due to the Holloway acquisition, which now dominated the news, I anticipated that Jamal would be working overtime. To find him, I would have to go into his office. To kill him, would be as simple as putting a bullet between his eyes.

  Of course, there were small details that made
accomplishing this more complex, but I had my determination.

  I did not relish the idea of killing Jamal. We had grown up together. We had been more than friends at one point. We had been brothers and despite everything that happened I still held dear to some of those fond memories from our childhood.

  I had to accept that those memories were no longer. Jamal was no longer the wide-eyed dark-skinned boy that I had grown up with. He'd transformed into a ruthless killer.

  His desire for success transmuted into a poisonous desire for power. He had orchestrated his own sister's death. This couldn't be the boy I'd befriended, or the man considered a genius by every professor that ever knew him.

  I had no trouble finding a weapon and all Carmichaels can handle themselves around the gun. Trap and skeet shooting has been a family hobby since the 17th century.

  Taking the shot would be a simple matter of obtaining one of these guns. I needed no one's permission. I obtained a handgun loaded with six bullets and chose to walk to the Holloway offices. Perhaps I was giving myself time to change my mind, but the 30 block walk to Jamal's office had no such effect.

  Instead of changing my mind I became fixed with a steely determination to finish the task. Revenge wasn't the only reason why. A sense of justice propelled me forward. Thanks to Jamal, I had lost not one but two people. New York wasn't the same without Indie. I couldn't forgive him for stealing her away from me.

  I remembered our days at the Plaza, at the Ritz, and at various other hotels around New York. Every street bled with her memory. Every moment I wasn't with her grated on my heart with intense pain, unlike anything I had ever known. My memories in the city with my brother were no different, albeit less romantic in content.

  As I walked along the city sidewalks for all those blocks, it was difficult to find places where I did not have fond memories of Ames. There were restaurants where we had hungover brunches together, bars where we had partied until the sun came up, streets where we had puked after long nights of too much whiskey, and clubs where we had engaged in vigorous games of tennis and squash together.